Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night was warm, true to the summer weather, and even more true to the urban heat island that was Manhattan. It was cloudless, which was perhaps a gift given by Mother Nature as an apology after a week of storms and drizzle. The weather was perfect for stargazing, but even from the museum roof, not a single star could be observed.

The woman, dressed in a long-sleeved black turtleneck, rested on the glass roof, eyes closed and arms crossed over her stomach. Beside her lay a rolled-up canvas, neatly tied with a pink ribbon. In her left hand, she held a black USB key, absentmindedly twirling it between her fingers.

Barely past midnight, red lights turned on and an alarm sounded.

The thief stopped twirling the USB key and opened her eyes. She lazily stretched her arms above her head, before leaning back on her palms.

“Not even twenty minutes… This just might be the new record.” Her lips spread into a wide grin before she stood up, picked up the rolled canvas, and immediately ran towards the edge of the building.

She jumped, landing a few feet lower on another rooftop and sprinting towards the fire escape. The steps were the worst part, always revealing another set the lower she came.

After a long break she spent planning this night, the feel of adrenaline rushing through her veins felt like a long-postponed treat.

Once she was on the street she began walking, mixing into the crowd that started gathering around the entrance of the museum. Feigning a loss of interest, she turned around and walked further down the street.

One block, two blocks, one time left and one time right, and she was standing at the backdoor of a club scrambling through her pockets to find its nameless key. Once she did, she held it up triumphantly before using it to open the door.

Once stepping into the room, she took two large steps to the lockers and opened the third one from the right. A satisfied smile appeared on her face as she pulled out a minidress.

It was still where she left it.

She put it on, taking out a bag and stuffing the clothes and the canvas, which was now safely packed in a tube, into it so that just the tip of the container was poking out. She put the bag into the locker. She was going to get it later.

On the other side of the room was a door, through which she could hear the beat of the music, which became louder as she pushed the door open.

Colourful lights. Laughter. Perhaps more regrettably, the faint smell of vomit. It has been quite some time since she last engaged in nightlife, but you never really forget its ups and downs. The bar was on her right, and she would make her way to it eventually, but there was that irritating feeling tightening her chest, which made her want to avoid it for as long as she possibly could.

Her gaze caught the eyes of a tall man at the other side of the club, his jaw clenching as he recognised her. He didn’t come closer, didn’t need to; a simple nod in the direction of the bar was enough to relay the message.

She swallowed thickly, before manoeuvring through the mass and leaning on the bar, waiting for the woman behind it to notice her.

The woman in question was well into her thirties, short curly hair falling around her face, while a bandana pulled most of them back. She passed a glass of clear liquid the thief’s way before speaking, “Haven’t seen you in a long time, you asshole.”

The woman drowned the shot, throwing it back and putting on a weak smile. “Hey, Maryanne… How’s it going?”

The woman raised an eyebrow, before using the tea towel to wipe the surface of the bar as she spoke, “It took a long time to get the place back to a respectable position within the community after you trashed it. Not to mention you come in with a simple ‘hey’ and no money in sight?” She slammed her hand on the table, finally looking at the woman who only stared back with guilt evident on her face. “Fuck you, Marli.”

“I’m sorry! How many times do you need me to apologise?” She sighed. “I’ll pay you as soon as I can.”

“Cash. And soon.” Maryanne opened her mouth to speak again, but closed it, deciding against it. “The usual?”

The thief nodded, smiling. Maryanne could never stay mad at her for too long.

“Working?” She cleaned a glass before pouring alcohol into it. She didn’t wait for the thief to answer before continuing to speak, “Why is my club such a beloved outpost of yours? Can’t you choose a library or something?”

The woman slowly sipped her drink before throwing it back like the previous one. “Oh, but you’d miss me so.” She passed the glass back to Maryanne. “And besides, your place is much safer.”

The woman behind the bar hummed in agreement. She knew it was true. The Secret Garden was a safe haven for people providing not-so-legal transactions. She worked hard on its reputation, and over the years it has built up a line of regular customers.

“Who’s on your tail this time?”

“Some museum guards?”

Maryanne took the glass but stopped before pouring any more of the clear liquid into it. “How many?”

It was a question unrelated to the woman’s predicament, one that made her smile. “One.”

Maryanne nodded while pouring the last shot of alcohol. “I thought you stopped stealing paintings?” There was worry in her voice, probably because the last time the woman did steal something of artistic value, her bar ended up ransacked and under investigation. She had to pay a hefty bribe to lose the police.

The thief smirked. “It was worth it. Not only did I source some independent income, but I also received a special gift.” She winked at Maryanne, who only rolled her eyes in response.

“Can’t these government agencies find a better place to hide their secrets?”

“If they would, I’d have to get a new job.” She threw back her last drink of the night and smiled softly while still looking at the glass. “Thank you, Maryanne.”

“As long as you don’t trash my bar again, dear.”

The woman lowered her head, biting the inside of her cheek. “I’ll come by with the money as soon as possible.”

“I’ll consider the price of these three drinks included in the sum.”

“I love you too.” Her grin spread wider as Maryanne shook her head while trying to cover up the growing smile.

The thief moved to the dancing part of the club and let out a chuckle as her favourite song started playing. Maryanne was never the one to say she loved or cared for someone, but it was shown in the little things she’d do for you.

She shifted her attention to the read-headed woman staring at her from across the floor. It took one smile for her to put down her drink and approach the thief.

“Hi.” She leaned towards her ear and whispered in it, sending a wave of electricity down the thief’s spine.

“Hi to you too.” She whispered back, their bodies close enough together to hear each other over the music.

I feel so unsure,

“Do you want to dance?”

“I have some time.”

As I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor.

The redhead sneaked her hand on the woman’s waist and pressed their bodies together as the thief put her hands behind her neck. They swayed, dancing closely while not breaking eye contact.

As the music dies, something in your eyes…

The redhead’s hands traced slightly along her sides; up and down, until they settled on her back.

After an hour of dancing, during which they exchanged no more than a few sentences, the thief excused herself to the bathroom, before making a detour and leaving out the back.

Any other day she would’ve stayed, gone with her, and overall done much more, but today she had another job to finish.

The air was colder than it was a few hours ago and it made her draw her coat closer to her body. There were barely any people on the street, most of them either drunk or homeless, and every time a person neared her the paranoia clutched the knife in her pocket tighter.

Chapter Text

“Maleena Grigoryeva Milova, now working under the name of Marlowe Grace Moore.” The woman pointed to an enlarged picture projected on the wall. “She spent her early years working as an assassin under the codename Graceless Angel, then changed professions and became a thief working under the same codename. Recently, her primary focus shifted from art to our information, making her one of the top pains in—”

“Agent Romanoff!” The voice of Nick Fury boomed through the presentation room.

A warning she didn’t care for.

The woman huffed as she continued with her presentation. “The only place we’ve found her frequenting is a club called ‘The Secret Garden’ and a dance studio in upper Manhattan. After sending an agent to the location, we found out she teaches ballet there. Posting some agents at the establishments around the studio and the bar, we tried to find her safehouse location, but so far… we’ve had no luck.”

Shame resided in her words. The thief was trained well, and despite their team efforts, not a single agent seemed to succeed in catching her entering, and not exiting the building. Launching an investigation into every property she seemed to stay in for more than five minutes took them hours they could have spent in the field, and they were getting tired of it.

She looked at the room of agents, each pair of eyes boring back at hers. Clint sat in the front row and gave her a smiling thumbs-up. She would never admit it to him, as she regarded his ego as already too high at times, but it was the undying support that made her feel like she could continue.

“That being said, we do not know how much she has actually stolen or how many people she killed. She leaves no signature and is rarely caught at work. From now on she is our number one priority. If you look under your seats, you will find her dossier as well as your group and priority in this mission. As always, please be careful.”

“Thank you for your presentation, Agent Romanoff.” Fury once more commented. “Now, agents go and find your group leaders and ask them if you have any questions left to ask.”

Three agents approached her, followed by Clint, who stood a few feet away while she answered their questions. As they left, Clint stepped closer, a wide smile on his face. “Clint? Why aren’t you consulting with your group?”

“How did your mission go yesterday?”

Immediately, she frowned, remembering the previous night. “Don’t mention it.”

His smile widened. “How did she lose you?”

Natasha crinkled her nose. The woman left her under the impression she was going to the bathroom, which, admittedly, was the first time something like this happened to her. Sighing, she tilted her head before answering, “I don’t want to talk about it, Clint.”

“Alright, alright, I’m just saying because you looked pissed coming back yesterday.”

“Clint.” There was a clear warning in her tone.

He pressed his lips together and shrugged. “She’s cute.” Seeing the flowing rage in Natasha’s eyes, he turned and left with a giant smile.

Marlowe was pretty. And so what if she enjoyed dancing with the woman? It was only to initiate contact. She was a spy. Marlowe was her target. Nothing would ever happen between them even if she wanted it to.

It didn’t matter if Marlowe was her type. It didn’t matter if she wanted to hear the way she laughed, see her smile without strain or fall asleep next to her.

It didn’t matter.

So Natasha didn’t think of it. Her mind didn’t wander, and she didn’t look at her file beyond the amount she needed for the mission.

Natasha wasn’t proud of all her actions, but ever since stepping on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s side, she prided herself on her work and how she helped people. She would stay proud and wouldn’t exchange it all for one night with a criminal, no matter how pleasurable it might be.

***

Turns out, as soon as possible meant less than a full day passed before Marlowe was waking back to the club, a wad of cash in her purse.

It was a sunny day, the warmth amplified by the black asphalt, but it made her smile like a little child. There is something magical about a sunny day after a week of thunder; the air is cleaner, and you appreciate the warmth brought after the cold rain.

Her smile quickly turned into a frown as a group of drunk men began whistling while walking towards her. This time she couldn’t clutch her knife — sporting a knife while the sun was out rarely resulted in walking free — and instead balled he fists by her sides.

She walked faster and opened the doors of the club immediately upon arriving at its doorstep.

Maryanne stood, leaning over the bar and talking to the tall man. She smiled, which was rare, and he was smiling back, which was even more unusual.

“Maryanne!” Marlowe cried out, throwing herself into the woman’s arms. “Men are such horrible excuses of human beings.” She turned her head towards the tall man. “No offence, Frederick, you’re nice.”

Maryanne smiled unapologetically at the man, who nodded and left them alone. She supported Marlowe’s weight and helped her to the bar, where she slumped into a chair.

“I hate men.”

“There, there.” Maryanne gently patted her head before walking behind the counter. She took out a glass and poured some water into it. “Did you come to bring the money?” She passed the glass in Marlowe’s direction, who wrapped her fingers around its narrow part but didn’t drink it.

“You don’t love me, do you? All you care about is my money.” Marlowe pulled out the wad of cash from her purse with her cheek still against the cool counter.

“My money.” The older woman laughed as she took the offered money and counted it. She pulled out a few banknotes and passed them back to Marlowe. “You can keep this. Consider the costs covered between us now.”

The woman raised her head and slid the money back to Maryanne. “Keep it.” She smiled a mischievous smile. “For the future troubles.”

Maryanne sighed. “I wish there was one day when you didn’t insist on keeping me on my toes.”

“But you love me for it.”

“We’re strictly business, you and I.”

“Another day of trying, another day of failure.” Marlowe smiled before checking the time. “I should leave, I have a ballet class in a few hours.” She drank the water and passed the glass back to Maryanne.

“Let Frederick escort you to the subway station.” She motioned at Frederick to get his attention.

“Thank you.” Marlowe waved as she left, Frederick following close behind.

Chapter Text

The room buzzed with murmurs of agents moving briskly back and forth, sitting behind monitor screens, and analysing files, their voices fusing into one as the screens slowly illuminated the room.

Natasha stepped on the elevated floor clasping her hands together. “Can I get your attention, please?” The buzzing stopped, and everyone now focused on her. “Thank you.” She nodded once before continuing her speech, “The analytics team predicted our darling Mrs Moore will steal another painting, tonight. As many of you know, we worked hard during these past few weeks, to hint at an information transaction happening in one of the largest museums.” She nodded to the team leaders who immediately began distributing the files she had prepared. “Now, consult with your team leaders on what your role is, and remember, if we do good, we will catch her.” She walked off the platform, nearing Clint with a smile.

He looked different, happier, and before he even opened his mouth she knew that he wouldn’t take part in the mission. “Clint—”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t work tonight. Laura was just admitted to the hospital; you’re becoming an aunt!” He had that wide grin on his face, the one that always made her want to smile with him.

“Go then.” As he didn’t move, she continued. “What are you still waiting around for? You need to be with Laura!”

But Clint’s voice was quiet as he spoke again, “Will you be alright?” Worry laced it, making her put on a soft smile to convince him it was unwarranted.

“Clint, go.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Tell you what, I’ll stay out of the field tonight should there be any complications with Laura, alright?”

“Thank you.” He gave her a thumbs-up before running out of the room.

Natasha sighed as she walked back to the centre of the room, looking around and making sure everything was proceeding smoothly.

They were missing their best team leader, and she wasn’t participating either; the mission was either going to be a success or a complete disaster.

***

Marlowe was preparing for her mission — putting her hair up and gearing up — before she went over her plan one last time. Knock out security, get into the control room, turn off the cameras then sneak into the museum and steal the painting. Should be easy enough.

There was a good chance it was an ambush, but such were the chances every time she went out. Still, that didn’t calm her worry.

The past few weeks have been quiet. Quieter than usual. Quieter than she wished for them to be. There were fewer and fewer agents trying to follow her, and that made her feel all but relaxed. There was some good in knowing that you had people watching over you, even if they wanted nothing but to lock you up in an underground cell. But with the sudden withdrawal, the possibilities were endless, and she didn’t have enough hope in her to believe that they gave up on her.

The worst of it was the fact that she was burning up. There was always a chance that you’d get sick the day of the mission, but the number of times that happened before was close to none.

Some paracetamol should help. She popped the pills into her mouth and drank a glass of water.

She waited for another hour, to start feeling their effect before climbing out of her apartment window and running up the fire escape to the roof. Marlowe loved jumping from building to building, reaching for that adrenaline rush as she felt her body spring alive.

It didn’t take long for her to arrive at the museum, where she worked quickly on disarming the guards and breaking into the control room. Turning off the cameras and the alarm system she smiled to herself before leaving to get the painting. For once, she was unaware of the agents watching her from the next building.

***

“She’s in.” The voice of a female agent rang through the speaker.

Natasha Romanoff nodded approvingly. There was hope for them after all. The thief didn’t notice their presence while entering the museum, which meant there was a good chance she wouldn’t notice them while she escaped. “Good. Get in and let’s deal with this.”

The agents confirmed the order, as one by one they stepped into the building.

***

Marlowe was careful while she worked on the painting, making sure not to damage it while she rolled it up and put it into a tube before storing it in her bag. She searched behind the frame, the museum label and walked around the room to see where the supposed information should be hiding.

Nothing.

“Well, fuck.”

Looks like she would have to deal with an ambush after all.

It didn’t come as a surprise when in the next few moments she was surrounded by three agents on each side of her, each one of them pointing a gun at her face.

“Put your hands up!” One of them, a man, shouted.

“Hello.” She smiled, flashing her teeth into a grin. “Well, I’ll be dammed. S.H.I.E.D.? Here to get me?” She began lowering her hands. “I’m honoured.”

“Put. Your. Hands. Up.”

“How about a no?” She pulled up her mask while opening a can of tear gas, before moving through the mist and bolting out the window.

She was sure it was a pathetic sight; escaping through the window while the agents lay on the floor wheezing and coughing.

Once outside, three agents followed her, with some even attempting to shoot her. It was by pure luck that she managed to shake them off, and by the time she arrived home, she fell onto the sofa, exhausted completely.

***

“What do you mean ‘she escaped’?” Natasha was pacing around the room while the worried agents exchanged glances. “We had her! She was made!”

The group of agents looked away uncomfortably. She knew, they knew, they messed up. Big time.

With a sigh, Natasha walked away without another word. Next time, she promised herself; next time she would come with them and ensure the mission was a success.

Chapter Text

The bustling of the market was something she loved even as a child. Or at least that’s what she liked to tell herself. In truth, the age at which you start forming memories, which you will remember as an adult, is around three years; her family left her far before that.

But Marlowe was good at pretending, good at convincing herself, and good at telling lies. If you asked her why she went to the market every Saturday, she would surely tell you that it’s a tradition they started with her family, but since her parents died she simply couldn’t let go of that one last habit.

She coveted the life of freedom she never got to experience, and so, she would often daydream about it, hoping that one day she would settle down and live a normal life with her family.

Meanwhile, she would spend her nights either with alarm clocks waking her every other hour or with dreams plagued by nightmares of returning to that place. Marlowe hated that man, hated what he did to her and other helpless girls, and she hated herself for bearing through it.

On the worse days, the ones when nightmares just wouldn’t let her go, she eventually got up and went to the ballet studio at which she taught. She had the key, and disabling the alarm was like second nature to her, so she did the only good thing that followed out of the Red Room — she danced.

Three months in, and the cleaning lady didn’t falter when she turned on the lights and saw her laying there, on the floor, finally in a dreamless sleep. Two more months and she brought a cup of coffee with her.

She pulled through the trauma of killing as a child did to her, and now, less than a decade later, she had her own ballet class, a wonderful friend who made her free drinks on the nights she needed to turn off her mind and worked out a nice life for herself.

Picking up the vegetables she needed and then, heading to the dairy aisle, she quickly got through her shopping list which consisted of a total of seven items. And chocolate. She spotted it on the discount shelf as she stepped into the line and quickly scribbled it down on her shopping list so that she wouldn’t feel as guilty buying it.

After arriving home she started preparing the past and the sauce; putting Farfalle into a pot of boiling water with some salt, chopping up the tomatoes and other vegetables before putting a timer with the duration of eleven minutes on the oven timer.

Marlowe considered herself a good cook; or at least as good as she could get with the help of four cookbooks she bought when she first started cooking and still thought she would have enough time to do it every night — even with her time-consuming pastimes.

After the meal was prepared, she ate in silence, thinking of what she would do next.

Should she go to bed early? Bake those cookies she bought the chocolate for?

She ended up with a bottle of rum in her hands, pouring herself a glass after pouring some of it in the batter.

Flour, eggs, sugar, a bit of milk and rum, orange peel, and chocolate. She mixed it all in a bowl with her hand before shaping little balls and putting them on parchment paper. While they baked in the oven she put the bottle of rum back into the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka.

Weighing the glass in her hand, she poured the water-like liquid into it and took a sip. It brought a sad smile to her face.

With a sigh, she put the bottle back into the cabinet and prepared to take out the cookies. She made enough to share and with delight put a reminder on her calendar to bring them to class.

The apartments she could see from her window all had their lights turned off, and for the first time in a while, she truly felt alone. Maybe she needed a cat.

After washing and drying the dishes she sat on the sofa and opened her computer; logging in, logging into the black market, and listing her new findings. Two paintings.

She logged out, put the computer back in its designated place and decided to shower.

Once she stepped in through the see-through doors she turned the shower on and let the hot water run over her muscles as she massaged them with her knuckles. Two heists in three weeks; it was tiring her out. Admittedly she missed the adrenaline, but with her persistent fever and the months of rest before it, she was out of form.

Marlowe had made enough money to stop, in fact, she earned enough for that long ago, but simply put, she didn’t want to. She liked the rush of adrenaline that came with stealing government property and these days it was all that made her feel alive.

After she stepped out and dried herself off, she put on her cat pyjamas and hoped, while going to bed, that it would be a pleasant night.

The night passed quickly — for the first time in a while she didn’t have nightmares — and rain drizzled against the window in an even pattern. An hour before she had to wake up, it picked up its pace, hitting the window with more and more power, until it turned into a violent storm, banging on the glass for her to let it in. Alas, a window she forgot to lock opened and the howling window carried the raindrops through the small creak before letting them fall onto her floor.

Chapter Text

“Alright, team, the bid for The Goatman’s Bride is now live! How many competing buyers do we have?” Natasha’s voice rang through the room, commanding every person to do their job. They have been alerted of the paintings’ enlistment at three in the morning and have been working tirelessly ever since.

“There’s six so far, ma’am.”

“Alright, the ask price is four hundred sixty thousand dollars, and it seems to be rising quickly.” She walked to the other side of the room, a big smile on her face. “We don’t have a budget. Yet. Let’s go all out.”

If there was one thing Natasha Romanoff loved, it was blowing S.H.I.E.L.D.’s budget out of proportion.

“We’re at three million,” An agent announced.

Natasha walked towards the agent, her smile becoming more and more wicked. “Good.” She waited for just a moment before continuing, “I think we can go a little bit higher.”

“But, Agent Romanoff, is it really necessary? Two of our competitors already dropped out.”

The agent simply placed her hand on the back of the woman’s chair and leaned in, watching as her figure tensed. “I think we can go a little bit higher.”

The woman nodded. Quiet.

It was the effect Agent Romanoff had on agents, once they’ve seen her stand face to face with director Fury and other high-level agents. The woman had no fear or rationality, going as far as to take the budget to new heights, simply to spite the director.

All that, and he didn’t react, allowing her to continue.

It was an unacknowledged agreement not to get in Agent Romanoff’s way, which came to exist after she broke a snarky agent’s nose when she first arrived and received close to no repercussions for it.

“Yes ma’am. We’re going for ten million.” The agent’s voice wavered as she spoke, drawing a small smile on Natasha’s lips.

For the past few months, she’s been trying to catch Marlowe, and she was fairly certain the woman didn’t put up the painting with the information key inside it. That would probably cost them a lot more than what they already agreed to pay. But they needed that connection. They needed to get her, needed to find where she lived, and needed to find out how many secrets she had stolen.

Natasha had no evidence that in those files Marlowe had stolen there was any mention of her, but the sheer thought of someone holding so much power, the ability to disclose her past; it made her feel the kind of fear she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Another one dropped out.”

“Good!” Natasha clasped her hands together. “We’re making progress, let’s up the bid!”

“But agent Romanoff!” The woman stopped the moment Natasha’s eyes fell on her. They both knew fifteen million was already over the budget and upping the bid would only widen that distance.

The look in Natasha’s eyes told it all, and as she slowly spoke, the agent slowly hid in her seat. “We’re competing for the highest bidder, Agent Haber. We can’t lose months of work because we’re afraid of the budget. Do as I say and up the bid.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The Agent quietly affirmed, not wanting to upset Natasha any further.

Hours later, when the bidding window closed and they barely beat the opposing bidder, the room erupted in laughter as they finally left after a twenty-one-hour shift.

***

Marlowe was sitting at home, alone, spoiling herself with chocolate and wine, while watching the bidders fight over the painting. It was a form of relaxation to her — seeing the bid go up — and it always made her laugh as the bidders fought over who had the most money to throw away. It was cute, to say the least.

Since she first put up an art piece, which was a small sculpture, she loved this part of the process the most. Arranging a meeting and a place was fine and all, and she didn’t mind meeting the buyers under the pretence of being an intermediary, but seeing the price people were prepared to pay was what made her feel valued.

Then the clock struck midnight and instead of losing her dress and a shoe, she gained thirty-three million. All from her home and sofa.

There is something peculiar about getting your exercise in while simultaneously committing theft. A feeling she adored.

And the government did absolutely nothing about their secrets being stolen. Well, S.H.I.E.L.D. did try, but they weren’t very successful at it. They more or less waved a diamond in front of her, expecting her not to catch it, and when she did they went to sulk in their corner.

She waited for a good thirty minutes before confirming the buyer; fairly certain it was S.H.I.E.L.D.

Hello, hello; Cyclops’s sheep !

Chapter Text

Monday rolled around, and Marlowe had to practically drag herself to the studio. She forgot to take the cookies with her, but by that point, she had eaten most of them herself.

To her delight, she spotted three agents on her trail, twenty minutes away from the studio.

It was better this way; knowing that they were following her. It meant she still hadn’t lost her abilities, and they didn’t get better all of a sudden.

She arrived at the studio five minutes to one, post merīdiem , to a group of women already warming up . It brought a smile to her lips, seeing them again. “Hello!”

A blonde looked up, stray curls bouncing around her face as she moved. “Hey, Marlowe!”

A number of greetings followed from every direction of the room as Marlowe walked to her chair and set down her bag.

“How were your holidays? Do we have anyone new here?”

A woman, mid-putting her loose red ringlets into a more appropriate hairstyle, walked up to her and extended her hand, letting her curls fall down. “Natalie Rushman. I believe I am the only new student.”

Marlowe smiled a friendly smile as she shook her hand. “Marlowe Moore, pleased to meet you.”

The handshake was firm, and Natalie seemed reluctant to let go, letting Marlowe’s hand slowly slide out of her grip.

She was familiar, and Marlowe was sure that at least once in her life she had seen those green eyes before.

“If I may ask…”

“Anything.”

“How will these classes work?”

Marlowe looked the woman up and down, noting the toned body and the posture. “Have you ever danced ballet before, Natalie?”

The woman grinned as Marlowe’s eyes trailed back to hers before she answered, “I danced it recreationally as a child and a teenager, but my passion has recently been reignited by a friend.”

Marlowe nodded, thoughtful. “I suppose you’ve already seen the schedule while applying, as for the classes we learn a new variation every three weeks, so you haven’t missed much. Did you warm up already?”

“Oh, yes. I came a bit early and noticed that there were people already warming up so I thought it wouldn’t hurt.” Her voice was honey-like, gentle and pleasant to listen to.

Marlowe couldn’t help matching the woman’s grin with her own fake one, her body guided by manipulation tactics engraved in her mind. “Good. The receptionist opens the studio an hour before class so you get enough time to stretch by yourself.”

Natalie nodded. “That’s fine.”

Marlowe bit the inside of her cheek. “I’ll begin the class now, so you should go and find an empty space by the barre.”

“Thank you.” Natalie walked to an empty spot where she quickly put up her hair and took the beginning position.

Marlowe began the class, moving effortlessly around the room as they followed her spoken instructions. She made her way to each of them, correcting their bodies into the correct shape for the pose they were in.

Once it was Natalie’s turn, she stood there with a smile. “How long haven’t you danced?”

“Six years.”

Marlowe nodded as if to process that information. “For six years, your poise is damn near perfect. It’s hard to find students as talented as you.”

Natalie chuckled before turning her head to look at Marlowe. “Thank you, what a way to boost my ego.”

Marlowe laughed back, before closing her eyes and opening them again, this time more focused. “Okay, try opening your leg just a little bit more… perfect.” She smiled before continuing forward to the front of the class.

When it was time for the break, she walked out of the room and into the bathroom, where she washed her hands absent-mindedly and looked at the mirror.

Where had she seen her before? The crimson locks, paired with those green eyes — those same green eyes — were strangely familiar to the image of a memory she saw in her mind.

Natalia Alianova Romanova.

That name. That name of that woman. That name of that woman, the one to whom she owed her freedom.

In a blink, she was back, fifteen years old, handcuffs digging into her wrist while explosions sounded in the distance. She remembered the bobby pin she would hold on for the next four years, how she kept it hidden in her braid as if in anticipation of that moment, and how she used it to set herself free, cries of other widows following her out of the room.

Don’t run towards the explosion; but she did. She took off towards the noise, towards the fire, fully aware of what could follow. Towards the figure on the other side of the fire, red ringlets and green eyes like the forests, reflecting the light of the fire in them.

She ran towards it, then ran past it even as bullets flew past her and into her arm. She ran to the top of the hill and down the other side until she fell and rolled into a wad of bushes, where she blacked out until she was woken up by the barking of dogs in the distance.

She ended up escaping that day, with nothing but bruises and cuts and a bullet wound and a few burns, the aesthetic of which seemed a small price to pay if it meant her freedom.

“Are you alright?”

“What?” Marlowe tilted her head. “When did you come in?”

Natalia let out a soft laugh. “A while ago. I also noticed you staring really intently into the mirror. Was there a whole conversation going on too or was that internal?”

“Oh, that’s so embarrassing.” Marlowe covered her mouth, as she tried not to look at the woman as her saviour, but as an enemy she was most likely presenting herself as. “How long have I been in here?”

“About ten minutes. The break is ending soon.”

“Well, thank you, Natalie. I’m going to — uh — go back now.”

“I’m going the same way. I’ll walk alongside you.”

They both laughed and continued a normal conversation as they entered the studio.

***

After a cold shower, Marlowe put on her softest pyjamas and sat down on her sofa. She sat with her legs in a criss-cross position and opened her computer while balancing it on her thighs. She typed in a name as she spoke and pressed enter.

Her screen filled with reports and closed files, she would spend most of her free time trying to decrypt for the next few weeks.

Out of more than two hundred files, ninety-two percent held the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo, which made her grin.

She could play their game too.

Chapter Text

Only two windows were open in the studio, on the eastern side of the building, to ensure the air rotated while the least amount of heat seeped in. The air conditioning blew the coldest air its settings allowed, yet still, they were practically melting.

Needless to say, the summer weather was hot. Just as the past two weeks have been, and as the next two weeks were predicted to be. It was even harder to sleep considering she had to make due with the bare minimum, and so she was coming to these classes tired and cranky, but she put up a nice smile and kept moving on — she, unlike Dreykov, would not carry her hatred onto innocent people.

The figures danced across the studio in a unanimous movement, each dancer letting their body take over and dance freely in the still, precise and controlled movements.

“One and two and three — Sam, raise your leg higher — and six and seven — good job Alison!” Whatever Marlowe shouted, whether correction or praise, she did it with pride. She taught most of these dancers for more than a year, and seeing them progress made her feel better about the person she had become.

Ballet, theft, assassination; all held together by control, which, perhaps in the end, was what she craved, what she needed; control over her body and mind.

She clapped as the women finished the variation. Some moved to the mirrors and held to the barre, others just resorted to lying on the floor. Marlowe laughed softly before speaking, “Good job. Now, I’ll see you all next week, and don’t forget to stretch. That’s still important, no matter how tired you feel now; believe me, you’ll feel worse tomorrow. Also, I’d really appreciate it if the last one locked up the studio and left the key at the reception. I need to leave early today, but I trust you all to figure it out.” She grabbed her bag and smiled at the sweaty dancers. “Have a nice day!” With a wave goodbye, she turned to the door, while the dancers waved her off.

“Marlowe!” The sweet voice of ‘Natalie Rushman’ called after her.

She stopped, turned around and smiled. Even while knowing who the woman was and suspecting her purpose in approaching her, Marlowe couldn’t help it. “Yes?”

“I was thinking… since it is Friday and we’ve finished class… Would you like to go out for a drink with me?” Natasha softly bit her lip and looked Marlowe up and down with an unapologetic stare. Releasing her lip, she added, “I know a nice place near here.”

“I-” She could feel her cheeks heating up. What right did this woman before her have to make her feel this way? “Yeah, sure.”

“Meet me here at nine, then. And dress…” She searched for a word more appropriate than the one on the tip of her tongue. Alas, she gave up; there was no proper word carrying quite such meaning and hitting as appropriately. “Dress sexy.” She proved her confidence in her words with a wink, leaving Marlowe speechless as she walked back towards the dance room.

***

“How is the mission going, Agent Romanoff?” Fury stood before her with an unwavering gaze. She had expected him to call her into his office later that afternoon, but seeing as they conveniently met just as she was coming back from Marlowe’s class, he questioned her in the middle of the hallway.

It was highly unusual, highly out of order, and highly irritating. But she couldn’t show any of it. Any irritation with the director had to be covered up, put into a plan, and executed behind his back.

“I have begun with the execution of phase three, sir. She just needs to show up and cooperate.” She smiled proudly. There were reasons she was chosen for the mission; she was pretty, and the closest thing they could find to Marlowe’s seemingly non-existent type, and she was good. The best, even.

“Good. Make sure she does.”

Natasha nodded, preparing to leave, as the director seemingly finished bullying her, but of course, he had one last thing to say.

“Agent Romanoff.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t make it interfere with the mission.”

“Of course, sir.” There were about two hundred and seventy-eight most basic Russian curses Natasha knew, simultaneously running through her head, all directed at the director.

He could hear them, most likely, from the way his face held the slightest bit of colour change to it. He hurriedly excused himself and wandered off past her.

But Natasha’s mind was racing, and she glared at every agent who dared look at her till they cowered off into the distance, parting before her like the Red Sea. She was headed for her room, after which she’d head to the training room — injuries would follow.

But there he stood, watching her intently, recognising her intent, and standing in her path.

“Clint.”

“Natasha.”

“What do you need, Clint?”

“Laura is inviting you to dinner.” He didn’t need to say it. Acknowledge the rage. She knew he knew, and sometimes that was enough.

Crossing her arms and channelling her anger into confidence, she spoke. “I have a thing. I can’t, I’m sorry.” She hated this. That soft look in his eyes and the stance he took, mirroring her action. “I’m perfectly fine, Clint.”

“We both know I can tell you are lying, Natasha.” He sighed, seeing as she wouldn’t back down willingly — because when did Natasha back down willingly — he offered her a hand and an invite. “One sparring before we go to dinner?” If she was planning on breaking bones, he could at least spare the unassuming agents.

With a grin, the fire reignited, except it was much calmer now. “You are going down.”

And he did. The fight was intense, but in the end, she won, pinning him down by his shoulders as she sat on his chest before she rolled off and began laughing.

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, let’s go meet Cooper.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I really do have a thing tonight.”

He looked at her with suspicion, trying to tell whether she was lying, which was a failing game for him most days, and tell whether she was just brushing him off to go and put her anger out on other people again.

“It’s a date. I’m not planning on dislocating any more arms tonight.”

In a matter of seconds, he was grinning, his entire face lighting up. “Then I’m sure Laura and little Cooper will gladly wait.”

“Not like that, you idiot. It’s part of my mission.”

“Sure.” He winked as he saw her face change to one of annoyance. “Sure. If you say so, Natasha. Make the most of it.” Then, he practically bolted away from her, as she held back the urge to either knock him or herself out. Anything not to bear this a moment longer.

But after a deep breath, the corners of her lips pulled up, and she was happy Clint couldn’t see her any longer.

***

She sipped on some wine while she worked, occasionally swirling the blood red liquid around the glass. Almost done with her work, she smiled and looked out the window while the decryption worked.

The sky was starting to take on a reddish hue as the sun began to set. A few pigeons were flying by the window, and some stray cats were gathering on the fire exit staircase opposite her window. One striped and grey, one orange, and two dotted, but predominantly white ones.

Bing!

She looked back at her computer as the file opened, three big words staring back at her.

The Avengers initiative

She pressed Enter on the cracked password, and a few dossiers showed up. She glazed over two names she already knew and instead focused her attention on the third one. “Hello, Tony Stark, billionaire playboy, and apparently, Iron Man. Glad to meet you.” Once the right time came, she would be able to sell this information for a good amount of money. But she came first. She started reading the file when an alarm went off. “Пиздец.” [Damn it.]

It was eight p.m. and she was supposed to leave in fifteen minutes if she wanted to get to the studio in time.

She threw her sweatpants and pullover on a chair in the corner before putting on a sparkly pink minidress and looking at herself in the mirror. It took her eight minutes to get her makeup and hair ready, which might have been a record time if she hadn’t been timed for every minor action all her childhood.

Dress sexy.

She looked the part and was more than prepared to act it too, but that was all; no romance, no falling in love. Natasha Romanoff was an agent who she was actively stealing information from. There was no space for anything between them, even if she truly believed her intentions were genuine.

She was not lucky enough to carry that kind of trust.

Chapter Text

She should have brought a jacket.

The night was warm, but the wind was colder than the forecast said it would be, and so she shook as she stood, waiting for the red-headed woman. She only stopped cursing herself for wearing a dress with thin straps and an exposed back once she remembered that soon she would have alcohol, warming her from the inside. It was a beautiful evening, but as the streets were still loud, she turned the sound on her earphones louder.

Good things might come to those who wait,

Not for those who wait too late,

We gotta go for all we know.

It might have been the first time in a while she had both headphones in and wasn’t preparing for imminent disaster. That was a mistake, as she didn’t notice the figure behind her, pretending to put out a cigarette while waiting for a bus for the last five minutes, or the one on the other side of the street, or the rooftop.

Stuck in a trance, she almost missed an alarm on her phone; it was time to confirm the buyer. Had she stayed at home with her computer, the authentication process would not have taken as long, but at last she succeeded in logging into her account.

Just the two of us,

We can make it if we try,

Just the two of us.

***

The ringing. The ringing has been going on for five seconds, and she wanted nothing more than to rip the phone in half. Besides being on the edge the entire afternoon, and it only getting worse, the name on the screen brought her no will to live. Instead it sucked about forty years from her life.

“Agent Romanoff?” The voice of the man — one of the group leaders she hand-picked with immense disgust but couldn’t oversee because of his rank — was charming, and didn’t match the personality of the asshole. The last interaction she had with him was a week prior; a brutal rejection from her part.

She accepted the call with annoyance. “Yes.”

“Graceless Angel has confirmed the sale. There is a possibility that we could access her account and information through her phone.”

She rolled her eyes. “So I have to steal a phone from a thief?”

“I hope you succeed, Agent Romanoff.” His voice was snide, and she could hear his smirk.

She ended the call right before rounding the corner.

There in the distance stood Marlowe, dress sparkling under the street lights, and swaying to some music Natasha couldn’t hear. In a mere instant, Agent Todd was forgotten, all on her mind now Marlowe’s swaying form and the night they first met. How their hands slid across each other, how she smiled, how she smelled, and how she left. That brought her back. She had to keep her emotions in check.

She walked down the street until she was a breath away from Marlowe. The woman didn’t hear her coming and so was taken by complete surprise when the agent removed one of her earphones and whispered a greeting.

It took all of Marlowe’s control not to give in to her reflexes and tackle the woman to the ground. It would be inappropriate on a first date. But as if to punish her, butterflies rose in her stomach, and when she looked away, cheeks reddening, she could see a semblance of a grin on Natasha’s lips.

“Hello, Natalie.” Now the grin on the woman’s lips was undeniable.

The name was fake, just as everything else about the woman. Her past, future, affections, rhythm of speech… It was all a charade put up to fool Marlowe. She knew that. But still, as her knees weakened, as the woman switched their places so that she was on the side of the pavement that faced the road. It was something. Something Marlowe wanted to break: call the woman by her real name, reveal their entwined pasts, and kiss that grinning mouth. But she shouldn’t.

Natasha took Marlowe’s hand and led her back in the direction she came from. “Come on. The bar is right down the street.” Intertwining their fingers, she smiled at the thief.

The walk was short, and in less than ten minutes, they arrived at a bright neon sign Marlowe could swear she had never seen before.

The good place

Loud music. Bodies swaying close to one another. Sweat. Walking behind Natasha towards the bar, she couldn’t help but note that the place seemed more like a club than a pub. Their hands were still connected, even as they arrived at their destination, and Natasha ordered them both some vodka, searching for only a smile to confirm she had guessed the right order.

“How did you know I like to drink vodka?” She had to raise her voice a little to be heard over the music. She doubted they had something like that written in her file. Then again, this was S.H.I.E.L.D.; nothing was too insignificant to them.

“You seem the type!” Natasha yelled back.

The truth was, yes, it was written in her file.

They shot back the drinks and moved to the dancing section of the club.

Tonight the music seems so loud,

Her hands found their way to Marlowe’s hips just as Marlowe’s did behind her neck.

I wish that we could lose this crowd…

It didn’t take long for memories to surface, even if she was properly drunk the first time she had seen the woman’s face under flashing lights. Natasha was the woman she danced with on the night of the USB heist.

Things were much more dangerous than she first assumed. She could pretend that she didn’t notice how the woman was appearing everywhere she went lately, even if she so desperately wanted to. Just one night. Just one.

Natasha put her chin on Marlowe’s shoulder, which seemed to work well as a calming tactic. Marlowe was pulled into a world of their own. The danger the woman posed seemed to come second in that moment.

To Marlowe’s luck, she came prepared — in what felt like minutes, an alarm went off on her phone, reminding her completely of the agent’s agenda. She awkwardly separated from the woman, opening her purse, pulling out her phone and turning off her alarm.

She leaned closer to the redhead so she didn’t have to shout over the music. “Sorry. I forgot to turn off my bedtime alarm.”

It was a subtle implication of wanting to go home that didn’t fly by Natasha. She had to get the phone before ending the night. “Bedtime alarm?” She smirked. “Or are you planning to end our night?”

“I’ve spent most of my nights going to sleep at the wee hours of the night, and it was taking a toll on my body, so I promised myself that I would start going to bed earlier.” It was a carefully curated lie Marlowe set up on her way to their meeting place. The alarm was meant to tell her that it was time to end the date and to keep her attentive.

“Then you should probably go. I wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

“Yeah, I probably should. I would invite you to come with me…” She rested her hand on Natasha’s bicep. “But it’s only our first date, and I wouldn’t want us to get ahead of ourselves.” She winked. The insinuation would be enough for now.

“So I get a second date?” Natasha chuckled.

“Yes, you do.” Marlowe let go only to be pulled into an embrace by Natasha. It surprised her enough not to notice a hand sneaking into her purse and pulling out her phone.

As they exited the bar, Marlowe looked back as if to check something. She was sure her purse got lighter, but she couldn’t say anything directly, so she had to think of something else. “Wait, let me check my purse so that I don’t forget anything.”

That raised red flags for Natasha. Sure, she could pretend that she didn’t know anything and not return the phone to Marlowe, but the plan was to steal the phone without the woman noticing. “I’m sure you have everything, Marlowe.” She still tried, even if she knew it was useless.

Marlowe shook her head. “I’m exceptionally good at losing stuff.” Realising she had no phone, she smiled while rubbing the bridge of her nose, pretending to be annoyed. “As I said, I’m good at losing stuff. I left my phone in there.”

Natasha smiled as she hatched a new plan; she only needed to take charge, and she could pretend someone brought her phone to the bartender. “Then you go to the dance floor and I’ll look by the bar.”

Marlowe simply nodded before they entered the bar.

As soon as they entered the bar, they split, and when Marlowe was appropriately busy on the dance floor looking for her phone, she pulled it out of her bag before walking towards her. “Hey, stranger.”

“Hello.”

“Are you looking for something?”

“Just a dame to show me the way.”

“No luck yet? Pity.” She grinned as she watched Marlowe smile back at her. “Then what do you say, stranger, let me lead the way.”

“A dame worthy of my eye. Sure.” She hooked her arm underneath Natasha’s, and they walked out of the bar.

As the night air hit their skin, Natasha handed the phone back to Marlowe, who instantly checked if it was truly hers. Satisfied, she kissed Natasha’s cheek. “Thank you, Natalie.” Turning on her heel, she left the woman, only beginning to focus on not being followed after she rounded the corner.

Chapter Text

It was early in the morning, after Natasha came back from the club, that she noticed there was something terribly wrong. The entire ride back, there was only one person on her mind; smiling and looking pretty, with pretty eyes and a pretty laugh that came from even prettier lips-

No, she had to push it away; she had to stop thinking about her. Marlowe was already driving her to the edge of her sanity, which she once considered untouchable. She was a spy, a trained assassin, and still she couldn’t make he mind focus.

And unlike with most things, she couldn’t just push them away, couldn’t just detach herself and didn’t want to. She wanted to reach for the sun, to feel its warmth, even if she knew it could scorch her skin. Still, for now, the sun seemed to extend its rays towards her.

***

Marlowe, with a tube-shaped container secured on her back with a cross-body strap, walked to the meeting point amongst the crowds of unassuming people. Sunday was always one of the busiest days; then again, the streets were busy with people every day of the week, which only bettered her chances of success in escape.

The meeting place was a rooftop, flat, with a strip of pebbles just by the edge. There were two fire escapes on each side of the building, and one other entrance from the inner stairwell. Around this smaller apparent building were other smaller buildings, and one taller one, from where Frederick was covering her.

Marlowe had always liked heights; they were, after all, very convenient for escaping — an activity she adored and sometimes intentionally made harder just to feel a bit more adrenaline. Most days that was. Unfortunately for her, the ambush she faced last time was a bit too unpredicted for her to leisurely walk into this meeting without some backup.

She looked up at the building where Frederick was supposed to be waiting and smiled, before her attention was stolen away from her by an approaching figure. It came from the north fire escape, she noted. Whoever it was made no effort to conceal her identity.

She, to her immense disappointment, was not a stunning redhead, but instead a not-really-her-type blonde. But no, Marlowe shouldn’t care, Marlowe shouldn’t even think of it. She shouldn’t feel disappointed. She shouldn’t even admit she liked the enemy agent, even the tiniest bit. And she didn’t.

“Eurydice calls for Orpheus.” The woman called out.

“Orpheus looks back,” Marlowe answered with a grin.

The woman sized her up and walked closer so that they were at arm’s length. “The painting?”

Marlowe took off the tube and passed it to the woman. “I hope there isn’t a group of agents waiting for me.” She scrunched her nose. “I prefer not to fight.”

“Then don’t.” In mere moments, a group of five agents appeared behind the woman. Two men and three women, all standing one taller and buffer than the other. There was no doubt that there were multiple other agents littered throughout the building, but Marlowe didn’t care.

Because finally, finally, she could have some fun again.

The normal human reaction to having three trained agents pull out their guns on you is to feel fear, to be incredibly fearful as you wait for the sound of a bullet. The voices merge, and you’re just standing there. Until you’re not.

“Miss Moore, this doesn’t need to end in a fight, if you just come with us calmly…” The woman trailed off, her face soft and rock hard at the same time.

“Don’t shoot the messenger.” Marlowe put up her hands. The sign.

Soon, three of the five agents were down, and the other two lounged towards her. The woman with the painting started to leave the scene while loudly speaking into her intercom. “She has a sniper, requesting backup.”

Marlowe considered it for a moment before deciding that they did pay, so they could, she supposed, keep the painting. Just this time.

One of the agents, as only a woman and a man were left standing, while the other three were standing clutching their thighs, where the bullet had made its impact, he extended his hand in a surprisingly fast punch, but she grabbed it, before turning around so that her back was flush against his chest and using the momentum to throw him.

The other agent landed her punch, attacking her abdomen. It sent her flying down and knocking the air out of her as the agent swept her and attempted to pin her down by sitting on her waist.

Marlowe easily bucked her hips to throw the woman forward and make her have to use her hands for support, before she grabbed her left hand and flipped them. She quickly moved with the hand still in her grasp to sit perpendicular to her body and finished her off with an armbar. A pop and a scream. Marlowe stood up immediately, knowing that the woman wouldn’t cause her any more problems.

The other agent had recovered by then, now going in with an uppercut. She moved quickly, with deadly precision, hitting him in the jaw with a hook, effectively knocking a much taller and heavier man out.

“Don’t let her get away!”

She looked at the three groups of agents already coming at her from the fire escapes and the inner stairwell. She thought for a moment before deciding on the next course of action.

Giving them a two-fingered salute, she ran and jumped from the building to the next, slightly lower one. She tucked and rolled to ease the impact before continuing to run over the next few buildings. After that, she quickly descended and mixed with the crowd.

The first rule of being on the run is don’t run; walk. So she walked calmly through the subway, got on her bus, called a taxi, walked through a few department stores, and walked to her door and opened it with her key.

Then the adrenaline wore off. And that’s when it started to hurt .

Marlowe knew pain. Lots of different kinds of pain. But the problem with pain is that no matter how many times you’ve been hit, no matter how good you are at dismissing it, when it hurts, it hurts . Especially if you haven’t experienced pain in a while.

As soon as she locked the door, she ran to the toilet and vomited, hurled the entirety of her previous meal, before sitting next to the toilet and leaning against the cold tile of the wall.

“Говно” [Shit.]

She pushed herself off the floor once she felt stable enough and opened the medicine cabinet above the sink and pulled out a bottle of white, unmarked, round-shaped pills. Filling a bottle of water, she took a few of the painkillers before chugging the bottle down.

It wasn’t the smartest idea, seeing as she just vomited, but she wanted the feeling of pain to let go and fall asleep; this was just the easiest way to do it.

Marlowe dragged herself to the sofa where she curled up around a pillow and waited until the pain left her body, relief slowly rushed in and mixed with her exhaustion, and let her fall asleep.

***

Monday came far too quickly. And as Marlowe woke up, she was still in a bit of a daze from the night before. She slowly got up and made herself a cup of Turkish coffee, changed herself into appropriate clothes for the ballet class, all while not thinking to look at the time.

When the idea suddenly hit her, she waited for a few moments as her mind already predicted her situation.

“Говно” She groaned and rubbed her face. [Shit.]

She grabbed her bag and ran out of the apartment, and while she still made sure to follow all the precautions — which lost her another ten minutes — she wasn’t nearly as careful as she would have liked to be.

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” She rushed through the door, smiling apologetically at the women. She set down the bag before checking one more time in the mirror that her abdomen was well covered; some bruising had already started to form.

She led them through the moves with practised ease, yet lacking her usual grace. A part of it was the painkiller’s fault; the other part, that annoyed her much more, was the fact that she simply couldn’t.

It was inevitable, in the end, one wrong move and she sucked in a sharp breath while simultaneously clutching her abdomen.

“Marlowe? Are you alright?” A woman Natasha came to know as Tracy asked.

“Yes, yeah, I’m sorry.” Marlowe did her best to smile, to even her breath, and pretend everything was alright. “I fell down the stairs yesterday. I suppose I should be more careful…” She trailed off as her eyes landed on Natasha’s expression.

It was blank, almost too blank for Marlowe not to notice the sharp stare she was being given.

Natasha couldn’t help but feel guilty, and although unwillingly, she was angry.

Chapter Text

“Come on!” Natasha, while holding Marlowe’s hand, ran down the street, leading her towards a small cafe only a block away from the studio.

It was a breezy afternoon as summer began to turn into autumn, and leaves on the trees were slowly beginning to dry and turn brown, red, yellow and orange, as they began preparing for winter.

Their cheeks flushed red as they pulled their coats closer.

The thief laughed before finally pulling on Natasha’s hand to stop her from running further. “Natalie, since walking is almost always an option, let’s choose it now.”

Natasha grinned wildly, entwining their fingers. Marlowe’s hand was warm, warm and soft, and it fit so nicely into her hand. She had developed a habit where, whenever she could, she’d reach out for it and just hold it until she couldn’t anymore. She should hate that. “Not as fun, but I promised you we’d do whatever you want to do today, so why not?”

“You have incredible stamina.” After seeing the rising smirk on Natasha’s lips, Marlowe rolled her eyes and continued. “I don’t know how much of that you put into ballet, but we did just finish a class.”

“Your hand is giving me energy.” She smiled wider. “Like the sun.” She looked up at the blazing ball of fire and gas and put up her free hand to shield her eyes from its rays. “You’re a lot like the sun, you know. All warm, and soft, and-” She cut herself off before the words escaped her throat. So hard to live without. She shook her head but plastered a smile on her lips to conceal her pained expression. “-bright.”

Marlowe laughed as she too looked at the sun before leaning her head on Natasha’s shoulder. “The sun would burn you.”

“A true ray of sunshine.” Natasha hummed and squeezed Marlowe’s hand. “Let’s walk. We’ll spend more time together that way.” She eyed Marlowe carefully, the way her lips spread into an involuntary smile as she looked away to try and hide it.

Their destination was a small queer cafe Natasha had discovered weeks ago. Her mind, at the time, had already started planning all the cute dates she would take Marlowe on. All for the sake of her mission, of course.

The cafe consisted of a small room with big windows, on each of which there were fairy lights draped across it. Similarly, there were thin strings draped from the ceiling, off each of which hung a golden star.

The seats were deep blue and velvety in texture, and soft enough for them to fall into them and laugh. There were three other groups of people, all chatting quietly across the cafe, and occasionally laughing or looking around.

Natasha couldn’t help but look at Marlowe as the woman observed the city life outside the window. The thief, she noted, was prone to losing herself in the smallest of things, which, admittedly, gave Natasha many opportunities to just look at her and observe her mannerisms.

A barista, a young woman looking to be in her mid-twenties with five visible piercings and ends of her hair dyed pink, approached them with a smile. “Hello there. What would you like to order?”

Marlowe, instantly out of her daze, smiled back and scrambled for the laminated menu. She was usually calm and collected. She usually knew exactly what she wanted. But there was something about having to place an order when a. they either didn’t have the item you wanted, or b. you didn’t know what you wanted yet, that made her carefully curated façade crumble.

“Two hot chocolates if you have them,” Natasha spoke up after Marlowe shot her a pleading look.

The waitress looked between them, then winked. “Coming right up.”

Marlowe’s head simply sank into her hands before she looked at Natasha through her fingers. The agent, as per usual, was grinning and looking at her.

Her hand reached out and took one of Marlowe’s and just held it on the table. “I’ve noticed, sunshine, that you’re really bad at ordering things.” Her thumb brushed over the knuckles of the thief’s hand almost absentmindedly.

Marlowe once more composed herself, putting on a pleasant smile that concealed even the amount of sleep she had gotten the previous night. “I already know the order I’m getting at he places I usually go to, and ordering under pressure just isn’t a strong point of mine.” She shrugged. “I usually fumble and order the first thing my eyes land on. It’s gotten me some very unusual… liquids before.” She grimaced as she remembered the few drinks she’d call ‘experimental’ more than anything.

By the time Natasha finished laughing, the waitress came back with two cups of steaming hot hot chocolate with whipped cream.

“How did you know I’d prefer hot chocolate over everything they offer?” Marlowe glanced over the menu again.

“No offence, but you usually choose the blandest and most basic of orders. Black coffee, vodka, water, and on the sweet side, hot chocolate.” She smiled.

Marlowe sighed. “I like what I know, alright?” She scooped up a spoonful of cream and brought it to her mouth. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Mhm,” Natasha hummed, still smiling. She then looked down at her own hot chocolate and dunked the cream into the steaming liquid. She mixed it in and brought the up to her lips to taste it. “This is quite good.”

“It is.”

The rest of the date passed well, with Natasha smiling like an idiot the entire time — at least by her standards — and Marlowe returning the smile all the way. An hour and a half later, they finally stood up and left the cafe, hand in hand.

***

It took Marlowe twice as long as usual to get to her apartment since Natasha accompanied her to the bus station, and, well, she got onto the first bus that came without even looking at the direction it was driving in. It was only three stations later that she pulled her head out of the clouds, realised the direction she was heading in was completely wrong, and started searching desperately for any signs of where she was.

In the end, she called a taxi. It drove her to the cafe she usually bought coffee at, and from there she went on foot, doing her usual routine, and checking to make sure no one was following her.

As she arrived home, she took a long, cold shower — a weak punishment for her behaviour.

She had to stop this before it got out of hand.

Or at least that’s what she told herself when in reality she knew that the situation had already gone out of proportion, and everything she did now was simply damage control.

***

The television was on for the first time in a while, voices muffled by the sound of the laptop keyboard, and near-silent sighs as Marlowe tried to concentrate on her work.

“You’ve all received an official statement of what occurred at Stark Industries last night. There have been unconfirmed reports that a robotic prototype malfunctioned and caused damage to the arc reactor. Fortunately, a member of Tony Stark’s personal detail…” Colonel James Rhodes spoke over the television, his voice fading as she lowered the volume.

She already had the buyer for the information about Iron Man chosen and waiting for her information. She peered over the screen at the television as a commotion sounded; Tony Stark stepped onto the podium. She raised the volume again.

“…figured I would just stick to cards this time. There’s been speculations that I’ve been involved in the events that occurred on the freeway and the rooftop-”

A reporter cut him off. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, but do you honestly expect us to believe that that was a bodyguard in a suit, that conveniently appeared despite the fact that-”

She was right, but Marlowe didn’t like the direction this was heading in.

“I know that it’s confusing, it is one thing to question the official story and another thing entirely to make wild accusations or insinuate that I’m,” His voice slightly wavered, “a superhero.”

“I never said you were a superhero.”

Marlowe bit her lip. She really didn’t like where this was going.

Stark, with all his money, had a god complex and a need for fame, for all eyes to be on him. Which, any other time, she would have dismissed as irrelevant or even in her favour. But Stark, specifically, held the power to screw up the deal she was currently making. And that made him far more dangerous than any other white man with too much money.

“Didn’t?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, good because that would be outlandish and a- fantastic.”

She refreshed her screen, anxiety now making her fidget with her fingers, waiting for the money transfer to go through. And Tony Stark was a bad liar.

5…

“I- I’m just not the hero type, clearly, with this…”

4…

3…

“The truth is… I am Iron Man.”

TRANSFER ERROR

Сука. [Bitch.]

Chapter Text

For six months, life was a fairytale. A proper old-timey one, where they acted like kissing, properly kissing, or anything else — such as being alone in a room together — god forbid, would cause such a scandal neither of them would survive it. But life was good. Life was kind. And life allowed them to continue growing closer, until the lines between right and wrong blurred, and the so-called ‘dating’ almost felt too real. Almost .

But, as there always is a ‘but’ somehow involved, things began to change, and their perfect fairytale soon began to fall apart.

***

“Agent Romanoff!”

The agent in question swiftly turned on her heel to face the director. “Sir, with all due respect, I understand. But , I am not giving the mission up.” Natasha shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t be arguing with fury, shouldn’t be so unwilling to give the mission up. She shouldn’t feel physical pain in her chest at the thought of not seeing Marlowe’s smile, hearing her laugh or holding her hand.

It brought a strange feeling of warmth to her, feeling how Marlowe’s hand melded into hers, and seeing the small smile lines appear around her eyes as she stifled a laugh. Natasha wanted to see Marlowe laugh again and again and again, and know, at all times, that she was the cause of it.

“We will give it to the agent of your choosing, Romanoff.”

“I am not giving up the mission, Fury.” Even though they were calling each other by their surnames, it felt closer to childish name-calling.

“Agent Romanoff.” A warning. A warning, much like many others she had received from him, all with one little issue: Fury trusted her. And she knew how to use that.

She took a moment to consider his words. Clint would do a good job, great even; he knows every detail of the entire charade, and has been spouting mostly nonsensical jokes about it since the ‘relationship’ began.

She shook her head and looked back at the director. “No. If you need me to do the Stark mission because it takes precedence, I’ll do it, but I’m not giving up on the Marlowe mission just because of that. I’ve made a lot of progress and sacrificed far too much to give up now.”

It was neither a lie nor exactly a truth. She did sacrifice a lot, but she did so willingly and would do it again without a second thought. Similarly, there was a lot of progress, but it wasn’t exactly useful towards the mission.

“Agent Romanoff, all I’m asking of you is to consider. We can’t have you compromise the mission because you are divided!” He walked around his table so that he was standing directly before her.

Natasha was getting irritated now. “I am not divided! I can, and will, do both!”

“Fine, but, Agent, if either of the missions fail because of you, you will take the blame and the consequences that come with it.”

She nodded before once more turning on her heel and leaving the office.

***

“I hate my life.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What do you know about how I feel, Clint?”

“I know you’re hopelessly smitten.” That comment, and that comment alone, resulted in the throwing of a perfectly white pillow directly into Clint’s face with all the force Natasha had. Which did result in him almost falling off the bed. He didn’t complain. He knew he deserved it.

Natasha scoffed as he wrapped his arms around the pillow and held it before him like a shield. “I. Am. Not.” But she knew he was right. She just couldn’t admit it. Not to him, not to herself.

Clint finally sighed and looked at her, his voice now devoid of its usual teasing undertone. “There’s nothing wrong with it, you know?”

“Nothing wrong? Nothing wrong ?” Her voice rose as she spoke, “Clint. Everything is wrong about that. She’s supposed to be my mission, dammit!” Then fear flashed across her face. “What if I- God, no. No. ”

Instantly, Clint was worried. “Natasha, what’s wrong?” He put one hand on her shoulder, waited for a moment to see if she would swat it away, and when she didn’t, he squeezed it to make her look at him. “What happened?”

“What if I actually start falling for her, Clint?” Her voice was shaky, and with good reason. Natasha was no stranger to flings, hook-ups and missions where she had to seduce someone to complete it. She had few relationships in the past, even fewer of which ended well. That was to say, she was scared. Of falling in love, of caring, of letting people close. She was burned the first time, and she promised not to let it happen again.

“Would it be that bad?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

***

It’s been two weeks since Natasha showed up to a ballet class, two weeks since she sent Marlowe a ‘I’m sick’ message, two weeks since she called her, two weeks since they talked, and twenty-three hours since Marlowe convinced herself she stopped caring.

***

“The notary’s here, can you please come sign the transfer paperwork?”

“I’m on Happy time!”

She walked, hips swaying, shirt not fully buttoned up, and pants fitting her perfectly, into Tony Stark’s training room.

“I promise this is the only time I will ask you to sign over your company.” Pepper Potts spoke loudly and clearly, making sure that Tony could hear her.

Natasha could only smile politely as she brought the paper to Pepper, acting oblivious to the two men staring at her. “I need you to initial each box.” Pepper did so with a simple nod, a soft smile on her face, and beautiful handwriting. She looked happy — something Natasha couldn’t afford.

The sound of a body hitting the corner of the ring pulled her from the paper, and well, what were they expecting? Happy was taking off his headguard, and Tony was looking directly at them.

Tony, with his hand wrapped around a bottle filled with what she guessed was the Chlorophyll smoothies keeping him alive, pointed at her. “What’s your name, lady?”

“Rushman. Natalie Rushman,” she spoke clearly, knowing it was the name he needed to remember.

It was the same name she used while introducing herself to Marlowe, and the thought of that alone hit her harder than she was willing to admit.

“Front and centre. Come into the church.”

“No, you’re seriously not gonna ask,” Pepper started.

“If it pleases the court, which it does.”

She smiled at Pepper, doing her best impression of an unassuming notary. “It’s no problem.”

Pepper smiled back apologetically. “I’m sorry. He’s very eccentric.”

As she reached the ring, she bent her back while Tony lifted the ropes, not letting her gaze fall off him as he drank the green concoction.

“What?” He got out while she continued to stare at him. Men . “Can you uh, give her a lesson?” He spoke to Happy and exited the ring.

She introduced herself to the man and shot one last glance at the pair now sitting by the window. They were talking about her, shooting glances in her direction, and she couldn’t help the small upturn of the corners of her lips. The mission was going perfectly.

“You’ve ever boxed before?” Happy asked, and she couldn’t help the smile that spread on her lips.

“I have, yes.”

“What, like, the Tae Bo? Booty Boot Camp? Crunch? Something like that?”

Her expression visibly changed, but she didn’t say anything.

“How do I spell your name, Natalie?”

“R-U-S-H-M-A-N.”

She looked over her shoulder as Pepper and Tony went through her records, which she had carefully curated.

“Rule number one: never take your eye off your opponent,” Happy said, reaching towards her.

It wasn’t his fault — although in reality it was — he underestimated her. She was a woman after all. And a seasoned assassin, spy, fighter… But he didn’t know that. So it really wasn’t his fault he ended up on the floor, with his neck between her thighs and an armbar on his hand.

“Oh my god!” Pepper shrieked.

The man at least had the mind to tap quickly.

Natasha had, during friendly or obligatory sparring, had many people tap out to her. So this wasn’t surprising. Although she was hopeful that Tony Stark, of all people, would have better security.

They were making her mission just too easy.

“Happy!” Pepper’s tone was much more concerned now.

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

“I just slipped.” Happy excused himself, almost eliciting a reaction out of Natasha. She had heard that kind of an excuse a-one-too-many times before. But she decides to hold back for now.

That, of course, doesn’t mean that Tony would too. “You did?” He quips.

“Yeah.”

“Looks like a TKO to me.” He rang the bell as Natasha stepped out of the ring.

She pushed her hair out of her face and made sure everything stood nicely. “Just… I need your impression.”

“You have a quiet reserve. I don’t know, you have an old soul.”

“I meant your fingerprint.”

“Right.”

Pepper walks up to them with a smile, as Tony puts his fingerprint on the paper. “So, how are we doing?” Pepper asked.

“Great. Just wrapping up here. Hey. You’re the boss.”

“Will that be all, Mr Stark?” Natasha asked. She couldn’t wait to get out of here.

“No.”

Almost immediately, Pepper intervened. “Yes, that will be all, Ms Rushman. Thank you very much.”

Far too easy.

Chapter Text

“You’re late.”

Marlowe tried to be kind to her students. She tried to be compassionate. She excused their mistakes — as long as they didn’t deliberately choose to do it — and moved on. It was far from the teachings she had endured, but that was exactly the point of it.

This time, however, was one of those times she wasn’t going to simply let it slide. She was hurt; deeply, personally.

“Apologies.” Natasha didn’t think too much about her answer. She should’ve, but she didn’t. It was sooner rather than later that she realised that that was a mistake.

“Apologies, huh?” Marlowe crossed her arms. “Let’s say I believe you. Let’s say you really are sorry, although you don’t seem very ‘sorry ’ to me.” She takes a deep breath before attacking another point. “You’ve been skipping classes. Care to explain why?”

“I started a new job. It’s been very… time demanding.”

Marlowe raised an eyebrow. “You do realise that I expect my students to inform me beforehand if they are to miss a class?”

“I-” Natasha hated the tone of Marlowe’s voice, the expression on her face and her body language. She hated how it was practically screaming at her, and she hated how she felt guilty because of it. She sighs before admitting, “Yes.”

Marlowe simply nodded, biting the inside of her cheek. She tried her best to look disappointed and not hurt. She shouldn’t be hurt. She really shouldn’t feel anything but mild annoyance. She really shouldn’t have come to care for their fake relationship, and it was entirely her fault.

“Look, Marlowe, I’m sorry. I should have texted or called or at least let you know I won’t be available. Can I do something to right the wrong?” The agent tried, she really did, but she had fucked up too badly to try and convince herself it would work.

The thief scoffed, a scowl appearing on her face. “You ghosted me for three weeks, Natalie.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. My new employer is very demanding, and I just couldn’t catch a break-”

“Oh? You couldn’t write: ‘Hey, I’m going to be busy for the next few days, don’t worry about me?’” She takes a step closer to the redhead. “You decided the best thing to do is send me an ‘I’m sick’ message and leave it at that for three weeks? You couldn’t catch a break for long enough to ensure your girlfriend didn’t think you were dying on a hospital bed?” She’s all up in Natasha’s space in that moment. “Don’t lie to me like that, Rushman. Just don’t.” She took another deep breath before speaking again, her voice quiet, “Don’t let ballet keep you from your job. Don’t let me keep you from your job.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “This, between us, is over, by the way. Go to the others so that we can begin the class.”

Natasha couldn’t do anything but nod, her whole mind resigned to her fate. She fucked up. Badly. And she could see in Marlowe’s eyes, no matter how hard the thief tried to hide it, that she was hurt. That was perhaps what hurt her the most. The knowledge that even the woman, who probably knew this was all fake, cared enough to get hurt. And a little part of her was telling her that she, too, cared enough that this hurt.

Marlowe made sure to evade Natasha as much as possible through the class. She still did her job professionally, of course, but she corrected her just a bit less than what was necessary, and every time the woman looked at her, she averted her gaze and focused on the other dancers.

After the class ended, Marlowe gathered up her things and waited until everyone else left so that she could lock up; it usually also allowed her students to walk up to her and ask questions, but tonight, everyone rather steered clear of her and her empty expression.

“Marlowe.” Natasha’s voice was quiet, and she stopped leaning on the door and stood up straight, just as Marlowe exited the room.

It still didn’t help that Marlowe was stuck in that world of her own where she just thinks, and thinks, and doesn’t stop thinking — which would be fine if she were at home where nothing could surprise her. She yelped, cursed loudly, and looked at Natasha with a gaze that said nothing but a peculiar mix of fear and pure murder.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” She smiled, placing one hand on Marlowe’s shoulder, the need to comfort and touch coming almost too easily to her. “It’s just me.”

Marlowe, coming to herself, just snorted and looked at her. “Have you thought that that might be the problem?”

Natasha sighed and looked at Marlowe with all the sincerity she could muster. “I’m sorry, I really am, but-”

“No ‘buts.’ I, frankly, stopped caring about that a week ago.”

“Marlowe, please. Let me apologise and explain, at least.” She put her other hand on Marlowe’s other shoulder and turned her so that they were facing each other.

The thief tilted her head and raised her hands to Natasha’s wrists, gently wrapping them around the joint and taking them off her shoulders. “I meant what I said, Natasha. You have no way of correcting this.” She knew the next words to come out of her mouth would hurt her too, but they needed to be said, for her safety and peace of mind. “I had a wonderful few months, but this is over now. So please, while you may continue coming to my classes, you should give me space.” She spoke calmly, not betraying the knowledge that she would curl up in a ball and cry herself to sleep later in the evening.

***

“She’s stopped responding to my advances.” The voice of the agent was steely, not betraying her inner turmoil.

The following question would most definitely be mocking if not for the empty tone in which it was spoken. “What do you think may be the cause?”

“I believe it might be time to go and capture our thief. Especially if she’s already caught on.”

***

Tony Stark’s party was, as expected, a disaster. She did encourage him with that ‘I’d do whatever I wanted to do. With whoever I wanted to do it with,’ but in her defence, she was only saying and doing what she knew would help her complete her mission. She couldn’t even fault Pepper for getting mad at her; she was, after all, mostly at fault for Tony getting piss drunk and destroying his house.

Hours later, she feels much more at home as she walks into the ‘Randy’s Donuts’ shop in her suit, looking at the two men sitting by the window and basking in the sunlight.

“Just my luck. Where’s the staff here?” He asked as he turned his head, exposing the dark cyber-crossword puzzle on his neck.

Fury leaned forward, gently pressing down on the collar of his suit to get a better look at the marks. “That’s not looking so good.”

“I’ve been worse.”

She walked up to their table, speaking as Fury’s attention turned to her. “We’ve secured the perimeter, but I don’t think we should hold it for too much longer.”

“Huh.” The man still seemed to contemplate whether the entire situation was real or just a hungover dream. “You’re fired,” he said slowly. Tentatively.

It made her let out a little laugh. “That’s not up to you.” Sitting down next to Fury, she almost smiled. Almost.

“Tony, I want you to meet Agent Romanoff.”

“Hi.”

“I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. shadow. Once we knew you were ill, I was tasked to you by Director Fury.”

“I suggest you apologise.”

She just continued to stare at him with thinly veiled irritation, her gaze unwavering.

“You’ve been very busy. You made your girl your CEO, you’re giving away all your stuff. You let your friend fly away with your suit. Now, if I didn’t know better…”

“You don’t know better. I didn’t give it to him. He took it.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Fury raised his arms in pretend disbelief. “He took it? You’re Iron Man, and he just took it? The little brother walked in there, kicked your ass and took your suit?” He turned to Natasha. “Is that possible?”

This time, the corners of her lips did quirk up in a small smile as she spoke. “Well, according to Mr Stark’s database security guidelines, there are redundancies to prevent unauthorised usage.”

Fury looked at Tony with an almost ridiculing gaze.

“What do you want from me?”

“What do we want from you? What do you want from me?”

She slid out of the seat and walked to where she had placed the syringe, then returned just in time for further instructions.

“Hit him.” At the snap of Fury’s fingers, she pressed the shot into Tony’s neck before grabbing his chin and turning his head.

“Oh, God, are you gonna steal my kidney and sell it?”

They watched as the cyber-crossword puzzle went down.

But Tony continued to complain, clearly not grasping the favour she just did him. “Could you please not do anything awful for five seconds? What did she just do to me?”

“What did we just do for you? That’s lithium dioxide. It’s gonna take the edge off. We’re trying to get you back to work.”

“Give me a couple of boxes of that. I’ll be right as rain.”

She raised her eyebrow. “It’s not a cure, it just abates the symptoms.”

“Doesn’t look like it’s gonna be an easy fix.”

“Trust me, I know. I’m good at this stuff. I’ve been looking for a suitable replacement for palladium. I’ve tried every combination, every permutation of every known element.”

“Well, I’m here to tell you, you haven’t tried them all.”

Chapter Text

Marlowe had a sullen look on her face, which occasionally morphed into a glower, as she couldn’t decide whether to be angry or sad. She knew she was the one to end the very fake relationship, which was prompted by Natasha’s wrongdoings; that, however, hardly mattered when it was her mind overanalysing every second.

With a shake of her head, she grabbed the television remote, turned the device on, and chose the live feed news programme. Tony Stark Expo was, of course, the main story.

“…Well, today, my friends, the press is faced with quite a difficult problem. They are about to run out of ink.” Two people, a man and a woman dressed in blue, ran onto the podium and removed the stand. “ Get that out of here. Ladies and gentlemen, today I present to you the new face of the United States military. The Hammer drone.”

Drones rose on the stage as he called their names.

“Army! Navy! Air Force! Marines! Yeah! Yeah! Woo! That’s a hell of a lot better than some cheerleaders, let me tell you. But as revolutionary as this technology is, there will always be a need for man to be present in the theatre of war. Ladies and gentlemen, today I am proud to present to you the very first prototype in the Variable Threat Response Battle Suit and its pilot, Air Force Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes.”

Then Iron Man appeared, and as always, the shit show started.

Guns pointing and shooting, drones flying and attacking the man in the suit. The camera turned as the cameraman fled just as a pretty-faced, red-haired woman ran past with Pepper Potts following close behind.

Natasha Romanoff

Suddenly, it wasn’t just a shit show. It was a shit show she decided to actively partake in. It didn’t take long for her to break into the security system and start scouting all the security cameras for a sight of the redhead.

She barely caught her on the stairs before she got into a car with Happy and drove off, most likely towards the Hammer Industries warehouse.

Marlowe got to work. She quietly breached the security system, making sure not to cause too much noise in the working system as she looked through the security system and marvelled at the way Natasha Romanoff took out the guards. The movements were fluid, but strong and controlled — just the way they were taught.

As the agent entered a room, where the cameras conveniently weren’t working, with Happy following close behind, Marlowe focused more on finding working devices, through which she could figure out what was happening with the drones and the stolen Iron Man suit.

The agent had already stated the code rewrite, but was working far too slowly for Marlowe’s liking. Too few shortcuts. Too many lines.

She turned on the announcement and communication feature as she hacked into the one working computer. It was a feature she didn’t really use much, or at all, but built one Wednesday afternoon when she was feeling particularly bored.

Graceless Angel has entered your computer.

Hi!

I’m going to help.

Then she heard the voice. That sweet, sweeter-than-honey voice.

“Graceless Angel? What is she doing here?”

I’m just trying to help.

“Wait, you can hear me?”

Yes.

“Then help, if you’re already in the computer.”

Rude.

She could hear Natasha chuckling, which made her smile. But she began to help, making expert work of the code and helping the agent reboot Rhodey’s suit. Together, they finished it and opened the channels to Tony’s suit.

“Reboot complete. You got your best friend back.”

“Thank you very much, Agent Romanoff.”

“Well done on the new chest piece. I am reading significantly higher output, and your vitals all look promising.”

“Yes, for the moment, I’m not dying. Thank you.”

“What do you mean you’re not dying? Did you just say you’re dying?”

“Is that you? No, I’m not. Not anymore.”

Marlowe muted the channels connecting Tony and Pepper on her computer, instead choosing to focus solely on Natasha’s breathing and voice.

“Hey, hey. Save it for the honeymoon. You got incoming, Tony. Looks like the fight’s coming to you.”

She still wasn’t able to find a visual on the agent, which meant that the cameras were either destroyed or disconnected.

Should she call her? Probably not. But she knew it would mean losing another night of sleep, so she caved in and called her.

It took one ring for Natasha to answer her phone. Just one. And she had to pull it from a pocket and accept the call. But the melody she had saved Marlowe’s number under was unmistakable, and just the thought of having the thief call her for the first time in weeks was enough to make her heart burn.

“Hi.” Marlowe’s voice lacked its usual confidence, and she silently cursed herself as she waited for a response.

“Marlowe? ”

God, hearing that voice was an experience. Marlowe could hear the quick breaths the agent was taking, and she felt the sudden need to sit down as she realised that this was it. She called her . She called her after promising herself not to care, not to waver in her decision. And now she was listening to the agent’s breathing like some lovesick idiot. “Are you alright?” She forced the words out of her, despite knowing it was not entirely what she wanted to say. No, it wasn’t what she wanted to say at all. But she needed to get over that, since there was no chance it would ever happen.

“What do you mean, am I alright? Yes, I am perfectly fine. ” Natasha’s voice was sharp and slightly unforgiving.

Marlowe just shook her head. “I’m sorry about the way I reacted back then, but I just saw you on TV, as you ran past the camera and, well, I wanted to ask if you were okay…”

“You said it yourself. We can’t do this anymore. And you were right.”

“We’re not doing anything, Natalie. I just- God, I knew all along and-”

“You knew?”

“It’s not my fault S.H.I.E.L.D. has really bad security for some reason!” She took a deep breath as if mentally preparing herself for the lie she was about to say — even though lying came like second nature to her. “I found your file once, and I realised you were probably a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent…”

Silence followed. Then a sharp breath. And once the agent spoke, her voice conveyed pure murder, “ You read my file?”

“Look, I’m sorry, but you must understand that that’s just what I do . Besides, my file seemed to be quite something too, and you probably read that every night before you go to sleep.”

Natasha’s silence was confirmation enough for her.

“I know you won’t be coming to my ballet classes anymore, and maybe you’ll have others keep surveillance of me, but you must understand that I can’t let you get me either.” She took a deep breath before continuing, “I just wanted to say goodbye, and that’s it. I’m sorry.”

Natasha, much to her surprise, responded in kind, but her goodbye fell on empty ears as the call ended with a soft ‘blip.’

Chapter Text

Marlowe didn’t like to be nervous. She didn’t experience it much in her life; most aspects of it dull and predictable. So it was a strange, rare occurrence that she found herself nervous on the night of the heist. But hell if she’d let that get to her. No matter how long she hadn’t done it — three months to be exact — she was good at what she did, and no amount of doubt would stop her.

She felt the back of the frame of the painting, searching for any bulge, perhaps a carefully wrapped package, only to find nothing.

“Гавно.” [Shit.]

“Well, that’s not a nice thing to say.”

Her head shot up at the approaching agent. “And who might you be?”

“Natasha never mentioned me? Crushed. My name is Jameson Todd, and I came here to take you to the headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D.” He smirked. “Do you know what S.H.I.E.L.D. is, Miss Moore?”

Take a step closer, you idiot.

“ It’s Strategic Homeland Intervention-”

Marlowe never specifically prided herself on her punching skills. She was good, but she wouldn’t consider it her speciality. The feeling of busted knuckles or her leather gloves while clenched in a fist was an uncomfortable one. Unfamiliar. But the pride and gratification of sending the jab into his nose was one she wouldn’t easily forget. With a loud pop, blood trickled from it, dripping onto the floor.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Agent Todd? Was it? I have to leave. And that name’s quite a mouthful.” She smiled as she ran in the opposite direction, but it quickly turned into a frown as a group of agents met her in the middle of the gallery.

She looked back over her shoulder to see Todd — now pressing a tissue to his nose — and three other agents already behind her. Her exits were cut off. Almost.

“You’re cornered.” Four agents, two on each side, raised their guns and aimed them at her. “Put down the painting, then raise your hands! And no quick movements!”

She grinned. She could notice the subtle changes in their gazes, the slight tremble of the arm; some of these agents seemed far too trigger-happy. She would not flee unscathed. Still, adrenaline did its job, made her brave, braver than she perhaps should be, but it wasn’t like she cared in that moment. “Well, my lovely pursuers, the time for me to leave has indeed come. Ever too early, ever too soon. Alas, goodbye and goodnight.” She ran for the windows.

“Remember, aim to injure, not kill!” One agent screamed before a myriad of bullets flew towards her.

She jumped through the window, tucking and rolling on the pavement to ease the impact of the landing, standing up and immediately merging into the crowd.

Her left leg hurt, and she could tell she was bleeding through her clothes. She knew The Secret Garden was just a few streets away, and once she got to it, it’d be much easier to continue moving forward. If she managed to come to it. That proved to be a much bigger issue than she originally thought.

An arrow embedded itself in her back.

***

“You shot her?” She almost screamed as Clint calmly packed his bow.

“Natasha.”

“You shot her ?”

“Natasha! Now is not the time for feelings!” Even though his voice was firm, he wasn’t agitated. Not at all. Clint was, in that moment — if you asked Natasha that is — far too calm for having just shot an arrow into the back of a woman. Marlowe’s back, to be specific, but that little detail shouldn’t matter. Right?

Everyone has their firsts. First time to walk. First time to speak. First time to kiss. First time. We encounter these firsts all throughout our lives, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Natasha encountered a new first in her twenties.

First time to panic on a mission.

As she later realised, it should have been a firm sign that she was in too deep. That she really did need to distance herself. It was a sign she should’ve recognised, but overlooked in the moment of panic.

Instead, she blew up at Clint. “Arrow wounds are dangerous, Clint! What if she dies? Oh God, what if she- I- The director won’t be happy!”

Clint stood up straight and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t have a breakdown yet, Natasha. I suggest you catch her before that happens.” He gives her a warm smile. “Okay?”

“I- Fine. I hate you for this, just so you know.”

“I love you too, Natasha,” he said, but she was already on her way down the fire escape, so he waved goodbye.

The agent pushed through the inner turmoil and forced herself to focus. Where was Marlowe heading? Then she hit a familiar street and knew, immediately, that Marlowe was heading to The Secret Garden.

***

Marlowe was biting down on a piece of cloth as hard as she could, careful not to let out a sound. Her hand found the arrow, and she began to twist it, while doing her best not to let out a blood-curdling scream. It moved. Good . That meant it wasn’t lodged in the bone, at least. Now followed the bad part: getting it out.

It was in pretty deep, which meant she would have to push it out. She cut off the fletching and the nock before pushing the shaft deeper. Feeling the arrowhead just beneath her skin, she took one of her knives and made an incision before pushing the arrow through the cut.

As if she hadn’t lost enough blood already, it started pouring out even more when she pulled the arrow out and discarded it in the toilet. She took a t-shirt she had grabbed on the way to the bar — one of those ‘I love NY’ ones — and started packing the wound. Her head was beginning to spin, but she pushed forward, out of the now bloody bathroom and into the main part of the bar. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, numbing the pain and allowing her to move; to walk, since running required too much movement and energy. So she did. She was careful to avoid Natasha Romanoff’s gaze as she made her way out on the street and hailed a taxi.

She knew they would find her this time, so her time was limited. She took out a piece of paper and borrowed a pen from the taxi driver. Hurriedly, she scribbled down a note.

***

Natasha looked through the bathroom stalls, only to find blood. A lot of it. She opened the doors of the bloodiest one of all and found a broken arrow lodged in the toilet, and then a whole lot more blood.

Marlowe was injured. Perhaps fatally if Natasha didn’t find her in time. She knew the thief wouldn’t go to a hospital. People of their kind never did. The danger hospitals posed was akin to walking around in plain daylight with a sign pointing to your head.

She bolted out of the club and looked around for a black-dressed figure, limping. To her luck, there were about a hundred black-dressed figures on the street, three of which were limping in a way that would be appropriate for the arrow wound Marlowe had received.

“Does anyone have eyes on Moore?” She asked, only to receive back negatives.

How did a woman who was shot with an arrow barely twelve minutes ago manage to escape?

But then she saw her; the hair, the grimacing face, the figure — lightly crouched and leaning — as she got into a taxi.

“I need a car, immediately!” She spoke again, and in barely even a moment, a black car parked in front of her, and she got in. “Follow that car.”

“Agent Romanoff, should we call for a car blockade?”

“No. We need her computer, and for that, we need to know where she lives.”

“Yes, Agent Romanoff.”

The car led them to a tall apartment complex, and as soon as Natasha got out, there was already a fresh trail of blood on the ground, leading to the lift and reappearing on the third floor.

“Agent Romanoff, do you need backup?”

“No. Stay behind. I’ll handle this myself.”

Chapter Text

Natasha looked at the folded, freshly bloodied piece of paper sitting before the door that the blood trail led her to. She examined it from a safe distance first; she could never be too careful — although she hardly held herself to that most days — then crouched down and picked it up. Thick and smooth to the touch, which told her its owner liked quality paper, she examined it once again before opening it with a slight rustle.

The door is open.

The writing was neat but slightly shaky, written in rounded letters that sloped to the right.

As she stood back up, she tested the door, and sure enough, it was open. She continued forward into the apartment, careful not to step into the trail of blood, and praying that there were no squeaky floorboards. The apartment was clean and tidy, but clearly lived in, from what she could see. She took her gun and pointed it in the direction she was heading, preparing to check the rooms one by one.

The second door on her right was the only closed one, which only raised her suspicions of where Marlowe could be.

“Already here?” A voice, Marlowe’s voice, asked from somewhere on her left, immediately grabbing her attention.

She cursed silently before speaking, “How did you know I arrived?”

Marlowe laughed, the sound faint and much more forced than what Natasha was used to hearing from her. “First door on the left. The open one.”

Natasha immediately turned to the doorway from which the voice was coming, and true to her words, the door was open. “How do I know you won’t shoot me as soon as I appear between the doorframe?”

“I’m hurt, Natalie. To think after all this time we spent together, you’d still think of me this way.” She sighed loudly. “I haven’t shot a human in three years. And, I would come and greet you if I could fucking move.”

“You can’t move?”

“Well, I can. Clearly, I can move my mouth. But yes, everything hurts, and I’d rather not stop pressing on the wound, although I don’t think it’s doing me any good.” Marlowe let out a low exhale, and Natasha could practically hear the wince in it.

She immediately moved forward, stepping through the door and searching the room until her eyes landed on Marlowe.

The woman lay on the sofa, sprawled out, and her hands pressing hard on the red towel on her abdomen. There was a gun on the coffee table beside the sofa, but its dismantled state conveyed a clear message.

Natasha moved swiftly, efficiently. In just a few steps, she was by the coffee table, taking the gun and throwing it to the other side of the room while securely putting away hers. She knelt by Marlowe’s lying form on the sofa and pressed her fingers into the part of the towel she assumed the wound was underneath. The towel wasn’t just red, it was wet, and that set off alarm bells in Natasha’s mind. “What did you do?”

“Well, I-”

“I know what you did-” Natasha said, punctuating her words with a harder press on the towel. “-why did you do that?”

Marlowe huffed, jutting out her chin. “I couldn’t just walk around with an arrow lodged in my abdomen, now could I?”

“Drop the attitude, or I’ll make you bleed out.”

“Good riddance.”

Natasha grimaced, a small frown making its way onto her face. “Worse. I’ll make sure you survive, I’ll personally accompany you on the way to the hospital, and I’ll ensure you’re awake for every moment of the procedure.”

“I don’t want to go to a hospital,” Marlowe spoke, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. If it were even possible, considering the loss of blood, her skin paled just a little bit more.

“That reminds me. Долбоёб! Why didn’t you go to a hospital?” Natasha pressed on the towel harder again in frustration. [Idiot.]

“Can’t you just let me bleed out?” The thief asked. “I hate hospitals.”

“Well, guess where I’m going to have to put you, sunshine.” Marlowe just groaned while Natasha rolled her eyes and spoke into her intercom. “I need a medic team on standby.”

“Natasha, are you injured?” A male voice sounded through the intercom. She wished it were someone else. Anyone else. Where was Clint that this idiot was the most reliable person to pick up?

She sighed and breathed in deep before speaking, “No, Agent Todd. I’m perfectly fine. As your commanding officer, though, I’d appreciate it if you reoffered to me as Agent Romanoff.”

“But-”

“I have no qualms about demoting you from your position as team leader if you cannot comply with even such simple orders. Not to mention you let Miss Moore get away.”

“Roger that.”

Natasha nodded to herself as she looked back at Marlowe, only to find the woman’s now grinning face still looking at her. “What?”

“Was that the idiot I socked in the nose?”

“Quite possibly.” She shook her head with a small smile playing on her lips. “Now, you have something I oh-so-terribly need from you.”

“I thought we were waiting till marriage?”

Natasha shook her head but maintained her smile while pressing just a bit harder onto the towel. “Your computer, sunshine. Besides, I wouldn’t fuck you if it meant dying.”

Marlowe’s grin widened. “Careful. You might regret that in the future.”

“You wish. Now tell me where your computer is.”

“I don’t see why I should, Natalia Alianova Romanova.”

“Because otherwise I won’t have a choice but to get it from you by force, Maleena Grigoryeva Milova.”

Marlowe winced, the smile disappearing from her face. “Don’t call me by that name. Maleena is dead.”

Natasha raised her eyebrow. “And you think I enjoy being called Natalia?” She didn’t. In fact, there was nothing she hated more than that name, except how right it felt when Marlowe called her that. She didn’t know why, but it didn’t feel hateful; it wasn’t unpleasant, and it sounded far more familiar and loving than it ever should have, hearing it spoken correctly — every syllable in its place.

“I think it’s prettier.” Marlowe attempted a shrug but didn’t succeed; the pain was too great even for small movements. “Besides, it keeps up the memory of the woman who fearlessly escaped the Red Room.”

“Oh! We are not done with that! Thanks for reminding me. You read my file; that was a vile thing to do!”

“Well, you probably know everything there is to know about me, so I don’t see how that’s a problem.”

“I don’t actually. Your entire history before you started working as the Graceless Angel is a mystery even to me.” She then realised she had made a mistake as Marlowe’s eyes widened in confusion. “You didn’t know?”

“I didn’t.”

Natasha just sighed, stopping the phrase that would surely be followed by another quip from Marlowe.

Marlowe laughed triumphantly before wincing in pain.

“Don’t move.” Natasha’s hand was immediately holding her face down on the sofa, making sure she didn’t move. “Now tell me where your computer is, or we’ll have a much bigger problem than you bleeding out on the sofa.

“Ouch, Natalia, that hurts.”

Immediately, Natasha’s mood shifted. “I’m sorry, but I have to press,” she whispered quietly.

Marlowe smiled again. “Metaphorically. Although this does hurt.” With a sigh, she looked away before speaking again, “It’s under my bed. I’ll show you.” She began getting up. “I can’t believe I’m showing you to my bedroom,” she said with a grin.

“You need to get your mind out of the gutter-” She stopped as Marlowe collapsed, immediately alert, catching her and laying her back down on the sofa. “I need a medic team up here immediately!” She yelled into her intercom.

In seconds, a team of agents was up there, and she let go of the towel as they started administering first aid to Marlowe and preparing her to go to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s hospital wing.

Natasha was mostly unaware of people around her — a moment of shock, of some unsaid, unspeakable fear of losing someone — and only regained her bearings when a hand touched her shoulder. She didn’t hesitate, not in the state she was in, and threw the unsuspecting agent onto the floor, where she was relieved to discover it was Clint.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

Clint nodded, understanding the situation. At moments like these, she was glad she didn’t need words to explain what was happening in her mind. Instead, he understood. Some other time, this would have bothered her greatly — being known so well.

“Did you get the computer?”

“Not yet.” She stood up, offering him a hand and pulling him back on his feet. “It’s in her bedroom.”