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Sometimes Agent Romanoff will take Darcy out on trips. Not anywhere particularly fabulous, like Disneyland, but still, it’s a free trip; coffee shops, huge bookstores, a filthy garage up in Boston, some luscious rich person’s house that they have to drive for ten hours to get to and one memorable time to the White House, where they somehow managed to gatecrash a Presidential meeting (Darcy all but pissed her pants when they burst in the room, but Agent Romanoff just dropped a letter in the President’s lap, got a security guard to bring two chairs and made Darcy sit through the whole meeting. No-one even tried to get them to leave. Darcy asked about it. Agent Romanoff just said she’d “called ahead”.).
The trips are sometimes terrifying, mostly interesting, and always fun. Darcy didn’t really expect that, the first time she was dragged out of the door. But Agent Romanoff is nothing if not surprising.
“You need to stop calling me that,” she was told that first trip, sat in Central Park and trying not to stare at the woman next to her.
She twitches her head, not sure where she should look. “What?”
“Agent Romanoff. It’s a little obvious.”
“Obvious?” Darcy feels like an especially vapid parrot.
Agent Romanoff drags her eyes over to Darcy, hair like burnished copper in the sun and lips just tilted into a smile. “Yes. Obvious.”
“Right, right, cause you’re meant to be super secret and everything.”
“Precisely.”
“Ok, super duper secret lady,” she is frightened of her, but not so frightened that she won’t be cheeky, “what do I call you? Agent Secretness? Miss Totally-not-a-spy? The Lady of Shado–”
“Natasha is fine.”
Right. Obviously. She tries her best to do as she is asked. She still ends up calling her ‘Agent’ in her head though.
Today they are in a museum. Darcy does not know why. But then she doesn’t know why they go on any of these trips. She should probably ask.
But the tortoise skeletons are just so distracting.
“Oh my gosh, look at its little bony face!”
Agent Red-head (Hey, it’s a step forward, alright?) spares the utterly fascinating skeleton but a momentary glance. “What about it?”
“It’s so cute, that’s what.”
Now Darcy gets a look, Agent Scary’s eyebrows pinched together and her mouth twisted in something approaching fondness. “Cute.”
“Sure. Just look at it. Properly.”
The other woman does. “It’s dead.”
“Duh. And cute.”
Agent Awesome mouths the word, trying out the taste of it on her tongue. “Duh.”
It sounds so odd coming out of her mouth that Darcy almost laughs. Agent Hotness (Darcy is intimidated, not blind) obviously notices, as she rolls her eyes and pushes Darcy toward the next display.
“Aw, but tortoise!”
“There are plenty of other dead things for you to look at.”
Now that the distraction of the tortoise is past, Darcy remembers the question she should really be asking. “Hey Natasha, how come you bring me on these trips anyway?”
“A lot of reasons.”
“Like?”
The other woman shrugs. “Because Coulson wanted you to have exposure to my techniques –”
“Wait, you’ve been secretly training me?”
“Yes. You cannot expect to live and work with people like us and remain normal.”
Darcy mutters the word normal to herself distastefully, but Agent Scary isn’t finished yet.
“Because sometimes I need to get out of that mad house and this kills two birds with one stone.”
Ok, that admittedly makes sense.
“Because you need to invest less time in looking after scientists.”
“Well they kind of need looking after.”
“As do you.” Well that was unexpected. “Because you think dead things are cute.”
Hold on. “Because I think dead things are cute?”
They stop in front of a whale skeleton suspended from the ceiling, Darcy’s head turned up toward Agent Red, Agent Red’s hand perched gently in the small of Darcy’s back. Darcy can just catch the smooth swirl of the Agent’s scent, soft and subtle, notes the bright curl of hair tucked behind one pale ear, the feel of warm leather pressed into her arm. No-one had ever really given her odder propensities much thought beyond woah freaky, let alone voiced them as a positive. Even Jane, who has taken to Darcy like a sister, sometimes places a firm hand over her mouth in a plea for quiet. It occurs to Darcy that the Agent next to her has never done that.
Natasha looks at her, her hand drifting around Darcy’s waist. Her lips pat slightly in a smile and for a moment Darcy can’t look at anything else, except her eyes are so bright and her hair so vivid and the swift curves of her body so very pleasing; there is too much to look at, so Darcy stares at the whale. The whale is safe. Dead whales with dead smiles have fewer teeth than women with red hair.
“Among other things.” Natasha finally says.
Darcy is huddled – wrapped in blankets and a mug of cocoa clasped firmly in one hand – at the end of the living room couch. Princess Bride is on the telly, Dread Captain Roberts in the middle of a duel. Darcy is enraptured, despite knowing the movie line-for-line. The rest of the room is empty.
A door opens with a quiet shush, and after a second closes again. Darcy doesn’t turn her head, and doesn’t hear any footsteps on the thick carpet. So she is surprised when the light from the television catches on a shock of red. It’s Natasha, in a casual green vest top and jogging bottoms. She slides onto the couch, presses her back tight against the cushions.
“What is this?” She asks.
“Seriously, you’ve never seen the Princess Bride?”
Natasha squints at the Dread Pirate Roberts. “The Princess Bride?” Before Darcy can begin to explain the movie Natasha turns bodily toward her and tugs on the edge of the blanket. “Any space under there?”
Mouth dry, Darcy nods before she really thinks about it, lifting an arm to work out where the edge is. Natasha bats it away and untangles her before edging under, resting her head on Darcy’s thigh and cocooning them both in woollen warmth. There is silence for a while. Darcy tries to work out what to do with her hands. Eventually she settles one on of the couch arm, cocoa in its grip, and the other lightly on Natasha’s shoulder. She can feel the heat of the other woman through the blanket, seeping into her hand and her legs and sweeping through her until she might not need the blanket at all.
The silence seems to offend her tongue. “How was your day?” She asks.
Natasha shrugs, apparently apathetic about the whole thing. “Normal. Training, paperwork, arguments with Fury. This is the first non-boring thing that’s happened.”
“You count arguments with Fury as boring? Seriously?”
“He’s a big softie once you get to know his tells.” Darcy can’t see it, but she’s sure Natasha must be grinning.
“Uh huh, I’m sure. I can totally see him decking out his office in ‘My Little Pony’ merchandise and giving big warm hugs to all the new recruits.”
Natasha laughs, loud and brash. Darcy never expected her to have a laugh like that, but in time she realised that it suited her. Natasha is full of things you don’t expect. The laugh eases some tight knot in Darcy, and feeling emboldened she dares to brush wandering strands of hair out of Natasha’s face. Natasha gives no sign of protest, so she cards her fingers through her hair. It’s soft, and in a moment of poetic fancy she imagines that it’s waves of living fire, cascading from Natasha’s head and over Darcy’s lap.
“Geeze,” she says, fingers still threading through red curls, “I’d hate to imagine what a non-boring day looks like for you.”
“Like this.”
“What?”
“Like this. Strange movies and blankets and you.”
“Oh.” Darcy tries to think of something else to say, something witty, because she can’t have heard Natasha right and her silence will show her flawed understanding like a glaring beacon. But she doesn’t think of anything in time. Natasha arches up, resting her weight on one hand and turning her head toward Darcy. Darcy’s hand is still tangled in her hair, pulled round to the other side so she is almost cupping her face.
“You don’t believe me.” Natasha says.
“Um, I mean...”
Natasha’s gaze is sharp, and she brings her spare hand up to trace a burning line along Darcy’s jaw and under her bottom lip. “This,” she whispers, “this.”
Darcy’s heart beats once, twice. She breathes sharply through her nose. Her head leans forward of its own accord.
“This,” Natasha says again.
Darcy presses her lips in a feather-light touch against Natasha’s. Natasha’s fingers are resting under Darcy’s chin. She pulls it up slightly. Forward, until their lips are sealed tight together and Darcy is shaking slightly with the marvel of it. Her hand tightens in Natasha’s hair, and she gives the slightest brush of teeth, the slightest touch of tongue behind Natasha’s upper lip. They’re almost too close, too consumed by blankets and heat and the fire of Natasha’s hair. Darcy has to pull back, rest her forehead against Natasha’s, breath in as she breathes out.
“Ok,” she says, “this.”
Natasha nods. She slides back down to her spot on Darcy’s thighs, and Darcy begins to sift a hand through her hair again. The Princess Bride plays on.