23. The Petrovitch Foundation

"Agent, a word."

Natasha, back at her station after several days' absence, approached Nick Fury's alcove. "Yes," she replied in a calm, toneless tone.

"Hill spoke with me a few hours ago, and I…"

"No." Natasha shook her head. "No, I won't talk about what Maria saw. I will do whatever you need – I'll use my body and my training on any case or mission you choose to send me on, but I will not discuss the issue you are about to bring up."

Nick didn't move for several seconds. "I simply wanted to ask if you were compromised in any way," he said at last.

She might have been carved from marble; no tremor or tiny movement betrayed her thoughts. "Nothing to do with SHIELD. Not now, not ever."

"Okay." He touched her arm, a mere brush of his knuckles along her elbow, and for one moment a wild, desperate look came into her eyes. It disappeared so quickly he couldn't be certain he had ever seen it in the first place. "Listen, about the previous mission, I do need to ask you a few things. Are you all right with that?"

She nodded. "Of course."

"Good." Nick brought up her report on his screen. "You stated the passengers were led to safety by Clint, thanks to a cache of hidden weaponry in the area. Did you have anything to do with placing it there?"

"No, sir."

"Well, just who put the weapons there, then?"

Natasha clenched her jaw, and he saw how thin she had become, her skin pale against the dark material of her Kevlar uniform. "I think you already know the answer to the question."

He nodded. "And as for the Clerkenwell Syndicate, it has been taken down thanks to a series of online reveals and undercover investigations initiated from an IP address within Stark Tower. Again, who did this?"

Natasha's blue gaze didn't waver. "The same as the library cache."

"I've also been handed a step-by-step take-down for a Midwest drug operation. In fact, the group has already been defunded and is on the verge of crumbling. The same?" She sighed, and he added, "Nasty bunch of little shits, too. They were about to launch a line of pedophiles' support and hookups to lure more kids in. Anyway, they are going down as we speak, thanks to…"

"Yeah."

"So, I have three separate cases all stamped closed, bringing our success rate up to 94.5%. Furthermore, the guy who did it all has been banished to Asgard. I don't know about you, but I happen to have a problem with that."

"Sir, you would need to talk to Thor. Or someone from Asg…" Her breath hitched, and she couldn't continue.

"I know. I've got a feeling it's not so easy, though – there's probably a whole bunch of red tape and protocol I'm about to breach. And if there is anything I hate, it's extra red tape. Still, if I go ahead with this, I just wanted to know I have your support."

She tilted her head to one side, her eyes appearing interested at last. "Why ask me?"

"Don't let it get to your head. You seemed like the most obvious choice." One corner of Fury's mouth rose slightly, and Natasha nodded.

"You always have my support, sir."

"I know the situation is all feely and forbidden and junk like that, but I just have to say you two are like the Olympic champions of nano-emotion," Tony blurted.

She couldn't talk to Steve or Pepper. She couldn't confide in Bruce, and even the thought of spilling her guts to Clint made her feel ready to vomit. At last she went back to her room to make another attempt to sleep or at least lie down for a few hours.

It lasted for exactly seven minutes. Natasha flung the covers off, sat up, and glanced around her apartment. Why had she never noticed how claustrophobic it was? Her rooms were like a box, an opaque version of the glass cage that had once housed …

"This has got to stop." She got out of bed, banging her hip on a drawer on her bedside table. Natasha fought the urge to rip it out, throw it through the wall, and blast the offending furniture with her Hauser.

Inside the drawer was a lock of black hair. She was about to slam it shut when she saw the memory stick Loki gave her.

Natasha drew a long, shuddering sigh and reached for the stick. Cursing herself, she picked up her laptop and attached the card.

Instantly a file popped up marked "Agent Romanova." Her cursor hovered over it. Would the file contain virtual flowers, poetry, or sweet words to make her melt? She really didn't need anything sentimental at that moment.

Instead, the folder contained several neatly recorded spreadsheets and a sheaf of word docs. The one marked Info was the obvious place to start.

Natasha opened the file. It was a description of a charity designed to help the victims of sex trafficking and slavery, a group to provide housing, education, and group support. Several way-stations were already available in the most necessary areas, and ten more were in the process of being developed.

The name of the group was "The Petrovitch Foundation."

She sat back, feeling as though someone had just punched her in the stomach. The charity, the name, the entire concept – they were all spot on. The file was the perfect present. It just couldn't have been more cleverly designed.

The Excel files showed the foundation was fully endowed, with financial plans to increase its holdings at a slow percentage to account for growth and inflation. All tax-exempt and government forms were already filed; she had nothing to do but sit back and make certain the right people ran the show.

Her phone rang, and she jumped. Clint was calling.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he replied. "I just checked my calendar, and in about five weeks I have one, maybe two hours off. Want to go and get a boatload of food and alcohol with me then?"

"In five weeks? I might be able to arrange some free time. Sounds good."

"Okay." He knew enough not to prolong it; the phone clicked and went silent. Clint – her perfect partner and friend. In five weeks she might even be able to function enough to seem somewhat normal.

Natasha stared at the screen for a moment. She had to have more. She needed to have a long conversation with someone who would completely understand. The only problem was that person didn't exist, at least not in her world, not any longer.

Or was that true?

A sudden idea seized her, and she leaned forward. Filled with a hope and drive she had almost forgotten, Natasha began to type and scan the Internet. At last she came up with the information she needed, and she plugged a number into her phone.

A series of calls led her to the person she wanted. A voice, husky and filled with intelligence, answered on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Dr. Jane Foster? This is Natasha Romanova speaking. I was hoping you and I could meet."

FIN

NOTE: Don't worry, guys: I am SO not going to leave it there.

I have the second volume ready to upload. It's nearly completed and edited, so if you want more of Loki and Natasha look for The Tail of the Dragon in a few days. I always post update links on Tumblr at Blackfrost Shenanigan, as well as other Blackfrost stories and art, so please check it out.

In the meantime, thanks so much to all those who took the time to review and DM me about my little story. I can't tell you how much fun I had writing it as well as the sequel.

Feel free to send me a message if you have a question or critique; reviews truly feed the writer's soul.