When it comes down it, Michaela should have expected this. At least, the possibility of it, if not the finer details. She spends so much of time envisioning worst possible scenarios, and yet – this never even occurred to her, not once.

This, of course, being the current situation where she's dangling from the half-dropped ladder of a fire-escape and Natasha Romanoff, AKA the Black Widow, AKA the most terrifyingly competent woman in New York, is standing at the mouth of the alleyway, arms crossed, lips quirked into the beginnings of a either an amused smile or a predatory smirk.

"Uh," Michaela says, with all the eloquence of the skittish, ever-so-unfortunate misshapen deer she currently resembles. Her feet are swinging from her latest attempt at using some sort of momentum to hoist herself back up the ladder, she's undoubtedly sweating clean through her suit, and she's almost positive her mask has slipped and is only covering half her face, maybe less.

The Black Widow lifts a brow at her predicament, her eyes sweeping over Michaela from head to twitching toe. She's kitted out in her usual gear, black catsuit a counterpoint to the vibrant red of her hair and the luminous green of her eyes. Her hair's grown out since Michaela last caught a glimpse of her on the news, cut just below her shoulders and expertly styled so that not a single strand is out of place.

And then there's Michaela, looking like a fool, as per usual.

One day she'll meet an Avenger when she isn't externalizing her hot mess vibe, and her self-confidence will be all the better for it.

"Do I need to get a broom?" the Black Widow asks, her voice pitched just loud enough for Michaela to hear her clearly. The amusement's coming out full force now.

A broom? Michaela glances down at herself, frowning, then – Ah. Right. A broom, like you'd use to knock a pesky pet down from an unsupervised perch. She lets her gaze drop further, down to the ground. Can't be that far of a drop. She'll just, you know, bend her knees, absorb some of the shock. Right? Totally, that's justifiable.

"No, no, no, that won't be necessary—" Like it's a genuine offer, fuck her life. Michaela grimaces to herself behind what's remaining of her mask. Her fingers flex around the rusted metal rung of the ladder, gauging the tender soreness of her upper arms and shoulders. Hanging out isn't gonna be an option for that much longer – her upper body strength has always been a little lacking, she'll admit it, but in all fairness, it's never been much of an issue before she got into the hero gig. Where the hell's Spider-Child when she really needs him?

Up or down, dumbass, pick one!

She picks down, because the possibility of falling on her ass and-or face is still preferable to having the Black Widow witness her pathetic struggle to haul herself up onto the first landing of the fire escape. She lets go and doesn't actually have time to brace herself (should've done that before, probably), so she wobbles on the landing, hissing out a sharp exhale at the resulting jolt of pain that knifes through her ankles and calves. Fuck, don't let her have a limp, don't make this worse than it already is—

By the time she's standing upright, tucking one foot up against the opposite leg because it fucking stings and with her luck she probably did fuck up her ankle, the Black Widow is much closer, only a few feet away. Michaela checks a flinch as she locks eyes with her; she's silent on her feet and that's not remotely surprising, but that doesn't mean she was prepared for the reality of it. Like, yeah, Matt's got the ninja thing going on, but when he's just Matt he makes an effort to make at least some noise, so Michaela doesn't jump right out of her skin whenever he walks over to her. The Widow has a different mentality, and that's cool, that's fantastic, she shouldn't compromise herself for anyone, let alone one slapdash vigilante from Hell's Kitchen who she just caught dangling from a fire escape like a whole-ass idiot.

Michaela takes a breath, grits her teeth and resists the urge to shove her smarting hands into her pockets. She can be professional about this. It's not necessarily in her nature to be professional and poised, but there's a first time for everything, yeah?

Well. Blackout can do that, at least. So, she has that to fall back on, never mind the erratic thumping of her heart and the blood rushing in her ears. Those are just. You know. Background problems. Nothing that's going to stop her from making a not-terrible impression on arguably the most threatening of the Avengers.

"Don't see you around here too often," Michaela says, aiming for nonchalant and hitting somewhere around high school freshman trying to get college kid to think they're cool. Could be worse. "Anything I can do for you, or are you just passing through...?"

"Call me Natasha," says the Black Widow, her smile small but no less arresting, "since I'm going to go ahead and call you Michaela. It is Michaela, isn't it?"

Michaela knows it's a rhetorical question. Rogers confirmed that Stark outed her to the rest of the Avengers, there's no reason Natasha wouldn't be a hundred percent sure of her identity. Still, she can't help but nod, rubbing a hand over her cheek sheepishly, which turns out to be a terrible decision because she definitely scraped her fingers raw on the ladder and the brush of abused skin over her mask is more or less agony. Fuck everything.

"Then, uh, is there anything I can do for you, Natasha?" Michaela tries again. She debates the merits of getting rid of the mask and goggles altogether, figures it won't make a different either way and shoves her goggles onto the crown of her head. The mask slips down the rest of the way and hangs loosely around her neck. It's just them in the alley, and the Black Widow understands secrets better than most.

"We'll get to that," Natasha replies. She makes a sharp gesture between Michaela and the ladder above her. "First, I'd like to hear how you ended up like that."

Michaela freezes. "Um. That's. Can I ask why you'd—"

"Call it professional curiosity. That, and some of my colleagues seem to have a vested interest in your well-being. I'd like to give them a reassuring report when I get back to the Tower."

A vested interest. Okay, that's... not wild at all. Is Thor still talking about her coming around to the Tower? Is Rogers?

"Oh," Michaela breathes. Oh, she's going to have a heart attack in this disgusting alley and it's going to be Captain America's fault all over again. And this time his smile isn't even in the same borough! Matt can never get wind of this, never, he'll laugh himself hoarse over it and then tease her about for the rest of her fucking life. "Well, in that case... It's, uh. Not a long a story. There's a" – she waves her hand absently, gesturing towards to the rooftop – "there's this cat? I keep seeing signs for it all over the neighborhood and it's been missing for a while, apparently, and I saw it while I was, uh, patrolling tonight. It kind of freaked when it noticed me and went tearing off across the roof—"

"You were already on the roof?"

Michaela blinks, considering that. Is it weird for her to be up there when she's like, not naturally inclined towards heights? Like Peter is, or even Matt? Maybe. Either way – "Yup, I was listening to this," and she tugs the police scanner from her sweatshirt pocket, waving it a bit for Natasha to see. It's nothing impressive, and Natasha hardly bats an eye. Michaela tucks it away again, a little chagrined.

"Half the time I don't bother with it 'cause I'm out with Daredevil, right? He's got his own warning system for all the crime that happens around here, and I just follow his lead. But he's, um, kind of busy at the moment." Or, well, Matt Murdock is – Nelson & Murdock have a huge case coming up, and Michaela convinced Matt to cut back on the vigilantism until it's settled, that she'd cover for him in the meantime. She shrugs. "So, I was out on my own and figured it'd give me something of a leg up out here."

"And the cat?"

"Caught it out of the corner of my eye," Michaela says. "It's fluffy and white, kind of stands out against all the shit and bricks, and I recognized it from the posters." She doesn't add that she knows it belongs to the eight-year-old girl who lives a floor below her and that she's been looking for it for the past two weeks without much success, until tonight. Somehow, she's still pretty sure that Natasha can discern the truth from just staring into her soul and sifting through all the bullshit that much clutter it up. It's not comforting in the least, but hey, that's dealing with her superheroes for you. Especially ones as high caliber as the Black Widow. "Like I said, I went after it, it spooked and made a mad dash for freedom. Leapt right onto the next roof. I tried to follow, and..."

And nearly plunged to her death. She's damn lucky the fire escape was even there, and that her trajectory had her clipping one of the landings instead of hitting the broad side of the building right next to it. Yeah, it knocked the air out of her lungs and hurt like a bitch, and yeah, she had to scramble to even get a grip on the bottom of the ladder, but. She's not dead, so. That's something. And now she knows that parkouring her way across the city's rooftops isn't a viable mode of travel for her.

Everything can be a learning experience if you ignore the fact that you almost turned yourself into an unflattering heap of broken bones and blood in the middle of a random alley in Hell's Kitchen.

(More to the point, though, this is another thing Matt won't be getting wind of if she can help it. He has enough ammo when it comes to her reckless idiocy, he doesn't need anything else, especially not when he's actually toned down his own death-wish-like behavior these last couple months)

"No wonder you're a Captain America fangirl."

Michaela snaps out of her thoughts, flushing as she takes in the smirk Natasha's sporting. "Rogers tell you that?"

"No, not in so many words. He's a nice guy, he wouldn't call anyone out like that. But I'm an excellent judge of character, and if I had to pick an Avenger for you to go starry-eyed over, it's Rogers." She tils her head, considering. "Although you do remind me of Hawkeye more. You haven't met him, I take it?"

"Hawkeye? Uh, nope, not that I'm aware of. Saw him walking his dog, or someone's dog anyway, when I was in Bed-Stuy about a year ago, but I didn't like, get a chance to talk to him or anything." Michaela slow-blinks again. "I remind you of Hawkeye?"

"It's not exactly a compliment," Natasha admits, rolling her eyes. "He's got the self-preservation instincts of a five-year-old. He also thought taking on the Russian mob occupying Bed-Stuy over a dog, by himself and without his bow, was a good idea."

"Ah."

That makes more sense, then. She can't say she knows much about Hawkeye beyond him being one hell of a shot, but, well. It's not shocking to hear how he really is in his everyday life. The Avengers must have flaws of their own, some of them less obvious than Stark's.

"On the other hand," Natasha continues, and she's – grinning? That's, yeah, that's a grin, a pretty damn fond one, too. It reminds her a little of the stupid cute look on Rogers face when he was mooning over James in that café, but more refined. Or dignified, at least. Michaela's kind of starstruck over seeing it on Natasha's face, of all people. "He's the best man I've ever met, even counting Rogers. So, not exactly an insult, either. Take it however you'd like."

And the flush is back for an entirely different reason. Aw, geez, what a thing to hear from the Black Widow. She wants to meet Hawkeye now, too, which is annoying, because it means she's reconsidering her stance on never stepping foot in Avengers Tower. That's. Ugh. Rogers is going to be smug about it if she ends up going, she can feel it.

Shaking herself out slightly, Michaela tucks that away for later, returning her attention to the situation at hand. "Alright, well. Thank you? Maybe? But, um, I really gotta ask again. Did you need me for something specific? 'Cause I'm more than happy to lend a hand, or, you know, keep shooting the shit with you, if that's something..."

Shooting the shit. Because that's professional superhero language. God, sometimes Michaela wishes she could surgically remove the fucking foot from her fucking mouth, it would eliminate so many of her problems.

But Natasha doesn't do more than quirk a brow at her awkward phrasing. "I thought you might've clued in by now, Michaela. I'm here for you."

"...I think you've probably pegged me as a genuine idiot by this point, so could you elaborate on that? In small words?"

That gets a huff of laughter from her, and wow, Michaela has peaked. She got the Black Widow to laugh! At her expense, sure, but that's par for the course. It feels almost as good as making James crack a smile, honestly, which. Says something about her priorities that she isn't going to delve too deeply into at this point in time.

"You made quite the impression on our resident super soldier, and before that, you got up close and personal with the God of Thunder. That warrants a closer look at Blackout, in my opinion. Stark did the leg work of checking into your alter ego, but I wanted to meet you in person. Excellent judge of character, remember?"

"Is this..." Don't say it, don't say it, that's not what this is and you know it— "is this like the superhero version of the shovel talk?"

Fucking fuck, she needs a better filter.

"Unless you're planning on going after our dear captain's virtue—"

"What? Oh, fuck, no, that's, I'm not—I have a boyfriend!"

Natasha's eyes are fucking glowing with mirth even in the dim evening light and the slanting shadows of the alley. "Then it's not a shovel talk. Though I suppose you know if you decide to do anything untoward to my teammates...?"

Oh, good, she's sweating again, and it's not from exertion this go around. Fun times. "Yeah, I got that impression already, thanks."

Natasha shrugs again, unruffled like she has been for the entirety of this conversation. "I doubt we'll have a problem, you're not the type to fly off the handle like that." Michaela decides not to ask how Natasha's come to that conclusion; no need to make herself even more paranoid. "But you're an enhanced individual living in New York who's had dealings with SHIELD twice now and met two Avengers on separate occasions. Any one of those things would've put you on my radar, but the combination means I'm... let's say it means I'm interested in getting to know you better. And from more than just your paper trail and Stark's toys."

"Is this a test? This feels like a test. And I gotta tell you, I was a shit test-taker in high school. Still am, honestly."

"Hm, no. Not quite a test. I was just here to get a clearer picture of you and your intentions. And I'm satisfied for now."

"Satisfied?"

"Mm-hm."

"O-kay. Um. I'm... glad?"

"You should be, Michaela King."

Ominous. Great. Michaela darts a glance over her shoulder, idly wondering where the ever-loving fuck that cat went. She'd really like to get that thing back to its owner, the girl's been in tears near-constantly since Princess ducked out of the open window of the apartment and didn't come back from her stroll. From the looks of it, Princess has been fairing pretty well for herself, but Michaela noted the dirt rubbed into her fur and figures she could do with a ride home about now. Turning back to Natasha, Michaela conjures up her least customer-service-worthy smile.

"Well," Michaela says, "happy to hear I pass muster. Anything else I can help with?"

Natasha's expression is knowing though not particularly confrontational. She lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, turns away as though she's about to disappear into the night. Then she pauses, cocks her head. Beckons for Michaela to come closer, which. She does. Reluctantly. And as soon as she's close enough, Natasha ducks down, grabs something that only registers as a blur of white until it's deposited neatly into Michaela's protesting arms.

"Um."

It's fucking Princess. Michaela's been staring into the photo-copied version of those baby blues for weeks; she'd know them anywhere. The cat only squirms a little, giving Michaela a baleful glare before she twists to settle herself more comfortably in Michaela's hold, where she proceeds to – go to sleep. The fuck.

Michaela drags her eyes away from the cat and stares at Natasha, mystified. The woman merely slants another crooked smile at her, unwilling to share her cat-hunting secrets, it seems. That's fine, Michaela can live with that. She wouldn't be surprised if that's one of Natasha's powers, despite her being touted as one of the only non-powered Avengers, but hell if she's going to pry. She's somehow managed not to land on the Black Widow bad side, and unnecessary questions seem like a great way to correct that mistake

"Thank you," she says, in what is definitely not a squeak. Princess twitches an ear in probably disagreement and Michaela grimaces at the back of the cat's head. "That's, uh, really nice of you."

"Sorting out that problem is the least I can do for crashing your patrol," Natasha says with a flippant hand gesture. She turns to disappear again, then glances back over her shoulder. "Get my number from Thor. We should keep in touch."

Michaela just. Isn't going to argue with at. Not even a little. She's in the process of maneuvering Princess to one arm (which she does not appreciate in the slightest), making a grab for her phone, when it dawns on her that she made a promise. Sort of. Enough of a promise that it gets her to pause now, staring hard at Natasha's retreating figure.

"Wait, wait!" she rushes out, clutching Princess tight to her chest as she hurries to close the distance between her and Natasha. Thankfully, Princess doesn't scratch her eyes out (the goggles are off, after all, things could get pretty damn messy) and Natasha turns back to her, curious.

Michaela draws out her phone and thumbs to her contacts, hovering over Peter's. She looks at Natasha, smiles sheepishly. "Um, this is gonna sound real dumb, but, uh. I told my friend the next time I randomly ran into an Avenger, I'd call him? Like, obviously, you don't gotta agree to this, you can walk away and I won't even mention this to him, I swear—"

"Just call him," Natasha says, then narrows her eyes and flicks the phone a vaguely murderous glance. "Unless it's that child you work with at the convenience store."

"Oh, Emmett? Oh, fuck, no, god he doesn't have my number and he's never getting it. This is, uh. He's. It's Spider-Man, if that helps at all."

Surprisingly, that does help, because Natasha nods at her to go ahead and. Well. Michaela can't really back out of it now.

She presses the call button and waits about three seconds for Peter to pick up.

"Michaela! Hey, not that I'm not happy to hear from you, but it's a school night, dude!"

Natasha presses her lips together, politely ignoring the way Michaela tightens her grip on the phone and swears under her breath. Sure, Peter didn't know she's not alone, but the kid's a genius, okay, he should maybe have thought to use her hero name when she's calling from her hero phone at seven at night. But. That's not the problem here. Natasha knows her secret, so there's no harm done, really, even though Michaela would very much like to shake some sense into Peter the next time they meet up.

She takes a deep breath, releases it just as slowly. "Kid, just FYI? You're on speaker phone, and Natasha Romanoff is two feet away from me."

Michaela's expecting the same sort of screeching she got over the phone after she invited him down to Hell's Kitchen, or when she answered him on Matt's phone post the first SHIELD shit-fest, but. There's nothing. Total, ear-ringing silence. Michaela exchanges a baffled glance with Natasha, who only blinks at the phone in Michaela's hand, her expression unreadable. She might me amused, but it's must less prominent then it was earlier.

"Spidey—"

The line goes dead.

He fucking. He fucking hung up on her. He hung up on the Black Widow.

"He made me promise to call him," Michaela says weakly, more than a little helpless in the face of whatever the fuck issue Peter is having over this. She's just. Where does she even go with this? Should she call him back?

"Hm," is all Natasha says on the matter. Then: "Better luck next time, then. I should stop by Hawkeye's while I'm out, anyway. Make sure he's not comatose on the living room floor or overfeeding his dog. Have a nice night, Blackout."

And with that, she really does vanish into the shadows, and even though Michaela knows she's stepping into the light of the nearby streetlamps, Natasha just – disappears. Michaela blinks hard, shakes her head, then looks back down at her phone.

Any reason you didn't wanna talk? she texts him.

A moment later, her phone chirps with his response: THE BLACK WIDOW

Yeah. The Black Widow. An Avenger. You wanted me to call you if that ever happened again...?

IT WAS THE BLACK WIDOW MICHAELA

You didn't even hear her voice! You didn't have to freak out like that!

LIKE YOU DID ANY BETTER

Well. He's not that far off the mark. Not that she's going to tell him that. I TALKED TO HER which is more than you did!

BUT BLACK WIDOW

I'm not getting stuck in this loop, kid

Hey on a not so different note, you ever wanna visit Avengers Tower with me?

asasdhfwefeksdk

the tOWER

WHERE THE AVENGERS LIVE????

Some of them, yeah. You in or not?

SIGN ME UP SIGN ME UP MICHAELA OMG ILL DIE

Lmao so will I, we'll have a join funeral that Stark will probably fund himself

its a dream come tru

Weird dreams for a fifteen-year-old, but Michaela can't say she's any more normal than he is on that front. And at least she won't be the only one freaking the fuck out if she brings Peter along to the Tower, which seems like it's probably going to happen regardless of her mounting anxiety. Natasha didn't say anything about it, but if she's reporting to Rogers and Thor, and maybe the others... Fuck. Michaela's gotta show her face sometime. Matt might want to tag along, which. Could either makes thing infinitely less complicated, or the complete opposite of that.

Guess she'll have to wait and see.

Riiiiight after she gets Princess home safe and sound. Tucking the cat a little more securely to her chest, Michaela takes a moment to orient herself, checking the sign that's just barely visible at the mouth of the alley. Won't take too long to get home from here, so long as she doesn't take the scenic route or attempt another rousing parkour session. Yeah, once the cat is dealt with she can focus more on her extrememly vague and underdeveloped plan to maybe possibly visit Avengers Towers. With Peter. And hopefully Matt.

Fuck, she hopes Matt agrees to go. She's not sure she'll survive the event if he's not with her.

But first, Princess.

And with that, Michaela redoes her mask and hurries out of the alley, nearly trips when she only just remembers her busted ankle, readjusts herself, then starts for her apartment complex. Limping. Son of a bitch.