Three days after the Midtown Tower broadcast, the new safehouse—a cramped, four-story walk-up in Chinatown—smelled like damp drywall, fried garlic from the noodle shop downstairs, and pure, concentrated irritation.
It was no luxury loft. Just a squeaky spring mattress, a leaky sink, and a rusted laminate counter.
And Jack was in a mood today. A really good mood. Which meant Natasha Romanoff felt like pulling grenade pins with her teeth would be a vastly more enjoyable activity than sharing a room with him.
"Hey... Red..."
The raspy voice bubbled right up against Natasha’s right ear, barely four inches away. A delightful cocktail of rubbing alcohol, tiger balm, and lemon soda hit her senses.
Natasha didn't even flinch. Her right hand kept slicing carrots on the wooden cutting board. CHOP. CHOP. CHOP. Neat, lethal precision.
"Take three steps back, Jack," Natasha said, her voice completely deadpan. "Before I shove this carrot up your nostril."
"Damn, girl... feisty today, huh?" Jack grinned, his blood-stained teeth flashing against the split on his lip. He didn't back off. Instead, he leaned his hip right against the counter next to her, crossing his arms over his heavy chest bandages. "Be honest with me... did the KGB Red Room have a course on this? Like, 'How to Flirt with an Unhinged Demon 101'?"
THUNK.
The knife slammed two inches deep into the wooden board. Natasha slowly turned her head, her steel-grey eyes locking straight into his wide, bloodshot ones.
"You wanna know what the Red Room taught me about guys like you, Jack?" she asked softly.
"Hell yeah!" Jack winked, totally unbothered. "Lay it on me! Maybe I can dream about it tonight... dare to dream, right, gorgeous?"
"They taught me how to snap a loudmouth’s neck in 1.5 seconds without getting a single wrinkle on my jacket," Natasha murmured, her fingers casually gripping the knife handle again.
"Ooh, mama!" Jack gasped, letting out a loud, raspy HAHAHA that echoed off the greasy kitchen tiles. "That is so hot! Seriously, if the sheriff back in my hometown heard you talk like that, he’d march us straight to the altar!"
Over on the saggy velvet couch across the room, Felicia Hardy was painting her toenails black. She let out a long, dramatic groan and yelled over her shoulder.
"Natasha! If you're gonna kill him, put a trash bag over his head first! His blood stains everything and I am not doing laundry again!"
"You hear that, Kitty?!" Jack shouted back at Felicia, pointing a finger her way. "You're just jealous of the pure, unfiltered romance between me and Red Alert here! Right, Nat? Hey, if we dodge Fisk’s cleanup crew tonight, wanna grab some tom yum soup downstairs? My treat! I swiped a credit card off one of Fisk’s drivers yesterday!"
Natasha pulled the knife from the board, stepping a single inch closer to Jack. The air pressure around her shifted—cold, dark, and lethal.
Jack didn't give an inch. His smile just widened, his tongue flicking over his dry lips. The [10.8% SYNCHRONIZATION] was buzzing behind his eyes, making his crazy completely bulletproof.
"Jack," Natasha whispered, her tone dropping into a terrifyingly quiet register.
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"Are you ever actually scared of dying?"
Jack went still for a half-second. Then his head tilted at an unnatural, sixty-degree angle against his shoulder, a raspy, bubbling hehehe escaping his throat.
"Terrified, Red... totally sweating it," Jack whispered back, his wide smile stretching so far it looked painful. "I'm terrified that if I kick the bucket... nobody’s gonna be left to whisper 'dare' in your ear when you wake up... HAHAHAHA!"
Natasha closed her eyes, taking a long, slow breath, wondering why SHIELD hadn't just sent her back to Budapest instead of leaving her to deal with this lunatic all day.
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