What Happened In Budapest *unedited*

Chapter 9: Mystery Box

The sun rose and I grumpily opened ­my eyes to meet the light falling through the curtains. I checked the clock and flopped my head back on the thin pillow that lay on the floor. I felt a little guilty about the screaming match I had with Barton, but he was just so stuck up and pig-headed sometimes…

I closed my eyes and my body relaxed. It was too early to be thinking.

My head snapped up again, and my eyes scanned the time on the clock again.

Noon.

How did it get so late?

“Natasha?”

Oh, you.

I put my head down on the pillow and faked sleep.

“Natasha, wake up.” He prodded me with his foot. I didn’t move. “Tasha!”

At that, I moved.

“Don’t call me that,” It was supposed to come out snappish, but in my head it sounded more like the croak of a dying frog. “I hate it.”

“Oh come on,” Barton said. “I’ve only used that once, and besides. You owe me an apology.”

“For what? Getting upset when you treated me like a two year old?” I said, this time my words dripping with hostility. “And then trying to talk about it?”

“You didn’t talk, you screamed.” Barton noted dryly. “And yes, you do owe me an apology.”

“Fine.” I jutted my chin up. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not a real apology.” He said, waving away my words. “Just because you say you’re sorry doesn’t actually mean you do.”

 “Well, maybe I don’t want to apologize.”

“Okay,” He said, picking off dust from the bedspread. “I won’t fight you for an apology then. I’ll let you do it by yourself.”

He got up to leave.

“Wait,” I hissed, by moth acting of its own accord. I took a deep breath before forging on. “I’m sorry I was acting up.”

“Is that really the best you can do?” He still hadn’t turned to face me. Rude. I considered throwing the thin excuse that was my pillow at the back of his head, but under the circumstances, I decided against it.

“Right now,” I replied, my voice soft. “Yes.”

“It’ll do.” Barton turned to face me. “Get dressed, something came in the mail.”

“Like what?” I asked, dumbfounded that he had accepted my half sincere apology so quickly, but relived at the same time.

But he just waved his hand and shut the door, leaving me to my task.

Almost two minutes later I crawled out of the bathroom, fully clothed (with the black suit on underneath, of course) in loose jeans and a ratty shirt. Wherever S.H.E.I.L.D. got this outfit was beyond me. I held a hairbrush in my hand.

Sitting down at the table, Barton stared at the box in front of him.  

“That didn’t really come in the mail, did it?” I asked, running the brush through my hair, wincing when I encountered a knot.

“Of course it didn’t.” Barton replied. “A mailman, dropping this off without asking questions? Practically unheard of.”

“Okay, then… how did it get here?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t the first question that came to his mind too.