James steepled his fingers, expression cool. "So this time I play the billionaire in a suit, while Natasha plays the date. And when the masks drop, we burn the network."
"Exactly," Fury said.
Natasha's silence lingered, serious and deliberate. James only smirked wider, leaning back into the sofa.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"If the evidence is conclusive, why not just kick the door down and arrest them? Why send us to sneak in and steal something? Wouldn't that be cleaner?"
Black Widow's eyes narrowed. "Idiot. Let's not even get into whether the intel is concrete. Even if it is, kicking the door down is the fastest way to spook him. Arms dealers aren't fools. They have networks, escape routes, back-channels. You knock too hard and they vanish before you get through the lobby. That's why you infiltrate. That's why we steal. Or do you think being an agent is just about walking in with bravado?"
Her mockery was sharp, the kind that carried no warmth. For her, it was a statement of fact.
James smirked faintly. "Hahaha, is that so? Guess I'll keep it simple then. Just hope I don't have to protect you."
"You'd better worry about protecting yourself instead," she shot back coldly. "I've done dozens of missions like this. I know every angle. A rookie billionaire like you shouldn't pretend otherwise."
Nick Fury cut in before the back-and-forth escalated. "Enough. Both of you" His voice carried the weight of finality. James swallowed what he was about to say and listened.
"This mission isn't simple," Fury continued. His one eye swept between them like a searchlight. "The target is Giles Marbury. On the surface, he's a real estate magnate and philanthropist. In reality, he's been brokering weapons on the black market. The reception he's hosting is a charity auction—expensive items, big donors, plenty of cameras. But behind the show, one item matters most."
He tapped the file on his desk. A blurred image flickered across the monitor: a simple circular object resting in a velvet case.
"An alien ring-shaped weapon," Fury said flatly. "First confirmed piece to surface. That's your target."
James leaned forward slightly. "That's it? Just a ring?"
"That's all you need to know right now," Fury said. His voice left no room for negotiation.
James let out a quiet breath and leaned back. "So I play dress-up, walk in smiling, and play along with the donors."
"That's your cover," Fury said.
James arched an eyebrow. "Then what about the money? You expect me to drop cash at this circus?"
Natasha's lips curved into a thin smirk. "You're a billionaire, and you're complaining about spending pocket change?"
James turned his head toward her, expression flat. "Assets aren't cash. Stark Industries dividends are reinvested. League Games is still pouring every cent into construction. I don't have a pile of liquidated cash laying around to throw at charity parties. What I've got on hand is an agent's salary."
His tone was sharp enough to cut. Natasha didn't flinch.
Fury stepped in before it spiraled. "We know your situation. S.H.I.E.L.D. has prepared one million dollars for the mission. You use it as needed. If you need to bid, bid. If you don't, then save it."
James tilted his head, eyeing the slim case Fury pushed across the table. "Didn't know S.H.I.E.L.D. was flush enough to bankroll cocktail parties."
Fury's jaw set. "We make do. Artifacts, patents, shell companies. We don't rely entirely on Congress. You think this Helicarrier floats on appropriations? No. We've built our own funding streams. That's how we survive. That's how we stay ahead."
James gave a small shrug. He wasn't surprised, but the bluntness carried weight. "Self-funded spies. Figures."
"Call it survival," Fury said. He snapped the file closed. "Now listen carefully. James, you'll secure your invitation. Natasha, you handle the infiltration. The window opens once the auction starts. Security is multi-layered—locks, tech sweeps, and redundancies. Don't underestimate it."
Natasha's confidence was absolute. "Don't worry. I've done this before."
James let a small smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "We'll see."
The tension between them thickened the air. Fury ignored it. He wanted another pairing, but this was the hand he had to play. Stark was unpredictable. Barton didn't have the cover story. James could walk into a high-society gala without raising suspicion—and if things went wrong, he could fight his way out.
"You've got three days," Fury said. "Prepare separately. Meet on site. And remember: this isn't just about retrieval. If alien tech moves freely in the market, the fallout won't stop at one auction."
He dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
Outside, the silence between James and Natasha was suffocating. They walked side by side down the corridor without a word. At the elevators, they split ways without even a glance. She turned left, he turned right. No agreement on rendezvous. No acknowledgment.
James headed to the parking lot, the million-dollar case in hand. He almost laughed. 'A fortune to drink champagne with liars.' But he knew how this would end. He'd smile, shake hands, bid if he had to. And if it all went sideways? He'd take the ring by force.
Natasha walked her own path, her mind already shaping the operations outcomes. To her, James was a liability—a billionaire shoved into her world of precision and shadows. She didn't need him, didn't want him, but Fury had forced their pairing. Fine. She would adapt. She always did.
Back in the office, Fury exhaled through his nose. He'd wanted Barton or even Stark, but neither fit the cover. James was the only choice. The problem was the fire and ice between him and Natasha. It wasn't a question of whether sparks would fly. It was whether the mission would survive them.
And somewhere in New York, an alien ring-shaped weapon waited in velvet. Small, unimpressive, but dangerous.