Natasha Romanova does not startle easily. It's part and parcel to being an assassin -- and a damn good one at that. But the sudden movement had her backed up against the door instantly, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. Deja vu, she thought, scanning the room for the source. Her stomach knotted and heart leapt to her throat to see it.

He looked the same as she'd last seen him -- him, not some younger version who should not have existed. Nat inhaled sharply, the exhaled shakily, trying to regain her composure before approaching the demi-god lying on the floor of the women's locker room.

"I'm beginning to think you have a fetish," she ventured, staying out of reach as she crouched to see him, face falling back into a schooled mask of disinterest.