You're fine. Natasha surmises. Powerful, that's for sure. Talented with it, which is the most important thing—because why else would you be here if you weren't?

You were also a fucking headache to deal with. Like, if there were images in the dictionary; your pretty little face would be plastered right under 'right fucking pain in the ass'. She refrains from telling you this, because she's ninety percent sure the euphemism would spark some sort of delight in you, and you'd yammer her ear off within ten minutes into training.

Not that you don't do that anyways.

The levity you bring to the Avengers isn't unwelcome. You're just—so young. Fresh out of high-school. Practically a kid, which is a truth indisputable even if you despise being called that, regularly subject to various nicknames from different members; 'champ', 'bud', 'buddy, 'nuisance', 'fucking toddler', 'tot', 'little lamb' (Wanda) 'little bitch' (Natasha) and 'absolute brat' (Everyone).

Sure, it could be a little endearing. But the others aren't the ones who have to deal with you and your snarky quips and too-much energy for hours at a time. Not to mention your dreadful work ethic.

"Oh for the love of God, put the pout away." Natasha sighs, cricking her neck as she rounds back, eyes rolling as she waits for you to get up off the ground.

Yeah, it was a dirty move. Yeah, you hadn't even gotten into your fighting stance yet. But hey—this is her duty as a mentor! Even the average joe you'll face in the battlefield isn't gonna play nice. Also, she can only stand so much of your increasingly fantastical takes on her romantic pursuits (her and Tony, really?) or how fine you think Maria looks in her uniform (begrudgingly true) before she's overcome with the urge to shut you the hell up.

It helps that you look fucking adorable; your betrayed little "Ow!," as you land on your ass and rub the back of your head, mussing up your hair as if she even hit you there. She arches a brow at the glare you shoot her. Quaint.