Good Lord Peter
The end result of this is Cap saying to Widow “please train him in the art of secrets and lying”.
And she tries. Oh god, she tries. It’s just nothing ever really… takes.
He can move silently, no problem, it’s just that he does it at a Scooby-doo tiptoe level, and he just can’t turn it off.
She re-works his wardrobe to try to make it a little more utilitarian and blend a touch more, and he still ends up throwing giant floppy hoodies over everything and wearing those shoes, god damn it those huge sneakers that are falling apart and immediately recognizable.
She has identified a hundred and seventeen words that, in the right context, will immediately turn him into a gibbering nerd who spills everything. One of those words is ‘spider’. Another one is ‘photograph’. She tries to explain to him that it is not healthy that basically his entire life sends him halfway to a panic attack, and all he’ll say is ‘tell me about it’.
She tries (with his permission) a little light hypnosis, and it just won’t take. His brain won’t sit still and calm down enough to go into a trance.
In the end, Steve owes her two fifths of the best vodka and Peter’s no better than he was. He is no longer allowed at press conferences without a handler. Peter is grateful that Steve told Natasha that ‘handler’ and ‘shock collar’ are not synonyms.