Chapter Text
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Natasha Romanoff met her reflection in the mirror.
It stared back at her through streaks of muck and grime, with hungry, empty eyes. She observed her unusually frazzled brown hair, having woken up mere minutes ago — her slim leather jacket clashed with her equally black jumpsuit. She had forgotten to take it off and hang it up, because she had dropped like a rock into her sleeping bag the moment she arrived back at the safe-house. That was probably why her makeup had also started to run.
She had spent the entire afternoon standing guard at the office… a task that had been a lot more demanding than she expected. She and her fellow Widows had to give the constant impression of standing still. The appearance of being intimidating. They had to listen, and not talk. They had to speak only when spoken to, move only when instructed, and otherwise fade into the background as much as possible.
All the better for us to do our jobs.
Now, she somehow had to find the time to make herself presentable for tomorrow. Impossibility was expected of her — no, it was required — because it made all the difference whether she stayed on this Earth a day or two longer.
Natasha looked about as ragged as she felt; but that was because it was less than ten minutes to midnight. On the last night of the year, everyone in Budapest was out somewhere, counting down the days to the beginning of the next one. Even now, she heard muffled voices coming from the paper-thin walls… someone was hosting a party next door. It had started out as barely inaudible, but had become louder as more guests had arrived and made themselves known. If she honed her ears, she could also make out the news broadcast on the television that would soon be showing the fireworks.
She supposed it seemed like fun. But Natasha had never been to a New Year’s Eve party, and she never would. The most 'fun' she had as an assassin was squeezing the life out of her victims. To make sure that they were dead, of course.
So, in what possible world would I even belong in that other room?
She stopped leaning on the sink, and turned on the tap. Filling up water in her cupped hands, she washed the makeup off her face — the lipstick, the eyeshadow, the blemishes that covered up her moles and creased wrinkles. When she looked into the mirror again (after wiping the grime away), she looked a little better.
More human.
Natasha put her hands on her hips, hiking up her jacket. It was freezing now, and she hadn’t been provided with a portable heater of any kind. The Red Room could only be so generous.
Okay, let’s do this.
She left the bathroom, turning off the light. She headed to the kitchen, which was about as barebones as it possibly could be. The rental had been dirt cheap. Going to the fridge, she brought out a little something she had bought earlier in the town on her way back, after she had made sure that no one was watching her. That is — it was crucial that no one had watched her get this.
A cupcake.
She went to a kitchen drawer and pulled out a small candle. She walked straight into the living room, sitting on a cold, hard couch in front of a cold, hard coffee table. It was barren and empty, save for the closed, curtained window that when opened led out onto the fire escape. She placed the cupcake there and stuck the candle in it. She pulled out a small box of matches, and struck one alight. In the dim glow of the room, it attracted her eye.
Yeah… she leaned forward, holding it up. That’s how you light a match. She lit the candle, and then extinguished the match before placing it back on the table. A faint bit of lingering smoke wafted in the air.
She gazed at the cupcake. Then at the clock — it was 11:58 PM.
"Happy New Year,” she whispered quietly.
She leaned back, keeping her eye on the cupcake. Trying not to listen to the room next door, of people who were more ignorant, and yet clearly much happier. As they drank, smoked, made merry cheer, and anticipated the fresh new start that was waiting for them. They sat around comfortable with better heating, better lighting, and the constant threat of death far behind them.
But there was nothing like that for Natasha. The next year would be the same as this one… and the year after that. And the year after that.
As long as I'm still here, she thought listlessly. It will always be like this. I'm only still here… because my skills are all I'm good for. Madame B made sure of that.
It would have been a mercy if they had just killed me.
Natasha closed her eyes. She squeezed them shut, trying to not let the tears escape. It was a sign of weakness — and Black Widows couldn’t show weaknesses.
But she failed, obviously. She knew that she was not strong in any way. She just let them fall as the next room erupted with cheers, as the sounds of fireworks exploded out from somewhere further away in the city.
BOOOM.
BOOOOOOM.
BOOOM.
Natasha opened her eyes and looked down at the cupcake. The candle flickered, and she sighed with relief — secretly glad that there was no one around to see this slip of hers. The fireworks were a great distraction. She loved distractions.
She only wished she was able to be more open, able to share this burden that had been forced upon her. But after years of wrestling with herself and what she was doing, she was all but finished with it. Now, she had to keep these rebellious thoughts as buried as much she could.
A funny thing, she reflected bitterly. When I grew up in the academy, I thought it was all normal. I came to accept it. I didn’t even blink when they told me they had killed my mother. When they had forced me into line. When they had stolen me away, and when they went digging straight into me and…
No, I can’t relive those memories. She winced, and leaned back. Staring at the ceiling, forcing herself to forget. For the sake of her sanity.
It had happened years ago, but it was still too fresh. She would break down even more if she thought about it now.
I think it was the Ohio mission when I realised… Nat remembered. What I had found myself in. When I got a taste of American suburbia, and… I missed it when I came back. There was an innocence, a normality that we children-at-the-time were supposed to have. But there’s nothing like that in the Red Room. In the training programme.
In the shadow of General Dreykov.
Dreykov. Natasha felt the sudden involuntary urge to spit at something, in anger and fear. God, I hate him so much. He… she clenched her teeth.
He took my childhood. She trembled with silent rage. And now he’s planning something, behind our backs. Something worse than anything we've been forced into before. Worse than the Brazilian hostages, worse than the prostitution ring.
Something I won’t be able to run away from. He took everything from me — my family, my sister, my freedom… my own bodily autotomy. What could possibly be worse than that?
Natasha felt herself start to panic — a pressure building in her chest. Like an anvil was threatening to split her down the middle. Her head started to pound. She clutched her face, spreading it past her lip. No no no, don’t think about him. There’s nothing you can do.
Think about Yelena — no! Don’t think about her, either. We were never sisters, and we will never be. I haven’t even talked to her in years.
She shuddered, and sat up on the couch. Ugh, I'm so tired. This was a mistake… I thought it would make me feel more sane. But it’s just made everything worse.
Natasha couldn’t be normal. Nothing about her or what she did was normal. It was cruelty and torture, under someone else’s name. It was commands that she had to follow by day, and then cry herself to sleep about at night. It was guilt, and pain, and endless sorrow and apathy beyond the imaginable. It was something she'd never be able to forgive herself for.
It was a hell of her own making. A hole she had buried herself in.
I need to go to sleep. She gulped, allowing herself to breathe as the noise in the other room began to die down. Seeing the melting candle on the cupcake, she blew it out and took the cupcake with her back to the kitchen. She wasn’t hungry, so she would save it for another time. Or maybe — she wouldn’t eat it at all, so that she could still remain thin and healthy as much as possible.
So that I can pass the weight test when we get back to headquarters. Just another symptom of conditional living.
Natasha put the cupcake back into the fridge. She lingered there, arms dangling, as she felt the cold breeze over her as she left it open. She remembered faintly, that she was expected at the office again tomorrow afternoon for her shift.
Bed it is, then. She shut the fridge door and turned to leave — and froze.
She had heard something.
Something coming from the window in the living room. It was not the party — that was still going on next door. But Natasha had to strain to hear this… the squeaking, scrabbling sounds of something being unscrewed. A window being slowly opened.
An alarm rang in her ears.
Someone’s breaking in. I've been compromised.
She crouched down at once, right beside the nearest door. She unzipped her jacket and took a pocket knife into her hands, along with a small can of pepper spray that she kept on her person at all times — and as always, a small, silenced pistol hidden in her pants pocket.
After a lifetime of working with the gear, she had all but gotten used to handling weapons. She was still one, after all.
WHOOSH. She heard the sound of a window opening. A few moments later, it closed and blocked out the noise of the traffic. But — and Natasha noticed this intensely — it was muffled under the noise of the party. Whoever this was, they had chosen a perfect time to be sneaky.
But who? She wondered, hiding herself behind a corner back in the small hallway. Far from the opening that led her into the living room. Obviously not a Widow or a KGB agent. They know I would have just let them in through the front door.
Natasha knew that the hallway extended downward to the living room, past the kitchen. She decided to walk the opposite direction of her intruder, so she could get the jump on him… although she wasn’t confident in her chances tonight. She was too exhausted to engage normally.
This was not good.
She heard footsteps, and counted them carefully. She started moving the opposite direction, into the darkness — only the kitchen light had been left on. She assumed the intruder was somewhere there… possibly inching their way to the bedroom.
Natasha rounded the corner, looping back into the shadowed living room. Light spilled from the wide opening in the kitchen. In the corner, she saw the curtain buffeted by wind… the window cracked open a slip. She heard the faint sounds of traffic down below.
I could just escape that way… she thought. Save myself the trouble. The implications, if this guy turns out to be smarter than I assume.
She paused. She heard small footsteps inching around the kitchen. The intruder was out of sight — she couldn’t see him.
And she closed her eyes, letting her head bobble. Her hair draping down her neck.
I can’t. They'll kill me… if I don’t kill them.
That’s how it works.
Fine. She straightened up a little, rolling her knuckles. Bracing herself for a fight, Natasha tiptoed closer to the kitchen. Slowly unloading her pocket knife. Ready to slit a throat.
She saw the intruder, and slowed to a shuffle — not letting her guard down even for a moment. Clearly a guy: shorter than average, but with a stocky build. He wore a black hoodie with gloves and a pair of skinny jeans, the hood pulled over his head so that Natasha couldn’t make out his physical characteristics as his back was turned to hers. But the kicker was that he had a weapon… and an interesting one at that too.
Slung over his shoulder was a quiver of arrows. Gripped firmly with his right glove… was a longbow.
Natasha felt an immediate sense of unease. She was trained for many weapons and for many different scenarios: she had managed to disarm guns, knives, swords, rifles and had managed to best the best of KGB war veterans in tight combat. She knew the logistics of how to tackle an opponent one on one; she could relatively predict all the moves they could make. She was also forced to learn from every encounter, so that she would do better and more efficiently for the next one — not just because it was the decree of the Red Room, but so that she would be able to survive what they threw her at next.
She had never fought someone with a longbow.
But I can’t stop now… she supposed, shaking her head. She inched closer. Treat it like a rifle.
The man had grown still. He seemed to pause — right in the middle of the kitchen. His head seemed to be looking at the fridge.
Natasha raised her knife.
Silence. There was just the party behind the walls.
She lunged towards him. Quick and vicious, like the killer she was made to be.
WHAP. Almost as if he knew, the man twisted, raising his left arm up to block hers. Natasha’s eyes widened, as he swung the longbow like a stick —
She ducked under it, the air escaping her. WHOOSH. Swooping under him, she gritted her teeth, driving the knife up into his ribs. He hissed, but with his left arm free, it was brought down to meet her face —
WHACK. Natasha almost gasped as he socked her across the chin. A second later, with lightning-fast reflexes — the man wrapped the longbow around her neck, the taut string pressed against her jugular. She was starting to constrict.
The knee. Natasha growled, kicking at his leg. It barely knocked him off balance, but that was enough: she rolled back, hefting her arms below his shoulders and throwing him down with her. She rolled over, pushing right across the open entrance of the kitchen, tumbling into the living room.
SLAM. He landed on his back, the hood coming off. Natasha, having landed on her knees, grabbed an end of the bow and firmly pulled it off her neck. As she did, she heard the man flipping up on his knees. She swivelled to see him launch right at her —
And she swung the bow on top of him, narrowly missing his head, hitting his shoulder. It bounced off, and as she got up to do it again — WHAP. He extended an arm, grasping it with his hand. They were both holding it at the same time, looking right at each other.
Stupid. She stared wildly at him, holding onto it, straining — she could see him now. He had brown, short-cropped hair and pale blue eyes. Stubble on his chin, slight wrinkles in his face; he was what, possibly a few years older than her?
And his face was one of evident bewilderment. But it quickly furrowed into deep concentration. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be,” he muttered.
Natasha shook her head furiously. The knife, she thought.
She went to stab him again, pulling the longbow towards her, pushing him forward. But WHAM — and she felt a deep force push into her gut, realizing that she had been kicked in the stomach. As she let go, the other knee drove into her torso, driving her onto her back. She gripped the floor under her, ignoring the hair in her face, about to roll out of the way whenever he came close, try to trip him —
SCHWING. She cried out in pain, jerked back by something striking the blade of her shoulder. Looking down at it, she saw a ten-inch arrow sticking out of her — the man having loaded, aimed and shot it in the span of… she estimated it had been less than five seconds.
Who — Natasha’s mind blurred for a moment — who IS this guy?
She was not quick enough for him. As if he had super speed, he had automatically reloaded and was now aiming another arrow at her. She was pinned down.
Come on! Groaning, she reached for the knife.
SCHWING. She almost choked on a gasp, as another arrow went right into her left leg. The pain was less than she was used to — but enough to incapacitate her. She closed her eyes briefly as her vision swam —
And when they were open again, she saw the shadow of him towering over her. A final arrow. Pointed straight at her head.
She was done.
Just as well, she thought, gulping for air. At least he won’t draw it out. I don’t know who he is, what I did to warrant this, what pawn I am in this game… but it doesn’t really matter to me. Not anymore.
She glared at him with defiance. He narrowed his blue eyes at her. In the background, Natasha heard the continued voices of partygoers having a good time — always remaining ignorant.
“Well?”
It seemed like he was considering it.
“Get it over with,” she hissed miserably.
Finally. She shut her eyes. I am free.
THUMP.