"Why?" he asks, eyes on the glimmering shield in the corner. "Why?"
She looks at him. He doesn't look back. That's okay; he doesn't need to look at her to feel her eyes boring into her back; doesn't need to look at her to know that she's sorry (but is she? Is she really? Or is she just sorry she's in this mess in the first place?). "Clint," she says softly, to the man behind her - to her best friend - "could you…"
He shifts position, just enough for her to hear the way his feet scuff against the floor, the hiss of the arrows on his back gliding against each other in their sheath. She lets out a little sigh. She doesn't want to do this in front of him, not really - not so much because she particularly wants to be alone with Captain America, but because it's easier to deal with one at a time. She can't handle two of them at once, staring her down like she's a criminal, expectant, waiting for - for what? An apology? But it's their fault, too, they were a bigger part of all of this than she was; if not for Steven Grant Rogers and his goddamn conscience -
Conscience. That's what this is all about. She's been told she doesn't have one.
Are you ready for the world to see you as you truly are? Behind all of the masks, all of the alter egos, all of the coverups: are you ready for them to know you as the spy, as the tool of the Red Room, as the Black Widow who isn't afraid to bite? Natalia Alianovna Romanova, your history, stained with red - you can never wash it away -
Iron and steel, metal cutting through skin. All a part of life. Too much a part of her life - the music of gunfire, the melody of screams, and people dying, everywhere, all around her; and she doesn't just stand by and watch them die...she helps them die, murders them in cold blood - well done, Black Widow, well done, bravo...you completed the kill list - again -
Natalia Alianovna Romanova -
Call me Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.
What did you say, Black Widow?
Natasha -
Nat. Nat. Nat -
She doesn't even realize she's moved until she's at the threshold of the door, Captain Rogers' hand tight around her bicep, fingers boring into her skin. "Nat," he says again, roughly. "I didn't say we were done." He looks over at Clint, planted in the corner of the room, arms knit tightly over his chest. "Clint…"
Barton turns suddenly sheepish. "Um, right, of course. I'll get going. Call me if you need me, Cap?"
Rogers turns back to Natasha. "Of course." Motionless, still, unmoving as Barton closes the door behind him, the lock clicking in its dock with a little shckkk. She keeps her eyes on the floor - careful. If she looks up at him, she might start crumbling again, and she doesn't want him to see her weakness - doesn't want anyone to see her weakness, but Rogers most of all, because he's the leader, and if he knows, then...then everybody will know, because he'll start going easy on her, think of her as one of the ones who needs protecting, and -
And then, suddenly, pain lances through her back, up her spine, and the bare skin at her waist collides with the sharp, icy chill of the wall. He's holding her too tight - god, it hurts - fingers pressing deep, deep into her shoulders, and she's sure she'll have a good set of new bruises after they're done. That's okay. She's used to bruises. And she knows Rogers doesn't intend to hurt her anyway, since -
Fight her, Winter Soldier. Fight her.
Yes, sir.
James - James -
Cold. The metal of his hand is so cold, so rough, digging into her skin, into her shoulder blades; she's supposed to be strong, stronger than this, but it's so hard, staring into those eyes - eyes that glare into her with an intensity that's almost physical, eyes that burn like fire, eyes as dark as night. He won't hurt me, she thinks, but she's wrong. James wouldn't hurt her, no. But the Winter Soldier? The Winter Soldier isn't about to hold back. He is a different person. This - this man - this man is not James.
He hits her, hard. Metal arm. She barely gets her hands up in time to try and block it, and it still contacts with her face anyway, metal ripping lines of blood across her cheeks. James. James. I have to hurt you - I'm sorry - you hurt me, and now I'm going to have to hurt you, too, please don't do this, please don't make me -
Idiot. Idiot. You are not Natalia. You are the Black Widow. Fight. Fight!
The next time he raises his fist to strike, she twists sideways - away from his flesh arm, towards his metal one - and slips out from underneath him, coiling her legs around his waist - oh, they've practiced this position before - flipping him over, arms around his throat, tight, tight, as tight as she can manage. You asked for it, bastard, she thinks. Now this is what you get.
Not Natalia and James, but the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier. From friends and lovers to enemies of mutual hate. From dark of night to bright of day.
He claws at her gloved hands desperately, staggering back - and then, abruptly, he slams her against something rock hard, rams himself backward so she's caught between him and the ground - shit shit shit - and then he's flipped over so he's crouching over her, panting, chest heaving, eyes black, and she snarls at him, catlike, writhing so her wrists twist in the iron grip of his hands, gasping in hisses of breath as the metal cuts into her skin. The Winter Soldier. He is the Winter Soldier. She is the Black Widow.
She is the Black Widow, and she is stronger than this.
And she sneaks out from under him - like always - and flips him over, kneeling over him, and her hands close around her throat; his breath convulses in his chest, once, twice, and he gasps, struggling, but her hands are so tight - too tight - and her thighs are closed around his waist, pinning him down, knees pressing hard into his ribs. So here we are, Winter Soldier. You and me. I'm always the victor, aren't I? When they ask about your bruises, tell them it was the Black Widow. Tell them the Black Widow did it.
His eyes flash, and begin to close.
That's right, Soldier. Give up. It's hopeless. You're never going to win, because I'll never let you. You know it, don't you? Of course you do.
"Black Widow," a dismembered voice calls, from somewhere far, far away. "Black Widow, that is enough. You have won."
She doesn't look over; just bares her teeth, staring down at the face of her vanquished Soldier. Hers - he is hers. She has defeated him. Defeated him at last, after years of training, years of torture, years of pitting her against her best friends - killing her best friends, because when it comes to the Black Widows, only one could ever survive -
"Black Widow! Let him go."
Silly man. You don't need him. You only need me. But she lets him go anyway, releases his throat, watching through half-lidded eyes as he coughs, mutters obscenities in Russian. His throat already has slender red marks from where her fingers were. He rubs them with his big hands, as if he's trying to coax the fight back into his lungs, back into his ravaged body. Too late, Soldier. Too late.
He looks at her, staring, his expression unreadable. She smiles - one of her trademark, sly smiles, the one that says I won and you know it, aren't you proud? And yes, yes, he is proud, because he was her teacher and his teaching has finally paid off - she has surpassed him - and yet he's angry, he hates her, hates her because she has made him look like a fool in front of the only people who can keep him alive - and suddenly he's rearing, rearing up like a snake, ready for another fight -
His lips collide with hers.
They taste of iron, metallic like blood; they taste of scars and laboratories and serum, of nightmares and torture and death. They taste hopeless, scarred. Ready for defeat. It makes it easier for her to conquer him this time, makes it easier to make him hers, makes it easier to watch the fight leave his eyes and turn to hopeless, helpless lust. She doesn't even have to try anything new today - slides her hips against his, hands running across all of his new scars, new bruises, new claw marks, lips pressing blood against his throat -
And she starts talking.
"I knew him, Steve, I knew him - he was in the Red Room with me, the Winter Soldier, and he trained me so I'd pass all of the Black Widow trials - so I'd beat out the other girls - and Steve...do you know why he did it? He did it because he loved me, because he was in love with me, even if the only part of me he loved was my body -" She takes a breath, eyebrows deepening into a frown, eyes dark. "He knew me, and I knew him. And I thought he'd recognize me, but he didn't. But I recognized him. I thought I did, anyway. I knew he was capable of Vienna, because I've seen him work, up close. He can be so gentle and caring, Steve, until he turns around and starts murdering people - and I'm the same way. That's why we understood each other so well, because we're the same. That look he got in his eyes, the black anger, I knew that look, and I saw it when he fought me. And he - I thought he wasn't worth it. I thought you were trying to save a murderer. But at the Quinjet - I remembered the person you are, and that you wouldn't...you wouldn't do those things, wouldn't save him unless you had a reason, so I let you go. But I still couldn't help you, Steve. I couldn't stand up for more people dying, like Sokovia, like New York. I've killed too many people already, and James - the Soldier - isn't afraid to kill more."
And then she leaves.