Written for Buckynat Mini Bang 2018. This monster of a fic absolutely destroyed me. I think this is the longest thing I've written in such a small period of time. I was playing Walking Dead the Tell Tale series one day and started imagining Buckynat in a Zombie Apocalypse, and the rest is history.
Many many thanks to nocek for their brilliant artwork that breathed such detailed life into Buckynat. They look so badass!
The creature thrashed in its restraints and let out a menacing snarl. Natasha stared back, unimpressed.
"You know, they seem quite stupid, once you see them up close," she remarked.
Banner, who was trying to extract a tissue sample without coming too close to its teeth, flashed her a mildly disapproving look. "They're not stupid. They have all the instincts of a starving animal, which makes them simple-minded, yes. But extremely dangerous."
Natasha shifted the grip on her gun and resumed watch, silent. Her flippant brand of humour clearly did not work on Banner, who flinched again as the zombie snapped its mouth at him. She sighed and shrugged off her jacket. Approaching the zombie tied to the tree, she rolled and stretched the cloth between her two hands. Swiftly covered the zombie's mouth, she tied the ends together round the trunk. The zombie banged its head against the bark, enraged, but the makeshift gag stayed put.
"Thanks." Banner smiled sheepishly, scraping off the skin from its tightly bound arms. Fury had tasked them with collecting samples for study—"If we have to beat the enemy, we need to know the enemy," he'd said—but seeing that dead ones decomposed at a rate too rapid to be of any use, capturing a live zombie was their actual task. Natasha was glad they were done. Spending the last few days actively baiting a zombie and keeping it alive had gone against every screaming instinct in her body.
"All done," Banner announced happily, packing up the last of the samples. "He's yours, Natasha."
She smiled. Brandishing the eight-inch knife that had once belonged to Clint Barton, she sauntered up to the zombie, a small part of her relishing the build-up. The screeches intensified as she drew closer. She took hold of the decomposing hair on its head and slashed at its neck. She had to saw back and forth a couple of times but the blade finally cut through. Dark, rotting blood spurted from the gash. The gag came off as the head rolled off its body and onto the grass with a squelch. The noises had stopped, but its mouth kept opening and shutting like a grotesque goldfish. She stuck the knife into both of its eyes for good measure. Experience had taught them that zombies could only be killed by decapitation or a bullet in the brain, but you could never be too sure.
Natasha straightened up to see Banner trying and failing to disguise the queasiness on his face. "There must be a cleaner way to do that," he said, referring to the blood and guts that had splattered her arms and face during the hacking job.
"There is, but bullets are precious. I'd rather not use one unless I absolutely have to." She untied the ropes that held the headless corpse and stowed it in her bag—why waste good equipment? Unrolling her fallen jacket, she grimaced. It was beyond foul. All the same, she put it back on and tried to ignore the stench.
Natasha swept the clearing with her eyes. Satisfied that they hadn't left anything behind, they began the long trek back to Shield. The woods they were in were sparse but she kept her eyes peeled anyway. Constant vigilance.
Soon, they came to the river crossing. What was once a lazy stream was now a foaming, rushing cascade of treacherous water. "Great."
"It's been raining pretty heavily lately," Banner remarked, raising his voice above the crash of water. "We can't cross it. We'll be swept away."
"There's a narrow bend in the river further up. It'll take us longer but it should be easier to cross."
Banner gestured for her to take the lead. Dead leaves crunched underfoot as they cautiously made their way through unfamiliar territory. The trees grew taller here, blocking the sunlight. The sudden chill in the air made her shiver through her ruined jacket. There was something very, very wrong about this place.
"Natasha-" started Banner.
"Shh. Do you hear that?"
It sounded like something was slithering through the grass. Drag and pause. Drag and pause. A low moan. Something much bigger than a snake, then.
Behind her, she could feel Banner tensing. She directed him behind a tree, and took similar cover on the opposite side. Crouching, she aimed her gun at whatever was shuffling towards them through the woods.
It was a zombie, just as she'd expected. Or more precisely, it was half a zombie. Its lower half was missing, and it was dragging itself using its arms. A trail of dark blood followed wherever its torso scraped the hard ground. Natasha had heard of zombies surviving what would otherwise have been fatal injuries in humans, but this was the first time she'd laid eyes on such a sight. Its eyes gleamed bright with hunger, and it hastened its movements when it sensed them stepping closer to examine it.
"Looks like an axe wound," said Banner.
"Which means there are people around. It wouldn't have dragged itself too far."
"I wouldn't underestimate their determination. It would be almost admirable if-"
"If they weren't out to eat us, yes." She waited, lazily flipping the knife in her hand, for the zombie to make its torturous way towards them. It was an eerie scene; what was once a living, breathing human, was now half a rotting corpse, wiggling like a worm to get at their brains. She almost felt sorry for it. And perhaps this was the universe's way of punishing her for showing empathy, for before she could stick her trusty blade into its head, it caught hold of her left foot.
"Motherfucker," she swore, as it tugged on her shoe to make her trip. She stabbed at its hand and freed herself, only for its other hand to latch onto her right calf. Natasha could feel its dead fingers digging into her skin through the denim. She grunted and shook her leg violently, and it scrabbled for purchase.
"Natasha! Don't move." And a rock the size of a football crashed into the zombie's head. The zombie slid off of her and lay still. Banner picked up the rock again and brought it down with force, caving its skull. The zombie let out a weak snarl. Banner yelled in reply and the zombie got another helping of stone. Again and again, until its head was nothing more than a smashed pumpkin and the mild-mannered biologist was painted with blood and grey matter.
Natasha nodded her thanks, then grinned, pointing at his clothes. "We're twins now."
Banner smiled wryly and wiped his glasses on a clean corner of his shirt. He pointed to where the zombie torso had appeared from. "This way."
She hung back. "Why?"
"Don't you want to meet whoever did such a half-assed job on this one?"
She pursed her lips. Unlike in the weeks following the outbreak, it was rare to come across humans these days. The only people left now were hardened survivors, and they stuck to themselves. For Banner, and many others back at Shield, the prospect of meeting new people, of adding them to the group, and thus increasing their chances of survival, was an appealing one. For Natasha, however, the more was not the merrier. Zombies were easy; humans were difficult to read. She'd seen what they were capable of, both in her past life, and now, especially in this every-man-for-themselves life. And well, she would take a zombie any day.
"We need to get back, Bruce. Fury's waiting."
"They let this guy go. What if they need our help?"
And there it was. The fucking humanitarian appeal. "We don't know what we're walking into. Could be a trap."
"Jesus, Nat. Not everyone is out to get us!"
"You would be surprised. I ran into this nasty bunch once; they would pretend to need assistance and rob the bleeding hearts of all their food and supplies. And you know that in this world, that's practically the same as leaving them dead."
"Yeah, well I trust your instincts. We'll scope the scene, if you think something's fishy, we leave ASAP. Works?"
Natasha considered. "And when I say we get out-"
"We get the fuck out. Understood."
.
.
The camp had been overrun by a horde. One of the two tents had collapsed, and the other was ridden with deep slashes. Bodies lay about the camp in different directions; from far away they looked asleep if not for the rotting flesh. Natasha counted ten zombies in all. They must have surrounded the tents from all sides, closing in, cutting off all escape. Until someone had taken them out.
"See, something terrible did happen." Banner kicked a half-opened can of soup aside. Pointing at the smouldering campfire, he said, "Happened not long ago, too. Where did they go?"
"Wherever they went, they made sure to finish off all the zombies."
She knelt to examine a zombie closely. It had died of a clean headshot. She checked the bodies around her; same. "Maybe they didn't need our help after all," remarked Banner. Natasha agreed. This was the work of an expert marksman. And judging from the angle of the shot, it came from above… She snapped her head upwards, rapidly scanning the canopy for the shooter. Either they were long gone or too well-hidden—
Banner's scream jolted her. He'd been investigating the tent that was still standing when a zombie—they had previously presumed dead—moved with surprising swiftness behind him. It clawed for his legs and snapped its teeth. Banner caught hold of the tent instinctively, but the canvas ripped and he fell face-first onto the ground. The zombie snarled in triumph.
Natasha vaulted over the hearth. Another zombie, perhaps energized due to the smell of their adrenaline-spiked pulse, stirred. She stomped her boot into his face with a crunch. Another moaned from its prostrate position—she kicked it so hard it twisted its neck.
Banner jerked violently. The zombie was now trying to gnaw through his pants. His hand was trapped beneath him, unable to reach the gun strapped to his belt. "NAT!"
She whipped out her own weapon and paused. "Hold still, Bruce!" He was struggling too much. She couldn't get a clear aim.
"Just take the damn shot, Natasha!"
Crack.
The zombie screeched. She looked down at her hand. She hadn't fired. Which meant it was the mysterious shooter. Another crack. The zombie slumped; his teeth had managed to make a sizeable hole in Banner's pants. He pushed the zombie off him with disgust.
"Nat."
Her eyes were trained at the source of the two shots. No movement.
"Nat! Did- did it get me?" There was urgency in Banner's voice. "Can you check?"
Natasha tore herself away and ran to him. Kneeling at his side, she ripped off the cloth and inspected his leg. Her heart leapt into her mouth at the blood. No. She frantically wiped it off to see that, to her intense relief, the skin was unbroken. Thank god.
"There's nothing. You'll be fine."
Banner let out a deep sigh.
A thud sounded behind them. Natasha turned to see a man had dropped down from a tree, clutching a long-range rifle. Her own gun was trained on him in a matter of moments. "Stay back," she warned.
"He saved my life, Nat," admonished Banner.
"I had it," she muttered.
"But I was quicker," replied the man, grinning. His brown hair grew past his ears, and he had an easy-going manner that instantly put her on the edge. "We mean no harm." Dropping his gun on the ground, he spread his palms facing towards them. Natasha lowered her gun, but did not loosen her posture. Banner stepped forward. "I'm Dr. Banner."
The man quirked a brow. "Doctor, huh? I'm just plain Bucky." He pointed a finger upwards. "And that's plain Steve."
"What-" Another heavy thud, as a blonde man landed beside Bucky. He straightened up, wincing a little and greeted them, "Hi." Natasha was furious at herself for not noticing that there had been a second one. "Sorry for the suspense, but we weren't sure all of them were dead," said Steve.
"Or that you two weren't thieves come to ransack our camp," put in Bucky bluntly.
"That's fair," replied Banner. "That was you with the headshots? Impressive."
He shrugged modestly. "Army training."
Natasha had already pegged them as military men. If Bucky's sharpshooting skills or their muscular builds hadn't been enough, the dog tags glinting around their necks tipped her off. Men like them would be valuable additions to Shield, Fury would have said.
"I've never seen such a large bunch," continued Bucky. "We would've been overwhelmed if we hadn't heard them coming a mile away. Subtle, these guys are not."
"Yeah, except for that one who managed to sneak ahead. I lost my axe chopping him down. Broke the handle," added Steve ruefully.
"We had the pleasure of meeting it," said Natasha.
"So are you guys on your own?" asked Bucky, looking between her and Banner.
"Uh," Banner hesitated, and glanced at her. Her instinct to stay away from strange men in the forest warred with her rationale that however strange they may be, they had skills that could come in use. Natasha tilted her head. "We're actually from Shield."
"That big human settlement? I didn't know we were so close to it," replied Steve.
"Okay so the thing is. We're running low on medical supplies, but we have enough ammunition." Bucky reached up into the branches, where a camouflaged pack was strung out of sight. He opened it to show them an impressive stockpile of bullets and a couple of handguns. "What do you say, would you be people be open to a trade?"
She let out a low whistle. "I think we'd be more than open."
"Thought so." Bucky smirked, holding her gaze.
Banner cleared his throat. "Yeah, so if you'd just follow us…"
Steve and Bucky gathered the remains of their belongings with quiet efficiency. The tents were damaged beyond saving, but they'd had the forethought to stash their essential supplies in the trees surrounding the camp. Once Bucky had retrieved the last of their belongings, they set off on the path that would take them to Shield.
Banner and Steve took the lead, with Bucky and Natasha right behind, weapons in hand at all times. She was pleased to note that Bucky had good trigger discipline. He noticed her staring and shifted closer.
"You still haven't told us your name."
"Natasha."
"And I'm Bucky, as you already know. But you can call me James," he said, smiling crookedly. This man was good-looking, and he knew it. Natasha mentally rolled her eyes.
The mercury climbed steadily as they walked on. It hadn't rained at all that day, and soon Natasha was covered in a thin layer of sweat. She gathered her shoulder-length red hair into a ponytail and fanned the back of her neck. Ahead of her, Steve, muttering about the humidity, shrugged off his jacket.
Natasha stopped short.
The shirt on his lower right arm was shredded. A bandage peeked through it, seeped with red. Steve stumbled and automatically clutched his arm, grimacing. And she immediately knew what the wound looked like: as if something had taken a bite out of him.
"He's bitten."
"What?"
She covered the distance between them in three sharp strides. Her gun was thrust under his chin. "You're bitten," she told Steve.
"What the fuck?!" yelled Bucky. He shoved her back, and she slapped his hand aside. Steve, startled, fell against a tree trunk. "It's a dog bite!"
"Yeah, I'm not falling for that again. Bruce, look! Don't tell me that doesn't look like a zombie bite."
Banner who'd been hanging back, warily examined the wound. He scratched his head. "It does look like a bite, but to be sure I'll have to remove the bandages."
"Like hell you are!" sneers Bucky. "We'd just gotten the bleeding under control. I'm not letting you expose it again just for your satisfaction."
Natasha whipped around. "I'm sorry if we don't take your word for it. Do you really expect us to walk in with an infected into our settlement?"
"He has a name!"
"Buck-" started Steve.
"And did you really expect him to be walking around all laughing and talking if he'd actually been bitten?" continued Bucky.
"Infections take time to manifest," hissed Natasha. "Look I don't know what your agenda is, but I'm not risking the entire population of Shield."
"There is no risk! It was a goddamn German Shepard in an empty house we broke into. Poor bastard was half mad with hunger."
"Bucky," said Steve, coolly. "Let them see. I'll be fine."
Heart hammering, Natasha watched as Banner gingerly unwrapped the bandages. His head blocked the wound from her view. It was obvious that Bucky and Steve were close. There was a big possibility that the former was in denial about his friend's impending death. She'd seen this before. The grip on her gun tightened.
"It is a dog bite," Banner announced, wiping his hands on his pants. "Look at the prominent canine marks. Plus, the flesh would have started turning yellow if it had been zombie inflicted." Natasha ducked her head, face suddenly warm. "Sorry," he told Steve, more from her behalf. "I had a false alarm back there in the camp, you must've seen that. We're all a bit rattled."
Steve, a little pale, nodded and wore his jacket, once again covering the bite. Bucky, who'd been standing with his arms crossed tightly, muttered irritably, "Great. Now that we've proved we're not liars, we'll be on our way." He picked up his bag, which had fallen down during the argument, and swung it onto his shoulders roughly.
They were leaving, she realised. "Wait." Furious eyes met hers. "He needs a rabies shot."
"The dog wasn't rabid," said Steve.
"It's still a good idea to get one," said Banner promptly. "And we could get it stitched up. We're not too far."
Bucky hesitated, torn between his anger and his concern for his friend's health. They shared a look layered with complicated back-and-forth. Finally, Bucky shrugged. He marched ahead, not-so-accidentally bumping Natasha's shoulder as he passed. Gone were the flirtatious grins and the charming demeanour.
Banner sent her a wry glance. Natasha sighed, and trudged on.
.
.
They'd gotten lucky with Shield's base. An abandoned boarding school at the outskirts of town—it had a solid boundary wall, first-aid stations, a generator that worked most times, large stores of food, comfortable dorms (thank god for rich spoiled boys) and even a moth-eaten library in case they ever wished to pick up a paperback. Half of the classrooms, the faculty wing, and the principal's office had burned down in a fire long ago, but they had enough to establish a home.
She'd left Bucky and Steve with Banner, trusting him to take them to Fury. She had other priorities; first, a shower. Stark had fitted the showerheads with a meter that cut off the water if you used too much. She quickly got into the cubicle with her filthy jacket on and rinsed off the worst of the blood. Hot water would have been better for the fabric but hot water hadn't been a thing for years. She almost didn't miss it. Almost.
Natasha emerged from the communal bathroom, wrapped in a towel, to find Maria Hill waiting for her. The dark-haired woman accompanied her to her room. Room she called it, when it was in fact no more than a janitor's closet. The dorms were more spacious but also crowded; Natasha would lie awake at times, body itching, hyperaware of the dozen or so women who slept in her proximity. She'd parlayed with Fury for a room of her own once she had more than enough earned her place at Shield. He'd cleared the closet for her without question. Natasha had knocked down the shelves and chucked a few pinecones in the corner to disguise the smell of bleach. A small window set high into the wall provided ventilation and light. A lumpy mattress, one or two cardboard boxes filled with her belongings, and a couple of wires bent into clothes hangers and—home, sweet home.
Hill nodded at the rectangle-shaped mirror propped on top of a box. "Where did you get that?"
"Stark's. It broke. I offered to take it off his hands." The jagged edge of the mirror glinted dangerously.
She snorted. "And he agreed? How is he going to spend his days now?"
"I suspect he has another one stashed away to stare at himself."
Natasha dressed as Hill filled her in on the status of Wanda and Pietro. Fury had sent them to scout the bandits' camp, and they'd failed to check in at the scheduled time. It was a mark of how serious the situation was that Hill's eyes didn't stray once towards Natasha, who was practically naked. Natasha was slightly miffed.
"Fury's considering sending a runner after the Maximoffs," continued Hill.
"But you don't agree."
She shrugged. "If we've lost them, we've lost them. No sense in leading someone else to the same fate." And here was the reason Natasha could never let her guard down completely with her. Fury's right hand woman was cold and dispassionate, and sure, Natasha had let her into her bed once or twice, but trusting her was out of the question.
"You could send me." Natasha liked the Maximoff twins. Eastern European immigrants (illegal, she would guess), they were hard-working, resourceful, and fiercely devoted to each other. Natasha was a lone wolf by choice at Shield, but she had to admit the value of a partnership like theirs. She used to have that with Clint, a long time ago.
"And you think you'll do a better job?"
"You know I will."
Hill scrutinised her carefully. "Fine. If we don't get word by the end of the day…"
After she finished clipping her walkie to her belt, Natasha told her she was heading to the dining hall and it was then Hill revealed the real reason she'd sought her.
"Your boys agreed to stay."
"That was fast."
"Fury would have been a fool to let them go—shiny, military boys like them. Where did you even find them?"
"They fell from the heavens."
"What do you think of them?" asked Hill, crossing her arms.
"They're extremely loyal to each other. Handy with a gun, especially the dark-haired one." A pause. "But he's hot-tempered, and following the rules could be a problem. Steve's the calm, quiet one. He's used to being underestimated, but has leadership skills worthy of consideration."
Maria Hill smirked. "Were you a shrink in your past life or something?"
Natasha made a face. "God, no." Only Fury knew of who she'd actually been before the outbreak, and she intended to keep it that way.
.
.
The only time Natasha had ever faced disciplinary action at Shield was when a cocky new recruit had complained about the quantity of food and called Pepper Potts "that old lunch lady cunt". Natasha had punched Rumlow so hard he'd broken his nose. He'd died not too long after in a skirmish with the bandits and she could honestly say she didn't feel even a bit sorry.
Pepper had the unenviable job of daily administration. Shield had a comfortable store of essentials, but given that the future was uncertain, Fury had mandated indefinite wartime rations for everyone. Natasha admired Pepper for the patient and adept way she handled complaints and petty squabbles (especially Stark's), as well as the creativity with which she budgeted and planned the weekly menu such that they seldom felt the constraints. She'd been an executive assistant at a multinational in her old life and she'd confessed that her corporate experience had actually been more stressful than this. Natasha was sure that Shield would fall apart without Pepper.
Pepper handed her a tray of bread slathered with a thin layer of jam and a glass of lemonade. "Welcome back," she winked, pointing to the coarse bread. Underneath it, sat a piece of chocolate wrapped in foil. Natasha smiled, pocketing it for later.
The mess was a sunlit, airy hall with large tables and benches arranged along its length. Lunch was over, there was nobody around except for the two men who were the last people she wanted to see. Natasha took a fortifying breath and dropped down next to them. "Hey, boys."
Bucky stiffened, saying nothing. Steve gave her a tentative smile. "Natasha, right? Have to get your name right since we're going to be staying here for a while."
She nodded. "I heard. How's your arm?"
Steve looked down at the freshly bandaged wound. "All good. Got the shots as well."
"I might have…overreacted," she said awkwardly.
"You had to make sure," said Steve, ignoring Bucky's scoff. "You were looking out for Shield. And now that I've seen what you guys have built," Steve's eyes gleamed. "I get it. For instance, this lemonade. Delicious. It's the small things that make you remember you're human."
Natasha almost smiled. "We grow lemons in the greenhouse Stark built. Sugar is limited, so Pepper uses honey instead."
"Stark?"
"Our engineer, general tinkerer and all-round pain in the ass. And talk of the devil." Curiosity about the new blood had dragged Stark from his lab. Banner was hurrying in his wake, probably to act as a buffer.
"Someone summoned me? Tony Stark, resident genius." He shook hands with the two men. "Holy hell, you guys look like you've walked right off the Calvin Klein catalogue. Damn, guess I'll have to give up my title of the handsomest man in Shield."
"You never were," Banner pointed out.
"Who then? If you say Coulson…"
"Thor," put in Natasha. The Norwegian wasn't exactly her type but he was certainly stunning.
Stark pouted. "Well, okay. Although Rogers here could totally give him a run for the money."
"Um," said Steve.
"And as for your friend, a shave and a good-night's sleep…hope springs eternal." Stark made as if to thump Bucky's back but reconsidered at the glare on his face.
"Stark. Behave."
He pointed a finger at Natasha. "Hey, I'm just welcoming them to Shield. Letting them know what the work culture is like, etc."
"Yeah, about that," spoke Bucky, for the first time. "You guys have a lotta rules, almost like a goddamn bureaucracy."
"Rules are the reason we've survived so long," replied Natasha carefully. "All members must follow them."
He noticed the implied threat in her voice. "I know, Fury gave us the spiel. What happens to the dissenters?"
There had been a mutiny in Shield's early years, before Natasha's time, led by a man named Alexander Pierce. It had ended with a terrible fire and the execution of all those who had rebelled.
"Everyone is heard out fairly," said Banner.
Bucky opened his mouth to object. At once, three walkie-talkies came to life in a burst of static. Natasha quickly brought hers to her ear; Stark and Banner did the same. Coulson's voice filtered through, calm but urgent. She listened with a mounting sense of horror.
"What happened?" asked Steve.
"The Maximoffs are back," said Banner in a hollow voice. "Our youngest members."
"And?"
"And Pietro is bitten."
.
.
This time it was no dog bite. Natasha and Stark paced outside what was formerly the nurse's office, now Banner's clinic. Steve and Bucky, who had followed them, hung around, wary. Finally, the doctor emerged, shaking his head. "It's spreading."
A wail broke out from a figure huddled in the corner. Wanda. She raised her red-rimmed eyes. "There must be something you can do."
"You know there isn't, Wanda," he replied softly.
The effort of dragging her hurt brother back to Shield had exhausted her, yet she drew herself to her full height and pointed a raging finger. "NO! Stop saying that! You haven't tried everything, Banner. We can't just let him die!"
Natasha put a hand on her trembling shoulder. "And we can't let him turn." Wanda shrugged her off scornfully. "What do you know? You understand nothing. He's my brother…he's the only one I have in this world." And she broke down sobbing. Bucky appeared stricken, but he and Steve wisely remained silent.
Stark exchanged looks with Banner. "Bruce, is there any way we can stabilise his condition?"
"I have given him a sedative. But there's nothing to stop him from turning." Banner rubbed his face, anguished. "It may take some time, but it will happen. We all know that."
"Knowing is different from believing," muttered Natasha. Her heart broke for Wanda, but there was only one way out of this.
The sound of heavy footsteps announced the arrival of Nick Fury. The head of Shield cut a tall and imposing figure, all dressed in black. An eye-patch covering an old injury completed the look. He glanced at the unconscious Pietro through the clinic's doorway, then at his sister. His expression softened slightly.
Crouching down, he said, "Wanda, you know what we have to do."
She turned her face away.
"Wanda, when you joined Shield, you agreed to follow certain rules. And this is the most important rule of all. The entire safety of Shield rests on this."
"Fuck your rules."
Natasha stepped forward. Fury inclined his head and let her talk to Wanda instead. Drawing back, he nodded at Stark and Banner and began conversing with them in hushed whispers.
"Wanda," murmured Natasha. "Pietro would not have wanted this."
"Do not speak of him in the past sense," she hissed, although her voice had lost its edge.
"I know what you're going through. You're hoping for a miracle, praying that this time, this time, is an exception. But it's in vain, because nature is relentless. Pietro will turn. He will transform into a walking corpse who has nothing in common with the brother who loved you." Natasha swallowed the lump in her throat. She leant in closer, these words just between the two of them. "It will be terrible for him. He will slowly lose his senses and everything that makes him him, and the hunger will take over. He will not think twice before attacking you. Do you want that for your brother?"
Wanda remained quiet, but shook her head softly.
"He deserves a painless death. He deserves to be remembered as he was, and not as a monster."
The younger girl looked up at Natasha, eyes bright with tears. She'd made up her mind.
Natasha sighed and straightened up. Turning, she noticed Bucky staring at her intently; he seemed to have heard her. She flushed.
Wanda took Pietro's hand in hers from where he lay on the cot. His skin was sallow, eyes fluttering rapidly beneath his lids. The bite festered on his right shoulder. "I want to stay with him till the end," she announced. Fury consented.
Banner injected Pietro with a lethal dose of pavulon. It would be a peaceful death, and give Wanda closure. Later, Fury would ask Banner to remove his head using the mechanical bone saw before burying him—the doctor hated doing it, but he knew they couldn't take any chances.
Pietro regained consciousness for a bit. He clutched at his sister's hand tightly. "I don't want to go, Wanda. I don't want to go…"
"You know you have to," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse. There were no tears left. "It'll be okay, give my love to mама и папа."
"Я увижу тебя с другой стороны, сестра."
Pietro Maximoff died with a smile on his face.
Natasha backed away from the room. She would check in on Wanda later, but right now she needed to be anywhere else but here. She rounded the corner and felt someone grab her arm. She wrenched it away roughly.
"What," she barked when she saw that it was Bucky.
"I heard you back there, with Wanda." He had an unreadable expression on her face.
"And?"
"If Steve had actually been bitten…you really would have killed him, right then and there?"
Natasha looked into his eyes. They were the colour of old coins.
"Without hesitation."
.
.
Pietro's memorial was a sombre affair. Shield had gone without death for so long that it had come as a shock, a reminder that the world they were living in did not care for them. Everyone found their own way to grieve—Wanda showed up behind the mess counter, serving food with a quiet smile; Banner threw himself into studying the zombie samples; Stark spent late nights in his lab. Natasha detected hints of alcohol on his breath, but decided not to report him. Everyone needed a distraction. Especially in the light of the circumstances of his death.
Fury, who knew the most about Natasha, indicated that she could talk to him if she wanted to. Clearly he had picked up on the parallels, though it came as a surprise that he was offering to listen. Or maybe, he thought this was a good chance to get more intel on her. "I don't need to talk," she'd said. "Just send me out again."
She dreamed that night that she was hunting them down. She picked out a spot and shot them from above. She sneaked her way close and stabbed them in the back. Only, these weren't zombies. They were humans.
Natasha woke up to a knock. She wiped the sweat off her face and listened. The knocks came in a series of three. Hill. Natasha had been expecting her; this was their way of coping. This time, however, she pretended to be asleep and let her go.
.
.
In his infuriating way, Fury kept his word, but with a caveat: she couldn't go alone. Natasha gnashed her teeth, weighing being cooped up inside the barbed wire walls of Shield against setting out with a bunch of hanger-ons.
"Who else is going?"
"Coulson," said Fury and paused. She didn't mind Coulson—he was warm, unflappable, and his benign exterior hid a backbone of steel. "Barnes and Rogers." Fury raised his brow, daring her to protest.
Natasha did not give him the satisfaction. She mock-saluted him sharply. "Can't wait."
They were to leave early in the morning. She spotted Coulson and Steve at the gate, chatting amiably. She wasn't surprised they were getting along so well. Hill dawdled beside them, arms crossed. She greeted Natasha briskly.
Bucky jogged up to them a moment later, hair still wet. "It feels good to be getting out of here for a bit," he said. She had a cutting reply ready on her tongue—something about how this wasn't a fucking drill—but she swallowed it. Fury had never sent her with such a large group; obviously he was testing how well she worked with a team. She was going to ensure her teammates were singing her praises by the end of it.
Hill spread open the map on Coulson's backpack. "You'll follow the route the Maximoffs took, but unlike them, you'll stick to the river." They'd gone over this before, but Hill was nothing if not thorough. "This way, you have a better chance of finding the camp, and avoiding what happened to Pietro." There was a delicate pause. "Barnes, Rogers, you haven't encountered the bandits before. They've been raiding Shield off and on over the years but they've never been successful. That does not mean they are any less dangerous. If you're captured, do not expect help. If you manage to escape, send out a flare from the old outpost here." She jabbed at the map. "We'll come get you if we can."
"Lucky us," Bucky muttered under his breath.
"You have permission to kill at sight if you come across any of their scouts."
Coulson's mouth was a thin, hard line. "That's new."
"The bandits dangled the Maximoffs as zombie bait," she replied curtly, folding the map with sharp jerks. "Don't give them the chance to do the same."
Hill nodded at them, held Natasha's eyes briefly, and disappeared into the watchman's cabin to buzz the gate open. Only a handful knew the code to the gate, and it changed frequently. Stark had rigged the mechanism to an interlocking pulley system so it didn't have to depend on electricity. Hill punched the four-digit code and the iron bars slid open with a clang. Thor, who was on sentry duty atop the wooden lookout, waved them out.
.
.
The farmhouse stared at them from atop the hill. It was two storeys high, with a wrap-around porch. A rocking chair creaked in the wind, completing the eerie scene.
Coulson frowned at his map. "This isn't marked."
"We've come further than Wanda and Pietro," answered Natasha. "Makes sense this wouldn't be plotted."
"Let's go inside, then," said Steve, hand already on the gate.
Natasha swiftly blocked him. "That's a terrible idea."
"Actually it's not," said Coulson, staring critically at the house. "If there were humans living up there, it'd be more fortified. No way would those windows be open. And if it had been infested with zombies, we would've seen or heard the signs—they're not exactly subtle. I think that this house has stayed up here…untouched, for quite a while."
"And that means supplies," finished Steve.
Bucky shook his head. "You don't find that suspicious? This house sitting there like the biggest fucking beacon for miles and it's 'untouched'? I'm with Red here, let's move on and concentrate on the task at hand." Natasha scowled at the nickname but appreciated that she had someone on her side, even if it was Bucky.
"I think I know why it's undisturbed." Coulson pointed at a fuse box attached to the gate. "The fence is electrified. Was," he added with a grin, when Steve jumped and withdrew his hand. "It ran on the generator and when the fuel ran out, the humans left."
"Or maybe they left in the first place, made their way to the city," said Steve. "Kept the fence running for when they'd come back. Which they never did. You're right, this place has an air of neglect."
"That would explain why the zombies haven't wrecked the place," said Natasha slowly, coming around. "This box has enough power to fry them to a crisp." Bucky shot her a look of mild betrayal, which would have been amusing in any other circumstance.
They trudged up the slope and stopped in front of the porch. A red-painted barn hugged the side of the house, its large doors swinging lazily in the breeze. The crops planted behind it had all died. Coulson climbed the steps and knocked firmly on the door.
"Wait." Natasha motioned him behind, took a few steps back of her own, and yelled as loudly as she could, "ANYBODY HOME? WE'RE FRIENDLY, WE COME IN PEACE."
The farmhouse glowered at them in silence. "That's a no on the human front."
"Except you've just broadcasted our location to any zombie in the vicinity," growled Bucky.
"Better to draw them out in the open field than to come face to face with one behind the kitchen door."
Steve took up the call. "HEYY! WE'RE NOT HERE TO HURT ANYONE. WE JUST NEED SOME DIRECTIONS!" Coulson gave him a questioning look. "Just in case they're hiding," Steve whispered.
His deep voice received a reply in the form of a zombie's snarl. They followed the sound to behind the farmhouse, where a zombie was entangled in the wired fence. Most of its body was charred but it lifted its head upon smelling them and made swiping gestures with its hand. Bucky lifted his rifle, took aim and fired in one smooth move. The zombie slumped.
"Well, if the gunshot didn't do the trick, nothing else will," remarked Natasha, a little irritated. "Cleary there's no one here. Let's go in."
Steve and Coulson peeled off to check the barn and the basement, which also had a separate entrance. Natasha and Bucky entered the house through the back door. He'd switched his rifle for a pistol, Natasha contended herself with her knife. She rummaged through drawers and kitchen cupboards, throwing useful items to Bucky, who caught them unerringly and stuffed them into his backpack. They moved through the rest of the house with the same speedy efficiency. They cleared corners in silence, each instinctively turning to the other side. Natasha had to remind herself of his military background before she got too impressed.
There was a lot one could learn about someone from their house. The furnishings were plain, but well-cared for. The furniture looked solid and handmade. Crucifixes hung in every room. "No woman was living here," she observed. Bucky quirked a brow and she inclined her head towards the bathroom. "No feminine products in the cabinets."
He picked up a family portrait from the mantelpiece of an old man and his three sons. "There was a better way to figure that out," he smirked.
Natasha peered at the photograph. The sons were well into middle age, unmarried. They probably had known no life outside the farm. "Come on, the attic's still left."
Bucky brought the step-ladder down with a crash, and the hatch clattered open. A battered length of plywood blocked the attic entry. Natasha stared at in surprise, a chill of foreboding running through her veins.
"This does not look good. Let it be."
"We need to at least-" A weak, low moan interrupted him. It came from the attic.
They stood stock still. Slowly, Bucky extended his hand towards her. Natasha realised he wanted her blade. She hesitated before placing the knife in his callused palm. He hefted it in his hand, appreciating its balance, and carefully worked the sharp tip under the corner of the plywood, flipping it loose. Natasha aimed her gun at the dark square that was the attic hatch, ready for whatever had been caged inside.
The truth was far worse than she could have imagined.
The fetid stench slammed into them like a wave. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she realised why they hadn't been attacked outright. Three figures huddled at the far end, handcuffed to the iron rings set into the wall. Two lay unmoving, the third stirred in their presence and groaned.
They were humans.
Natasha knelt down next to the man, who'd once looked so happy posing with his brothers in the photograph, and offered him water. He took a deep drag from the canteen and retched. His breath was foul, his clothes were soiled beyond repair. His eyes had trouble focusing.
"Who did this to you?" asked Bucky roughly.
The man tried to speak but all that came out was a rasp. Natasha tilted her canteen to his lips and made him drink small, measured sips.
"Have- have the zombies gone? Is the world safe again?" He looked at the strained expression on their faces and just like that, all hope leached out of him.
"I'm sorry," whispered Bucky. "Let us get you out of here."
He shuddered. "No—no—I'm not leaving them. Let me stay here, please."
"Hey, it's okay. What's your name? We'll get you help, whatever you want-"
"I want to…talk. Please," he gasped. "It's been so long."
"We're listening," Natasha affirmed. "Was that your family?" She gestured at the decomposing remains.
He nodded with an effort. "They took my youngest brother," he started in a flat monotone. "We watched him transition right in front of our eyes. Father had to shoot him—his favourite son. He put a bullet in his head, and then dropped to the ground and lay there weeping. I'd never seen him cry." His voice broke. He would've been sobbing if his body could have produced tears. "The next day, Father asked my brother and me to follow him to the attic. He knocked us out and we woke up to him nailing the hatch shut. We'd been bound."
"Why?" she asked, without really wanting to.
"Because he wasn't going to let another one of us turn into those abominations. He had rat poison with him, all poured out into individual glasses like fuckin' wine. He handcuffed himself too, just in case we woke up as the undead. He said he'd meet us all in heaven, and cheers. Down it all went." His hands started shaking uncontrollably, but his voice remained a steady drone that made Natasha dig her nails into her palm. "My brother and I vomited it out immediately. Father kept it down. We watched him die, writhing and twisting. His eyes never left me, and I knew he was disappointed in us for not being brave enough." A quivering sigh. "Time stopped after that. I was hungry, so hungry…my mouth dried up, I couldn't speak. And I wished—I wished I would turn, so at least I would stop thinking. At least I would be able to sate my hunger.
"I watched my brother chew through his wrists. One day, he suddenly gave up. He stopped moving. It's just me now." He raised his pale face towards them. "And you're here. Thank you for listening. I just need…please…" He held Bucky's gaze, who flinched.
He turned to Natasha next. His eyes met hers, pleading.
A long moment later, she nodded.
.
.
Steve and Coulson found them just as she finished cleaning the blood off her blade. She strapped it back against her hip and casually inquired about their search. "It was a bust," reported Steve, splashing water from the kitchen sink on his face. "The only thing we found is that I might be a little allergic to hay." His eyes were running and his nose was red.
Coulson ribbed him about being a city boy.
"Brooklyn, actually."
"Ugh. I'm surprised you took so long to bring it up."
"Hey-"
But Coulson had already turned his attention to Natasha. "What did you find?"
Natasha examined her hands, wondering where the fuck to begin. How could she put into words the awfulness of what he'd been through, watching his loved ones waste away next to him, dying a little himself every day? Or how he'd begged her to end him, how Bucky had tried his best to make him change his mind? Promises of food, water, company—nothing swayed him. He was broken, there was no going back. What Natasha had granted him at the end of her blade was a small mercy.
He hadn't even given them his name. The only thing left was his story. He'd carved a piece of that horror and offered it to them. It pulsed in her, and in Bucky, who stood silently behind her. She didn't know if she could drag that darkness into the sunlit kitchen where Steve and Coulson faced them, hair tousled from the wind, laughter in their eyes.
Perhaps Bucky felt the same, for he answered when Steve shot him a slight frown; he was starting to notice something amiss.
"Nothing. You were right, whoever was living here left a long time ago." And he shouldered his backpack filled with supplies—the only survivors of this tragedy—and strode out. He didn't look at her at all, but the understanding between them remained.
.
.
"When you said bandits," said Bucky. "I pictured something else."
The courtyard of the hospital which doubled as the bandits' camp—and they really needed to stop calling it camp because this was a highly organised base—was open and the terrace of the apartment complex two buildings down provided a good view of the buzzing activity. From their vantage point, Natasha could make out the men and women milling about on their daily routine. It could have been just another day at Shield.
"What did you expect?" snapped Coulson. "People in masks waving sawed off shotguns in the air?" He'd banged his head badly on the fire escape on their way up the abandoned building, and kept clutching his temples.
"They look like a bunch of people trying to survive," Steve pointed out. "They're just like Shield." In fact, if Coulson hadn't recognised the two men at the riverside from a past raid, they wouldn't have thought of following them to the small town at the edge of the forest. It had been a quaint place once upon a time, built upon the prospect of sturdy timber. Now it hosted undead stragglers in its streets and a group that had vexed Shield and its members for a long while.
"What's Fury's problem with them anyway?" demanded Bucky.
Natasha left the history lesson to Coulson and concentrated on gathering as much intel as she could from her bird's-eye view of the hospital. "They've been looting and plundering for a long time, using dirty, underhand means. God help you if you're a lone human survivor and happen to pass through their territory. They have no moral code whatsoever."
"I don't understand," muttered Steve. "If we're breathing we're all on the same side."
Bucky rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. "The world had been fucked up way before the zombies came into the picture, Steve."
Coulson smiled faintly and eyed the distant horizon. "It's simple. They want Shield and its secure walls. They've seen our strength, they know about our resources. They used to be based out of the woods, moving their camp from place to place. I didn't know they'd turned urban."
"Maybe they've finally settled down to become good, honest citizens," cracked Bucky. "Seriously though, it looks like they've found themselves a solid base. It could be they don't want Shield anymore."
"The attacks have slackened recently," Coulson admitted. "Fury wanted to know why."
"They're planning something. Something big."
It was the only conclusion she could come to after analysing the bandits' movements. There was order in the chaos—they were preparing, readying, training. Coulson turned to her, assessing. His brown eyes flickered down at the hospital, and he nodded.
"Let's find out."
.
.
It was a simple plan. Get close to the hospital under the cover of night, look for alternative entrances—Natasha and Coulson would sneak in and try to find out what the bandits were planning, Steve and Bucky would keep watch. It all went to shit soon.
The electronics shop, its display window covered with TV monitors that were somehow still on, fell on their way. A horde of zombies stared glaze-eyed at the screens showing nothing but static. As dusk had fallen, the buzzing and the light had drawn them like moths to flame. A few pawed at the glass lazily.
"Fuck," said Natasha softly. They would have to sneak past them in order to get to the hospital, which was at the end of the road. Coulson put his finger to his lips and motioned them forward. Bucky fell in step alongside her, eyes fixed at the zombies. Natasha scouted ahead for the both of them, looking out for shards of glass or potholes—anything that would make noise or trip them.
A pair of shambling figures approached them in the distance. They hadn't gotten close enough yet to scent the four of them, but once they did their excitement would make them known to the horde. Shooting them was out of the question—the crack of the bullet, amplified in the still night, would bring the horde on to them instantaneously. Natasha flicked her eyes towards the zombies—they were too many of them. Maybe they could take them out with guns, but there was a chance the bandits would hear the fight and come investigating. The road offered no convenient alleys either.
Her heart pounding, Natasha squeezed Bucky's arm urgently. He stopped, noticed the incoming threat, and swore under his breath. Behind, Coulson and Steve stumbled.
"Turn around slowly," whispered Coulson. "When I say so, we run back as fast as we can. Do not stop. Don't give them a chance to pursue you. We meet again at the riverside and regroup."
Natasha knew what that meant—the waste of another day and a chance to find out what the bandits were up to. They were planning to move somewhere en masse, she was sure of that, and she had a horrible feeling where. The four of them could still continue with their plan—they were close, so close—but Natasha also knew when to retreat. Coulson was right; regrouping and coming prepared the next day was wise.
Beside her, Bucky fidgeted. "We can still make it-"
"Don't be stupid," she cut him off. She could feel him about to take off, not towards safety, but towards the zombies. That plan had crossed Natasha's mind already, of running up to the two approaching zombies and slashing them before they could make a sound. It was a highly risky move. Natasha pushed back his shoulders. "No!"
"Guys." Steve's voice was forcibly calm. "Something's happening in the hospital."
Natasha's vision went white. Time froze.
The open terrace of the hospital lit up like a lighthouse. A powerful spotlight danced against the stark sky, and then, in a predatory motion, trained unerringly on the four of them.
"Fuck," said Bucky in an understatement.
Move, don't think. Natasha crouched and rolled away from the light. Her eyes that had been blinded by the spotlight now struggled to adjust. The bandits followed their movements from above, picking them out as juicy targets for the zombies.
First things first, though. She grabbed her gun from her belt and shot the zombie that had been coming towards them. The force of the bullet hurled it backwards. Its partner didn't stop to look and quickened its staggering pace. Fast as lightening, Bucky blew its brains out. The shots echoed around them, but it didn't matter if they used guns now.
Natasha turned towards the other immediate concern—namely the horde of zombies that had now recognised them as a more satisfying entertainment. Steve and Coulson were picking them out one by one with their guns but it was difficult to aim with the waving spotlight disorienting them. "GO! RUN!" she screamed at them. Then, Natasha gritted her teeth and plunged into the pack with a yell.
She hacked and slashed zombie flesh without mercy, punched and kicked the rotting heads that snapped at her. Her body was taken over by only one instinct—to buy her teammates enough time to escape. She stabbed at a zombie that tried to bite her arm. She wasted precious seconds working her knife free from its eye socket. Another caught hold of her jacket and tried to drag her down. She blasted half its head off and swung the butt of her gun into the neck of a zombie who'd crept from behind. A third snarled and grabbed at her. She snarled back and sliced its face viciously.
Foul-smelling blood splattered across her. Natasha realised she was panting hard. The zombies were overwhelming, never-ending. She was surrounded. Her arms turned to lead. This is it, Romanoff.
And then. Unexpectedly Bucky was next to her, grimly dispatching the zombies around her. "Stop dawdling, Red!" he barked.
Energy coursed through her like a shock of lightening. They stood back to back, holding back the horde. Bucky used his rifle to keep the zombies at a distance, switching to a blade when they got too close. Natasha found a long stick of iron broken off from a lamppost and smashed skulls with abandon. And finally, she spotted a break. "LET'S GO!"
They escaped the pack only to be stopped by a hail of bullets that tore the tarmac in front of them. The bandits had switched things up. Natasha and Bucky immediately flattened themselves against the ground. The shooting stopped just as soon as it'd begun. Natasha chanced a peek and there was Steve, deflecting the bullets with a circular trashcan lid bigger than his head. She stared incredulously as the shots pinged off the metal.
"Go, go!" he yelled. "This won't hold for long."
They ran. Steve followed them, not before tossing the now dented lid at a random zombie and nearly decapitating it.
"Nice shield!" remarked Bucky. Steve grinned. Coulson brought up the rear, shooting without aim to keep them distracted. And just like that, the four of them disappeared into the night.
.
.
Bucky drew first watch that night. Natasha settled in her sleeping bag and sighed. Sleep, of course, wasn't going to be easy. Her usual nightmares trembled just below the surface, and she knew if she closed her eyes they would reel her in. She wasn't going to let them, especially in front of the others.
She rose and padded to where Bucky was sitting against a tree trunk. He remained silent as she dropped next to him and folded her legs Indian-style. The only source of illumination was the dying embers of the campfire. He looked terrible. They all did—they'd barely had time to check for possible bites before Coulson had made them pack everything and set up camp in a place far, far away.
"Thank you," she started, looking down at her fingers that were pulling up grass by its roots. "For coming after me."
"It was mad what you did," he said. "You're absolutely insane." Surely, she must have imagined the awe in his voice.
Natasha cleared her throat. "And as for the whole dog bite thing…" Well, it seemed like she was in a confessing mood. Might as well go all out. "I'm not going to apologize for it, but maybe I could have handled it better."
"You did rattle Steve." Bucky grinned. "You can be quite scary." Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, especially when you do that. But I know where you were coming from—better dead than undead."
"Except humans are sometimes worse."
"You'd think we'd all learn to get along while the world is falling apart." He shook his head with disgust. "But today, with those bandits… They were using those zombies."
"You noticed it too—that the television screens still had power? Those zombies were their extra line of defence. It's smart, actually."
"Diabolical, really. And those spotlights—did they know we were from Shield?"
"I doubt it made a difference. Zombie baiting is their favourite manoeuvre."
"Is that what happened with the twins?"
Natasha sighed. "Kind of. Wanda told me they were tailing a couple of bandit scouts. They were hoping to find their base. Only it turned out the bandits knew they were being followed and led them straight to a nest of zombies."
"I don't know how your—how Fury selects people for these missions," he said, making air quotes around the word. "But I would have sent someone more experienced on such a dangerous trip."
There had, in fact, been some discontent, especially after Pietro died. Natasha had discussed this with Coulson, who'd disagreed with Fury's choice since the beginning. But what she gave Bucky instead was the bland diatribe of everyone "earning" their keep at Shield.
He snorted. "Right." A pause. "You know, I keep thinking about that man in the house."
Natasha nodded. Almost dying in the middle of a pack of zombies wasn't half as terrible as staring into the eyes of the man in the attic as he narrated his tale.
"Thank you for…taking care of him. I wouldn't have been able to, but you helped him on."
"I'm the crazy one, remember?"
"And extremely brave." Their eyes met, held, and Natasha's cheeks warmed. She was glad of the dim light. No one had ever called her brave before.
"I'm not calling you Bucky," she blurted out.
"What?"
"If we're going to be working together-" The word hung between them tentatively. "-I'm not calling you Bucky. It's a ridiculous name."
He flashed her a smirk and suddenly he didn't look like he'd been fighting zombies a few hours ago. "Well, I did tell you to call me James," he drawled.
"James, it is."
Natasha settled in more comfortably, and when it was time for her watch, he didn't make a single move to leave. They stayed up together, listening to the sounds of the forest.
.
.
Fury had called her into his office—formerly the staff break room—for a "debriefing". She'd given him all the information she had gathered on the bandits in her short period of observation—their numbers, supplies, ammunition. And when he asked her what she thought they were gearing up for:
"The bandits are planning a full-scale invasion." It was the deduction that made the most sense.
He nodded, face devoid of expression. "I was expecting something like that."
"It's madness. Why do they want Shield so badly? Their base seemed strong enough."
"It's been years since the outbreak. Humans can now plan for beyond day-to-day survival. The bandits feel their best chance lies with Shield."
"Is there something you're not telling us about them?"
"No. I know as much as you do. The bandits have always made their motive pretty transparent," he replied coolly.
Natasha considered probing further but when he fixed her with that one-eyed stare, she dropped the matter for now. "This is going to end badly."
"Regardless, we need to be fully prepared." Fury outlined his long-term plan: strengthening Shield's defences, sending out scouts to monitor the bandits' movements, sabotaging them if required.
"There's a lot to do, Romanoff. I hope you're up for it."
Not as if I have a choice. "Of course."
.
.
Fury kept them working their asses off the next few weeks. Natasha helped out Stark in his lab as he tinkered with various designs to strengthen Shield's security; this mostly consisted of listening to his prattling—curiously, he had been letting slip Steve's name with increasing frequency in his talks—and reining in his more outrageous ideas. She took inventory of the ammunitions and food with Darcy Lewis, who was known for keeping immaculate records, and gossiped with her about Jane Foster and Thor. She patrolled the boundary of Shield with Sam Wilson during the nights, playing Atlas to keep themselves awake.
Every moment of the day she didn't spend wolfing down her meals or working, she gave to her training. She ran laps of the grounds, exercised behind the burnt down husk of the faculty wing, and refined her shooting skills with mock bullets refashioned out of spent ones; they wouldn't do much harm in a real fight but made for decent target practice. James—she'd made the transition from Bucky to James with an ease which might have alarmed her if she had had any time to properly think about it—joined her, without fail, every day. He kept up with her easy, and even offered himself as a sparring partner when her old punching bag finally fell apart. She didn't mind his company, especially when he took over her teaching duties—some Shield members had atrocious aim, and James was way more patient than her.
Natasha knew that the bandits were coming for them. But then a fortnight passed, and another, and at the month's mark, the tense atmosphere at Shield lessened considerably. Scott Lang and Hope van Dyne came back from a scouting trip to report that the bandits had crossed the state border. "They weren't after Shield at all," proposed Coulson. "Maybe they're heading to the mountains. We'll finally be rid of them for good." The news was received with great pleasure. Even Hill cracked a smile. Fury expressed his relief, but the wariness behind his eyes never wavered.
He did, however, loosen his hold over Natasha. She'd stayed behind the past month presumably because of her "value" to Shield, but she gathered it was because Fury didn't want her on any more intel-gathering missions on the bandits. Which proved her suspicions that she'd spooked Fury that day; there was clearly more to the story. But Natasha kept her concerns to herself and did not let up her training. She spent every day on the edge, waiting for the ringing alarms that would signal that the bandits hadn't forgotten about Shield. It was likely why her punching bag had given out; venting out her frustrations daily on it had proven too much for that old ball of rags.
Finally being allowed to resume her usual supply runs and zombie thinning expeditions came as a blessed reprieve. Natasha started looking forward to them more and more, and according to Pepper, a major reason was a certain brown-haired man.
Natasha, who was washing her plate when Pepper had dropped this blatant untruth, laughed it off.
"Every meal, the two of you sit together."
"Yeah, with Steve as well."
"Not since Steve started helping Tony with the greenhouse."
"Yeah, what is up with that? Stark's been annoying you less too."
Pepper forged ahead. "And you keep going out for supply runs together."
"Because Fury keeps pairing us up."
"Who knows what goes on under the tent in the middle of the woods?"
"What about the middle of the woods?" James had stolen up behind them. Natasha's heart gave a treacherous lurch. Giving no indication of having heard the previous part of their conversation, James drained his glass of water and informed Natasha they were getting late for shooting practice. He touched her shoulder briefly. She left with him, doing her best to ignore Pepper's sly, knowing glance.
.
.
Perhaps Pepper was right.
A junkyard full of rusted, mangled cars. Natasha noticed the patch on his jacket and asked James about his time in the Howling Commandoes. He told her how Steve had worked so hard to be enlisted, how his unit had become his family, how he had almost plunged to death from a mountain in Afghanistan, how Steve had saved his life.
Under a sky so clear they could see the Milky Way. He shook her awake from the throes of a particularly horrible nightmare. He listened as she spoke of blood on her hands and red in her ledger, without pressing for details. Then he made her laugh by pointing out silly patterns in the stars.
Walking on old railway tracks that stretched for miles. She found out he was proficient in ASL. He learnt that she could do ballet. Their favourite breakfast food was pancakes.
Beside a pond festering with corpses of the undead. She bandaged a nasty cut on his shoulder and when her hands lingered, he shivered.
Softly treading room by room in a silent house, guns at arm's length. A zombie grabbed James from behind the door. He stuck his gun into its mouth to prevent it from biting, but its rotting hands held on to him, shredding his clothes, almost reaching skin.
Natasha did not freeze. She pointed her weapon and asked James if he trusted her. It was a risky shot—close-range with a rifle, and he was between her and the zombie. Her aim was good, but not as good as James.
"Yes," he answered, immediately.
She fired. The bullet grazed his ear and hit the zombie square in its face. It reeled. James turned around and socked its head. Natasha fired again, finishing it off. James, clutching his bleeding ear, grinned and gave her a high-five. It was only then that she realised her hands were trembling.
And later, in her tiny room at Shield, Natasha lay awake the entire night, shaken with the realisation of how simply and without hesitation he had put his life in her hands.