~x~X~x~
Seven Devils
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Holy water cannot help you now
A thousand armies couldn't keep me out
I don't want your money
I don't want your crown
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
— Florence + the Machine, "Seven Devils" —
~x~X~x~
Bruce Banner is curled into a tight ball, his hands clenching and loosening, clenching and loosening. He groans — a deep, rolling noise, like thunder at the heart of a gathering storm. The sound shudders down his spine, the first of a series of tremors.
"Bruce," Natasha says, pleading with her eyes. She has seen this before — seen a monster roiling beneath a man's skin, restless and terrible.
Bruce Banner's whole body is shaking.
"You've got to fight it," Natasha says, because she wants to believe that a good man can prevail over the monster; but of course, she would never in a hundred years admit that, so what she adds is, "This is just what Loki wants."
Bruce Banner breathes heavily, as though mustering the strength to stand. But he can't stand, he can't do anything but lie here and writhe, because there is a monster inside of him and it wantsout.
Natasha tugs on her ankle, but the pipe pinning it down is heavier than she expected; there's no give. She's trapped, she's defenseless, she's all alone in the dark and Bruce Banner's monster wants out —
Natasha struggles to slow her racing pulse. "You're going to be okay," she says (maybe to Bruce Banner, maybe to herself.) "Listen to me."
A pair of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents comes running through the debris. One, foolish enough to startle Bruce Banner with sound, shouts, "Are you hurt?"
Frantically, Natasha waves the agents away. This is not their battle. They are innocent, absolved of blame. They do not have monsters inside of their skin, stomping around their cages at night, begging for release. But Bruce does.
Natasha does.
As the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents retreat, she blinks and she's somewhere else.
~x~X~x~
"Your name?"
"Natalia Alianovna Romanova."
"Your age?"
"Younger than the others you've tested."
The Red Room trainer adjusts his wiry spectacles. "Why should we assign you the title of Black Widow, Romanova?"
Natalia smiles — a quick, wicked thing. "I don't see how that question is relevant, seeing as my test is yet to come."
"So I see." The trainer nods to his associate. "Bring the test subject."
Several seconds pass in silence. Then a woman's shrieks pierce Natalia's ears. The door opens with a hiss, and a slight, blond woman is thrown through the opening. She cries out as she falls, arms and legs sprawling in all directions. The door closes soundlessly behind her.
"This," says the Red Room trainer, "is your first test, Romanova."
Natalia looks down. The woman cringes away, azure eyes wide. They are the color of clear skies. It has been a lifetime since Natalia has lain on her back, her scarlet hair spread wide against the earth, and watched the clouds drift through a clear blue sky.
Natalia arches an eyebrow. "What did she do?"
"An assassin does not ask questions, Romanova," says the trainer. "She carries out her orders."
The woman's blue eyes flutter; open and closed, open and closed. As if she could make this horrible moment disappear.
Natalia inhales sharply. "And my orders are?"
"This woman" — the trainer lifts a small, cruel knife from his desk — "is hiding American secrets. Information about their military strategies." He extends the knife's hilt. "You will... extract... those secrets."
"With only one knife?"
"Supplies are often limited during an interrogation in the field."
Swallowing, Natalia takes the knife. Her world narrows to the glint of fluorescent light on the blade's edge. "There will be blood," she says.
"Understood."
"A lot of it."
The trainer wipes a smudge from his glasses. "As is to be expected," he says, straightening his white lab coat. "I will observe the proceedings, but I will not interfere. Is that clear?"
Natalia nods. "Very."
The blue-eyed woman is against the wall, her knees curled to her chest. She rocks back and forth, back and forth. Her lips move without sound. Absently, Natalia wonders if she is praying. Such a coward. Why doesn't she fight?
"You have fifteen minutes," the trainer says, and then he slips outside.
Natalia looks up at the camera on the wall, a sick excitement coursing through her veins. Now she will prove herself worthy. Now she will put her training to good use.
The woman meets her gaze, her eyes blue, blue, blue. "Please," she says, trembling. She digs her fingernails into her knees. "Please, don't."
But Natalia does, and it only takes 7.56 minutes on the clock, and there is a lot of blood. When the victim's flesh is all but in ribbons, the trainer returns and says, "That's enough. You've done well, Natalia Romanova."
And Natalia is proud. She's done so well that they don't even require her to clean up the chamber. A team of Red Room trainers enters as she leaves, and it takes nearly an hour to wipe the crimson from the floor and from the wall, but thankfully, that isn't her responsibility. Natalia is asked only to clean the knife. She does so without blinking, scarlet streaming from her fingertips, getting caught under her neatly trimmed nails.
Six months go by before they tell her that the blue-eyed woman knew no such American secrets.
~x~X~x~
Holy water cannot help you now
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out
I'm gonna raise the stakes
I'm gonna smoke you out
— Florence + the Machine, "Seven Devils" —
~x~X~x~
A sheen of sweat shines on Natasha's forehead. She swallows, steadying herself. Her voice balances on a knife's edge. "You're going to be okay, all right?"
Bruce Banner convulses like a man possessed.
"I swear —" Natasha punches the floor, her terror rising. Her throat constricts. " — on my life —" Punch. "— I will get —" Punch. "—you out of this. You will walk —" Punch. "— away, and never, ever have to —"
Bruce Banner looks at her, and his is the face of a demon, not a man.
All breath flees from Natasha's body. She's staring, silent, watching the monster tear loose, knowing that there's no way to stop it (because she has seen it before, because she's felt it thrashing inside of her skull at night.)
Bruce Banner bares his teeth. "YOUR LIFE?"
A scream dies on its way to Natasha's lips, because Bruce Banner should not know how hollow her life has been. But he does — he knows — his eyes see through her armor and into her core, and for the first time she can remember, Black Widow is terrified.
~x~X~x~
Budapest is burning. The Hawk sprints through the flames, never breaking stride.
"Natalia Romanova," he shouts through the smoke. "Stand down."
Natalia gasps, retching. "Damn you," she coughs, her voice strangled. "Damn you..."
An arrow flies out of the shadows, cutting through the fire and the fumes, and it happens so damn fast that even as she drops into a somersault, Natalia knows it's too late. The arrow explodes in a blast of white light — it's like a flashbang grenade, she realizes; it's meant to disable my systems — and she doesn't even hear the impact of bone on concrete as she falls, doesn't even know where she's landed. The world is white, white, white and her ears must be busted because she can't hear a damn thing.
Silence.
Nothingness.
Then strong hands pin her arms. Knees press down on her chest. Natalia resists, but she's blind and deaf and when she struggles, the knees jam between ribs. She can't breathe. Her muscles go slack. She closes her eyes, but the world is still wiped clean, white white white.
When the light fades, Natalia blinks.
The Hawk hovers over her, his free hand inches from her shoulder. With his other hand, a knife is pressed to the soft skin of her throat. He means to finish her; that much is evident.
She coughs, her throat raw. She must have been screaming, though she hadn't been able to hear it. "What are you waiting for?"
The Hawk looks at her, his knife trembling. His mouth lifts into a crooked smile. "I don't know."
So, hesitation is his fatal flaw. Natalia twists her body, throwing the Hawk aside. He lands on his face, his lip splitting open on the concrete. She draws her pistol and aims.
The Hawk throws his hands into the air. "Wait!"
Natalia's heart is a wild animal, banging against her ribcage, thud thud thud. "Go to hell," she says, and she pulls the trigger.
But those lean, birdlike limbs are faster than she anticipated. Suddenly, in the time it takes to blink, the Hawk has back-flipped over her and landed solidly behind her. Her bullet, intended for his heart, flies uselessly into the flames.
Natalia pivots, but it's too late.
The Hawk's hands seize her shoulder and, in a single sharp motion, he twists.
Crack.
Natalia screams, falling to her knees. The pistol slips from her open fingers, and the Hawk kicks it into the flames. Biting her lip, she turns her head to assess the damage.
Her shoulder should not be at that angle. It cannot possibly remain at that angle —
The Hawk shoves her, hard, and her arm jerks further out of line. She falls face-first, teeth gritted to block her answering shriek.
The Hawk walks forward until he's standing in front of her. Then he kneels, so that they are eye-to-eye. Natalia's breaths come fast and her heart speeds faster, and she's staring into his eyes (why do they look so dark, so tortured?), staring and staring, waiting for the end to come.
But it doesn't.
All around them, the flames are spreading. Their heat dances along Natalia's skin, like a thousand devils' tongues. Is this her fate, then? Will the Hawk leave her here to burn?
If he slits her throat, will she not still burn on the other side?
Natalia coughs. Her shoulder is pulsing with pain, harder and harder, like there's a heartbeat in her arm. She looks at the Hawk. "Do it," she says.
He holds her gaze, eyes glassy. Silent.
She winces, the anguish in her shoulder intensifying. "I won't tell you anything," she bites out. "I won't be of any use to you." Sparks scatter in the wind. Soon, they will be upon her. "So if you're going to kill me, damn it," she says through her teeth, "pull yourself together and kill me."
The Hawk leans closer. Now this will end — now her life will finally be over — and Natalia should be grief-stricken, desperate to resist, scrambling for a handhold as she slips into endless darkness. But her breath hitches because she is grateful, and she's fairly certain that means there is something wrong with her life.
The Hawk grips her good shoulder; tightly enough to startle her, but not enough to hurt. She opens her eyes because she wants to die with courage.
"Do you want to live?"
She blinks. "What?"
There is nothing but crackling flames and swirling smoke and her shoulder and terror, so much terror that it threatens to overwhelm her. She is not afraid of dying. She is afraid of having to rise and fight again, but all she knows how to do is fight.
"Answer me." With his other hand, the Hawk brushes a stray lock of hair from her face. "Do you want to live?"
Natalia chokes, her eyes watering. She blames it on the smoke. "Not like this," she breathes. She only ever lies to her enemies, but this is truth in its rawest form. She shudders. "Not like this."
The Hawk reaches for her, and this time she does close her eyes because he is reaching for her dislocated shoulder and oh hell oh hell oh hell —
Crack. She screams. Gasping, she turns to look. Her shoulder is at the proper angle again.
"There. Now," the Hawk says, an edge to his voice, "do you want to live?"
Natalia tastes salt, and now her eyes are truly leaking. She coughs. "That's not what I meant."
But the Hawk still sheathes his bow and arrows, and takes her damaged arm over his shoulder, and as they walk out of the flames, all she can say is, "Don't, please don't," because she wants it to be over and she doesn't have the strength to end it herself.
When, at last, Natalia's legs give way, the Hawk takes her in his arms and carries her. And it occurs to her that she cannot remember the last time a man touched her without the intent to cause pain, save for stolen nights with James Buchanan Barnes (her Winter Soldier and her teacher, and sometimes so much more.)
"My name is Clint, by the way," the Hawk says. "Clint Barton."
It will be days before he can smuggle her out of the country. They'll have to dodge countless bullets before then. Tonight, though, Clint Barton carries her, and his eyes promise that someday soon, she can leave Budapest behind.
But she never really does.
~x~X~x~
Seven devils all around you
Seven devils in my house
See they were there when I woke up this morning
And I'll be dead before the day is done
— Florence + the Machine, "Seven Devils" —
~x~X~x~
Bruce Banner howls, the monster tearing out of his skin.
Natasha struggles, her ankle still caught, and she's desperately hoping that there is a man beneath the monster, that there is a heart and soul inside the bulging green muscle. Because if there isn't — if the monster can consume the man — then she's already dead, because she knows there is a devil inside of her, too.
The Hulk lifts its great head. There is sadness in its eyes, the sadness of Bruce Banner.
All at once, Natasha's ankle breaks free. She rises to her feet, and she ought to run, but instead she turns (she saw Banner in its eyes, she swears she saw Banner in its eyes,) but when the Hulk looks again, Banner is gone.
Heart hammering, Natasha runs. All around her, as sparks scatter and metal shatters, reality blinks in and out of focus. Sometimes there's a monster chasing her.
Sometimes there's only herself.
~x~X~x~
"Tasha," Clint breathes, his breath hot against her throat. His hand is on her cheek, his thumb brushing a stray tear away.
It's been a year since Budapest, and she still wakes up screaming.
"It's okay," he says, tracing the curve of her cheekbone. Everywhere he touches her is fire. "I'm here now. It's okay."
"Clint." It's becoming difficult to breathe.
His hand moves up, into her hair, and she can't bring herself to react because anyone else would have seen this coming.
How long has it been it like this? How long has he been perceiving every fleeting glance, every short laugh, every smile, as something so much more? How long has he, when she woke up screaming and went to him (because who else would care?), held her in his arms and wished it wasn't only because she was broken?
Clint holds her safely against him. She can feel his heartbeat against her cheek, quick and stumbling. "I'm here," he says.
Her breath hitches. "Clint —"
"It's over," he says into her hair. "It's over."
"Clint." She digs her nails into her palms.
He looks at her, his gaze steady, his fingers still entwined with her hair. "What?"
She's trembling. "I'm not a good woman," she says, the words spilling out before she can think them through. "I'm not a good person."
But Clint says, "I disagree," (because of course he does,) and when he leans in to kiss her, she doesn't pull away. Instead, she kisses him back — slowly at first, but then fiercely, her hands behind his neck, her lips tugging at his, teasing, drawing him in — because she is the Black Widow, and she knows how to manipulate a man, and she has felt so desperately alone since joining S.H.I.E.L.D. And despite what Clint Barton might believe, she is not a good person.
The Hawk tastes like salt and smoke, like Budapest.
She'll be sorry, but not tonight.
~x~X~x~
Seven devils all around you
Seven devils in my house
See they were there when I woke up this morning
And I'll be dead before the day is done
— Florence + the Machine, "Seven Devils" —
~x~X~x~
There's nowhere left to run, and fighting would be futile. The Black Widow doesn't even scream when the Hulk smashes her aside, sending her body flying into a metal pipe. She lands hard, unable to breathe, every bone ringing from the impact.
The Hulk turns, a growl rumbling in its chest.
Now it will be over, Natasha thinks. But this time, she wishes for a second chance.
And then the Norse god is there with that confounded hammer of his — truly, this is monsters and magic and nothing she was ever trained for — but when Natasha tries to stand, but she only collapses, knees pulled tightly to her chest.
Monsters and men. Animals and Avengers.
Is there a difference? Are there devils in all of us?
Somewhere, Clint Barton is disabling the helicarrier — and he might appear to be possessed, but Natasha knows the truth. Not even a god can summon a personality that never existed. This man is not the Hawk, but it is, undeniably, the inner demon that he suppresses, the part of him that seriously considered slitting her throat.
And the Hulk, now doing battle with the god of thunder — the monster is one with Bruce Banner, buried deep but never dying. Natasha understands why Banner put a gun in his mouth; she has had moments when she considered doing the same. At least, were a bullet to reach her heart, it would silence the monster within.
Again, Natasha tries to stand. Her legs give way, her very bones aching, and she falls again, her back smacking against the wall with a hollow thud.
Natasha rocks back and forth, back and forth, like the women in the Red Room. She thinks of blue skies, and blood, and Budapest, because if there is still a devil even in mild-mannered Banner — if there is a devil even in soft-hearted Barton — then there will always be a devil inside of her.
And maybe the salt she tastes is blood, or maybe she really is crying.
~x~X~x~
A/N: This is a complete one-shot and will not be continued at any point. The fanon it creates fits neatly in with my other Marvel fanfic, "be my shield (five times we touched)", which chronicles Natasha's relationship with Steve Rogers (and later, the Winter Soldier,) so if you enjoyed my interpretation of Black Widow, you might want to look at that story.
References to the Red Room, Natasha's previous name (Natalia Alianovna Romanova,) and her past relationship with Bucky Barnes the Winter Soldier are drawn from the comics. Also in the comics, Black Widow manipulated Hawkeye using his feelings for her at one point; I thought it seemed plausible that the same thing occurred with the films' version of the characters.
If you review, just picture Phil Coulson's face every time he's in a room with Cap, and you'll have a good idea of how happy I look. XD
Thank you for reading!