A/N:
So I haven't written fanfic in a while, as you may have noticed (at least, fanfic that's not sitting in little bits and pieces on my computer), but this has been tugging at the back of my mind. It's my first time writing Nat too, so I hope I managed to capture some part of her character at least.
This little ficlet thing also sort of… took an unexpected turn. The transition between the first and second parts might be a little jarring, but I hope it makes sense.
Edit: I've done some reworking and expansion since I first posted this, so reread it if you want to see what's been changed. (Not much really, but I've added some extra details.)
Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or anything from the Marvel Cinematic Universe, sadly.
tough way to live
Spy, soldier, teammate, friend.
Natasha is all of these things, and none of them. Underneath these lies and half-truths she's shaped so carefully over the years, who is the real Natasha Romanoff?
No one's exactly sure. And that includes her.
One of her deepest secrets: She doesn't truly know who she is. Hasn't known for a long time.
-NR-
She remembers who she was, though.
Memories of her childhood are far and few between, but they have a faint, warm glow to them. A gentle smile, the feel of a brush running through her red hair. Я люблю тебя, моя дорогая девочка.
Those memories are hazy, hovering on the edges of her mind, dissipating if she reaches for them too quickly. (She isn't even sure how real they are, but she treasures them all the same.)
The fire, however, is etched into her mind.
First the rumbling of the collapsing building, chunks of ceiling falling in and stirring up clouds of dust. A weak whisper, barely audible above the flames that roared to life. Оставаться сильным, Наталья. Then her parents are gone and she is alone, huddled in a corner, breaths ragged and eyes stinging as the blaze rages on around her.
After that, it was no childhood, no matter how young she was.
-NR-
The Red Room is cold.
These memories are jagged shards of ice, sharp and painfully clear. The feeling of her fist connecting with flesh and bone, the metallic tang of blood in her mouth; her fingers curled around the grip of a handgun, a belt of tools resting heavily around her waist. Любовь для детей.
Sometimes she almost wishes she could forget her time in the Red Room and the KGB, what they made her do and who they made her into. (Or did they unmake her? She has trouble telling the difference.) But she knows she can't; she knows the dangers of forgetting yourself. And so she sweeps those shards of memory into a box and locks them away, deep within her mind, aware of them but not actively seeking them out. Compartmentalization, Fury would call it. She calls it surviving.
-NR-
Her memories of her time with S.H.I.E.L.D. are similar to the Red Room, in some ways. The white-hot pain of a bullet to the shoulder, the wind knocked out of her lungs as she hits the ground; a sheer evening dress and lipstick as red as her hair. But while the Red Room was ice, S.H.I.E.L.D. was fire.
Fire burning in her veins as she stares down the tip of the arrow, knowing her life is about to end and being surprised when it doesn't.
Fire in the blond man's grim smile as he holds out his hand. The name's Barton. I've got an offer you might be interested in.
(She'd flipped him over and had a gun to his head before he could react, but something about him made her pause and hear him out.)
Fire in Fury's eye after a mission as he asks her what the hell was she thinking, taking on all of those soldiers at once in a rickety old warehouse she knew was close to collapse. Wait for goddamn backup, Romanoff.
(Fire, though subdued, in Nick's voice as he asks her how she feels. Like a building fell on me, she answers wryly. Besides, I finished the mission, didn't I? No one got hurt. Well, no one else.
Nick rubs his temples and mutters something about how she's almost worse than Barton. He knows though, that if she hadn't done what she did a lot of people would've died.)
Those memories burn as bright as a star, and she knows with certainty that they are real. From the day Clint Barton made a different call— bringing in the person he by all rights should've killed— to now, where she had what she could almost call a family.
(Almost.)
Natasha is not one to dwell on the past. She doesn't like to, at least. She prefers to live in the moment; always needing a purpose, to move forward before she gets restless. It's hard to run from yourself though. And she hides things well, but sometimes her teammates (friends?) notice how often she is awake at night.
-NR-
Bruce, brow furrowed in concern, catches her on some nights pacing in the library, before smiling softly and asking her if she'd like him to read something. They had a sort of uneasy acceptance between them, but Banner was forever pushing it to friendlier terms in his own small way. She truly does appreciate it though, how he doesn't mind having a one-sided conversation when talking about it is one of the last things she wants to do, how even when she remains distant and aloof he persists, quietly and firmly, not exactly expecting any answer but refusing to leave all the same. And she knows that Bruce understands something about her few others do; he'd often been a monster in his own eyes too, after all.
He takes her silence as a yes and pulls a book off the shelf before settling into the nearest armchair. Slowly, she sits down as well, and she can't help but notice the warmth in his eyes.
(She falls asleep in her chair while Bruce reads, telling stories of dragons and war but also of brave little girls who dreamed of dancing.)
-NR-
Clint knows what it was like, those days when her past catches up with her, in fleeting moments and half-remembered dreams. He is much the same way, after all. They both have blood on their hands, blood that never fully washes away no matter how hard they scrub. They've done things they're not proud of and things that feel almost as if someone else had done them.
(Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Take you out and stuff something else in? Do you know what it's like to be unmade?
They both know all too well.)
Besides, they've been partners for years; he knows her habits as well as she knows his. So when he finds her sitting on the top of the tower, eyes darting back and forth over the skyline, he sits down wordlessly and watches the sunrise with her. She knew he would come and he knew she would be there, but most of all they both know there's no going back to sleep on those nights.
(There's no need for conversation and even less so for any explanation, so they sit in silence until the break of dawn. She's always liked the colours of the sky.)
-NR-
She didn't really know Thor, for the longest time. He was an alien, a god from another dimension, nothing she'd been trained for to say the least. He was also loud and boisterous and a prince, for crying out loud. But then he'd ask about this Midgardian custom or that, genuine confusion in his eyes and a very real desire to know more about this Earth that he was duty-bound to protect. (The rest of them usually answered those before Stark could, especially after he'd decided to have some fun and told Thor that throwing friends through a wall was an acceptable display of camaraderie. She'd still had bruises weeks after her ribs had healed.) The sheer openness he shared with the team and his surprising empathy for them proved to her that while he was a mighty warrior he had a heart of gold. Even so, she hadn't fully realized the true extent of his compassion.
But then he is the one to find her in the living room on a sleepless night, looking concerned when he sees her. He asks her how she is feeling, and unlike Bruce he actually expects an answer. When she doesn't reply, he frowns thoughtfully. Natasha, he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft, have you ever wanted to fly?
The question is so odd it catches her attention. She hesitates, but then answers him. Yes.
He smiles and holds out his hand. She knows he means no harm, so she takes it. Moving to the balcony, he launches them into the air and they take a short flight around the block.
When they touch back down into the tower, her eyes alight with exhilaration, he tells her tales of Mjolnir.
(This culminates in one particularly bad night, where he shows up and without warning shoves Mjolnir into her hands. She doesn't drop it— the hammer is inexplicably light— and he grins widely at the rare moment of sheer awe in her eyes. You are worthy, his gesture proclaims, no matter your past.)
-NR-
Steve finds her on those nights when she has to get up and do something, anything, because lying in bed she feels like the walls are going to cave in and she can't breathe—
Those nights, prowling silently around the tower just isn't enough.
He finds her in the gym, sweat dripping down her face, relentlessly attacking a punching bag with unfailing precision. It would've almost been vicious if not for the numb feeling that was overtaking her. Still, she can hear his almost-laugh from behind her, and she knows. How many times had he been in the exact same place?
Steve just stands there for a moment, arms crossed, watching her carefully, before moving forward and grabbing her wrist. She almost kicks him in the face but he simply tells her to take a break, holding out a towel and a bottle of water. Sometimes it strikes her how young Steve really is, for all that he's seen, and how much older he acts. It never fails to surprise her, how much a person like her has in common with Captain America. Their issues aren't quite the same, but it's something.
(He insists he'll unwrap her hands for her, too, and she makes no move to stop him.)
-NR-
And then there was Tony. God, that man was insufferable. Part of it was a front, sure, but she still stood by the report she'd filed after Natalie Rushman. (She only wrote what she'd observed, after all, and it had all been true at the time.) He had changed though. Subtly, but perhaps being an Avenger (and having Pepper keep him in line) was good for him. He'd certainly grown up a bit, luckily for them.
It didn't stop her from being startled however, when he is the one who walks into the kitchen at two in the morning, sees her seated at the counter, and heads straight for the alcoholic beverages. They all know that Tony often falls asleep in his lab, working on one project or another all through the night, but Natasha still hadn't thought that he'd come to check on her, or that he was even aware of her midnight excursions. But as he hands her a glass of scotch before pouring some for himself, telling JARVIS to put on a movie ("a comedy maybe, something to get your mind off things"), she suddenly becomes aware of just how much he'd matured.
(She dozes off in the middle of the movie, and wakes up with an Iron Man blanket draped over her. Maybe he hasn't grown up that much yet, though she isn't quite sure if she really wants him to.)
-NR-
Natasha's come to trust them, this broken but healing little group of theirs.
They never ask why she's awake so often at night, and for that she's grateful. They know she'll tell them when she's ready.
And they know she can kill them in any number of ways at any given moment, but they stay anyway. Another debt she'll never be able to repay.
She tries, though.
Sometimes while Bruce is meditating, she sits cross-legged beside him, silent but observant; Bruce opens an eye and gives her a small smile, acknowledging and welcoming the quiet companionship. She knows exactly when Clint is close to snapping, and spars with him for quite a while longer than usual; they go for drinks later, tired and bruised but they're okay. She overhears Thor worrying about a birthday gift for Jane, and the next day he finds a beautifully crafted, brand-new telescope in his room; For Jane is the only thing the note says. She goes with Steve to buy flowers for Peggy, and drives him to the retirement home herself; she stays with him in the park afterwards, watching him draw. And Tony often stumbles into the kitchen mid-morning, after the rest of the Avengers have already wandered away, muttering calculations under his breath; he stops short and grins at the sight of a steaming mug of coffee set in the middle of the counter.
She's got red in her ledger, red like blood, and she'd like to wipe it out. Maybe Loki was right, and she couldn't wipe out that much red, but she was going to do just that or die trying. Natasha wasn't one to ever give up.
She'll tear herself to pieces, she'll bring her world crashing down around her, before she ever stops fighting.
(And she might not know much about who she could've been, but that's okay. She's starting to know who she wants to be.)
-NR-
Spy, soldier, teammate, friend.
Nat thinks she is all of these things and so much more, but above all Natasha Romanoff is a survivor.
And for once in her life, she feels truly alive.
конец.
A/N:
(I don't know Russian, so I have no idea how accurate these translations actually are. These are all from Google Translate, so I apologize if I've really messed it up.)
Я люблю тебя, моя дорогая девочка. = I love you, my darling girl.
Оставаться сильным, Наталья. = Stay strong, Natalia.
Любовь для детей. = Love is for children.
конец. = end.
Thanks for reading!