Kinshasa Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo, 2004
Laura Barton adjusted her sunhat with one hand, bare toes scuffing the red dirt at her feet. It was just after sunrise, and the muddy Congolese landscape was already radiating heat. A narrow chain of clouds had appeared on the horizon, promising rain. Dropping her gaze to the vast stand of Raffia palm that lined the path, she waited for her companion to catch up.
"Elias, are you coming?"
"Sorry, mwalimu."
The young man who appeared at her side was tall and well-muscled, with large, calloused hands. His eyes were intelligent but angry, and a ropy scar ran from his left ear to his eyebrow. He was dressed casually for the daytime heat.
In the year since Laura had started teaching at the school in Kinshasa Province, she had recruited Elias to help her with the first year students and to serve as a security guard. Like many of the pupils, the boy was a former guerilla, and he'd fled the army at the age of fifteen. After a few months, Laura had realized that Elias spoke French, English, and Lingala, in addition to Swahili. She had casually suggested that he become a translator with her organization, but he had immediately refused. Now, she thought she knew why.
"Elias, you've done a great job at the school."
The teenager smiled slightly, digging a stick of gum from his pocket and popping it into his mouth.
"I don't know how you keep all your languages straight."
"I'm not interested in translating, if that is why-."
"I know. I still think you should think it over, though." She sighed, and the wind rattled the palm canopy above their heads.
"You want me to redeem myself, yes?"
"No!" Laura stopped still, a sick weight settling in her stomach. "None of what's happened is your fault. I need your help, actually. I've never been good with languages."
It was true. As adept as she might be at the language of the heart, Laura had no talent for conjugating verbs or memorizing vocabulary. She'd been lucky to find a position with her small humanitarian aid group, where mastery of local languages wasn't a requirement. Giving Elias a job would help her to work more effectively. Besides, she cared about the teenager, and the job would let him see himself as something more than a guerilla.
"No." The boy spat his gum into the grass, breaking her train of thought.
"Do you have friends you could discuss it with?" Lara fixed soft, serious eyes on Elias' hunched form.
Something changed in his expression, and he relented. "For you, Mwalimu, I will consider it."
The rain was falling in torrents by the time Natasha reached the porch, inundating her already-soaked sweater and slacks. The yard was a sea of mud, and she could feel the swampy grass sucking at her ankles, chilling her to the bone. A clap of thunder shook the dead branches above her, and she hurried to the door, clutching her side. It was routine for her to sustain injuries in the field, so she wasn't especially worried by the bullet lodged just below her ribs. Still, it hurt like hell.
Stumbling across the porch, she froze as the door opened before her. Buttery yellow light spilled out, and a soft voice queried, "Natasha?"
Natasha stiffened, immediately recognizing the speaker. "Laura?" she replied lightly, staying in the shadows. "Could you get Clint for me?"
"What's wrong?"
"I'm hurt."
"Oh." Laura stepped onto the porch, hands clasped loosely over her stomach. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt, and a sleep mask held her hair back from her face. Stepping a little further into the darkness, she held out an arm. Her forehead crinkled in concern. "Do you need a hospital?"
"No hospital," Natasha muttered decisively. She wasn't a fan of needles and sedatives, or anything else that reminded her of the Red Room's brainwashing. She'd just as soon bleed out as subject herself to a doctor's ministrations.
"Come in, then." Laura nodded, seeming to understand her reluctance.
Natasha tentatively took the other woman's arm, keeping one palm flattened against her ribs. Dark blood bloomed against her yellow sweater, making the fabric of her undershirt stick to her skin. If she looked down, she could see the remains of the bullet burrowed into her skin. Sinking her teeth into her lip, she stepped through the doorway.
To her credit, Laura didn't flinch when the light revealed the extent of Natasha's injuries. She guided the assassin to the kitchen table, and gently pushed her into a nearby chair. Laying a soft hand on Natasha's shoulder, she spoke quietly. "Clint is away, but you're still welcome here."
Natasha felt suddenly ill-at-ease. She had never truly gotten to know Clint's wife, and the thought of having to make awkward conversation with the other woman made her squirm. It was a reminder that Clint's life with Laura was something she could never truly partake in or understand, something that was closed off to her. Natasha could bandage his wounds on the battlefield, could answer his midnight texts when the nightmares became too much, but she would never have what Laura had. Clint was her companion-in-arms, but he was Laura's husband.
Swallowing a mouthful of blood, Natasha addressed Laura. "Just let me get cleaned up, and I'll be out of your hair."
"No need. Clint took the kids camping for the weekend. It's been too quiet here."
Camping? Natasha held back a snort as she thought of her partner stuck in a tent with two hyperactive children. She didn't blame Laura for staying behind.
Crossing the kitchen, Laura opened the cabinet above the stove and retrieved a medical kit. She dropped it on the table, and then headed for the bathroom to retrieve some towels. Finally, she snatched a tank and sweatpants from the basket of laundry sitting on the counter. Opening the kit, she took stock of the items inside.
"Take off your sweater."
Natasha slipped it over her head, wincing as the fabric brushed her wound. Laura took the garment from her, tossing it in the sink. Natasha stayed quiet as Laura located a pair of scissors and began cutting away her blood-soaked undershirt. The wound stung fiercely, and she gulped down the vomit that welled in her throat. Laura's eyes widened.
"Are you okay?"
"Keep cutting," Natasha ground out. A second later, Laura finished. Without warning, she peeled the fabric away from her wound, and Natasha tensed.
"Sorry. The worst is over." Laura dropped the scissors, snatching up a towel and pressing it to the wound. "So, did Clint tell you the news?"
"News?"
"I'm expecting."
The sting in her throat became too much, and Natasha slapped her palms on the table, standing up hastily. She barely made it to the sink before her stomach twisted and she retched violently. Laura's eyes widened in concern, and she followed Natasha to the sink. She gently lifted the other woman's hair away from her face.
"Are you okay?"
Natasha straightened up, dragging the back of her hand over her mouth. "Just give me a minute," she ground out, jerking away and spitting into the sink. She was aware of how brusque she sounded, but the roar in her head made it difficult to speak. Snatching a pair of pliers from the table, she staggered towards the bathroom.
Once the door was shut behind her, Natasha sank down on the edge of the tub, dropping the pliers by her feet. Wiping her bloody hands on her trousers, she stared at the ceiling. The tile was chilly under her feet, and her mouth felt dry and bitter. Her vision swam, but she told herself it was only dizziness brought on by loss of blood. With a deep sigh, she retrieved the pliers and got to work on extracting the bullet from her wound.
Natasha emerged from the bathroom covered in her own blood. Laura looked up, and she waved the pliers jubilantly, drawing Laura's attention to the scrap of metal held between the pincers. Laura smiled uncertainly, standing up from her chair. She had just finished wiping down the table, and a fresh stack of towels had replaced the soiled ones from earlier. A teakettle was boiling on the stove. She patted the chair beside her. "Let me stitch you up."
"Thanks," Natasha said flatly. "I'm sorry about earlier…I just needed to get that bullet out of my side. It was making me nauseous."
"Don't be embarrassed," Laura told her with a grin, "Clint's thrown up like that more times than I can count."
"About you and Clint-"
"The baby?"
"Yes. Congratulations…that's lovely news." The lie slipped through her teeth as easily as a knife through butter.
"Thanks, Natasha. We wanted you to be the first to know."
Something twisted in her gut (guilt? She wasn't sure) and she let her smile fall.
"And why is that?"
"You're Clint's partner; you're the closest thing to family he's got." Laura grabbed a threaded needle from the tabletop and began drawing the edges of her wound together. Her eyes were shining softly in the lamplight.
Natasha let the sting distract her from her restless thoughts. "Why, thank you." Her lips curled into a practiced smile.
"Do you ever think of starting a family of your own?"
Long ago, Natasha had learned the technique of using a shocking declaration to bludgeon an opponent into silence. Ignoring the slight twisting of her gut, she answered smoothly:
"Not an option. I'm sterile."
The needle stilled. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"
"I don't need pity. I was the one who agreed to the procedure. I'd be a pretty shitty assassin if I got knocked up by every target I seduced."
Suddenly, Laura's arm was tucked over her shoulders, and her face was very close to Natasha's. "We're naming the baby after you."
Natasha stiffened, as a strange heaviness grew behind her eyes. She resisted the urge to shrug off Laura's arm, instead letting her eyes wander towards the window. Rain tapped against the pane like restless fingers.
Laura went on, but Natasha barely heard. "…You're a good person, Natasha. I can never thank you enough for what you've done for Clint. You've saved his life so many times…"
"Yeah, you know how I met him? I was trailing a mark in Baku, a surgeon who had refused to follow through on a contract with the Russian government. He was supposed to sell us salvaged organs, but he got a little squeamish-" Natasha took a sharp breath "-Clint was protecting him. I shot him in a break room, then burned the hospital down to conceal the evidence. Clint nabbed me leaving the scene-"
"And how old were you?"
"Fourteen." Her answer slipped out before she could stop herself. Damn, she was really off her game tonight.
Laura got up slowly and stepped into the living room. Natasha watched from the corner of her eye as she picked up a photo album and returned to the table. She flipped through it quickly, and marked a page with her index finger. "You are familiar with the Second Congo War?"
"…Yeah, I've hear of it."
"After the war, I spent a few years doing humanitarian work in Kinshasa. I was a teacher. I worked with child soldiers."
"Huh."
Laura flipped open the scrapbook and shoved it towards her. Natasha eyed a picture of Laura, dressed in a sweat-stained blouse, arm tucked around the shoulders of a dark-eyed teenager. He was gazing directly into the camera, mouth set with a weary anger. "This is Elias Matuidi. He was my translator. He fought for the Lord's Resistance Army until he turned fifteen…"
"He was lucky to get out," Natasha muttered.
"…Yes, he was. He killed a lot of people, but he helped rehabilitate even more after going through our program. You know what happened the day after this picture was taken?"
She shook her head.
Laura stared at Natasha with serious eyes. "He stepped on a landmine."
"Karma's a bitch."
"Natasha, he was a child. And so were you."
The assassin stretched her feet under the table, picking the blood from under her nails. Laura was so good, so naïve in her faith in the human soul. Natasha could easily imagine her smack in the middle of Africa, in wartime, cleaning wounds and making tea for the worst of the worst. Natasha shrunk from her light like a devil from holy oil. She supposed that that was the difference between her and Clint. Despite his past, her partner was basically a decent person. He belonged in Laura's circle of light, far more than in the chilly outer darkness with her. The realization weighed stone-heavy in her chest.
"Name your child for him."
"Natasha, you're more than what the Red Room made you."
"Just drop it."
"…Talk to Clint about it, will you?"
Natasha felt guilt curling a damp hand around her chest. She could at least do this. "Fine."
Laura's face lit up, and she shut the album gently, reaching out to grasp the Russian's hand. "That means a lot, Natasha."
"You won't do it without my permission?"
"You have my word." Laura stood up from the table, and rummaged in a drawer near the stove. "Now, let's have some tea."
A/N: Thanks for reading! Please excuse any cultural, linguistic, or medical inaccuracies. Remember, reviews are love. :)