SIX FEET DEEP AND KICKING.
CHAPTER ONE.
"Drop the disc, Romanoff or we will shoot."
She needs to buy time, she needs to assess the situation properly, and she needs a freaking escape plan. Because she needs, desperately needs to see his face one last time. One. Last. Time
She puts on a smirk, the crooked one. "Do you really think threatening my life is going to gain you something? Do you really believe that?" She says as she turns her head slightly to look down the cliff and to her impeding and certain death. It's a huge cliff, a beautiful one to with waves crashing about the shore and the likes. Maybe she would sit there or a while (with a bottle of vodka as company) and enjoy the sounds of nature. Yeah she would definitely do that if the circumstances were different.
There is a sudden struggle among the group of Agents in front of her, footsteps running towards the mass of black cladded agents and then a sudden gasp.
"DON'T SHOOT! DON'T SHOOT! Did you hear me, lower your weapons."
She would recognize that gasp, that hoarse sweet voice anywhere. It was his'. And so, only for him, she turns her head black towards the agents. Green meets the deepest of blues and greys and maybe now she can die happy.
"Natasha, listen to me, listen," he says stepping forwards, hand raised in the universal sign of 'I mean no harm' "Drop the disc and we can talk okay? You don't-NATASHA, Damn it-you don't have to do this." He puts another step forward and she retaliates with one backwards.
She has mentally calculated the number of steps she can let herself take before she takes a fall of doom. Two and a half exact steps and then she is a goner.
"Romanoff, we give you until the count of ten. Drop the disc or WE WILL SHOOT." The same agent as before yells and god save him because Clint was just an inch away from snapping the guy's neck.
She is too stubborn and he is too persistent for this to lead anywhere remotely goo or safe. She knows for sure that she isn't going to hand this disc over to anyone and he knows the agents behind him mean serious business.
"I thought you would understand why I am doing this. I thought-I thought wrong." She tells rather harshly, venom laced voice lost somewhere in the howling wind. "I am doing this for you, damn it. DON'T YOU GET IT?" This time she takes a step forward. He doesn't budge from his place.
"I know Natasha- I know, but we can live with it too. We can work something out. Believe me, please."
She wants to believe him, God she wants to believe him so bad it literally hurts. But they can't live like this. "Don't you get it? We can't live like this Clint. I can't live this. Hiding from everyone. Walking down the streets and have people turn away, hide their children, whisper shit they don't know about. They are treating us like-treating me like I am MEDUSA. Don't you UNDERSTAND?" Does he understand what she's been through?
"10"
"9"
"Natasha-Tasha, come on, just hand over the disc-"
"8"
"7"
"I can't Clint- I can't-"
"6"
"5"
"4"
"STOP THE BLOODY COUNT YOU IDIOTS-Natasha please."
"3"
"2"
"I am not sorry"
"1"
He doesn't hear the firing of the guns, doesn't hear the shells clanking softly on the dirt ground. But being Hawkeye, he sees. He sees the first bullet tear the skin and enter her right shoulder. He sees her stumble backward before the second bullet pierces her torso, followed by a third one. Then he sees a moment of sheer panic in those beautiful green orbs replaced by acceptance and suddenly nothing.
"NOOOO!"
He sees her fall, feels himself stumbling down to save her, realize that he couldn't-that it was too late, and wishes to jump in after her. God he wishes to follow her so bad and there isn't an ounce of doubt that he wouldn't, had it not been for these dense bastards holding him back and keeping him from going after her.
Almost all of a sudden, his hearing is restored and he finds himself screaming obscenities over and over. It's also the same time he recognizes the fact that no amount of yelling, screaming, kicking can cure him of this ineffable, insurmountable, blinding pain that has settled over his chest.
"Help me hold him down-Grab his arms." Some agent yells behind him, struggling to get a hold of the inconsolable agent. "Get his arm, dammit and call for back up. Tell them we lost Romanoff"
The first bullet strikes –it strikes her shoulder but the pain registers in his eyes. She stumbles backwards and he stumbles forward and it's like nothing has changed-Their dynamics, trust, moves-it is all the same. The second bullet brings a small degree of pain but a larger level of determination. 'I will take this disc down with me, I swear to god I will'. The third bullet thoroughly surprises her and she takes her final step before feeling encompassed in nothingness. She panics, she knows he saw the alarm in her but at least she has the disc-so maybe she accepted her doom. And it never felt so good.
It was like flying and falling at the same time. The rush of the air all around you, the feel of gravity pulling you down, the clenching of your stomach, curling of your toes. It was-heaven.
She doesn't close her eyes, in hopes that maybe Clint would come to the edge of the cliff and at least look down at her-he doesn't. And it's too late because she feels the spray of the salty water and not a few seconds later she hits the ocean. The hit was hard enough to leave her dizzy and disoriented enough that she couldn't distinguish up from down and all she could see was the faint crimson oozing from her.
She had just enough energy left to tilt her head and look down at the blessed disc in her hand, smiling before everything faded to black.
Turns out life doesn't flash before your eyes after all.
18 MONTHS EARLIER.
SHIELD IS GONE. SHIELD IS GONE. SHIELD IS GONE. Another time, SHIELD IS GONE.
She keeps on rocking herself back and forth on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest and arms tightly wrapped around her legs.
'SHIELD GONE. MY ALIASES GONE. MY SECRETS, MY JOB GONE-MY EVERYTHING IS GONE. Vanished, wiped out, and disappeared-everything.'
"Everyone's going to find out what a monster you are Natasha."
"Your ledger-gushing red-for all to see."
"Whom are you going to hide behind now, darling?"
"Who are you going to pretend to be huh? All your pretty little personas are gone goody bye, Natasha?"
"Are you even a Natasha?"
The voices are getting louder, taunting her, accusing her, blaming- it's all too much. The walls are suddenly closing in on her and did someone raise the temperature of the room? She feels the acidic path of bile rising up her throat, feels her windpipe closing until she is grasping for breath. 'Don't panic' she repeats over and over in her head.
She doesn't know how long she sits like that-suffocating but eventually she shakes herself out of it. Panic Attacks are nothing new to her albeit she was never alone during one before. But things have changed and she must live with it.
She can try though can't she-to reverse it?
A couple of deep, calming breaths later, she snatches her phone off the coffee table, closes her eyes, takes another breath and dials. She murmurs a small, pathetic prayer before holding the phone to her ear.
It rings-and rings and continues ringing.
She tries again and it continues to ring again.
More frustrated than angry she hangs up and mentally strikes of Phil's name. Next up in her list-Clint.
Once more, eyes closed, deep breath and dial, hold breath.
It rings once, twice, thrice before he picks it up just long enough for her to sigh a breath of relief before hanging up. It was the cruelest of thing s that could be done to her.
Now, Natasha Romanoff was by no means a fragile little thing. She was strong, independent and the best spy one would ever come across. She was raised in the harshest of places and bloomed to be so deadly beautiful (Physically yes, but mentally and consciously too). She mastered the art of seduction, of manipulation, of deception. She mastered ballet, martial arts, Glocks, machine guns, bazookas and everything in the middle. She has been tortured, burned, and beaten, water-boarded, electrocuted, cheated, and raped. And yet she took it all with a headstrong attitude. It was nothing out of the ordinary for her, it wasn't even unpleasant.
But what Clint Barton just did to her was the cruelest of all fate to her. It made her want to pop a hydrogen cyanide in her mouth and burn her insides. She could have been dying for all he knew and yet he hung up. It was incomprehensible, numbing-what he just did. It also set a lot of things clear.
She doesn't call him again.
She tries calling Steve next. His cell phone was out of range.
Deep breath-Stark was next.
Mercifully she lets herself believe, he answers on the second ring.
"Heylo" It was Stark. It was the genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist-she wants to hug him for that.
"Stark-Stark it's me Romanoff."
A slight delay of response later. "Roman-who?" And it's enough to set this deep exhaustive panic in her. So deep that she cannot for the life of her formulate any rational thoughts or words. He has forgotten her. That's it-he doesn't remember who she is. It's the one explanation she provides herself.
"It's me, Stark. Natasha Romanoff- Natalie, I worked as Natalie for you for a while. We defeated Loki together in New York. SHIELD Agent, Natasha Romanoff." Its desperation at its worst.
"I am sorry but isn't SHIELD like dead." And the line just like SHIELD goes dead.
'Hello-Hello, Stark. Stark-please"
By this point, she is hardly holding back the scream that is choking her. Her head throbs and her eyes burn with denial, with anger, guilt, pain and overwhelming stress. Who's next on her list to call? Steve, he's probably not going to be of any help roaming around searching for the winter soldier. Bruce? She doesn't even have the good doctor's number (a fact she curses herself at). She could trace him but not anymore. What's left, call Thor? Yeah that's it call Thor who is in bloody Asgard. She knows the reception there is fan-freaking-tastic.
She is panicking, she knows she is. So she does the only thing she can order her body to do that is would follow.
She stumbles heavily, shaking, for the light switch and turns every last switch off, enveloping her apartment in complete darkness before collapsing on the rug of her living room. 'Deep breathe' she tells herself. 'Okay. Start' and she does counting from backwards from a hundred.
She wakes up when the sun harshly spills light directly on her eyes. Moaning, she rolls over on her back, shielding her eyes from the sunlight and giving them time to adjust. Once she is sure that the light no longer is burning her retina, she opens them. Two breaths in, one out and everything comes flooding back into her memory. Falling into slumber after counting hundred to one for the 11th time. Calling Stark, calling Clint, calling Phil. And she is angry, so very angry.
She looks down on herself, at her body, still lying there on the rug and feels disgusted at the thin layer of desperation covering her skin. The layer is thinner than last night but it yet feels like it is burning her skin, rotting her until the skin dies and peels away.
She sprints to the shower, throwing off clothes like their on fire and steps under the burning shower. She scrubs herself with the loofa, she scrubs herself with her fingers-but it's nearly not enough.
She steps out of the bathroom when the water turn ice and her skin, red, bleeding in many places. Her steps are stomps of anger as she wrenches her clothes off the hangers and onto her body.
Nuuk is cold. But she doesn't mind.
She runs to the nearby abandoned gym in shorts and a tank top. The frigid climate is like pins and needles on her bare skin. And by the time she reaches the gym her lips are pale blue.
The punching bag is like chocolate heaven and she a 60 year old menopausal women. She punches like left, she punches it right, she kicks it and she kisses it. The relief of lashing out on it without restriction cannot be overstated. She works out in that old, cold little gym for hours on end, until she is shaking from exertion and not from the cold.
She works on the punching bag, runs on the powerless treadmill, and hops on the cross-trainer. She does her crunches, her planks, pull ups, push-ups and everything unmentioned.
She works until her blue lips are pink again.
She eats little and sleeps none, and pops caffeine pills like it's the end of the world. She feels good.
Then one day she doesn't get up. Of course she never willing goes to sleep but every third day or so she passes out on her trusty rug. Running her body on hummus and pita bread, occasionally a satisfying sandwich, 7 caffeine pills a day and an exhausting gym routine. Her body compensates by sleeping a good 6hours every 50hrs. She doesn't know how many days had passed since she pressed this self-destruct button on herself but it made her feel alive. Like everything was okay.
So one day she doesn't wake up. She feels herself dancing on the line between slumber and consciousness but cannot put the effort of completely waking up. She also finds herself feeling cold and shivering.
She hears the waves crashing outside, hears cars passing by and –jingling of keys at her door?
That alone should have put her on alert. But you know what, who cares. She has practically been a sitting duck for all these days. So she continues laying on the rug, completely indifferent and uncaring of her safety.
Her head had begun throbbing again and she feels herself slip into unconsciousness just as the door bangs open.
"Natasha?" Someone is shaking her and it's vexing. All she needs is sleep. Can't they let her do that? "NATASHA, wake up. Are you okay?"
It's only then the voice registers. It's His voice. Clint's. He is finally here.
She wants to slap him and hug him and then beat the life out of him but all she can currently manage to do is open her eyes into narrow slits.
"God, Natasha you're freezing."
And she sees his face. He is so beautiful. "Clint?" she croaks. His eyes, flooded with worry, the purest of grey-blue color are most exquisite thing she had seen in a while. She wants to comment on them but can't seem to find her voice.
It takes so much energy and effort just to raise her hand to meet his chest. To feel his heartbeat. She almost sways into blackness just by doing the little task only staying awake out of determination. What she feels is completely unexpected. She painfully looks down to where her hand is and sees the pristine suit.
"You are wearing a suit?" she smirks-or winces, she can't quite tell anymore.
"No Natasha, It's Phil." The voice says. Her eyes quickly cut back to Clint's face and watches in absolute horror as his face warps into Phil's.
Its cuts her heart, breaks into a million tiny fragments and burn. Dying would have felt astronomically better than this.
She chokes. "God. I am seeing this." The pain is incomprehensible and Phil can feel it radiating from her. Burning him in her agony too.
"It's okay, Natasha. I've got you"
And even he doesn't believe it. Maybe, eventually, gradually thing would be alright. Just not right now but eventually.
Little did he know nothing after this would ever be okay.
AN: So what do you think? Review and let me know