A/N: This scene takes place directly after the second flashback in my other fanfic, "Seven Devils," in which we see what happened in Budapest: Clint, who was supposed to kill Natasha, dislocated her shoulder, aimed his arrow, but then made a different call, carrying her to safety after righting her shoulder again.
On fanfic and Figment where this story has a cover – I have no idea who drew that image, but whoever they are, they're ridiculously talented.
~x~X~x~
in the valley of the dolls we sleep
~x~X~x~
He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day...
~ Psalm 91:4 – 5
~x~X~x~
"I'm sorry," says the Hawk.
"You should be," says the Widow; first in Russian, for the days of ash, and then again in English, for the chaos that he calls a new tomorrow.
~x~X~x~
A stray tear leaks from Natalia's right eye. She blinks it away and thinks, I should be dead.
The Hawk holds her as he might have held a fallen bird — as though by gathering her into his arms, he might weld her shattered pieces back together. Natalia Romanova's heartbeat steadies to match his gait. Resting her head in the crook of his neck, she wishes for absolution.
Does he believe he can save her? What is there to save? Does he not see that she is a lethal blade, crafted purely to paint the world red?
"Finish it," says the Widow.
"Not tonight," says the Hawk.
For so long, Natalia's existence has been defined by missions. Without the Red Room, she is a widow and nothing more.
The Hawk cradles her in his arms like a bird about to take flight, but how can she? She is a creature of blood and bone and black. If she had wings, they would be dark, crooked things, arcing upwards towards a burning scarlet sky. At the absent thought, Natalia tenses. Pain shoots through her shoulder, and for this she is grateful. It is better to ache than to feel nothing at all.
She remembers the first time she drew blood from the Winter Soldier, and had feared he might punish her; instead, something terribly human had crossed his face. If he could bleed, it meant there was still a person beneath his programming.
I am not a person, the Winter Soldier had said, too ashamed to meet her eyes. Natalia had only wished she shared his fear. Over the noise of orders and the static between missions, a small voice within her screamed, I am still alive. It spoke of vats of blood that tipped the scales towards sin. It chastised her full obedience to her handlers. It startled her awake in the heart of the night, panting and sweaty, braced for a well-deserved gunshot that never came.
"Why are you doing this?" says the Widow.
"I believe in second chances," says the Hawk.
Natalia digs her fingernails into the Hawk's strange, lean arms to still the tremors that rattle her teeth and her skull and her ribs. He has archer's hands, she observes distantly. Long fingers. Steady wrists.
"I was ready to die," says the Widow.
"I wasn't ready to kill you," says the Hawk.
As he walks, he whispers promises into her bright red hair. His breath is heat, is smoke. It is all that is left when the gunfire stops. Natalia clings to the sound, though the words are hollow. Even empty assurances keep the silence at bay.
"Where are we going?" says the Widow.
"Anywhere," says the Hawk, and he wisely doesn't comment when another tear streaks the dirt on her pale, pale cheek.
Budapest burns. All that Natalia Romanova knows burns with it.
~x~X~x~
Maybe life itself is a mission, Natalia thinks. But there are countless variables, and almost as many definitions for success and failure. If life is a mission — handed down by a celestial handler for some purpose beyond mortal understanding — then she is clearly supposed to write the rules for herself.
I don't know how.
~x~X~x~
"My commander is going to kill me," says the Hawk.
"Or I will," says the Widow, not entirely joking; and then they will kill me, and I will deserve it.
~x~X~x~
By the time they've reached the Hawk's hotel, Natalia has recovered herself enough to walk. She follows the Hawk through a back entrance. Occasionally, he lays a hand on her elbow or braces her faulty shoulder with his own, and she would protest if she weren't already frayed so thin that she imagines a particularly strong wind might carry her away. She curses under her breath, but that is the extent of her resistance.
The Hawk's room is cramped and cold. He explains that even America's pockets aren't bottomless, and the heater here is broken.
Natalia's chest clamps when she sees that there is only one bed. Is this the Hawk's bargain, then? Her life in exchange for a pleasurable night? She shouldn't be surprised. If her mind is a weapon, then her body is merely its sheathe, another tool to be used as the situation demands.
The Hawk looks at her, one eyebrow arched. A question in his eyes.
Natalia takes a sharp breath. She hopes that her throbbing shoulder does not ruin her performance. Even if she longs for death, her handlers will want her alive. She must satisfy this stranger if she is to leave Budapest with her battered heart still beating. Eyes closed, she tears her shirt over her head.
"What are you doing?" the Hawk says.
Natalia's fingers freeze on the clasp of her bra. "I see how this works," she says, nodding towards the single bed. "My life for a night you won't soon forget."
The blood drains from the Hawk's face. "No," he says, retrieving her shirt from the floor. "No, no, no... I'll take the floor. You can have the bed."
Natalia blinks. "What?"
"I didn't save you so I could... have sex with you."
"Am I not attractive to you?"
The Hawk bites his lip. "You are beautiful," he says, tossing her the shirt. "And beautiful girls do not deserve to be abused by strange men in the name of negotiation."
Natalia stares numbly at the shirt. "I... don't understand."
The Hawk looses a sigh, moving one pillow to the floor. "Put some clothes on," he says, quickly averting his eyes. His cheeks burn crimson.
Natalia slips the shirt over her head. Tears threaten again, not of sorrow or anger, but of utter confusion. Even the Winter Soldier loved her in no small part for their stolen nights, for their kisses in the dark. And this American archer has spared her life purely out of compassion? What has she become, that even an archer — a hunter — is overwhelmed by pity when he looks into her eyes?
Natalia swears in Russian, wondering (not for the last time) why she still isn't dead.
~x~X~x~
"If you try anything," the Hawk warns as he lies down on the floor, "I can do worse things than dislocating your shoulder."
"I have no doubt," says the Widow, and she really should strangle him in his sleep regardless, but his gaze almost sparkles in the half-light, and she can always kill him in the morning.
~x~X~x~
Natalia does not sleep.
In the Red Room, her cot was narrow — and on the rare occasion that a mission brought her to a strange bed, she was not alone, and she was awake for most of the night, strange hands tracing the curves of her body.
The bed in this hotel room feels too large for a single person. And even if she slept, Natalia knows that the nightmares would return. She would rather not wake screaming in the presence of the Hawk. And so she lies awake in the dark, her shoulder still throbbing, her heart heavy, her whole body shaking in the cold, cold air.
Only when the Hawk says, "Can't sleep?", does she realize that he never closed his eyes, either.
Natalia crosses her arms. "I have nightmares," she says, shivering.
"You're cold," the Hawk observes.
"I am used to cold." She is trained to endure vicious heat, as well. But the chill of the room is nevertheless unpleasant.
There is a breath of silence. Then, without a word, the Hawk rises from the floor and lies beside her on the bed.
Natalia's breath hitches. "Should I...?"
"Clothes. On." The Hawk shifts closer, throwing one arm around her body.
Natalia tenses, her heart thudding heavily. Many a man has touched her, but never has she been held like this — soft, tender, absent of expectation — warmth and breath and closeness. She sighs against his calloused palm, tracing his knuckles with a fingertip. She is not only not cold; she is afire, a candle struck to life, a burning brand amidst the dark.
"Sleep," says the Hawk.
She does.
And strangely, she doesn't wake screaming.
~x~X~x~
"Do you trust me?" says the Hawk.
"Trust is subjective," says the Widow.
Their fingers interlock, and they take the first step towards something beautiful (or nothing at all.)
~x~X~x~
A/N: This one-shot's title comes from a song, "Valley of the Dolls" by Marina & the Diamonds.
The Bible verses are from a Psalm and refer to God in context, but I think Clint initially served as a sort of God-sent savior for Natasha from her life of bloodshed and manipulation, and the verses fit their relationship too perfectly for me to resist — seeing as I always imagine Clint as a literal hawk, sheltering Natasha with his wings.
I established in my other fanfic, "Skinny Love (Young and Beautiful)", that Natasha was trained to view every aspect of herself as a weapon, including her beauty/sexuality. As a result, save for her past relationship with Bucky Barnes the Winter Soldier (which was a very broken relationship to begin with,) Natasha has never been close with a man that she wasn't planning on manipulating or killing, or that wasn't manipulating her. And so I imagine that her initial interactions with Clint were tainted by her twisted assumptions about her own beauty, and about men in general.
In my Steve/Natasha story, "be my shield (five times we touched)", Natasha tells Steve that the only person who knew about her night terrors was Clint, but that he had never seen her in the midst of one. The implication of this, which I don't think anyone noticed, is that while Natasha has shared a bed with Clint, she never has nightmares when they sleep together. I finally had the chance to mention that in this fic.