Natasha Romanoff rarely felt fear. Fear was a thing to be repressed. Buried. Her talents in combat at this point meant that she rarely fought an opponent she had reason to worry could beat her. She learned long ago that fear was to be challenged into adrenaline. Adrenaline is pure. Adrenaline wins fights. It keeps you alive.
Fear doesn't do any of those things. Fear, for all intents and purposes, was weakness. Natasha did not spend much of her time being weak. She meditated on this fact for little, tracing the rim of her coffee cup with her pinkie finger. There was a long, fake acrylic nail attached to it. Painted crimson, blood red. Just part of her disguise. Regularly she would never go for something so garish and impractical. Fighting and manicures never really mixed too well.
Still, she got a small, strange pleasure from the rhythmic series of taps they made when she drummed them on a table top. Again, something she didn't do that often, in the real world. She was not the sort of person to draw attention to herself, even when impatient. Luck always favored the prepared - that meant the quiet. Quiet was her natural instinct. Meaningless noise drew attention to you, something assassins, off duty assassins, tended to avoid.
But this new look was all about not looking like an assassin. Now that it was all out, now that the entire world had her all dirty laundry on their front porches, it was time to blend in, and blend in well. She was already halfway to her little SHIELD financed D.C. apartment when she had picked it out. Prepared meant having a mental list of all your pre-prepared disguise bags, including what was in each.
The day was unseasonably chilly. But that only helped. Scarves, shape-hiding jackets, those were all the better to stay under the radar with. She wore some unassuming bottoms - dated, flared jeans. Not her usual style, slightly out of fashion. She'd rejoiced, mentally, when low cut, tapered leg ones became popular. Less extra fabric to catch on around the feet, less restricting around the waist. Good for killing people and in style. What else could a fashion conscious assassin ask for?
A cable knit sweater was on top, a shapeless sort of thing. It hid her figure, anyway. Undue attention was not attracted with this outfit. Minimal makeup, too, and hair dyed a dirty blonde. She wore it down, it fell in wind tangled waves around her face. The Black Widow took a slow sip of her coffee. Where was she again?
Ah, yes. Fear. Fear, fear, fear… she'd felt it several times in the last escapade. Whatever you want to call it. A catastrophe? An implosion would be a better way to put it. There was those tense minutes in the meeting with the World Security Council. She'd never doubted for a second that Steve could get the job done. But knowing the truth about HYDRA made things different. Surrounded by potential turncoats was not a place she wanted to be again. Peirce. Her jaw set at the thought.
There was admittedly more fear than she liked to admit in the last mission. The Jersey army base with Zola. The crippling realization that everything was… she bit her tongue and forced down more coffee. Shutting her eyes, she tried to stop thinking about it. The more she thought about it, the more she realized how many jobs she did for the enemy, the more she almost started to shake. Tremble, yes, the Black Widow, trembling. An internationally feared assassin, a world class combatant, shaking. Shaking was high on the generally accepted list of weaknesses.
And then there was that thing she saw when she closed her eyes. A man in a mask, a black one that covered most of the lower half of his face. A pair of furrowed brows, long, shaggy black hair. And when that mask came off - a strong jaw. Thin, set lips. Eyes so focused, so filled with one single desire, one single emotion, an aggression like she'd never seen before. It was worse than the time he'd shot her on the mission with the nuclear scientist. She hadn't seen his eyes then. Or known who he was. It had been dark. Cold. She hadn't even realized who he was until after the fact, when she was lying, bleeding on the dark ground while the person she was supposed to be protecting was dying a few feet away.
Natasha wasn't sure if she had believed in in the myth of the Winter Soldier before then. She hadn't doubted his existence, but she had never expected to face him directly. And how ferocious he would be.
What was it about him that scared her the most? Was it the fact that he was a perfectly programmed killing machine? He was literally chemically wired in every sense of the word to do one thing - follow orders. Kill. There were no emotions in those eyes to get in the way. Mind control, torture, memory wipes; whatever it is they did to him, it bred in him an unflinching obedience. His skill was obvious. He seemed impervious, strong beyond belief. She'd only ever met one other human who was as strong as the Winter Soldier. And his name was Steve Rogers.
Or seemingly as strong. Physically, anyway. And then there was the whole thing in the Potomac. Saving Steve's life. It had hurt her to watch Rogers attempt to talk about it. He talked in a way she'd never seen him talk. Steve was a man of strong resolve, there was nobody to doubt that. He'd been through things none of them could imagine. One would think he could handle anything and yet the pain, the confusion in his eyes, was so evident.
It was during one of their hurried secret underground meetings after it all. Her, Steve and Sam Wilson, the pilot new recruit. The man was good, dependable. Especially to have around in a situation like this. He dealt with soldiers professionally, led recovery sessions at the VA hospital, that much she'd found out. Wilson was a good listener, good with feelings. Natasha never confessed to be any good with the emotions related to trauma. Not dealing with them herself or helping others deal with them.
In her book, with her training, a soldier got up and kept going. Emotions… bury emotions. That was what she was supposed to do. But Steve had never gotten that sort of training. In fact, he was even more susceptible than most. For someone who was over 90 years old, in whose veins flowed chemically engineered superblood, Steve was incredibly human. Sometimes the way he spoke, the things you could see in his eyes… they reminded her of a kid, almost. She constantly had to remind herself that he didn't know better, that this was just his personality. If they were to work well together, she'd have to accept him with all his baggage. Natasha Romanoff did not usually have the patience for people's baggage. She'd gotten better over the years but she still felt that she was bad with empathy and sympathy. Those two emotions made her feel more common and more susceptible. She was still in two minds about what do with the way she dealt with them.
Still, it did hurt her to see Steve attempt to talk about it. He's stop every so often, pause a lot, look away, look down. Even in the low light she could see him clenching his jaw, squeezing his large hands into fists. To keep tears down, she could tell. Oh, Rogers. In her time with the Avengers, with Rogers, she had done her research. Like any good professional, she wanted to know who exactly she was working with. Her digging about Captain America had led logically to information about Stg. Barnes. In such readings, she noticed he was painted in an almost mythical way. He was martyr, the single fallen Howling Commando. He'd endured pain, torture under HYDRA, his fighting skills and loyalty a thing of legend. It was a testament to his and Rogers' relationship that Cap threw himself behind enemy lines for his friend, she knew it.
There had been some short, grainy video clips of the two of them together that she had found, and a handful of photos. Steve looking almost glowing with happiness, standing beside his long time friend. The pictures she had seen of Sgt. Barnes showed him looking like a real hero - introspective, strong. He was attractive in a different way then Steve - she meant this in an objective manner, of course. He was slightly less all-American and clean cut, a little rougher hewn. Dark haired, instead of towheaded. The man seemed built like a soldier, solid, stocky, but not short. He had shining, intense eyes. She'd seen those eyes for herself.
Barnes always had that set quality about his face. Like he knew his mission well. His brows sat low and his lips naturally arched downward, giving him a perpetually determined look, like you didn't need to mess with him or question him. A good look for soldiers. Except when he smiled, in those few photos she had discovered. Even Natasha had to admit he looked dashing when he smiled. Charming. She'd remarked to herself that pre Winter Soldier, he seemed like a person she'd like to get to know. Steve gushed about him enough, anyway.
It was his fighting skills he'd described that made her feel this way, the most. His fierce loyalty, his determination, his clear attraction to helping the cause. Her assessment of men tended to rely heavily on the way she could size them up, try and figure how they'd perform in combat. Call it a curse of the job.
Fighting back then was so romanticized, she mused, taking another sip of coffee, feeling the slight oil left on the rim of the cup from her chapstick once again with her lips. The cause, the war. Everyone supported it. If only things were that way now… these days, everyone was a pacifist, practically. Firearms made people afraid instead of feeling protected, someone who could fight was considered a threat, a wildcard, a rogue. Her presence, all their presences, made civilians feel uneasy, most of the time. Like they were afraid she'd turn on them any time. That they should be so ignorant….
She suspected she, more than the other Avengers and assorted SHIELD muscle, made people the most uneasy. Natasha Romanoff was a generally closed off person, emotionless when it called for it, which was most of the time. She had a biting sort of wit, something she'd cultivated over the years. She knew she wasn't the girl you wanted to spend a fun afternoon with. Natasha was the Black Widow, a soldier, an assassin of the most effective kind. The kind that trusted few, and asked few questions. Until now, of course. Things were definitely changing now….
She thought about Steve and Barnes. She had told Rogers not to go after him, but she knew it was pointless even to say it. That file, which she almost didn't want to give it to him, given the horrors she'd discovered within… the moment she passed it to him she could see a flick of a switch in his eyes. New mission, new objective, new lead. She could see he tried to brush it off as not to look too manic about it, but Steve was an open book to her. He was bad at lying and bad at hiding how he felt. There was something endearing about that to her. Maybe because it was the polar opposite of how she was.
Natasha let out a small sigh. She sort of wished she could join Steve. Divert herself, throw herself into the search for the shadowy Winter Soldier. Ex-soldier? Saving Steve's life was one thing, but he'd run. This was something that made her feel truly uneasy. Who was he, now? If any sort of logic was to be applied to the situation, he was probably a ghost, a hollow shell of his old self, either back in the clutches of HYDRA or… she had seen Steve try to assimilate back into society. It was clear that Barnes was in a totally different mental state. How he'd do it, if he'd do it…. She was confused, conflicted within herself about the way she felt. Was she internally mourning the loss of a good soldier, or a good man? It made sense for her to hope he was dead. It'd cause less pain on all sides but…. she couldn't possibly hope for that. And she had no idea why she felt this way about someone she never even knew. Someone who had tried to kill her multiple times.
It was these sort of emotions that put her on the edge. The truth was, she was struggling. The whole SHIELD thing hadn't just messed up her loyalties and trusts, but mangled with her psyche in general. She forced down more coffee. The pleasantness of its taste had gone away. She made a decision. By God or whatever higher power, if such a one existed, she hoped Rogers would recover Barnes. Somehow, she felt if this were to be done, some of her fears would go away. It was a strange feeling. She wasn't even sure who she was anxious for, these days. Herself, Rogers, Barnes? Fury? Stark? Definitely not Stark. Clint, for sure...
A memory swam to the the forefront of her consciousness. A stark mental image. An old Russian Orthodox church in the snow, unassuming from the outside. When she'd stood outside it, she had imagined hymns and church songs from her childhood in her ears. The Soviet Union had done its best to crush religion during its existence, but the people never let it go. That was something that made her cynically proud to be Russian, despite her country's massive political missteps in the recent times.
She remembered some time in an early mission… breaking into that old, boarded up church. She couldn't remember why, she just remembered doing it. One of the most magnificent places she had ever laid eyes on, somehow. Dark, musty, startlingly old, but the place hadn't lost its beauty, despite decades of being barred from worshippers. Murky, painted icons stared back at her from the church's wooden walls, a long faced Jesus, a mournful Mary. When she pointed her flashlight on them she discovered the faces were in fact delicately painted and stunning. Small bits of gold glinted everywhere inside the hall, in frames, in candle holders. This one hadn't been looted, she had thought with a strange relief.
She had stood there, in the middle of the aisle, staring at the altar and the front of the church. Despite being at the time religiously ambiguous, she was moved by being there. The Russian people hadn't let their devotion die, whether it was to questionably existent religious figures or political causes, even in the face of the harshest adversary. Be it Lenin, Stalin or Hitler.
If there was any time to channel that perseverance, that keep-your-head-down-and-stay-alive mentality, this was it. Thinking of these old dictators made her think of World War II. There was so many heroes back then. Natasha Romanoff had never been anything close to a hero. She wasn't sure about now, but Captain America and Stg. Barnes had been heroes then. She hoped suddenly with a renewed fervor that Rogers would find him. No hero ever deserved what the Winter Soldier's fate. Was this a stupidly hopeful sort of desire? She took another sip of coffee.
Maybe a little hope wouldn't hurt too much, right now. And maybe, like that church, decrepit as it had looked from a distance, neglected and abused for decades, its principals and heart crushed by evil, Barnes still had something inside.
For she'd been there before, and seen it for herself.