Hey, everyone! I'm finally here with chapter two of this story. I loved all your reviews on the first one, they gave me a huge momentum to continue. Hopefully, I'll be able to keep up with your expectations! Also, I have to thank my beta, the lovely Scarlett Kingston for raising this story to a whole new level! Without her I'm not sure I'd receive the same feedback I have so far. Your reviews are what keep me going, so please be sure to drop them after reading. Enjoy!
The flight back to New York was quiet and uneventful. At first Tony was reluctant to lend them his private jet, but after some persuasion from Fury, he finally gave in. Fury reasoned with the fact that Maria Hill was now working for Stark Industries, and the plane would be used on behalf of the company. It wasn't the strongest argument, but it was enough for Tony to not put up a fight. They were all glad he had agreed at last because this way the eight hour flight was much more comfortable and easier to endure.
Coulson was chatting with Maria, asking her about the early experiences at her new job, Fury fell asleep almost immediately after they had taken off, and Natasha was sitting opposite Steve, her face buried in her laptop. Steve assumed she was still working on restoring her covers. He knew it was important for her, so he didn't initiate conversation. They hadn't spoken much after last night; there really wasn't much to say. He had a tough time and Natasha was there to comfort him, like friends would do.
Steve took out his sketchbook that he carried around everywhere he went, and started scribbling absentmindedly. The weather outside had dramatically changed since the day before, but Steve assumed it was an everyday occurrence around the British Isles. The sun had disappeared behind gray clouds, forming an endless blanket that obscured the view of the light blue sky,draining the energy out of the world below. As depressing as it was, something about the dark fluffs drew Steve's eyes, satisfying their hunger for attention.
"Dammit!" At her barely audible voice, he looked up from his sketch to see what she was upset about. Her laptop was still in front of her, but her attention was now focused on the screen of the cell phone she was holding in front of her face.
"What's wrong?" Steve asked.
Natasha lowered her phone to look at him. She didn't realize she had actually voiced her thought. "It's probably nothing." She knew Steve had a lot on his mind and didn't want to disturb him further with her own issues.
"Well, it must be something if it troubles you," Steve pushed.
Natasha's brow furrowed, eyes lowering as she gave a soft exhale. The corner of her mouth twitched.
"Clint's not answering his phone. He hasn't checked in since yesterday to give a status update." She paused, chewing on her words for a moment. Her eyes flicked back up to Steve. "He's called every day so far." Emotional suppression was one of Natasha's stronger suits, however, there were times when it failed her. Now was one instance. He had come to know her well enough to read past her stubborn front and into the subtle signs that all but a few missed. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.
"As you said, it's probably nothing," Steve paused for a moment, looking back out the window. "There are plenty of possible reasons why he wouldn't call. He could've infiltrated an enemy group and is just cautious not to blow his cover. It's even possible that there's no reception where he is."
Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Is there any place with no reception anymore?" She could pretty much rule out the possibility of Steve's latter suggestion, although she wasn't sure if he really meant it or not.
Steve lowered his eyes in embarrassment for even suggesting such a thing. Back in the 1940s, telecommunication networks weren't as widely spread, but in the age of information society, worldwide coverage was more than just an expectation: it was a demand. He realized that by ruling out one of the two possibilities he had proposed, the "plenty" that he claimed earlier was a bit of an exaggeration.
The silence that began to consume them was sticky and uncomfortable. Natasha closed her laptop, laying it on the table as she leaned over towards Steve. "So, what you drawing?"
"Oh, nothing, really." Steve reached up with one hand to rub the back of his neck. His fingers of the other hand twiddled on the tabletop as he watched Natasha examine his sketch.
"Are you kidding me? Steve, this is amazing." Natasha's voice was full of surprise and astonishment. She reached out and took Steve's sketch book, turning it toward her to take a better look.
The picture showed the round shape of a window on the jet. Inside the frames were the delicate puffs of gray clouds, from the perspective of a person looking through the glass. The image was so vivid that if colored, Natasha could easily believe it was a photograph.
"I never knew you were this talented," she said appreciatively, handing Steve back his book.
He shrugged. "This is just a hobby of mine. I never focused on developing my skills, I just take a pen and draw whatever inspires me." He had never considered himself an artist. Drawing, for him, meant a way to express feelings that he couldn't put into words. It was something that he could hide behind whenever he wanted to disappear from the world.
"Inspires you, huh?" Natasha flashed a seductive, playful smile. "So, you want to draw me like one of your French girls?"
Confusion flashed across Steve's face for a moment but he quickly recovered.
"Titanic," he stated, as the reference popped in.
"Oh, looks like someone's been doing their homework," Natasha kept teasing. She was enjoying the conversation. "So, what do you think, was there enough space on the plank for both of them?"
Steve tried to recall the scene she was referring to. He had a hard time doing so, as by the end of the film he wasn't paying much attention to details. "I'm not a physicist, so I don't really know. But I suppose dramatically they made the right choice."
"How diplomatic," Natasha snorted, rolling her eyes. "Well, they could've survived both, so in my opinion the filmmakers made the wrong choice. I like stories better where people make rational decisions, at least compared to the given situation. That's what keeps it real, that's how we can relate to it. Seeing that Jack could have made it too had he just climbed up next to Rose, only makes his death stupid, not dramatic."
"I'd rather not argue about it. I didn't like the movie anyway, so it wouldn't have made a difference either way," Steve explained, hoping they could end the debate over Titanic. He had been trying to catch up with modern films, but he found most of their plots questionable, to say the least.
"I didn't like it, either. At least we can agree on that one." She smiled and leaned back in her seat. She took her laptop back into her hands, but before fully returning to what she had been doing earlier, she added. "You might want to add some colors, though."
Brock Rumlow slowly opened his eyes, but the blinding brightness that met them seared and smarted. His eyelids pinched shut, encasing his vision in a darker gray light. He tried again. The white light was just as intense and painful the second time round as the first, but he pushed through it and soon his surroundings started to take shape. His head throbbed, the glaring blaze of the light doing nothing to ease his discomfort, which made it hard to process his environment. He had no idea where he was or what time it could be; he only sensed that he was laying on his back. He wanted to sit up, but his hands and legs wouldn't move. He raised his head what little he could, the motion accompanied by overwhelming dizziness and a feeling as if a hundred knives were stabbing his brain at the same time. He saw his wrists and ankles were tied to the piece of metal he was laying on. He couldn't make much sense of the situation. After helplessly trying to free himself, he laid his head back down and tried hard to resist the urge to vomit.
The squeal of a door opening grated against his ears, causing him to shudder. The faint noise of voices, two men's, became audible. They were discussing something, but exactly what he couldn't tell.
The conversation stopped and a shadow loomed over him. It blocked the bright light, easing the pounding pulse in his head slightly. "How are you feeling, Mr. Rumlow?" It asked. The tone was cruel and stern.
"Where am I?" he asked. His faint voice was distant and unfamiliar, as if it wasn't him speaking.
"You may experience slight disorientation. It is only a mixed side-effect of the operations you have undergone and the sedatives we gave you afterwards. It should soon wear off," the same voice answered.
"Where am I?" Rumlow repeated, raising his voice and turning his head in the direction he assumed his captors were. He squinted, seeing one man next to the wall, while the other, now standing a few feet away from him, was beside a table with numerous bottles of different medications on it. They were both wearing the same kind of medical uniform. Doctors? He couldn't tell. His head ached. He clenched his teeth.
Both men were tall, almost the same height, only the one at the door was a bit taller than his partner. The only thing Rumlow could tell one from the other, beside the slight difference in height, was their hair color. While the taller man's hair was dark, Brock wasn't sure if brown or black, the shorter was blond. His vision hadn't cleared enough to be able to make out the details of the men's faces from that distance, but he could tell their skin was slightly tanned.
Neither of the men answered his question. Rumlow rolled his head back to the center and closed his eyes, swallowing. His thinking was muddied and foggy, but he knew better than to repeat it a third time. If they didn't want to answer, there was no point in pushing. "What happened?" he asked instead.
"You have suffered severe injuries during the destruction of the Triskelion. Almost as much as 80% of your body was covered in third-degree burns. We had to replace the damaged skin. You've been in a coma for almost two months. You're lucky to have survived," the taller who had been silent so far, now answered.
At the mention of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, images flashed before his eyes. A black man. Sam. He had been fighting him when there had been a deafening thunderclap. He remembered the damaged helicarrier crashing into the building. It was hard to place it in time, but he could still feel the heat of the detonation behind him as he desperately made his way toward the windows, clinging into the slightest chance of his own survival. There was an instant of sharp, grueling pain, and then . . . darkness. His next memory was the one he had now, waking up in this room with his terrible headache. Rumlow assumed there was another meaning of lucky other than what he knew, because at that very moment he wasn't sure whether he should be thankful for being alive.
The blond picked up a syringe from the table and filled it with some liquid Rumlow didn't recognize. He saw the medic walking towards him with the fluid filled cylinder and began to tense. He felt the cold steel bite his skin and the drug being forced into his veins.
"What was that?" Rumlow asked, but his tongue felt thick and heavy. Again, he received no answer. The dizziness returned and his vision began to swim. He shut his eyes to avoid disorientation. His head hurt. He let out a groan, pulling at the straps around his wrists and ankles. "Why am I restrained?"
"It's just a precaution we had to take. We couldn't risk the chance of you trying to escape." The dark-haired man answered. He hadn't moved since they came in.
Escape? Rumlow felt an urge to laugh at the idea. He wasn't even sure he could stand let alone fight his way through a possibly overpowered opposition.
"Let me go." Rumlow demanded, but the slight slur in his speech made for an unconvincing order. He didn't know if it was an effect of the liquid he had been injected with or not, but he soon realized his heart had stopped pounding in his head. His vision was still off and some of the noises in the room made him cringe, but he felt different. Whether or not it was good or bad, he was undecided.
"I'm afraid we can't do that," the one who injected him answered.
He gave a sharp, frustrated tug at his restraints. "Why am I alive? What do you want from me?" Rumlow felt more like a prisoner than a guest. He kept fighting against the leather bands tying him to the table. He had always been the one in control and the idea of powerlessness chaffed him.
"We have plans for you, Mr. Rumlow. You'll soon be a very precious member of our team," the blonde answered. Rumlow's sight was clearer. That man was in charge. His stance, his voice.
"Wait, what plans? What team? I demand you tell me!"
Rumlow's raised voice began to reverberate off the walls as he struggled vigorously against the leather restraints, but without any success.
The door of the room opened once again and a third man entered. The two, who had already been in the room, immediately stood at attention. Still he pulled at the straps.
"You're in New Jersey, Mr. Rumlow," the man said. The voice was somewhat familiar, but Rumlow couldn't recall where he had heard it. "And once you have recovered, you'll play an important role in Hydra's takeover of the US Government and then the whole world."
Hydra. In that moment it all became clear to him. He turned his head. Upon seeing the face standing at the door his muscles froze. It wasn't a coincidence that he recognized the voice. The problem was that he was supposed to be dead since 1943.
Natasha headed straight home from the airport. After the destruction of S.H.I.E.L.D. a few months back she thought it would be wiser to move away from Washington D.C. The first and most obvious choice was New York City because that way she could still be around in case the Avengers needed her.
When the plane landed Steve had asked her if she wanted to grab something to eat, but she had kindly refused. She could definitely use a bite of something, she just wasn't keen on company. Not that she had any problem with Steve's company. On the contrary, lately Natasha had quite been enjoying being around him. They could always joke around, make each other laugh, and that meant a lot to Natasha. She could just be herself. She had to admit they could both use some mood enhancement after the events of the past few days, but she felt tired from the flight which was long enough in itself, and the fact that Clint hadn't called her didn't ease her mind either.
She entered her apartment at 6:53 pm. It was spacious, but was far from the most luxurious places on the Upper East Side. The living room with an open kitchen, the separate bedroom and bathroom, they suited her needs perfectly. Sometimes there were days, even weeks, when she was away on a mission and wouldn't come home at all, so she didn't feel like she needed anything extravagant. Stylish, modern white wood furniture and a black leather couch served as decoration, which made it impossible to tell the owner's Russian origins.
Natasha clicked on the light and walked to the fridge, throwing her jacket on the counter along the way. She found a pizza in the freezer and decided to go with that, as she didn't feel like eating anything that would require more than fifteen minutes to prepare. She placed the box of pizza next to her jacket and turned to preheat the oven. While she waited for it to reach the desired temperature, she checked her phone again, hoping maybe to receive a text from Clint. Or for that matter anything to prove that he was alive. Still nothing. The ominous thoughts residing in the back of her mind grew stronger. Sighing, she set her phone on the counter.
She made her way into the bathroom and washed her face with cool water. She needed the refreshing sensation to clear her head. Natasha kept telling herself that Clint could take care of himself, but after the Loki-incident in New York a couple years back, it became obvious that even the mighty Avengers weren't invincible.
She went back to the kitchen and put the pizza into the oven. Even the fifteen minutes it needed to cook felt like too much for Natasha at that point, but she supposed it was the best she could get. Of course, there was always a jar of peanut butter around, but she kept it for less gloomy occasions.
While she waited for the pizza to heat up, she searched for some kind of alcohol in the cabinet in the living room. There wasn't a wide selection to choose from. She didn't consider herself a hard drinker; only a couple bottles stood behind the glass, a few different wines and a bottle of Russian vodka. They were mostly unopened, and in the end she chose not to damage her brain any further and gave up on the idea of getting drunk. It just wasn't like her.
Instead, she dropped down onto her couch and reached for the remote. She switched on the TV, and made up her mind to stick with the first show that was on. She could care less about the program, its sole purpose at the moment was to distract her mind from reality. There was a talk show on air that was sufficient enough for Natasha's needs, and she only realized that quarter of an hour had passed when the oven beeped in the kitchen, letting her know, the pizza was ready. She cut it into four equal slices and returned to the talk show.
She had only swallowed the second bite when she realized her appetite had gone. She needed to get out of the apartment. Steve always told her that he would go on a run whenever he needed to clear his head. She tossed aside the rest of the pizza and went to look for her sneakers.
As she stepped outside, she shivered and zipped up her sweatshirt. Although the streets were now lit by the yellow glow of street lamps, it didn't mean that they were any less alive than during daylight. There were still plenty of New Yorkers in the city at that hour, either going home after a hard day at work, or on their way to a less fortunate night shift. Seeing them, Natasha often wished she could trade places with them just for a day. She didn't wait for these thoughts to occupy her mind this time, and headed off toward Central Park.
She jogged through streets that weren't too crowded, drinking in the fresh night air. She finally managed to clear her head and just enjoy the pleasant buzz of the city. She took several turns before she finally reached 5th Avenue, making the route longer on purpose.
She crossed the park toward Strawberry Fields, then turned left on Central Park West. She wondered why she hadn't gone running that often. Although New York City was always alive, especially at night, there was something peaceful about it, something that helped Natasha forget all her troubles.
Thoughts, both pleasant and unpleasant, faded from her mind as she made her way back toward the East River. From the corner of her eyes Natasha though she saw a red and blue figure in the sky above for a second, but when she turned her head, there was nothing there. Only an empty night sky. The only evidence proving that she wasn't imagining it, was the thin white string, hanging from a ledge about ten stories above her. She shook her head and turned.
Natasha ran without a preplanned destination and ended up on the Bobby Wagner Walk near Queensboro Bridge. She was breathing heavily after the distance she had covered, but knew that she could carry on if she wanted to. She saw an empty bench nearby and headed toward it. She drew in deep breaths, letting the waterside air fill her lungs. It was cool and fresh. She watched the tramway cars comfortably float over the river to Roosevelt Island, like they had all the time in the world. She saw people pass by, and heard their lighthearted chatters.
Children played cheerfully, not stopping for as much as a single moment to think about school next morning. Natasha put up no resistance and let the atmosphere absorb her. She had almost forgotten was it was like to be so relaxed. Every individual sound around her soon melted into one, and she was floating gently in an infinite ocean of stillness and calm.
By the time Natasha arrived back at her apartment, the pizza was stone cold. She placed it in the microwave and went to take a shower until it had reheated. The run had drained a fair amount of her energy, so the steaming hot water was like a reviving potion as it ran over and down her skin. When she stepped out of the shower, a sudden wave of drowsiness overwhelmed her. She quickly rubbed her skin dry and dressed herself in a thin pair of night pants and an old, worn t-shirt, then making her way out to the kitchen. She pulled open the microwave door and took out the food. With pizza in one hand, she glanced at the clock on the wall. She saw she had been gone a little more than an hour. She picked up her cell phone. She was met with an empty screen. No missed calls, no incoming text messages.
She stood silently, staring at her phone. She had stopped chewing. The only noise in the room was the ticking of the clock and the disquieted thumping of her heart. No matter what Steve had told her, she could feel that something wasn't right. Over the years, Natasha had learned to trust her instincts, and this time they were telling her that whatever trouble Clint had gotten into, he needed her help. She felt tired, and needed a sleep, but next morning she was going after him. She would ask Steve to go with her to better their chances.
There was a possibility of course, that he had his own problems to deal with and wouldn't have neither the time nor the will to help her. But either way, she promised herself that she would do everything in her power to find Clint. She quickly finished her pizza, tossing the paper plate into the trash and wandered towards her bedroom. She laid her head on the pillow, unable to fight her tiredness, and was soon swallowed by the infinite darkness of an empty, dreamless slumber.