Many thanks to ladygris, who is an excellent beta!

-XXX-

She was stupid. Stupid to think they would let her walk away. Natasha's handlers are reptiles, cold-blooded. She knows this, knows the likelihood of her living properly after attempting to step out of the life. That likelihood is slim to none. But she'll take it.

Natasha Romanoff has escaped her handlers. Rebellion began in a small way – first refusing the gun they offered for one of the new models. The old lock kinds had tracking devices implanted in the worn and scratched handles. Natasha knew for a fact, thanks to more than a few hours spent by the gun smith's side,that new tracking systems had not yet been budgeted for the new weapons. She had never refused a gun before. She was getting picky, they said, looming above her like a haunt. Too picky for her own good. But they hadn't much time, and they'd rather their best assassin be equipped with tools she could use, rather than something she felt uncomfortable with, so a newer gun it was.

The next sign was her insistence of setting up her viewpoint at a locale on the very edge of their personal radio transmission zone. She'd fought, tooth and nail, pointing out all of the inadequacies of the location Gregory had selected. "Too high, too close, far too open, in the cold, little cover. Did they expecther to simply shrink into shadows. No. No…."

Finally, her stanch refusal to shoot. And, being several kilometers away, there was nothing Klaus nor Gregory nor Michal could do about it. The Widow took out the eyes of the Red Room Operatives, then made herself a distraction by shooting out a few windows of the factory house, alerting the target and his gang to an intrusion. Then, she conveniently shot the tires of Michal's van, as well as launched a grenade at the propane tank only a few hundred meters away. If that didn't clue the factory owner in, she wasn't sure what would.

Before leaving her scope, she watched Gregory and Michal fall. Klaus was hit in one knee cap, but she was certain they would let him live – which was a pity. Klaus was probably her roughest handler. He had an unorthodox philosophy when it came to young, pretty female agents. One that causes her very bones to ache with memory.

No matter.

-XXX-

What felt like "soon" quickly turned to an age. It seems no matter how long he trudges through the calf-high snow, he can't quite seem to reach the edge of the hill. The horizon beyond teases. He cannot seem to get any nearer. The smoke, wispy and iron-coloured, snakes across the shifting sky. Barton struggles to surge on, moving one leg at a time. But it's a lot to ask of his body, and he finds himself sinking further and further into weariness.

He's running out of fuel. Out of time.

If he could just – just –

Mentally cursing himself, Clint drops to the ground. He cannot manage another step. Not without…without some rest.

"Bad idea, Barton."

Yes, it is a bad idea. But damn, is it one he'll take anyways. His legs….if they weren't numb, he's certain they would ache something awful. His feet are frozen; yet he's more than willing to bet the slick, slightly-warm liquid he's feeling against them is blood. Which is good. If the blood is warm, he's still got something of a heartbeat left.

Maybe.

Clint looks to the horizon. To the smoke that sways so elegantly. Like a dark-eyed girl in a slinky black thing at one of the clubs he occasionally slips into back home. Hips moving, tantalizing. Perfumed skin begging for a touch. Silently daring him to come forward. To dance.

And who is he to refuse her?

-XXX-

She does not leave unscathed, unmarked by the incident. The grenade launcher malfunctioned – more than sparks flared up from the hammer when the projectile was flung from the barrel. The arm of her coat caught fire. Her arm now sports a shiny red, angry burn. Then, amongst the process of fleeing came the hazards of darting. Scratches line her brow. The knee of one pant leg was torn out, leading to a carelessly manufactured scrape. Bruises colour her body. But she is alive.

And free.

From there, she ran. First to an abandoned poor house on the outskirts, then one of the old train car sheds. Next comes jumping one car of a supply train headed north-west. She rides in the rickety-rattling thing for over a day and a half, sleeping through most of it in the moldy hay, before tumbling out. Natasha then spend the next several hours stumbling through the barren landscape before passing out.

She wakes beneath a pile of rather smelly furs and wool. The trapper, a wary gentleman with a scarred face, had found her and charitably carried her back to his shack.

"Goin' to town in a few days," he tells her roughly, averting his eyes. "I'll be dropping you off there. Someone can look after you."

"I don't need looking after."

He believes her too, looking into those icy orbs with a sharpness so keen as to automatically remove an doubt. Like stabbing a balloon with a steak knife.

"I can work," she tells him. "I will work."

One look at her hands – thin, but muscled – and he takes her word.

She is given a large jacket of a faded grey with an olive shirt nearly threadbare from its washing. Too small, he says, from his army days. Her black trousers and shirt are worse for wear, and her fleece sweater too torn to be considered real clothing anymore. But she still has her boots and stocking cap, both black, as well as a white undershirt and undergarments. Natasha thanks him quietly. She sleeps. Eats meager meals of bread and rabbit stew. And otherwise...works through the process of living.

He presents her with bandages and a strongly-scented salve without a word on the first night. Nastaha realizes she must be quite a sight. The first night she washes in a small basin. The water is quick to turn a rusty colour. By the time she finishes, it is murky brown. Barely even opalescent.

The next week he takes her to "town" – which is really just a collection of houses. A village. There is a bakery, a grocer's, a druggist's, postal office, police station, and a few other odds-and-ends shops. But not much else. He leaves her in the town's pub, coming back an hour later to find her still nursing the same drink.

"You're lucky," he says. "Inga's been looking for a girl since Genya left to be married. You'll be working in the bakery, now."

She doesn't know a thing about the task of baking, but accepts nonetheless. At the very least, she can lift. And she can learn.

"She'll pay you a few hundred rubles, and you get a room and food. You cannot do any sneaking around, and you get one day off a week – but she can tell you all of that."

Again, Natasha thanks him. "I can pay you back. For the food, the clothes."

He waves a hand off. "Nyet. It was kindness. I do not get an opportunity to be kind often. You've given me enough chances for at least a year."

With that, he leads her to Inga's bakery. They enter through the back door.

The ovens are on full blast. Natasha observes a neat stack of flour sacks against one wall, a crate of smaller sugar sacks, jars of preserves on a stuffy shelf. Flour covers the scrubbed wooden table in the center of the room. Pans are piled in the sink. Spoons lie amok. Mess and chaos claim the majority of the space - just as a bakery ought to be, in Natasha's mind. She takes in the scene, pleased.

Inga, a stout woman with a shock of blonde hair, stands with her arms crossed in the middle of the small, hot, honey-coloured room, looking Natasha over. Without speaking to the young woman, directing her questions to the trapper, she asks, "And you found her…?"

"A little south of my stead. In the snow. She was frozen."

Inga nods, curiously. "And she's been no trouble to you?"

The trapper glances, almost nervously, to Natasha. Natasha gazes back, unabashed.

"No. None at all. She keeps to herself. Volunteered to cook, and the like. But she was no trouble, no. "

"Khorosho." Good. Inga uncrosses her arms. "She'll do." Now her attention is directed toward Natasha, gaze sharp. "What's your name, devushka?"

"Natalia," Natasha says, voice hoarse. "Fedorova."

Sophie Fedorova had been one of the ballerinas whose photo graced the wall of the studio Natasha learnt form in as a child. According to Madam Maria, Fedorova had died insane, ill with her own mind. It was a name and a story that stuck with Natasha always. She meant to be always mindful in her work, else she believe she could meet with a similar end. Ballet, spying, assassination, acting…they were all similar stresses. If you failed, your head went to the chopping block – sometimes metaphorically, sometimes not. Natasha wants to ensure she walks away with her sanity intact.

Which is why she'd tried to leave in the first place.

The woman looks her up and down slowly, brown eyes narrowing. She must toss her head to look up properly, as Natasha is taller, and she placed her knobby hands on her generous hips, considering the young woman before her. Natasha hopes and prays she might find someone worthwhile. It had been a long time since Natasha Romanoff was evaluated in such a manner. The experience humbles her. She keeps her eyes soft. No ice here.

"Can you bake?"

"Um…only a little, madam," says the Red Room Operative quietly. "But I can learn. I…I would like to learn."

Inga eyes her. "It's not easy work. Not picking primroses. There'll be lifting. Your arms will want to fall off of their own accord by the end of the first week. Not mention the burns."

Firmly, Natasha nods. "Well then, madam, it's a good thing I don't mind heavy lifting nor burns. Will you take me on?"

She doesn't say a word, merely looks the reedy girl over once more, then allows a smile to bloom across her features. Natasha returned it readily.

-XXX-

A decent response, thank you guys! Reviews are awesome, feedback is what keeps me going.

Edited and reposted Nov. 12th