Disclaimer: I don't own anyone/thing you recognize, or possibly even some things you don't recognize.
Cicatrix
She is already scarred beyond comprehension, but she will not make it out of this new life unscathed.
nadezhda- hope
alkaev(a)- from the verb 'alkat'; to wish; to be wished
metkiy strelok- sharpshooter; sure shot; dead shot
yastreb- hawk
bezuprechnaya reputatsiya—clean slate
ii. Hawk
Rio Gallegos, Argentina - May 3, 2001
They are in South America when Nadezhda notices the sharpshooter.
She and Natalia are in attendance of yet another party, and the silk gown alone Nadezhda wears is enough to make her skin crawl. She can feel the eyes on her as she dances and laughs and mingles; Natalia is doing the same on the other side of the overly-large ballroom. Natalia meets her eyes, and she slips away from a Brazilian diplomat who has nothing to do with the mission.
The meet up in a far corner, far away from the dance floor and bar. A waitress passes by, and Natalia takes two chutes of what look like champagne easily as she passes, offering one to Nadezhda. She takes a sip, speaking around the rim of the glass.
"He's here."
"Yastreb," Natalia murmurs to herself, "if he is who I believe."
Nadezhda knows of Hawkeye, of his work as a mercenary, and she knows he is just as dangerous as she, even if the rumors that he has defected are true. She eyes the glass of champagne, wishing for something stronger. She takes a step closer to Natalia; she can feel the small pistol at one thigh and the knife at the other. They are close-range weapons, and close-range fighting is not something she expects to have to deal with.
"The metkiy strelok," she agrees, smiling like the conversation is pleasant as a man nearing eighty passes in a neatly pressed suit. "The roof, perhaps?" she offers, and out of context it sounds confusing, but not dangerous.
Natalia laughs beautifully. The implications behind it make Nadezhda's skin crawl even before Natalia speaks. "But of course." Nadezhda takes a long sip from her glass, turning to look out the window.
"The stars are beautiful here," she comments easily, looking up high. There is an abandoned building across the road; she cannot see anything through the dark, but she knows where she would hide if she wanted to take out a mark in the party.
"Yes," Natalia agrees. "The roof would be the best place to see them."
She turns away from the glass, and a middle-aged man steps from the dance floor, offering a hand. He is tall and slim, with dark hair, dressed in a neat suit she recognizes as Armani. His name is Jose Amador. He is the Russian ambassador of Argentina and just who she wants to take out. "Bailas conmigo?" he requests. Nadezhda slips her empty glass onto a tray as a waiter passes.
"Desde luego," she agrees, giving Natalia a sly smile as she accepts his hand.
He whirls her into the crowd of people, pulling her into a graceful tango. He leads, and she lets him despite her every instinct screaming at her. He talks as she spins and dips, and she wonders how much alcohol is in his system. The words run together; she can barely hear over the music. She can, however, understand him murmuring drunken sex jokes in her ear and inviting her to his room once the party is over. She offers a sultry smile.
"Qué clase de chica crees que soy?" she asks, tilting her head closer. His eyes flutter closed as her lips brush against his.
"Esperemos que el tipo en mi cama," he whispers, kissing her cheek as the song ends and he holds her in a dip a second longer than necessary. "Hasta luego, bella."
He slips through the crowd as another song starts up. He laughs as he passes a couple guests; he is surprisingly beautiful and charming.
Nadezhda exits the dance floor at the closest edge; Natalia is beside her as she does. Nadezhda nods at her, and the red-head smiles charmingly, hooking their elbows together and leading the way to the open bar.
"He's moving," Natalia confides. She orders a glass of Chardonnay when the bartender appears, but does not drink it, swirling the glass absently as she searches the dance floor with cool green eyes.
"How would you like to do this?"
Natalia finally takes a sip of her wine, and her red lipstick stains the rim of the glass. "Go with Amador," she says quietly. "I'll take care of it." Nadezhda watches her for several moments, but the redhead doesn't look back at her. Nadezhda waits patiently for her to elaborate. "He shouldn't know about you," she admits finally in Russian. "I'd like to keep it that way, Nadezhda. You are more important to me than anything else."
The words take too long to sink in; Natalia has already disappeared into the crowd when she opens her mouth. Her glass sits on the bar, almost full, stained with red lipstick. Nadezhda wonders if this will be the last she sees of the only person she's ever thought of as equal.
"What's your name?"
She wasn't fast enough, quiet enough. The shot went wide. She didn't stick to the shadows as well as she should have. She made mistakes that should've gotten her an arrow through the jugular; if she were still in the Red Room, she would've had a bullet through her eye before she realized what had happened. She's tied to a chair in an abandoned room, and she doesn't know where she is. She can't hear music anymore; there are no footsteps or creaks in the floor to give away a location.
She only knows that she has failed Nadezhda, the only hope she's ever had, the only thing she's ever wanted to protect.
Blue-gray eyes watch her sharply. The man-Hawkeye, part of her supplies-is handsome. He carries himself with an easy confidence and grace; he knows he has won. He is left-handed. He holds a bow with a single arrow nocked, with a quiver full of more strapped to his back. His fingers twitch, the muscles in his biceps flex dangerously. She wonders why he hasn't killed her yet.
He waits impatiently for her to speak, for her to say her name.
The part of Natalia Romanova that is the Black Widow and trainee of the Red Room whispers that the sharpshooter already knows the answer. The same part of her snaps, Lie.
"Natasha," she says, and it is almost the truth-the less formal version of her given name.
He smiles; it's twelve different kinds of sweet and a hundred twelve different kinds of dangerous. "Full name, sweetheart. I don't like to kill people until I know who they are."
"Romanoff." And again it is a lie so close to the truth it hurts. "Natasha Romanoff."
It is nearing midnight, and the gala is finally starting to wind down.
Jose Amador has been eyeing Nadezhda for the past hour in a way that is probably supposed to be seductive. (It makes her whish for Natalia, who has forever been better at taking down marks this way; Nadezhda prefers a rooftop perch and a single shot with a rifle.) She smiles back coyly.
He winks and disappears around the corner; she follows.
As the elevator doors close behind them, he kisses her hungrily, hands gripping her hips. She can taste the alcohol on his tongue. It is strong scotch, and she's always hated the taste, but she forces herself to lean into his touch, even when he tugs at the hidden zipper on the side of her dress.
"Perhaps we should wait for a place more private," she suggests in heavily accented English. He grins wickedly.
"Perhaps," he agrees. His hands fall back to her waist as he kisses along her neck. The stubble along his jawline scratches her skin; his teeth scrape at her earlobe. She shudders, and he grins against her cheek as the elevator doors open.
He tugs at her hand, pulling her along. He tries to kiss her as he walks backward; she giggles when he bumps into a wall. He stops at a door and messily digs a key from his pocket; it takes him several tries to get the door open. He leads her toward the bedroom in the back, pushing her toward the bed and swinging a leg over her waist. As she allows him to kiss her again, she considers her options. A gun would be too loud, a knife too messy. She slides her hands around his neck, stroking her thumbs along his jaws. As he ducks to kiss her collarbone, she uses the leverage to twist sharply and is satisfied to hear a sharp crack. She pushes the dead weight off and stands.
She has hidden a backpack in the closet. She changes into jeans and a t-shirt, an outfit completely unassuming; no one will think twice if they pass her. She slides her weapons from the holsters. She hides the gun in the waistband of her jeans and the knife in her back pocket. There is a light sweatshirt hanging, and she slips it on and tightens her boots one last time before slinging the bag across her shoulders and slipping out of the room without a trace.
The hallways, elevator, and lobby are all empty. She makes sure to stay out of the view of the cameras or with her back turned as she exits onto the dark street. The guests from the party have all gone save for a few smoking beneath a street lamp on the opposite sidewalk; they don't notice her as she heads toward the abandoned building behind the hotel where the sharpshooter had hidden.
The front entrance is locked; all the windows are boarded up. Her stomach drops in anticipation as she looks for another door.
Something feels distinctly wrong. Natalia had said she would take care of it. Nadezhda has known her for fifty-one years; Natalia's version includes a bullet between the eyes without ever moving from the shadows. She should've returned by now.
There is a back entrance; the place is even darker inside than out. Steep stairs lead below ground, and Nadezhda takes them, testing her weight on each before stepping down; surprisingly, they don't creak even once. She doesn't risk a light, but she does slide her gun out of her jeans and leaves the backpack at the foot of the stairs after taking an extra magazine from one of the pockets.
There is only a single door at the end of the hall; as she nears, Nadezhda can make out voices. One is clearly Natalia's and the other is male. She pauses before opening the door, pulling her gun as she goes.
Natalia is tied to a chair in the center of the room; her red hair hangs limply, her dress is torn, her stilettos missing. The man in front of her is sporting a shoulder wound and what is obviously a broken nose. He holds a bow; he draws back an arrow when Nadezhda enters. She is faster; she has her sights fixed on the place between his eyes.
"You don't wanna do that, sweetheart," he warns, turning the bow on Natalia. "You want your friend to live, don't you?" Nadezhda takes a deep breath, but she doesn't lower her weapon. His sharp eyes track her movements, but the arrow is fixed straight over Natalia's heart. "Put the weapon down, we can talk, and no one gets hurt."
"That last part does not seem likely."
He shrugs and lowers the bow before carefully placing it on the ground. He waits. "Your turn, blondie."
Nadezhda bites her tongue and lowers the pistol, but keeps her grip on it. "What do you want to talk about?" she asks carefully.
"A second chance," he says. "A bezuprechnaya reputatsiya, if you will." He smirks a little and tilts his head. She is surprised at the Russian; it is an uncommon phrase, and not something that is typically known by those who learn it as a second language.
Her eyes flicker past him to Natalia. "Untie her," she says, jerking her chin at the redhead, "then we can talk."
Natalia's eyes follow him as he unties the rope at he wrists and ankles. She stands carefully; the tatters of her dress fall around her ankles.
The sharpshooter has calm gray eyes that flicker back and forth between the two of them. "My name is Clint Barton. I would like to offer you a job."
I threw some Spanish in there because languages.
Bailas conmigo?-Dance with me?
Desde luego-Of course
Qué clase de chica crees que soy?-What kind of girl do you think I am?
Esperemos que el tipo en mi cama-Hopefully the kind in my bed
Hasta luego, bella-See you later, beautiful
The Russian translations are at the beginning.
I would like to thank Hawkling for the very positive and encouraging review; I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations. And also thank you to those few who favorited/followed after the last chapter.
I hope no one thinks I've portrayed Natasha as OOC. I've always seen as her fiercely loyal and protective-if she has something to protect.
Please, feel free to leave a review.