I have shed my skin

So many times

This graveyard must be full

Of all the people I used to be.

- David Jones

She's a ditzy American, hair freshly dyed a platinum blonde, when she steps off the train at Bergen. It had been a spectacular journey through fjords, tunnels, snow-fed waterfalls, and tall, tall fir trees. The rendezvous is not due for a couple of hours so she takes a stroll through the fish market overlooking the dock. She buys fresh Norwegian salmon, tries a reindeer sausage (it's too salty for her taste), and flirts with a vendor who greets tourists from around the world in their own native language.

It would be easy not to make it for the appointment, she thinks as she eats her lunch in front of the brightly painted wooden buildings. There was a time long ago, before SHIELD collapsed, when Natasha had made peace with her past. It had been a long, arduous process and sometimes the only thing that had kept her going had been Clint's support. It was bad enough that recently resurfaced memories had shown her that the history she had so reluctantly confronted was just the tip of the iceberg. Did she really want to open another can of worms? She had scrubbed the red on her ledger until her hands turned raw, and now it turned out there were chapters still dripping with blood, staining her fingers.

In the end, however, she takes the funicular to Mount Fløien and waits. The Black Widow might be on the run from several governmental organisations but she was not a coward.

.

.

Even now, Yelena Belova is capable of turning heads. Natasha looks at her and sees what could have been. She sees herself.

Yelena smoothens her elegant skirt and sits carefully on the bench overlooking the city below. Natasha, who had been loitering nearby, comes to stand beside her. Yelena looks up from her hands crossed on her lap and purses her lips.

"Natalia." It's her hands that give away her age.

Natasha occupies the vacant space in silence. The mountaintop, normally crawling with tourists, is relatively empty due to expected fog. Although a light mist hangs in the air, visibility is more than enough for her.

Yelena points a manicured finger towards a building in the distance. "The Opera House. Seems like quite an ugly construction from the street. But it's only from the top you see what it's meant to be. A piano." A pause. "Sometimes all you need is a bird's eye view."

For all intents and purposes, the Red Room's oldest graduate had retired to a charming city in Norway to live the rest of her life in peace. Only a handful knew that Yelena Belova had magnificently adapted to the new world by establishing herself as one of the top dealers in a currency more valuable than anything: knowledge.

As far as possible, Natasha had kept herself away from Yelena's web. She had been her fiercest competitor in the Red Room, their encounters a mix of mutual respect and hostility. When Natasha defected to SHIELD, Yelena had been quick to approach her, offering a chance for her to play the double agent. In the midst of finding her feet in a new world, Natasha had been sorely tempted. Lies and intrigue was what the Black Widow excelled in. The relative transparency of SHIELD had made her feel vulnerable.

But Natasha had made her choice. Yelena wisely backed off, and perhaps this is what made SHIELD finally trust their new Russian agent. Natasha still approached her whenever she needed crucial intelligence for SHIELD or Avengers-related matters because Yelena was simply the best, but any trade between them was conducted in proxy.

"It's been a long, long time," she says, echoing Natasha's thoughts. The slight rasp in her voice is more prominent than before.

"Please, you were never the sentimental type."

"I find that a prolonged life makes for a very lonely one. I'm sure you know that by now." A smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Although, catching up with old friends once in a while does help."

"We were never friends."

"Oh, I agree. But I'm not talking about myself, am I?" She fetches a compact mirror from her patent leather bag and studies her flawlessly-applied makeup. "I hear he goes by Bucky now."

Natasha swallows. "Did you know? Earlier- during- ?"

Yelena snaps the mirror shut and stows it away. "The Winter Soldier and his Red Room lover," she muses. "I always thought they were a cautionary tale for us. Nothing more than legend. Imagine my surprise when I found out not only was it a girl who had trained by my side every day, but a girl who had no idea how old she really was." She pauses to cough into a tissue.

"I hope you realise that it was never a fair match between us. I might have been the oldest in the Red Room, but you had more experience. Decades of it." Yelena glances at her with an edge of envy in her blue eyes.

"Decades that I still don't remember completely," she replies, a crack slipping into her voice. The meeting's not going as planned. Natasha is more flustered than she expected to be. Yelena recognises this, and a smirk spreads across her face at the shift in power.

Natasha notices and realises that she doesn't care.

"Tell me. Tell me everything. What did they do to me."

In answer, Yelena reaches up to her hair and pulls out a glittering clip, placing it in Natasha's hands. She turns it over to see a microchip attached to the base. When she looks up, Yelena has already slipped away, leaving her sitting on the bench as the fog creeps over to the valley like a cat, slowly and silently.

.

.

You will break them, she had cried.

Only the breakable ones, they had said. You are made of marble.

But there was a time when she wasn't. There was a time when she had broken.

The memories haunt her sleep again. Some old, some new, all painful. There's one that wakes her up with a yell, heart hammering in her chest, the gun shaking as she points it at the door.

She's kicking and biting and yelling as they drag her away.

She's thrashing and cursing as they tie her to the chair.

She's screaming as shocks reverberate through her body, and her screams mingle with another's, someone whose voice she knows as intimately as her own, someone-

Then, there's silence.

.

.

She's strolling across the old town when she notices someone following her. She checks his reflection in a shop window. Bland face, generic suit. Must be a government agent.

About damn time, she thinks.

She stops in front of an old house, admiring its ivy-covered walls. She sighs pleasantly and takes an obligatory picture. The suit halts and awkwardly leans against a lamppost. Natasha rolls her eyes.

Playing the tourist further, she wanders into a particularly narrow cobblestoned alley. When she hears his footsteps behind her, she smiles.

Not long after, when she's got him in a chokehold, she says, "And here I thought you guys had forgotten about me. Been so long, and they send only one agent? Frankly, I'm insulted."

He grins at her through the blood streaming from his nose. "You're dead, Widow."

Natasha stills.

There's a faint smell of bitter almonds in the air. She springs into action too late. Her assailant is already dead.

No, this was not a government spy. They don't usually kill themselves after getting caught by a lone, (relatively) unarmed target. This was someone with more of a…personal interest. This was a warning.

She's getting sloppy. She should have seen the cyanide pill. She should have noticed he was working alone. No government agent works without backup.

Natasha looks up at the windows but does not catch any movement. There are no convenient dumpsters or loose dirt to hide the body. Still angry with herself, she drags it roughly to the side and props it up against the wall. She cleans up the blood on his face and steps back. Head hanging low, arms crossed over his stomach, he looks like any other passed-out drunk.

It's inferior work by any standard, and Natasha mentally berates herself for being so careless. And for a moment, just a moment, she lets herself imagine what the Winter Soldier would say. But there's nothing.

.

.

She's at the airport when she receives a call from T'Challa.

"Miss Romanoff. Don't worry, this is a secure line."

"I'd keep it brief, all the same."

"Of course. I hope your little detour was successful?"

"More or less."

The King wisely doesn't press for details. "Time is running out, however, on the matter we discussed earlier. Are you ready?" The you better be hangs unsaid.

"Of course I am. Have some faith, Your Majesty. I gave you my word," she replies lightly.

T'Challa remains unimpressed. "And yet one hears reports of a certain incident in Bergen. I can't help but wonder if the Black Widow is losing her touch."

Natasha grits her teeth. "A highly unfortunate situation, but unavoidable. You told me that everything you're doing now is to make up for all that your quest for revenge had undone. So believe me, Your Majesty, when I say that everything I'm doing now is to make up for decades worth of wrong. Further," she adds, sweeping a casual glance across the waiting room. "More time is being wasted doubting my word again."

"True," he replies, amused. "And so that you do not have any cause to doubt me, let me assure you that I have not forgotten about the message you wished to convey to certain persons."

She'd dreamt of him last night. This time it wasn't a memory. It was the product of staying up too late reading Yelena's file on the Winter Soldier.

You fought for me, she wanted to say. I remember now. They were erasing me from you, you from me. You fought so hard, but it's me who remembers now.

"I have some information," she says instead. "An old friend gave me something that should be useful in understanding Barnes' conditioning."

"Something that would negate the need for him to be in the cryo-chamber?"

"Eventually."

T'Challa makes a thoughtful noise. "Captain Rogers will be pleased."

"I'm sure he will."

"You have a peculiar sense of loyalty. But it's strong, all the same," he admits grudgingly.

"Just doing my bit to erase the red in my ledger," she replies automatically.

"Hmm. I'm expecting you, Miss Romanoff. Don't be late."

The call ends with an abrupt click. As she gathers up her bags to join the passengers queuing for boarding, she thinks about Yelena.

She'd left her used tissue behind on the bench and Natasha had thought it was another hint, and perhaps it was, for when she gingerly unwrapped it, it was glistening with blood.