Warnings: Drug use.
A/N: Here's #11, I'm using two different perspectives for this chapter to portray an important aspect. I don't want to confuse anyone as there is one short part where both perspectives are mixed.
I'm opening drawers; their content is clattering onto the floor. I don't care. I need money. I find a hair tie in the living room and shove my hair into an awful knot. Pieces hang out but it doesn't matter, it's out of the way. My nails have left bloody crescent shaped cuts in my arm. I'm tweaking bad. My hands are shaking so badly that I can't get the cap off the pig in the dining room. A shriek of frustration rips up my throat and I knock it off the shelf instead. It shatters and I fall to my knees with a croon when I see the money inside. Twenty dollars. My cheeks are wet. I grab the paper bills and hold them tightly in my fist.
I'm practically staggering my way up to the man's room. The bloody clothes I stripped out of litter the stairs, none of the blood is mine, it's all theirs. My skin is covered in bruises, a morbidly beautiful mosaic, the shape of fists, boots, other weapons. They don't matter. I wrench the cupboard doors opens and claw through the shirts and socks, and underwear. Nothing. I look around the room fast, eyes scanning. The wallet. The man brought the child to the park, left his wallet. My body lurches over the bed grabbing the leather object and dumping the contents onto the pristine duvet. A mewling sound leaves me and I snatch the money. My next thought is that I need clothes.
The woman is my size. I trifle through her closet and pull out what looks practical. Black tank top. I'm walking through the house again; I need pants. From her empty drawer and laundry baskets I vouch that it's laundry day in this house. I grab the paper bills off the bed and make my way down the stairs. I huff of air escapes me when I see the basket of clothes and overturn it onto the carpet in the family room. I laugh humourlessly when I see the jeans and tug them on without a second thought. I grab a coat out of the closet and shove the bills into the pocket; I do the buttons up with surprising ease. I pick up my bag next to the door and shove my feet into the extra black shoes I have.
I look through the bay window, well out of sight, and curse obscenities in my head when I see the man and child returning from the park. I cut through the house and walk at the opposite side of the drive way.
"Good afternoon!" The man greets, he's bringing the garbage bin back to the side of the house. I don't see the child.
"Hello." I put on the friendliest smile and slow my walk. I slip my hand into my bag, fingers brushing over my dagger.
"You must be the house sitter for Alice and Ben." He says walking past me and depositing the garbage can.
"I am." My accent sounds wrong to me. It's Russian; a pang of pain shoots through me and then hate. Hate, because my perfect career wasn't real, it's like self hate. I still have I can't place it. It's been two years of running. "I'm very sorry, but I am in a—"
"Daddy! Daddy!" The child's cry comes from inside the house is my cue to leave.
"Sorry, my son's calling. See you around." The man says and the child screams for him again. I'm walking away as soon as the man has his back turned, and then I'm running. I make my way to the crowded street; down town is only a ten minute walk from here. The weight in my pocket is enough to keep my calm for that long.
"Nadia!" Comes the cheerful cry of Mari from behind the candy counter.
"Mari, my usual order." I can't wait anymore; I'm coming apart at the seams; she's bleeding through. She nods, tapping the counter for my pay. I put it on the counter. "I want a room too." It's the first time; I've always had somewhere decent to crash but not today. It bothers me.
"Bene, I'll call Reggie." Her Italian accent flies into my ears as she speaks to the motel owner across the parking lot. It's a stark contrast from the Cardiff accents I've become used to.
"Go to the window and he'll give you a key." She puts my order on the counter; I take the large paper bag and smile at her. It's the slightest quirk of my lips. Then my back is to her and I'm trying my hardest not to rush across the bare parking lot. I chose her place for the privacy, only selling to the high-up clients. I walk up to the window and see Reggie for the first time. He's a big muscled man with a hard face.
"Coming from Mari's." I say and he nods, sliding a key over the counter.
"Twenty Four hours." He says. I'm gone before he finishes.
My hands shake as I try to fit the key in the door. It isn't working, the anticipation is too high. The moment I get in, I'm braced against the door, taking in deep breaths and the slightly musky smell of the motel room. Tiny kitchenette, bathroom, bed. I empty the contents of the paper bad onto my bed for the night. The usual. Hair Brush, Makeup, Kitkat, Two Toothpastes, Bread, Peanut Butter, and a tooth brush. I wrench off the coat. I'm down to only the tank top and underwear before I've processed the thought. I grab both toothpastes and toss away the heavier of the two. I claw it open and a kittenish moan passes my lips when I lay eyes on it. A pristine syringe, with exactly what I need. I brace myself against the wall, and sink into a sitting position. I was trained to self administer everything from painkillers to stimulants to death, this is easy. I push down the on the plunger, my eyes flutter. Bliss. I moan, fingers digging onto the dingy carpet, my head tilts back, noises of pleasure leave my mouth, and—oh it's so perfect. It's too short a time when a light from the open door has a moan of protest leaving me.
"Deadly Spider your web has been breached." Reggie? My eyes are rolling into the back of my skull, I'm going limp. "You know what to do." I feel a needle prick in my neck.
Everything goes b
l
a
c
k.
Her vision is distorted, but she can see well enough. They've cleaned her up, the black smudged makeup she'd had on is now pristine and sexy. Her hair, previously knotted and unclean, lies in damp waves down to her shoulders. It isn't the right colour, no longer a mousy brown, but platinum blonde. The bathroom lights are harsh and bright. Women with washcloths have bathed her. Her skin tingles as the cooler air dries her. They tell her to stand, she does. She's put into light coloured clothes. A belt is added to her attire, bedazzled with an array of weapons she knows intimately. A beige coat over it. Wedged boots. AndVsevolod—not Reggie—whispering in her ear.
"Initiate Black Widow." An electric shock directly to the small of her back.
She's alone.
Colours. Blurred Vision. It's day. Civilians move past, faceless, nameless. Feeling nothing but a craving. Sees the sign, a botanical garden, people can enjoy it. People don't; it's a cover up. The word 'empress' and a brightly lit hall opening into a too colourful garden. Wait. Everyone's seated. Skirting the edge. No weapons. Peaceful gathering. Homegrown. Plant an idea. Opens the coat. The familiar weight of a favourite blade. Inside the neck of a man at the back. Blood seeping through her fingers. Craving shot through the roof. More. Three sliced aortas. Seven. There are twenty one in the room. A fine wire. Nearly decapitated. Blood. They panic. Gun shots. Blood spatter. Smeared hand print against the white walls. Laughter. A familiar face. Hazel eyes. Shock in them. Memory. Running. A thrill. A back door. An alley way. Hiding. Night time. Sneaking. Found. Adrenaline. Closed down building. Homeless. More blood. Dripping. Painting the flowered wall paper. Stairs. Dust. Lock the door. Stay in the corner.
"Natalia!" His voice. Frozen. Unable to move. Tries the knob. Locked. Pitfall, no more adrenaline... Pain. Blood. Hers. Cuts. A graze. Seeping. Mesmerizing. Five shots. Through the door. She's clear. Lurches forward, scrambling away. Protesting wood being kicked. Grab. Fight. Punch. Kick. Scratch. A blow to her jaw. Taste of iron. Pinned.
"Look at me!" A growl. Eyes open. Seeing.
"Kill me!" She spits. Her. Begging. Wet cheeks. Her blood spattered on his face. Concern.
"I made my decision already."
"Do it then." She shrieks voice altering, accents and languages changing from English, Belgian, Russian, the like; her head spins, she struggles meekly, body exhausted. He keeps his hold on her.
"That's not the call I made." Men. In the room. Grab her arms, her legs. She fights.
"No!" It's feral. "Kill me!" She screams, coughing. Tears streaming. "Hawkeye!" Spat, like a curse.
Restrained. Fighting them. I'm fighting my restraints. Her head pounds, she aches all over. I'm screaming obscenities in multiple languages. There's no one in this room. Pain. Screaming. I'm screaming.
Natasha wakes up to her own hoarse scream. Sweat drenched and shaking she throws her legs over the side of the bed and puts her head between her knees to calm down. Her cheeks are wet and she can't reign in the tears. She gets up turning on the bathroom light. Her doesn't stifle her hoarse gasp, sees the short red tresses and nearly sinks to the floor in relief. Pale, grey. She looks at her arms. A sob escapes Natasha and she strips out of her clothes, turning on the shower. It's freezing. That's what she needs. Takes the soap and coarse cloth and scrubs. It's in your head. She tells herself, the track marks aren't there. Her skin is red and raw with tiny speckles of blood seeping through by the time she no longer imagines the fateful things are there. She stands shivering under the freezing spray until she's numb. She lets the towel rub her raw skin as she dries off. Cream on her skin, enough sting to keep her sane. A loose long sleeved top and pants.
She leaves her room and moves in to the dimly lit hall, still shaking. JARVIS knows not to let the elevator sound for her at this hour. The doors slide open with a whoosh and soon she's traveling up to his floor. Before she can even raise her fist to knock Clint's door opens. He's got her in a tight embrace.
"Jesus, Natasha you're freezing." He mutters into her hair, moves them inside his room to warm her up.
"I needed to take a self identifying shower." She says, trying to meld herself into him as much as possible.
"Which was it?"
"England." She grips his shirt, breathing him in. "All of it. My awareness. Depersonalization. Everything." She shudders. He leads them over to his couch and pulls her onto his lap, wrapping a blanket over the side of her that isn't pressed to him. Their memories of that occasion are so different. His are clear, unhindered by psychotropic drugs. Hers, broken, hollow, a damaged tape.
"I thought it would stay away longer." She whispers, shivers decreasing.
"Two months." He says, familiar with the concept.
"Six, seven months, at the least is the norm." She replies, her hand fists in his shirt, her head is propped up in the crook of his neck.
"You didn't hurt yourself too badly?" He asks, careful with her as usual, as they always are with the other after these episodes. She shakes her head.
"I put cream on." She says, he doesn't need more information than that, he knows exactly what she means. They fall into a silence only they can be comfortable in. She's exhausted, nearly to the point that he can feel it radiating off of her. She doesn't close her eyes. Clint feels her blinking against his neck. After a while he feels a smile grow on her face.
"You got the movies." Her tone is fond, she doesn't move. Clint smiles, she's spotted the Pixar movies on the side table.
"Yeah. Pixar films." Feels her smile a little more warmly. She sits up and looks at him.
"Want to watch some?" She asks. Just as he's about to agree the tablet in the side table starts buzzing. They both sigh. Clint pulls out the tablet and activates the audio call.
"Barton here." He answers. Bruce's face appears on the screen.
"Cadence is awake. She's displaying an ability I'm sure you and Natasha would like to see." He says, and behind him the two assassins can see the brunette going over some simple exercises with Tony.
"Alright, I'll let Natasha know." Clint says and Bruce nods, aware that Clint can see him.
"See you in a few." Bruce closes the call.
"Mystery girl has something to show us." Natasha says, looking more like herself. Clint nods.
"Yeah, we should get down there." He says. "But we'll watch those movies soon." He promises. She smiles leaning forward and pressing an easy kiss to his mouth. She lingers there a moment before breaking it.
"It's a date then." She agrees, and lets him up. Outwardly Natasha is completely herself again, but as she and Clint wake their way to Cadence's room his hand falls to the small of her back. The slight contact is an outlet and is enough to assuage her busy thoughts and allows her to focus on the present
I hope you enjoyed. Chapter 12 should be around shortly. Drop me a review, please, they help me improve and I love to know what your reading experience is. :)