Chapter 12
Afghanistan
"I've been thinking a lot about her powers lately." Bruce was saying over breakfast a few days after she'd returned to the capitol in early March. She would have returned sooner, but not having full control of her accents and languages hadn't been acceptable. "They deal exclusively with injuries that can only be repaired if the genetic coding agrees."
Natasha nodded, half her brain still asleep after the long night in Emily's quarters. The grumpy face had remained in bed after Natasha had risen for a shower. She had a meeting with Deputy-Director Hill in twenty minutes to give her expertise on a situation in Kazahkstan that she might get sent on. Bruce was working on a project with Stark, probably studying Loki's scepter again. If she didn't prefer to spend her free time with Emily, Natasha would have taken a peek at their research. Thor was being incredibly generous letting SHIELD keep it this long. Probably stupid too. Stark had a tendency to go overboard with his ideas, and that scepter was unreasonably powerful.
"And according to the reports from various experiments that she's done, her success at treating... changes in the mind is pretty hit and miss."
His pause on "changes" was interesting. He got her full attention, and she waited impatiently for him to continue.
He fiddled with his glasses. "I don't think she actually, uh, cured you."
Adrenaline burned. "What? I'm still-"
Suddenly, his hands were up, waving her worry down. "No! No. I'm positive that your conditioning was removed! I uh, just think that her involvement was minimal."
"You think I broke it."
Bruce scratched his head. "I watched the video and read the reports a thousand times, Natasha. If you weren't fighting, if you hadn't started to regain control, I don't think the same results would have been achieved. Her gift encourages the body's natural functions, similar to, uh, slicing into an abscess to flush the infection out. Keeping it open and clean to prevent further infection while it heals from the inside out gives the body the best condition to heal. This is what Emily does, provide ideal conditions for the body to do what it's already trying to. You were already trying to get rid of the trigger; she didn't do it alone."
Basking under the warm Afghani sun, Emily cheered to have a job that got her away from dreary March slush. March was the month of mud. Ugh. Not that she hadn't been known to take winter vacations to the Caribbean instead of driving her truck. The point was that this was work in a warm place in what was normally the shitty month at the end of winter back home, all melting snow and mud and grey skies. SHIELD had sent them after a rogue gifted who liked to kill people with her acid breath. The serial killer had left bodies across thirteen countries and three continents. She was rich, well-connected, possibly aligned with Daesh -what the locals called ISIS, a derogatory Arabic term that didn't quite translate to English-, and bloodthirsty.
Reports said that she had holed up somewhere in or near the city of Kabul, and Fury had decided to send a team in. Clint, Natasha, Emily, Rogers, and Zaief, a local agent codenamed Locust, were searching for clues in Kabul. Two weeks into the search, and they hadn't found much.
Emily had decided to sunbathe that morning, maybe go to the market or her new favorite tea shop. Only Rogers was there with her. Between his lacking language abilities and distinctive features, he generally didn't go anywhere alone. And there was the part where he was backup, basically useless until their spies sniffed out their target. Like Emily. They spent their days loafing about or wandering the city like the tourists they were pretending to be, whereas the others were out like they were every day hunting, meeting contacts, making bribes, and not being bored.
"Did you put sunblock on?" Rogers asked as he strolled out from their rented house.
"Yes, dad." And she had thought Clint was bad. Where was he anyway? Burning off cabin fever or tracking a lead?
"Wouldn't want you to get burned, Fortune. You're the only one you can't heal."
She'd been super careful to keep well hydrated and coated in sunblock. During the peak of the day or out in the city, she made sure to stay covered in her chador, an elegant head scarf and one of her long-sleeved, loose linen dresses that Nat had picked out and enjoyed taking off of her. Right now, in the privacy of the house's garden, she was in a red bikini. In her defense, Natasha had brought it for her. The woman had taken a keen interest in Emily's wardrobe lately. Emily had never owned so much lingerie in her life, and she wasn't sure what to do with it all. "I'm well aware."
"I also don't want Romanoff to kill me, which she would if you got hurt in any way on my watch." He peeked at her from over his sunglasses.
She grinned. "Pansy."
"Just because you can make her angry without losing an appendage doesn't mean the rest of us can."
Knocking came from the garden gate. Emily whipped on the trousers and tunic she kept close as Cap went cautiously to the gate. He gave a greeting in Pashtu, the country's official language. A young male voice responded, politely asking for entry. They recognized him to be a neighbor as he stepped in. Holding a hand over his heart, he dipped his head. Surprising them both, he met both of their eyes and spoke in clear, if oddly accented, English.
"Hello. My name is Pirooz, and I've come to invite you and the others guesting in this house to my parents' home for tea tomorrow."
"Wow. Your English is really good." Rogers grinned widely as Pirooz shook his hand.
Smiling back, "Thank you. I'm in my third year of university in Melbourne." Ah, that's why she hadn't been able to place the soft lilt to his words. Australian over Afghani. She needed to travel outside America more. "I came home for my little brother's birthday this weekend. My father's best mate owns this house, and he likes to meet the people who come on holiday here."
Enjoying tea with their extremely hospitable hosts, watching very pale Rogers and very dark Mr. Sattari laugh about ridiculous things modern Americans did, Emily couldn't help wondering something she'd thought of a hundred times. How had Nick Fury managed to create an all-white Avengers team? Not that they weren't diverse as hell, multinational even, but so white. Since joining, Emily had learned that there were gifted, or enhanced as most of SHIELD liked to call people like her, all over the globe.
It made her wonder what kind of gifted might be in Kabul. Would they run into any while they were here? Well, ones who wouldn't try to kill them? She sipped at her second cup of the lovely tea they'd been served. There were so many layers of flavor and nuance. Where could she get more?
"Jessica?" Rogers interrupted her line of thought with her cover name.
Sheepish, she blinked between him and their hosts. Mr. and Mrs. Sattari were looking at her expectantly. "I'm so sorry. I was caught up thinking about this incredible tea. I have no idea where the conversation went."
If Nat was there, she would've pinched Emily as soon as she had started to zone out. But she and the others had turned down the invitation in order to track yet another vague lead. They hadn't left in good spirits. They were tired of the wild goose chases. Nat was worried that their quarry would get wind of them soon if they hadn't already and flee. Or worse.
Mr. Sattari simply smiled. "That is quite alright, Ms. Weather. It pleases me to know that you are enjoying it so much."
"It's delicate, but every sip lingers."
His smile widened, and he cast a loving look at his wife, who was beaming. She leaned forward eagerly. "It is an old family recipe. I will send you home with some when you leave."
She didn't have to fake her enthusiasm. "Really?"
"Yes, of course, dear."
Her lip got a little chewed. "Would it be rude to ask for the recipe?"
"If asked in any other manner, it would." Mrs. Sattari shook her head. "But I heard from my sister that you have been at her tea shop almost every day this past week, tasting every blend she has to offer! You are quite the enthusiast, aren't you?"
"Mrs. Nassif is your sister?" And she became completely engrossed in the following conversation. It danced over tea, Emily's knowledge of Islam and Arabic, and their tourist cover story. Emily was draining her third cup when the married couple exchanged a glance, and Mr. Sattari's expression became serious. She made a quick mental trace of where the exits were, how fast she could get to the knife under her dress, and tap the button under her watch's face to alert the others to trouble.
"We apologize for the deception, but my wife needed time to be sure of who you are." Mr. Sattari's tone was apologetic, soft, and his body language was relaxed. Either he wasn't a threat, or he was completely sure that his guests were about to be corpses. "Captain America, we would like to help you catch the devil you seek."
Emily replaced the cup to the table. Rogers met her eye, and his expression told her to be ready to run. He asked, "Why?"
"Because we can do little to fight the terrorists who are tearing our country apart and shaming our faith, but we can tell you how to find the murderer you've come looking for. You will keep her from helping Daesh grow stronger." He answered, his disgust with the extremist group obvious in his eyes and tone.
"Why did you say Mrs. Sattari needed time?" Emily asked, watching the woman. Her eyes widened before shooting off to the left. She had something to hide. A telepathic gift? "Are you reading our minds?"
Her gaze returned. "No!" Mr. Sattari laid a comforting hand on her arm, nodded. She sighed, nodded back. "I can read," a pause, "Intentions."
"You directed the conversation about American stereotypes purposely." Rogers stated. "The comments about the Avengers were planned."
The Sattaris nodded. "Through friends, I learned about a group of Americans coming shortly after that acid woman arrived. When I was shown your picture, I became so hopeful. That devil would not stand a chance against Captain America and his friends. And maybe you might rid us of a few terrorists along the way."
Cap nodded, and his frame relaxed an ounce. "What can you tell us?"
Holding a precious bag of Mrs. Sattari's tea blend, Emily walked with Rogers back to their rental. They were quiet until safely inside the empty house. No one else had returned yet, much to their irritation. "What do you think, Fortune? Can we trust their information?"
"We can trust that they think it's good intel."
He studied her. "That's right. Romanoff mentioned you were working on detecting lies through your power."
It was a lot harder with strangers than someone whose body she was familiar with, and it took clear concentration, but, "Yea." When they'd left, and Mr. Sattari had been shaking her hand, she'd asked him if his information was trustworthy.
"I can't wait to tell the Black Widow that we got a solid lead before her." Rogers looked so satisfied with himself that she laughed.
"Go Team Backup!" She slapped a high-five to his broad hand.
Frustrated after another day of useless information, Natasha slunk into the house behind Clint and Zaief. They'd bumped into each other a few blocks away. No one had anything useful. Two weeks wasn't all that long in a hunt, but their intel had led her to believe it would be a short mission. This acid enhanced woman was a ghost. Natasha still didn't even know the woman's real name. Honestly, it was embarrassing.
"Hey, guys." A cheerful Steve greeted their return. Natasha's black mood scowled at him, but he barely flinched.
"Hi," chirped an equally cheerful Emily. "Guess what we did today."
Clint swiveled to look at Natasha. "I want whatever they're high on."
Eyes narrowed, Natasha crossed her arms.
"Oh, come on, Nat. Guess." Emily continued to beam.
"You found a new tea?" She deadpanned.
Somehow, Emily's expression brightened further. "Oh. That too. Mrs. Sattari has the mos-"
"Fortune." Rogers pat her shoulder. "Focus."
"Sorry." She dropped her hands from where they'd started to hold an imaginary teapot. How could she be endearing and irritating at the same time? "Guess what Team Backup did today that Team Cranky Face failed at."
"Team Cranky Face?" Clint balked. "This is my neutral expression. Now, Natasha's on the other hand..."
"When they told me I'd be working with the Avengers, I didn't picture," Zaief started. His mouth closed at Natasha's sharp attention. Good. At least someone in this house was afraid of her.
"Immature children?" Emily offered. "I'm surprised Agent Hill didn't warn you."
Natasha's pinched the bridge of her nose. "Just tell us already."
While Emily bounced on her toes as giddy as Lila, Rogers replied. "We know where to find our target."
What? Shock demanded, "How?"
"Well, you see," Rogers' shit-eating grin was too much. "We had to go through an elaborate dance in etiquette first."
"And parry witty comments." Emily added.
"Then, we thought we were going to have to fight."
"But it turned out a false alarm."
Clint's cheek creased. "I see these two have been bonding well."
Oh fine. She let the humor nip at her dark mood. "I'm surprised they didn't get party streamers to go with this big announcement of theirs."
"We considered it." Rogers played along.
Conspiratorially, Emily tippy-toed up to mock whisper in his ear. "Next time we one-up them again we should definitely get streamers. And balloons."
"Party favors?"
"Definitely."
Clint's arm slung over her right shoulder. "Just think, Nat, you sleep with that epitome of maturity over there." He nodded sagely. "And I'm rubbing off on her."
"That invitation to tea we got," Rogers finally ended the idiocy. "Our hosts wanted to help Captain America hunt down a murderer."
"How certain are you that we can trust information from them?" She needed to know.
Rogers' gaze went to Emily, who nodded. His blue eyes were confident. "We can trust these people. We'll just have to be hope that their information didn't come from a bad source."
The first man she should have shot at, Emily hesitated, and a bullet grazed her shoulder for it. She heard it and four others impact the stone behind her before she felt the pain. Her finger moved. The man jolted, grabbing his stomach and screaming as he dropped to the ground. Over the radio, she heard her teammates advancing, grunts of pain, heaving breaths, gunfire. Hesitate again, Em, and you could get them all killed.
Protect your fucking family. She flashed to the day she'd decided that her father would never hurt her or her brothers again, that she was going to kill him. As it always did when she thought about him, the hours she'd spent with knives and scissors, hammers and pliers, experimenting and learning and watching him bleed sweep through her. Joy and horror alike came with it. She never wanted to be that person again.
Two more men rounded the corner. She choked. She'd spent years in therapy to soothe the monster inside, to come to terms with it. Torturing her abusive father hadn't been the answer. Killing him might not have either, but it was the surest way to keep her brothers safe. The men saw her, raised their rifles. Kill them or you die, Em. You die, your brothers have to face your mother alone. You die, and Natasha might never smile again. You die, and Cooper and Lila will never see their father again.
Killing to protect your family doesn't make you a monster, she told herself. She hoped. It was enough. Three times, her rifle released its load, and the men went down. A few more, and they stopped moving.
A flash of color caught her eye. Heart pounding, she peered through the rifle's scope. Cap's shield. It shifted and flashed as the soldier protected himself and Clint's prone form draped over his shoulders. Natasha was running at his side, covering his rear. There was movement on her flank that she didn't see. Emily's bullet found a chest.
"Was that you, Met?" Her lover puffed.
She was already lining up her next shot. It went wide, but the man stumbled for a moment. Cap's shield took his head off, and she quickly shifted her sight from the gore. "You know me, fox, always watching your ass."
"It's why I keep you around."
As best she could, she kept laying down cover fire. The team was a hundred yards away when the magazine ran dry. "Reloading!" She impressed herself with how quickly she ejected it, fumbled another from her belt, and slammed it in.
It almost wasn't fast enough. She looked up in time to see an RPG being aimed at her location. Cursing, she stumbled to a run. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!" The car exploded, swept her off her feet, slammed her face into the ground. Fire and dust roared around her, rocks and other debris pelting her mercilessly. Her head was ringing. She blinked at the smoky world.
Noises and movement slurred. Gun. Lift it. She pulled the trigger at approaching shadows and dragged herself behind a building. Her eyes managed to focus again, but the ringing refused to go away no matter how much she shook her head. Growling, she mowed down more men who tried to get between her family and safety. A young boy, maybe twelve, got between them, shooting wildly. Cap deflected the bullets, raised his gun. He hesitated.
Emily didn't. "Move!" She roared and reloaded again. More than half the mag went into the front of a truck that had roared up behind them. The windshield shattered, and the truck veered sharply to the right, crashed into a building. One man flew out of the truck, crunching into the stone, but two fumbled out of the back and gave chase. She cut them down with the last of magazine.
Rocks and dust scattering, the team slid behind the building with her. She touched Natasha's cheek, met the eyes that had just traveled all over her person. Reassured of each others decent health, Nat dipped around the corner, fired off a few shots, and Emily reloaded her rifle, nodded at Cap, who had propped Clint against the wall. She settled her touch to Clint's neck, found the worst of his injuries and started sealing ravaged blood vessels.
Four times, she had to pause and shoot at the advancing enemy then go back to repairing the extensive acid damage. God, it was nasty. Almost every system had been affected and was threatening to shut down. If she missed anything...
Wind buffeted dust around, got it in her eyes, mouth, everywhere. She was on the edge of screeching bloody murder when a voice popped over the radio. "Sorry it me so long!" Zaief. "I had to stop for tea." Several rockets took out the last of the offensive line. Stragglers were targeted with the quinjet's guns.
"Your bad puns rubbed off, Cap," was Clint's raspy remark. "They're infectious."
Rogers turned. "Here I thought it was your bad puns he was picking up."
"Bad?" Clint tensed at a bout of pain. His upper intestines had been perforated, and now Emily was having his body flush the waste and toxins from his abdominal cavity. "My jokes always hit their mark."
"If you can still make bad jokes, I can stop worrying about you." Natasha hummed.
"Aw. You do care."
Huffing in amusement and irritation, Emily muttered. "Someone stick some water in his mouth." It would shut him up and fight the severe dehydration. "You going to land any time soon, Locust?"
While Clint gulped at a canteen, the quinjet slowly lowered in the middle of the dirt thoroughfare. Its edges scraped buildings. Zaief chirped over the comm, "I wasn't sure if she would fit."
"That's what she said," Natasha just had to make the bad joke. Innocently, she shrugged at Emily. "I had to cover for Clint. His mouth is full."
The archer's arm quivered as he flicked her in the side. He hated that line and knew that she knew it. Natasha gave a quirk of her lips.
Stealing a mouthful of water for herself, Emily sat back. "If you would, Cap?"
"Come on, Hawkeye. Up we go." Scooping the grown man up like a child, Rogers didn't even puff.
"So you do know how to sweep someone of their feet."
Cap groaned, and behind him, Natasha laughed. She stopped, looked back. "Em?"
Really, she was trying to stand. Over forty hours awake, most of those hiking uphill, the last few tense hours of waiting, fighting, and then the delicate work of triage on Clint's acid-eaten torso and bullet holes had apparently sucked all energy from her legs. She gave Nat a reassuring smile when she ran over frantically, her eyes and hands checking for injuries. "Not hurt." Pretty much everything except her face refused to move. "Tired."
Tension faded from her shoulders, and she moved to help Emily up.
"Should probably shoot that guy first though." She flicked her eyes to a man trying to sneak up on them with a big knife. Nat grabbed Emily's rifle. An eye blink later, the threat was down, and she was doing a quick sweep for more. Emily didn't bother. All her attention was on her lover, the frizzy hairs escaping the practical braids she'd pulled them back in, the dust and blood and bits of plants covering her, the smooth precision in which she handled herself, and the way the sun was falling on her face, the shadows giving her hard, dangerous edges. A moment ago, she'd been soft, vulnerable. Now, she was what she'd been trained to be. A perfect killer.
This was the first time that Emily had truly seen Natasha in combat, had watched her put holes in chests and heads with cold precision. It was nothing like seeing her spar or work the shooting ranges. A brief moment of sheer terror spat through her. This woman, this predator, could turn on her at any moment, and in the same time it took to smile, could kill her, as she had with countless others.
In that same breath, the notion died. Warmth, trust, love, they bubbled up, gently pushed away the fear. Natalia Alianovna Romanova, the Black Widow, was her little red fox. She'd fought and won against brutal conditioning, had refused to succumb to triggered commands to kill because she loved Emily, because she wasn't the cold blooded killer that the Red Room had tried to create.
"I didn't think you could get more beautiful."
Natasha's expression was tight. "You sure you're not hurt? That explosion hit awfully close to you." She plucked Emily's earpiece out, held up the fried thing.
"Think my contact lens is torn." Her irritated eye blinked in confirmation. "My ear feels funny too."
Natasha sighed.
Smiling softly, Emily waited to be picked up before she used the last of her strength to heave herself forward and kiss her love. Their teeth clicked before Natasha's lips curved against her own. Satisfied, Emily slumped. "You're perfect, Natalia," was whispered against her neck.
Over the Atlantic, Natasha lifted her attention from Emily's bandage and blanket covered form up to Rogers. "Yes?" She demanded of his last hour's stare.
To her surprise, he didn't flush, look away, or stammer. "You look at her like Peggy used to look at me. To be honest, I didn't think you were capable of that much emotion. I think I owe you an apology."
Oh. How civilized of him. "You don't owe me an apology, Rogers. I've spent a lot of my life pretending to be something I'm not."
"Like an unfeeling killer?"
At her sharpened look, he still didn't flinch. Her respect for him climbed another notch.
"See? I do need to apologize." He held out his calloused hand. "I apologize for judging you unfairly."
She clasped the hand. "Thank you, Rogers."
"Steve. Us old folks should be on better terms than last names."
"Wow. I didn't think a proper gentleman like you would be so familiar with a taken woman."
He groaned, "Should've seen that comin'."
"Really, Steve, you left yourself wide open."
"Yea. I kinda did." It hadn't even been a good snipe, but the little smiles it brought out felt good.
A/N - a little less feels, a little more action. I was watching this French movie called Special Forces, and it prompted this chapter. It was one of those surprisingly good movies on Netflix... if you like war movies that give more than one viewpoint.