He remembers heavy rain, the flicker of thunder, the air of desperation penetrating the air so thickly that his eyes could not focus on anything but the redhead running for her life while pinning under the glare of an arrow he had aimed at her.
She remembers slipping, falling as the cold entered her skin and froze her from the inside out, the overwhelming feeling of fear and anger and pain so heavy that she could no longer stand it – she had looked up at the owner of the arrow and dared him, pleaded him, to shoot her and end her suffering.
He remembers staring into the dead eyes of a killer – but also of a terrified young girl hoping for a chance. He had read her file; he knew that she hadn't chosen this life. She had learned to survive – played the cards in a world where no one gave her a chance.
And he made a different call.
This is it, she thought as she stared down the man who would end her life – the man who had followed her relentlessly under the orders of an organization whose name she did not know and did not care to know. She only knew that this was the moment she had been waiting for ever since she had been snatched when she was small, a second of release from the world where there was no kindness, no innocence.
This was her moment to die.
And she waited, back aching and raining pouring down around her as she laid on the cold bricks of the alleyway, eyes burning with something she did not even know, for him to release the arrow.
But he narrowed his eyes at her before speaking in a language unknown to her. She did not move until he spoke, finally, in her native tongue, words that sounded odd on his lips.
"Я знаю, что ты чувствуешь," he spoke, voice gruff. I know how you feel.
A wave of anger came and the words spat out of her mouth like the tang of poison. "Убейте меня, дурак, прежде чем я убью тебя." Kill me, you fool, before I kill you.
"Нет," he said. No.
And they were at a standstill. She barred her teeth, silently begging him to take the shot. She knew that she would die eventually, but she would rather it be at the hands of a stranger than the people who had raised her to kill. Their torture would be pure pain, while hopefully, this stranger would make it quick.
His eyes bore into hers, her mind subconsciously taking a mental image of him into her head. 6'1. Carries a bow. Stands like a soldier, but has eyes like he is broken. Brown hair, brown eyes.
She flinches when he suddenly rips a com. out of his ear, throwing it to the ground and stomping on it, saying something harsh in a language she does not recognize. But then he meets her eyes – and lowers his bow, thin wire no longer tight.
She narrows her eyes, voice low. "Почему?" Why?
There is a hint of melancholy is his voice when he speaks. "Потому что вы заслуживаете большего, чем умереть в переулке, не прожив." Because you deserve more than to die in an alleyway without having lived.
She spat on the ground in front of him, panic rising. She had to die, she needed to – the Red Room was coming after her and they would do everything in their power to prevent them from escaping their control ever again.
"Трус," she hisses. "ублюдок." Coward. Bastard.
His eyes darken and the hand holding his bow twitches. For a split second she thinks he actually might kill her, and her heart skips a beat –
But he only releases a rather dark laugh and she's had enough. She draws a knife from a slit in her jeans and his eyes widen as she grasps the handle and flips it around, aiming it towards her own chest.
He shouts a word and she is not fast enough when he knocks the knife out of her hand, grasping her thin wrists with his calloused hands.
She struggles. "Отпусти меня!" Let me go!
He says something again in English, but her knowledge of that language is only a few words here and there, and he reverts back to Russian. "Перестань! Не убивай себя!" Stop it! Don't kill yourself!
She can feel her heart racing as she growls at him, struggling as he pulls her up pushes her against the wall, pressing her hands tightly while holding her legs with his knee. "Why," she struggles with the words. "Why – hell you care?"
"Because," he says. "You deserve more. You deserve a шанс."
She only gets half of what he says, but she recognizes the one word at the end: chance. She huffs. "What can you, American?"
"Пойдемте со мной," he says. "Я буду держать вас в безопасности." Come with me. I will keep you safe.
"Но вы были отправлены, чтобы убить меня," she mutters. But you were sent to kill me.
"Не больше," he says, and she nods. Not anymore.
He releases her and she crumples to the ground, steadying her feet, rubbing her wrists. She refuses to look at him as he places his hand on her lower back and guides her towards the empty and darkened street. The only light is the occasionally glimpse through a window as they walk. Her hands make themselves busy rubbing up and down her arms, trying to keep warm – she's still hoping that he will kill her and put her out of her misery.
But instead of another alleyway or dark place he leads her to a brightly lit hotel, where they receive only slightly strange looks – her in torn clothes, dirty hair, him in dirt covered jeans and jacket – but the man beside her only laughs at the looks, but she can tell he is slightly on edge.
She hides a smirk as they exit an elevator and enter a room near the edge of the building, him swiping the keycard through the lock. It flashes green and he pushes her in.
The room is rather nice for this side of town, and she eyes him as he pulls off the black jacket, tossing it on the bed. She can't help but notice the contours of his muscles, a result of his white tee sticking to his skin.
He rummages through a dresser for a moment, never taking his eyes off of her. After a moment he tosses her a white tee similar to the one he has on and boxers. "Here," he says. "Это будет длиться ночь." These will last you the night.
She nods and he motions to a door off the side of the room. She enters it and flicks the light on, revealing a small bathroom containing a shower, toilet, and sink – the basics. The lock flicks behind her and she peels the wet clothes from her body. The water is hot as dirt pools around her and she relishes in the clean water; she hasn't had a shower in days.
She suddenly realizes she is crying, mind and body utterly exhausted, so she wipes the tears off with her pinkie and steps out of the shower, wrapping a white towel around herself.
Her hair is brushed by a disposable comb she finds under the sink and she changes quickly into the clothes he had given her. She escapes the small room in time to see the man yelling into black cord phone on the nightstand.
But then he catches a glimpse of her standing there, leaning against the wall, and says one more syllable into the phone before slamming it down.
He crosses his arms. "Мой босс," he says by way of explanation. My boss.
She nods. "He – not happy?"
A smirk graces his lips. "In a way."
Her head tilts. "What is…name?"
He pauses for a moment before answering. "Barton," he reveals. "Вы? Мне нужно больше Вдова идти дальше." You? I need more than Widow to go on.
She hesitates. She's had many names, but none than she really liked. But then her mind latches onto a name she remembers from her younger years, a nickname of a sort that her father had given her. "Natasha," she says, and his mouth quirks into a smile before becoming blank again.
"I'll be back," he says. "Оставайтесь на месте." Stay put.
"Куда бы я пошел?" she shrugs, and he disappears into the bathroom. Where would I go?
Her eyes flicker among the room as she pads her way to an armchair in the corner, curling up with her head facing towards an open window. The skyline of Budapest is visible, and she sits there until he walks out of the bathroom, towel hanging low on his hips.
She takes a deep breath, and suddenly she can't take it anymore. What the hell does he want with me?
But she doesn't get the chance to think about it, because he says, "Sleep now."
And she does, and when she wakes hours later, heart pounding from the nightmare than had kept her in its clutches, she is alone.
Was it all a dream?
But then she caught a glimpse of a white fluttering piece of paper near the open window, and she scrambles to grab it. Her fingers catch it just before it flies out the window and she spreads it apart, body trembling.
I'm grabbing some breakfast, it says. I'll be back.
She takes a breath.
And she snaps, tearing the paper into thousands of tiny pieces. They scatter the floor and her breathing is heavy, eyes wide as her fingers tremble. She can't take it – she has to get out of here.
She quickly gathers her wet clothes from the night before where they were crumpled on the bathroom floor, pulling them on quickly. Her escape from the hotel is unhindered, the staff and guests ignoring the redhead in their mist.
She makes it too the street before she is surrounded, and there is hands forcing her on the ground, pulling handcuffs on her wrists, wrapping a blindfold around her eyes. The last thing hears is Barton's yell and then she feels the prick of a needle into her neck before she collapses, a world of darkness enveloping her.
When she wakes there's a man with an eye patch staring at her, hands folded behind his back, but before he can say anything she's screaming, pulling against the handcuffs keeping her pinned to the bars of the thin mattress against the small dark wall. She's screaming for Barton, only Barton –
Her screams seem to wake the dead and the man in all black winces. Tears are running down her cheeks as she screams until her voice is horse, sobbing, "Please, please please–"
Faintly she can hear the man in black speaking, but she can't bring herself care, sobs heaving and stealing her breath from her chest.
And she screams again, curling up into a ball, pleading for them to kill her, just kill her – she can't take it anymore, she just wants to die –
It feels like days later when the man yells for her to stop. "Miss Romanova," he says, and she shrinks against the wall.
"NO!" she shouts, and she can feel his eyes tearing into her. Her hands fly to her ears and she knows that she's having a breakdown, one of the many she has had over the years. "Stop it," she pleads, "stop it, stop it, please stop it!"
Her mind flashes to when she was little, dancing in the stage for her parents…it turns to the Red Room, men holding her down on a table, injecting her with poisons…training flashes before her eyes, a gun in her hand as she, without hesitation, kills three girls in a row, and one by one watch as they crumble to the ground…
The memories haunt her and she squeezes her eyes shut. "Останови это, сделать его остановить, пожалуйста, помоги мне!" Make it stop, make it stop, please help me!
Her fingers blindly grasp for the handcuffs around her wrists, jerking at them. Then she subconsciously frees herself and twists the sharp edge, aiming for her throat. She can't take it anymore –
But then Barton is by her side, pulling the metal out of her hands and grasping her wrists – she feels a strange sense of déjà vu – forcing her to meet his eyes.
"Natasha," he says, "stop it. You're fine, you're safe – no one can hurt you."
Her breathing is shallow as she peaks over his shoulder at the man with the eye patch, and he follows her gaze. "Вот только директор," he soothed. "Он вам не повредит. Я не позволю ему." That's only the director. He won't hurt you. I won't let him.
A deep, shuddering breathes comes and she leans against the wall and closes her eyes. Barton releases her wrists and she can hear him talking to the director, words flying in English. She only gets half – are you insane, dangerous, spy – but she chooses to ignore all of it. Her fate, whatever it may be, is now in the hands of the American agent.
And for some strange reason, she trusts him.
For many days she does not see him; she thinks they are punishing her, but the men in coats come they tell her that he is off base, on a mission. But when she screams and cries they only look on in pity – she knows they are lying, but refuses to speak unless they tell her where the hell Barton was.
The director shows up a few days later, with Barton in tow.
When her mental stated is deemed partially stable – and her English is passable – she is free to explore the base, provided at least two agents are on her at all times. But she won't leave without Barton – she clings to him. She hears the rumors that they are screwing each other, but instead of lowering herself down to their level she instead just turns the other cheek.
They placing her in training with a group of new recruits, but she defeats all of them in less time than it takes her to brush her hair in the morning; she can always feel Barton's eyes watching, though she doesn't always know from where.
One day, a group of senior agents corner her and threaten her within an inch of her life. They tell her she is dangerous, mentally unstable; she spits in their face and tells them that they're damn right she is and kindly flips them the finger. They walk away with broken legs, bruised faces and slight head trauma.
She walks away with a bruised rib.
And later, when Barton bandages her up – she refused to let anyone else do it – she learns his first name, and spends the rest of the evening toying with his name between her lips.
Clint, she says, over and over again as she curls herself into her bunk. Clint.
And eventually she learns to stand without him. She rises high and becomes the second best covert agent there (The first is Agent Barton) and eventually, many months after they have met, Fury calls them into his office and makes them partners.
It turned out to be the best decision of the director's career.
And years later, as they stand side by side, her with guns on hand and he with his bow and arrows, shooting the hell out of aliens that came from the sky, she smirks. "This is just like Budapest all over again," she shouts.
She remembers pain and horror and the feeling of pure self destruction; she had been a nineteen year old girl with the overwhelming urge to give up and end her life.
He shoots her a look, aiming an arrow at a cluster of aliens. "You and I remember Budapest very differently."
Because he remembers saving a broken girl from herself. He remembers Budapest as the place where he found someone that deserved a second chance; a night where he found someone that he formed an unbreakable bond with.
In the end, they both remember Budapest differently.
But Directory Fury, however, remembers it only one way; that was the day he watched a boy who was broken find a girl who was as shattered as he was – the boy fixed her, along the way healing himself.
And they said the director wasn't a sentimentalist.
Thanks for reading!