Berlin, November 7, 2008
23:30, local time
Natasha crouches in the rain, the night providing solid cover. Her finger tightens on the trigger. She doesn't often take kill assignments—not anymore, not with her history; after all, she is better suited to gather intel anyway—but that doesn't mean she won't. Peering into her scope, she eyes her target: balding and sallow-faced, skinny, glasses. For a while now, he had slipped in and out of the public spotlight, but his...attractions to children (and how he acted on it) were legendary in the worst possible way. Thomas Helman had no qualms about using his money and power to slip out of public scrutiny, but SHIELD knew. And Natasha has no qualms about killing a pedophile.
And now, Helman is sucking up to the heads of state at some gala; she doesn't hesitate to take the shot as soon as his looming frame steps into range. The party erupts into chaos.
"Hi." Bright blue eyes gleam from an achingly-familiar face that materialized—seemingly—out of nowhere. A silver arm gleams at his side. Natasha doesn't pause to trade gibes with him, pivoting around on her heel and taking off. Her feet pound against the wet pavement; she doesn't check to see if he's following.
Of all the unexpected people to show up.
It's a good thing she's not his target; she knows she's not, because she's still breathing. Natasha wonders how they will punish him for letting her go.
Washington, D.C., Present Day
14:00, local time
It has been a while since Natasha was in D.C. She sits straight in her gross plastic Metro seat and sizes up her fellow passengers out of habit. It's a Wednesday in the afternoon, so it's fairly empty but for a group of four or five Italian tourists and a scruffy and presumably homeless man, who is asleep.
The group of Italian tourists take it upon themselves to mock the sleeping man; Natasha feels her hands curl into fists of their own accord, but there is no need for violence.
"Calmati, signori," she calls sweetly. Calm down, gentlemen. If you know what's good for you, she adds mutinously, in her head.
One of the younger guys nudges his friend. "Ragazzi—parla italiano—"
Guys, she speaks Italian. Natasha laughs—giggles, almost. She's dressed in skinny jeans and her gray striped hoodie; there is no way she poses a threat to this hapless group of tourists. At least, that's what she's going for.
Natasha tries again. "Lascialo in pace, adesso." Leave him alone, now.
"Perché? Come hai intenzione di fermarci?" A challenge. How are you going to stop us?
Fury would be pissed if Natasha went full-Black-Widow on their asses, so she opts for a different approach and tucks a lock of ginger hair behind her ear and smiles.
If they had looked carefully enough, they would have been reminded of a tiger baring its teeth. "Dipende," she says. "Hai un posto dove stare?" Do you have anywhere to be? "Quindi seguimi." Follow me. She throws them a haphazard "I'll-show-you-a-good-time" smile. They follow, homeless man forgotten.
It's easy to get them stranded—after all, none of them speak a word of English, and clearly aren't competent enough to read a map. Natasha manages to put them on some random line out of the city. The group doesn't realize how fully they've been played until they are riding alone, to the suburbs of D.C.
In the city, Natasha relishes in her sweet freedom. It's near nighttime now, and she's sitting crosslegged in her little apartment eating takeout when she hears something. A rustle? A creak? What the hell, she wonders, casually reaching for her gun strapped beneath the table. If someone is watching her, it wouldn't do to alarm them.
The apartment isn't large—two bedroom, a small kitchen, bathroom, and living space—but it's Natasha's, not some forgotten SHIELD safehouse, and she'd be damned if some asshole mega-villain breaks in. She shifts her position, uncrossing her legs and tucking the gun into her waistband. Even if someone was watching her, they would never have noticed the subtle movement.
Another creak—definite, this time. Someone's here. Her heart beats faster. Not many people can get through her silent alarm system, and if they have the expertise to do it, Natasha isn't sure if she's skilled enough to take them on. She considers calling for backup, before abruptly realizing SHIELD no longer exists.
"Your interior decorations look like a carnival puked in your apartment," says a gruff voice in the corner. In a flash, Natasha has whipped out her gun towards the figure.
"Who the hell sent you," she growls, by way of response.
He raises his arms in surrender, and as soon as he steps out of the shadows, Natasha feels like throwing up. "This is a no-shoes residence," says Natasha drily, suppressing her panic. She does not lower her gun. But really, his boots are filthy and are ruining her goddamn rug.
The Winter Soldier—who, by the way, has not been seen since SHIELD fell a few months ago—shrugs unapologetically. "Your carpet is ugly anyway." He studies her for a moment, staring down the barrel of her gun. She realizes, with a start, that he was the homeless man on the Metro. Curse her savior complex. How long had he been tailing her? "And I don't know where else to go," he admits with the look of a defeated man. Really, curse her savior complex.
Natasha scowls, lowering her gun. She reaches for her phone. So he thought he could take advantage of her kindness? "I'm calling Steve—"
"Don't!" he barks, knocking her phone out of her hand. Immediately, she brings the gun level to his face. Deep down, though, she knows that if he really wanted her dead, she would be dead by now. His eyes are wide and Natasha realizes that the Winter Soldier's mask was there not just to protect his identity but also to shield his famously expressive face from revealing his turmoil. "Please don't call him, Natalia," he pleads.
Her stare hardens. She hasn't been Natalia for a very long time. "That's not my name."
Helplessly, he gestures. He is anything but helpless, she knows. Natasha is foolish to not have shot him already, but she is not so foolish as to let her guard down. "Please, Natalia, I just need a little time—"
She interrupts. "What do you want." It's more of a statement than a question.
"Please," he begs. The Winter Soldier does not beg, she notes. "I just... I just want to get myself together, and then I'll go. I swear." He speaks with the voice of someone who has not used their voice for a very long time.
She surveys him, skeptically, and directs him to the bathroom with her gun. If the Soldier wanted to play this game, fine.
When he shuts the bathroom door behind him, Natasha wastes no time in grabbing her phone with the full intent of dialing Steve's number.
Her phone won't turn on. Of course the Soldier would trash her phone, if by accident. She had almost forgotten how powerful a weapon his metal arm was.
So instead, she takes out another plate of takeout and heats it up in the microwave. It's been a while since she's had a guest, anyway, and she might as well feed him.
Natasha glances at the admittedly hideous orange rug. Damn Clint and his interior decorating skills.
Hello Fanfiction! It has been a whilee, and sorry, this plot-bunny just hit me hard.
Anyway, this fic ignores the events of Civil War, and picks up like right after the events of Winter Soldier (I know, far back).
Disclaimer: No, I don't own Marvel or any of the lovely characters here.
Remember to review!
Love you all lots,
Rain :)