In the end, Natasha ends up leaving the plate of now-lukewarm chow mein and springrolls on the table and flees to her bedroom. Her mind buzzes as she checks the window through sheer, understated curtains. She hadn't let Clint touch her bedroom decor, thank god. A few stories below, the streets are empty. D.C. is nothing like New York.
A quick search of her room yields her untouched weapons; it's unlikely the Winter Soldier would leave Natasha her weapons. Maybe he really did come in peace. A knock on the door startles her out of her reverie.
"Natalia," the Soldier's voice sounds hollow through the door. Natasha forces down a laugh when she opens the door, schooling her face into neutrality. He's in her ugly orange towel that she left in the bathroom for guests; another touch of Clint's lacking decorating skills. Scars pattern his bare chest; along with them is a fresh wound, crudely mended with what she recognizes as her own first aid kit. "Do you have anything I can borrow?"
Is he kidding her? She snorts, tearing her gaze away from his marred skin; Natasha knows that she may very well have contributed to his collection. Better not to press the matter of the new wound. (Even so, her mind races; it looked like a bullet shot, but from whose gun? Had he extracted it?) She opts for the least sensitive question.
"You didn't bring your own clothes?" Disbelief colors her voice. "Hydra didn't give you anything?"
He scowls back, water still dripping down his hair. "Look, it's not like I had time to pack—"
That is how the goddamn Winter Soldier winds up in a pair of Natasha's largest sweatpants. She eyes the way her pants cling to him. No way was that comfortable. They would definitely need to make a shopping trip sooner or later if he really doesn't have anything to wear.
Natasha snarls. The literal bastard on her couch, eating her food, had had the sheer audacity to use up all the hot water. A cold bath indeed. She harrumphs and opts for a cold shower instead. Thank god she grew up Russian.
Massaging the shampoo into her hair, Natasha dwells on the situation. A half-amnesiac super soldier, fully capable of killing her right this moment, is in her—Natasha's—apartment, eating her—Natasha's—food, on her—Natasha's—couch. Lord, she needs to focus on the problem at hand.
Could Natasha contact Steve? Probably a bad idea, she considers, as Steve could be a little brash, and the Soldier is far from stable. Bad combination. Tony? Tony… is not her ideal choice, but if an emergency were to arise, he would probably work. Fury will be pissed if she doesn't loop him in either. (And, she thinks, so will Steve, but really it's for both his good and the Soldier's.)
She needs a phone, as soon as possible. But then again, Natasha notes, he doesn't seem to pose an immediate threat, right? The Winter Soldier is a better assassin than a spy; reconnaissance was her strength, not his.
She can call Fury tomorrow. For now, the Soldier can stay.
The Soldier is sitting in her chair by the window, shoveling his face full of takeout when Natasha steps out of the bathroom, blow drying her hair. She glowers slightly. "Don't use so much of the damn hot water next time."
He mumbles out an apology. Motherfucker. Natasha relents a little. She tries again. "Look, taking a hot shower is fine, I just want to be able to take my bath after it, okay?"
Well, goddamn if the Winter Soldier doesn't look like a kicked puppy. God, now Natasha feels guilty and she isn't even the one who used up the hot water. She relents even more. "I mean, take your time in the shower, just… let me take my bath first." There, a compromise. He gives a barely perceptible shrug; Natasha detects a hint of stiffness in the movement.
Oh for Christ's sake, he was bleeding. She puts the hair dryer down and strides sharply over to him. The Soldier looks up at her, blue eyes piercing as he croaks out another pathetic "sorry."
Really, it's just pitiful at this point. "Did Hydra really never teach you how to patch up bullet wounds?"
He gives another shrug. "They taught me to depend on their doctors and their doctors only."
Might as well help him out then. Natasha rolls up her sleeves and pulls up his shirt gingerly; he makes no movement to stop her. "Did you even take out the bullet?" she asks, as she examines the wound.
He looks even guiltier, which pretty much answers the question. Natasha is no doctor, but even she knows this is bullshit. Sighing, she gets to her feet and washes her hands, grabbing her first aid kit. No point in going to a hospital—that was practically screaming for ex-Hydra agents to come find them. Glancing around, she decides that the kitchen table works best. She motions for him to lay there.
Again, Natasha is no doctor, and she can only pray she doesn't harm him further. Thank god the bullet missed vital organs; dealing with flesh wounds was easy enough. Nat puts her hair up in a shower cap (better than nothing, right?), disinfects the forceps, and rolls up her sleeves.
Time to get to work.
The Soldier worries her. It has been at least fifteen minutes of Natasha gently digging around the hole in his abdomen with forceps and he has yet to make a noise; there is no movement aside from the rise and fall of his chest and the occasional clenching of his jaw when she moved a little too quickly. At long last—too long, if one were to ask—she manages to plink the bullet in a little cup beside him.
"Don't sit up," she advises him curtly. "I still have to dress the wound." Of course, he sits up anyway, groaning slightly. Natasha could scream; instead, she pushes him back down firmly. "I said, I still have to dress the wound," she repeats crossly.
The Soldier raises an eyebrow. The Black Widow is not known for her mother-henning. "I can actually dress it myself, but thanks."
Because he did such a great job of that last time. "You tried to bandage yourself without taking out the damn bullet. Stay down, Soldier." His face tightens at the title, but he says nothing more. She bandages him quickly (see? Much faster than if he had tried to do it himself) and he marches to the bathroom with the air of some great aristocrat whose dignity had been injured.
Maybe she was reading a little too much into it.
Maybe he was just an asshat.
It's nearly two in the morning when Nat hears movement in her kitchen. At first, she doesn't make anything of it — after all, the Soldier was probably still hungry, and she had left him on the couch with a pile of blankets and a directive to help himself to her fridge if hungry, but the steps in the kitchen were far lighter and stealthier than the Soldier. What the hell? This was the second time someone broke into her apartment tonight; she must really be off her game.
Natasha grips her gun, before spotting the empty couch. She relaxes ever so slightly; maybe it was the Soldier in her kitchen. That is, until she feels his tread behind. His eyes are hooded, and his expression grim. He has not gun, but is clearly poised for a fight. Natasha is grateful he's on her side, this time.
Nevertheless, she levels a quick, irritated glare at him. "Do you really have to bring in so much scum with you?" she mouths at him.
He rolls his eyes in response. Who knew the Winter Soldier could be such a sardonic little shit?
They move forward from her room through the apartment silently. The moonlight filters in through her curtains and Natasha takes in the scene; the front door, to the right is still deadbolted; across the living room is the still-closed window that faces the door. That leaves the last entrance—the window in the kitchen, past the living room, in her dining alcove. Coincidentally, that's where the fire escape is. A quick cost-benefit analysis makes up her mind—she's definitely in need of a padlock for that window.
Natasha doesn't see the first assailant—in fact she is unaware of their presence until their knife slices at her stomach. She lets out a gasp as the Soldier jerks her backwards, out of harm's way. How the hell did she miss that? Nat grabs at her stomach. It will probably need stitches, but she pushes it to the back of her mind. The assailant tries to swipe at the Soldier too, but he bats the knife out of their hand like a puppy bats flies. More vigilantly, she moves forward, gripping her gun.
The second one comes at Nat with another damn kitchen knife, but she is far more prepared this time, shooting them twice—once in the torso and once in the shoulder; she wants them alive—with her silenced gun. Bless her foresight to silence all her apartment weapons. A well-placed kick renders the assailant unmoving. Natasha pivots to check on the Soldier, and to her horror, the first assailant has been stabbed with their own knife at least a dozen times. Her poor carpet.
Nat stumbles over to the bathroom and retches as red leaks through her fingers.
Oh boy that was whumpy of me, wasn't it. I swear, I'm sorry if I made Nat a damsel-in-distress; she won't stay that way, don't worry.
Anyway, hi everyone! Thanks to everyone who reviewed and followed and favorited! Love you all lots ;)
Anyway, with this quarantine, I'll likely be able to update a lot more, so look for an update every two weeks. Stay healthy guys, and social distance, cuz people's lives depend on it.
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Bye!
Rain