MCU (c) Marvel Studios
The one without a name, without an honest heart as compass. These lines, the last endeavor to find the missing lifeline. Oh, how I wish for soothing rain; all I wish is to dream again. My loving heart lost in the dark, for hope I'd give my everything. Oh I how I wish for soothing rain, oh how I wish to dream again; once and for all, and all for once: Nemo, my name forever more! — Nightwish
The ring sparkled in the dim light, the silver gleaming bright. She stared at it, then looked at him and then back at the ring. Her heart was in the throat, her palms clammy and her breathing was erratic. Never in a thousand lifetimes did she expect this to ever happen. She stared at Steve's open, honest and hopeful expression, then back at the ring, then back at him. He licked his lips, glancing away, nervous and unsure due to her silence. "You want to marry me?" she asked, sounding unsure.
"Yes," he said, though he didn't sound as confident as he did a few moments ago. "I do." He sighed, snapping the box close and setting it on the table. She felt a bit better with it out of sight. It was such a small thing, trivial in the grand scheme of the universe, but to her it was symbolized more than just a wedding and a lifelong commitment; to her symbolized a sense of trust in their love — in Steve's love for her — that once broken was nigh unrepairable. She trusted like that once with Alexi, and he ended up dead. "Nat, look I—"
"Let me think about it," she said, taking his hands. She dreamed of their wedding once, with their friends and everyone they knew and cared about watching them take this next step. Clint had walked her down the aisle, to where Steve and the priest waited at the altar. She swallowed, her throat tight with emotion. She smoothed her thumbs over his knuckles; his hands, so big and strong yet with slender fingers, artist's hands, and they were so gentle. She loved his hands, how they held her, touched her, made her feel safe and warm and loved. Calloused from a life time of fighting — of protecting — the innocent and the weak. The hands of belonging not to a perfect soldier, but to a good man. "I love you," she said, the words slipping from her mouth soft and earnest. She wanted to make him see it, understand that her feelings for him hadn't changed (they never will).
"Then why?" he asked. It broke her heart at how broken he sounded. "Why won't you give me an answer?"
"Because the answer you want," she said, "is the answer I can't give you right now." She brought his hand to her face, kissing the palm. Guilt squeezed her heart, coupled with her shame; how many times did she imagined this while they spent the holidays with the Bartons? How many times did she day dream about being Steve's wife? Yet, now that he asked her the balked, tucked tail and ran in the opposite direction. All because surrendering herself and tying her life to him in such a fashion was too much to her.
"If it's about having kids, that's okay," he said, trying to assuage her fear. "I don't care. We don't need kids to be happy. And if we really want kids, we can adopt. There are plenty of orphans that we can take in." He gave her that adorable half grin she loved so much. "Imagine one of those orphans learning that Black Widow and Captain American wanna adopt them, huh? Boy, wouldn't that make that kid just smile like no tomorrow?" He cupped her face. "But all I need in a family is you."
She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "Steve," she breathed. She couldn't marry him. Didn't he realize what, no who she was? She was Black Widow. The spider that mated then killed and ate its mated, a woman that marries and then kills her husband. Alexi had married her, and he ended up dead. She didn't want that fate to befall Steve, couldn't let that fate befall him. The pain in his eyes — it wasn't for him, it was for her — broke her heart. She wormed free of his embrace. "I need some air."
"Okay," he said, standing up and rubbing his palms on his jeans. "I just—"
"I'm sorry," she said and bolted from the house. The door closed behind her with a sharp thud, breaking the stillness of the night air that was bitter and cold. It didn't bother her; she was Russian, cold was second nature to her. She closed her eyes, holding her tears back and slipped her feet into her boots before trekking out into the knee-deep snow.
She had no direction, no purpose, and she lost herself in the excursion. Overhead the sky was ink black, ten billion stars bright and twinkling. The wolves howled in the distance, but the coyotes didn't laugh. The silence was deafening, pressing in around and smothering her. She stopped half way to the barn where the jet was and the house, white puffs of breath escaping her mouth. The wind blew, a soft whispering sigh across the frozen landscape. She shivered and looked up at the sky; her tears froze to her cheeks.
The man was fat, mortally so, and his breath smelled of tequila and cigars. She swallowed down the bile that tickled her throat as he kissed her. She returned it, matching his apparent passion, and tried to find that black void within her mind to forgot that he was rutting into her like an aged boar way pass his prime. He was a target, nothing more, she didn't know why he had to die, only that he must. As Black Widow it was her mission to make him die. He babbled at her in nonsense Ukrainian, squeezing her lithe body and perky breasts. She sighed through her nose and faked a few erotic moans. She tried pretending his hands were Alexi, his touch was Alexi's, but it hurt too much. Alexi was gone. Never again would she come home and be greeted by his smiling face or his inane idea about getting a pet (he had been trying to convince her to get a dog lately).
Her target's thrusting got erratic, his jowly face turning a gross shade of pomegranate, sweat trickling at his brow. He was close, and she had been ignoring everything. No matter, the Red Room had taught her to fake an orgasm. He came a few heartbeats later, and she pretended to come with him. Only this one didn't give two fucks about her pleasure, as he pulled out before she could put on a convincing act. "You are a pretty thing," he wheezed, sweat trickling that rolls of flesh on his chest; his chest a woolly sweaty mat of salt-and-pepper hair. The bile at the back of her throat was most insistent. "Yuri was smart in hiring you." He yanked her into a sitting position and she gave him the innocent virginal girl look he seemed to like so much. He kissed her, demanding and rough, groping her sex. She suppressed the shudder, going to that calm void inside her mind, the place where she locked away all her emotions. "Whatcha name again?" he asked, eyes heady with lust.
The smile she gave was that of a young woman, battered and broken but still so naïve, so trusting; "Oktober," she whispered, allowing her voice to break a little. He grinned, showing off his crooked yellow teeth.
"Oktober," he said, "I want you to suck me off."
Oh hell no. She looked at his flaccid cock, poking out from the rolls of sweaty foul-smelling flesh that was his gut and thighs. She wanted to gag; he scratched his belly, the fat jiggling with the action. She was Black Widow, she trained for this. All she needed was to apply the lipstick and the poison would do the rest of the work. "Lemme freshen up, yes?" she asked, gesturing to her face.
"Nuh-huh," he said, grabbing her wrist with his sausage fingers. "I want your pretty mouth on my cock as is," he said, tracing her lip with his thumb. His touch made her skin crawl, she didn't show it though. She was too good for that. Instead, she gave him her sweetest smile, locating her pocket mirror that doubled as holding her garrote; there should be enough wire in there to get a few loops around his fat piggish neck that she could asphyxiate him.
"Of course," she said, and went down on him. She didn't wince as she licked his cock, taking more of it into her mouth. Ignored the smell that radiated from his groin and focused on her mission. She flicked her eyes up when she felt his hand thread its way into her hair, smirking when he began to moan and whimper. She bit down then, hard enough to taste blood. He squealed like the pig he resembled. With a swift motion she broke his wrist and vaulted to the vanity, grapping her pocket it mirror. The garrote whrrrped free and she looped it around his neck three times before pulling it tight and using her weight and momentum to push him into the bed. The bedding muffled his terrified squealing, and she let out several loud erotic yelps of delight to further throw off anyone that could be listening. He struggled for a bit longer and with each twitch she felt she pulled the garrote tighter and tighter until he stilled. She slid off his meaty back, panting and undid the garrote, pressing a button to send it zipping back into the bottom of her pocket mirror. Backing up to keep her eyes on him, she grabbed her pistol and her other lipstick. She flicked the lipstick it out and kicked it beneath the bed, smiling as she twisted on the silencer. She hoped the pig asphyxiated but his neck may have been too thick.
He twitched, groaning. Damn it. She frowned, and hopped back onto his back, pressing the gun to his temple. "Svin'ya," she hissed and pulled the trigger, the bullet entering his brain and killing him. She got off him, wiped her prints from the gun and molded his hand around the weapon and pressed it to the bloody hole in his skull. She grimaced. This was a sloppy kill. Ivan would be displeased, but today she didn't care. It had been two years since Alexi's death and even though she told herself she didn't care that Alexi was gone, that she never loved him, the ache in her chest that she had ignored the entire mission began to demand that she notice it.
She gasped, and not for the first time she thought about running, missing her rendezvous point and seeing if she can't track down Alexi or his grave, so she could put some flowers on it. She gathered her things, rubbed the lipstick from her lips. A knock sounded on the door. "Boss?" the voice said. She swallowed, it was that American he had hired as his head of security. "Boss, they're here. You decent?"
She looked around, before bolting into the bathroom and locking the door, she climbed onto the toilet, moving a ceiling tile and climbing into the space between the ceiling and the next floor. She replaced the title and crawled towards the bar, she could hear the American finding the pig's body as she crawled, telling his two underlings to find her and bring her to him. This was supposed to happen later, long after she was gone. Like she told herself: this was a sloppy, very sloppy.
She found the bar and removed the tile. The DJ dropped the base, the lights dimming until it was dark and she slipped out, dropping behind the bar and yanking off the brown wig she wore and stuff it into her small bag. She kept herself low to the ground as she slinked around the bar, working her way into the crowd and smiled at some of the patrons, thankful they were too drunk to notice. She sat down and ordered a ginger ale, acting as if she was just a part of the scene. The American came out, telling his men to fan out and look for her in a harsh whisper. This was the tricky part, getting out without being spotted, but she done it before. This was child's play if it was any other day. It was starting to become clear to her that Alexi's death had more effect on her than she liked to admit.
The American slid into the seat next to her, looping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close; she didn't miss the sharp jab of the knife into her side. He turned his head, pressing his forehead against her temple. To any on looker, they were a tipsy couple in love, not an assassin being confronted by her target's hired muscle. She arched a brow. "Don't talk," he said in a low hiss into her ear, "my name is Hawkeye. You and I are going to have a little chat."
Natasha heard the snow crunch behind her. "Lovely night, the aurora's pretty here," a voice said behind her. She looked over her shoulder. "Agent Romanoff."
"Nick," she greeted, a little smile on her lips. "Didn't expect to see you here." She looked up and smiled at the aurora borealis dancing in the sky. It brought memories of her childhood with her grandmother.
"Where's Agent Rogers?" Fury asked. She jerked her head at the house and turned to face her old boss and mentor. "Changed your hair."
"Still have the eye patch," she said, and rubbed her arms, realizing the cold for the first time since she came outside. "C'mon, I know you didn't just show up to give Clint his Christmas present."
"I may have, never know." He fell instep behind her, using her footprints to get through the snow. They didn't talk on the way back; she ignored her shivering body, the fact that snow had gotten into her boots and soaked her bare feet. She just wanted to get inside and snuggle up against Steve and—
"Something wrong, Natasha?" Fury asked, a hint of concern in her voice. She found that void again, where she put all her emotions into little boxes and locked them away, yet this sadness refused to go away. She had broken Steve's heart, told him no without saying it, rejected him. She should just ask Fury what he wanted, get the mission down and… and forget about Steve and her stupid heart. She was Black Widow — you can't live without your heart solnishko, nobody can. Nobody is an emotionless void. — she didn't need her heart.
"No," she said, gathering herself again and continuing to the house. "Nothing's wrong." She heard Fury grunt in recognition and continued to follow her. They reached the house in a few minutes and entered its welcoming merry warmth. Steve was still there, opening and closing the box that the engagement ring was in. He looked up at them, face placid though a bit wary.
"Fury," he said, standing up and shoving the box into his pocket. She glanced at Nick, noting his arched brow and then at Steve, she failed in suppressing the shiver. "Jesus, Nat, you're shivering," he said and scooped up the blanket on the couch and coming over to her. He wrapped it around her shoulders, fussing over her as if nothing happened, as if she didn't just ran off and left him to pick up the pieces of his shattered heart. He didn't seem to care that Fury was standing right there, watching them. "I can heat up some water again, make you a cup of tea."
"No, I'm fine," she said, trying to smile at him, but her lip quivered.
"About time you two," Fury said, walking pass, them and easing into the armchair. "I would love some tea, though."
"Sure," he said, running his hands up and down her arms. For a moment she thought Steve would press a kiss to her temple but he didn't and left her to start the kettle. She sat on the couch, looking at their former boss.
"Sorry to drop in like this," Fury said, "but technically I don't exist and you two are running from the law."
She smiled. "So his Clint, but I'm sure he'll understand," she said, "do you want me to wake him?"
"No. I don't need him for this." He pulled out a manila folder, Cyrillic stamped on the top half and the English translation on the bottom. He slapped it down on the table; she stared at it, her blood going cold. "Project: Red Guardian."
"Why do you need me?" she asked, glancing back over at Steve has he putz in the kitchen fixing tea for her (even though she had said she didn't want any) and Fury. "I've never heard of this project before." Steve came back, handing her and Fury their mugs of tea. He sat next to her, putting his hand on her knee and giving it a squeeze. Fury said nothing about the causal yet intimate contact and she didn't brush him away. In fact, his hand on her knee felt comforting and she resisted the urge to lean into him. "Just because its Russian, doesn't mean I know about it."
"I know that," Fury snipped, sipping his tea. "This is good."
"Thanks, uh… Clint's wife has a thing for tea," Steve muttered. "New mission?"
"Yes. You and Romanoff are to head to Kiev, meet up with Wilson." Fury took another sip and if Steve was surprised that Fury knew where Sam was, he didn't show it. In fact, neither was she; Fury always seemed to be omniscient and omnipresent, it unnerved her at times. "Rumor has it that your old handler is moving, and I don't like it when he moves."
"Ivan Petrovich is dead," she said, "died a year after Clint pulled me out."
"That is what he'd like the world to think happened" — Fury tapped the folder — "but you know how spies are, Natasha."
Only a little too well. She grimaced as Steve picked up the folder and began to flip through it. Most of it was in Russian, there was some English here and there but not enough for him to understand. The three of them sat in silence, the two spies watching the soldier flip through the folder. She watched as the pictures went by: her handler, her kills, her in various disguises, her past laid bare for Steve to look through. His greatest achievement in espionage was her, and it made her sick that Steve was seeing this. He flipped to another page, a picture of a young man in a pilot's uniform, a cocky grin on his face. Her heart leapt into her throat, she made an aborted attempt to snatch the folder from him. Steve flipped to the next page and she saw Alexi, stripped of his shirt and strapped to a table, with tubes embedded into his skin. The next few pictures showed him being experimented on, and then a chart with: УСПЕХ — success, stamp in red ink across it. Steve set the folder down. It took her a few moments to realize that he was staring at her in concern.
"Nat?" he put a hand on her shoulder. "Nat, are you alright? You're crying."
"I'm fine," she said, sniffing and wiping away the tears. "I'm fine," she repeated and forced a smile, only then did Steve drop his hand, lacing his fingers together and fixed his gaze at Fury.
"What was that?" he asked, a steel edge to his voice. They never talked about his serum or the people throughout the latter half of the 20th Century that tried to recreate it; she learned early on that it was a sore spot with him, as if he felt like he was some sort of bearer of Dr. Erskine's final wish to see the serum to the betterment of mankind oppose to the opposite. She knew he was aware of the attempts to replicate him (the idea that people have been trying to clone Steve for seventy or more years never sat well with her) and that he disliked the idea (though dislike may be too mild of a word, she just couldn't fathom Steve hating anyone).
Fury sighed, drained the rest of his tea and leaned back into the chair. "His name was Alexi Alanovich Shostakov," he said, "used to be a test pilot for the Russians, then in 2005 he was recruited for a mystery project" — Fury tapped the folder — "Russia's answer to you in a sense. Project: Red Guardian."
"Why haven't we heard about him before?" Steve asked. "Has he hurt anyone?"
"Alexi would never hurt anyone," she said. "Alexi is a good man. He's sweet and kind… hell he was trying to convince me to get a damn dog before he died."
"Nat."
"I know this is difficult for you to accept, Natasha," Fury said, a hint of sympathy in his voice, "but the man you remember and the man he is now aren't the same."
"Is he a psychopath now?" she snapped. She could feel herself shaking. Zima had been right, Alexi was alive. Alexi was alive and—
"No, but you know the training they put you through, the training they probably put him through. There's enough of him left but—"
"Not enough to question why," Steve finished, "just like Bucky."
"In a way," Fury agreed. She looked at her tea, then around at the Christmas tree and Christmas village, their lights still glowing. The tv was still one, some late-night infomercial raving about the latest product in the background, the noise a dull buzz at the edge of her senses. All of that didn't matter, all she could think about was Alexi: his smile, his laughter, his brown eyes like melted chocolate; he had wanted a dog, had been trying to coax her into getting a puppy, even going so far as to find a breed (huskies if she remembered) and telling her that it'll be fun, like having a baby only without all the other things that babies came with.
Fury was talking with Steve, telling him something important but she couldn't follow, couldn't think and she was thinking about Steve and his damn ring and the ache in her heart. It hurt so much, she hadn't thought about that gaping hole Alexi left in her heart for years. Her grandmother told her that only love could heal wounded hearts; had Steve been unknowingly healing her battered heart? She wasn't sure anymore. "— not yet. Russians never got a chance to use their new Red Guardian. Been deployed mostly for domestic terrorism and disputes. Until the invasion of the Crimean Peninsula."
"Now Petrovich is on the movie, taking this guy with him and using him as muscle." Steve had that frown on his face, the one she come to understand meant he was very unhappy with something. "What do you want us to do?"
"Go in and stop him," Fury said, "quietly."
"Then just send me. Steve is in enough trouble with the world government and—"
"If you had a chance at the Red Guardian, would you take it?" Fury asked.
"You think I'm compromised?" she looked at her old boss. "That I can't do my job because they took my ex-husband and made him into some super-soldier and then brain washed him?"
"That's exactly what I think," Fury said. "I don't think you could put a bullet in Alexi's brain when push comes to shove." He stared at her with that one mesmerizing eye. "You still love him."
She heard Steve suck in a breath. "I loved him, past tense, Nick," she said, tilting her head a little. "I can do this," she said.
"Rogers is still going with you," Fury said. She bit her cheek, angry at Ivan for lying to her, angry that she still cared about Alexi (maybe in some ways still loved him — no not love, most like cherished the nostalgia connected to him), angry that when it came to letting Steve have all of her she was too much of a coward, angry at Steve for being too noble and honorable for his own good that he had to protect Bucky which lead to Tony finding out that Bucky killed his parents and the sundering of the Avengers. But most of angry at herself for not letting taking what she wanted and trying to ignore her past.
She nudged Steve, bit harder than she needed to. "Put it on," she said, offering him her left hand. He stared at her, moonstruck; Fury arched a brow. "Rogers, put the damn ring on."
"N-Nat-Natasha?" he stammered. She sighed through her nose, wondering when this sudden streak of impulsiveness came from.
"I accept, Steve, I'll marry you." She smiled, allowing her expression to soften, her love for him to bleed through. For if there was one thing she was sure of it was her love for Steve. "I want to marry you."
Steve glanced a Fury, like a puppy asking permission to do something it knows it's not supposed to do; when Fury didn't do anything but arch a brow, a small giddy smile appeared on Steve's face as he pulled the box and put the ring on her finger. She smiled, looking at it as it caught the light. He gave her hand a squeeze, the happiness bright in his eyes. "Congratulations," Fury said and stood up. "I want you two gone by ten tomorrow morning, thing you can do it?"
"We will," Steve said, giving her hand another squeeze. She gave Fury a smile that didn't reach her eyes, her nerves still a bit raw that he didn't trust her to kill Alexi.
"Send Barton my regards," he said and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click. She sighed, looking at her hand, the ring — a pretty silver thing with a single raised diamond, the filigree resembling leaves with some diamond chips studded in it — that sparkled in the dim light. She was Black Widow, and now she was engaged to (of all people) Captain America.
Eh, I was hoping to hold off her accepting for another chapter, but I figured Natasha would get irked enough with Fury thinking she couldn't take out Alexi, that she'll just accept as a way to prove that she's over him.
She loves Steve. I don't know why I feel the need to stress but I will: Natasha loves Steve, with all her heart.
Anyway, this'll be a last chapter for a little bit, I'll be taking a small break to partake in Romanogers Week.
Also, for those of weak constitutions: This fic is gonna plunge straight into hell. It's gonna get dark. Its gonna get painful. And you'll probably hate me for putting the babies through this shit, but eh… I'm a sadist. When I wrote And We Run chapter 3 and hinted at Alexi, I knew he was going to appear, and I knew Nat was going to have to confront her past. Crucible of fire and blood, and all that. ;)
Hang in there gang!
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PS: I left success in the Cyrillic because I wanted to give a visual representation of what it looked like on the paper.
Svin'ya means pig in Russian.
I normally don't use the work of the same band for two chapters, but Nemo just really captured what I wanted for Natasha's emotional state of feeling lost and trapped between her future and her past. So, that's why we get double Nightwish. Plus Nightwish is my favorite band and Nemo is my favorite song. :)