Baklava on Sunday was a treat, though the woman with dark hair often prepared it as a form of comfort.
The Lady, that's what I called her through the years of four and five, when I had been taken from my previous foster family and thrown into the system. The oil-rig like mechanism of the Black Widow program… sticky with sin, and as delicious to the average businessman and politician as a dessert served in a Moscow bakery.
Though The Lady, she made the best Baklava.
In the haze of my unconscious brain, I'm perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, licking the spatula that is messy with butter and pecan– savoring the reward I was getting for tackling down the mailman, as he had a gun and a disguise to get in the house.
House number 3… my favorite, as the others had been burnt down or fled from in the middle of the night.
It was the nicest, if you didn't count the neighborhood.
Yelena agrees with me, though she is knee-high, fully functioning and under strict orders not to speak.
This month is known as Hush - an ongoing stretch of homework from the federation that silences the mouths of children for at least thirty days.
Yelena is to be punished if she speaks.
The Lady is to inform the program if she even whimpers in the night from a bad dream.
I look from my buttery spatula now and see Yelena from the floor, her eyes wide and desperate.
She wants some, though Melina would never allow it.
I put my finger– small and childlike– to my lips.
Later, my little game assures her.
Later, she will have two slices of Baklava in bed when we settle down for the night.
I'm reprimanded the next day with a smack around the face, though it's not delivered by Melina.
No. The Lady never dirtied her hands. This came from Papa.
He smacked again and I lulled to a semi-lucid state, seeing through the haze of blood and sweat the dark room I now resided in - surrounded by suited men, and their calloused, blooded hands.
Away from the kitchen as a child and into the skin of the Black Widow herself.
I blinked slowly, trying to stay conscious enough to gather any information.
These strangers all had holstered guns, though the walls were laden with knives. Russian, though not Hydra.
There was no sigil on their clothing, and Hydra was far too patriarchal not to brandish that ugly picture whenever they could.
No… these were different enemies.
I'm smacked again, and this time my chin rocks to the side– now waking me fully.
"Reden." One of the men demands.
"Talk." Another translates.
He needn't bother. I knew German fluently.
The generic questions came to mind - Who are you? Where am I? What do you want?
These were all obsolete, as men with big guns often didn't want to talk about themselves. They wanted to know who you were - how you managed to get yourself into this situation. All important things that helped them get closer to whatever theoretical treasure chest was on the other side.
"You killed Melina." I snapped in German.
The main man - a weasley looking thing with a fine watch - smiled a snakey smile.
"Bring her up." He ordered his foot soldiers.
I was slumped in a chair, hands bound and face covered in blood – three new slices of information that became apparent as my shackled wrists were brought up over my head, attached to a meat-hook that slowly wound toward the ceiling.
"There." The boss said, clapping his hands together merrily. "That's better."
My feet dangled above the ground, and I hung with a slow sway that brought me in drifting circles– trying to see the abandoned room through the crimson in my eyes.
We were in a warehouse – one possibly from the street where I was last conscious.
No windows.
One door.
Four men.
Three of them are foot soldiers - one boss.
"We're looking for something." The boss claimed, unbuckling his watch and placing it on the table.
"And what might that be?" I sighed, trying not to let the sarcasm leak from my voice.
It was a poor attempt.
He hit me with the back of his hand, and I winced, tasting blood through my teeth.
"The Soldier."
Even with my ears ringing, I knew the word perfectly in German– too many nights in foreign hotels with The Avengers, and fans wanting pictures of Steve.
What could they possibly want with Captain America?
"I don't know where he is," I lied, trying to give my best attempt at a grieving daughter, "I just wanted to find my mother."
"Liar." The boss said, and another punch came flying toward my jaw.
This time, my head pulled back, and I watched the ceiling as they watched me.
"We know you saw him tonight."
Tonight? I thought, though I didn't react.
Unless they meant…
"An informant of ours saw you with The Winter Soldier a mile away, along with the body of Melina Vostokoff."
My eyes slid down the pipes of the room, falling gradually at the man in front. "Bucky isn't working with you?" I asked.
"Working for us?" The man snorted in fluent German, his comrades laughing. "We've been trying to hunt him down for a decade."
The cracks in my theories were beginning to show - formulating an idea that was too ludicrous to understand. Did I stumble into the ultimate sting operation by following James?
Was he the enemy here, or were they?
At that moment, another figure entered the room, and the soft click of heels accompanied the ringing in my ears.
The overhead light swung at the right moment, and Melina Vostokoff stepped, unharmed, into its eye.
"Hello, Natasha." She said, wiping what appeared to be fake blood off of her neck.
My mind swirled into pink-taffy nothingness.
"You stumbled unfortunately into the middle of a very broad operation tonight… one that had been planned for months. For that, you deserve this–"
One of the brawny men launched his fist into my stomach, and my knees jerked upright to stifle the agony of my clenching muscles.
As usual, Melina never did the dirty work.
" –though as for trying to avenge me, I'm humbled."
"What is this?" I asked, trying to pant back my lost breath.
"We've been trying to hunt down James Barnes whilst The Avengers have been off fighting civil wars." She crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes scornfully. "Last night, he slipped up and came out into the open, revealing himself for the first time."
A soft frown puckered between my brows, trying to swallow the blood that pooled in my mouth.
The Winter Soldier makes no mistakes…
He also doesn't seek revenge in the open– this I knew from our first encounter, and all the boogey-man stories I heard over the years.
What was his game?
I was silenced by the red light that flickered through the skylight window – a window I hadn't seen, as it was heavily boarded by old wooden panels, blocking the night out except for a small crack where a sniper rifle was wedged.
Its lethal red laser flashed in my eyes, and for a moment, I thought my brain was about to be wall art. Though the light began to create small signs, ones I picked up to be morse code.
-.. ..- -.-. -.-
Duck.
I threw my head down, and a scream erupted through the building as one of the guards was assassinated, and another's head burst like an egg shell– splattering the floor in skull yolk.
"Get down!" Melina shrieked, the boss with the fancy watch sprinting for his gun.
He fired twice at the roof, distracted by my secret savior– buying me some time.
Using the height of the meat hook, I swung my ankles up and freed the shackles from the metal edge– hitting the floor in that signature Black Widow pose that Yelena loved to snidely comment on.
Melina threw out a punch, though this time I was ready, jerking and headbutting her in the nose– causing her to stagger back and cup her mouth. To make my anger known, I spat all the savored blood and saliva into her face, and kicked her in the stomach– sending her spiraling.
Another shot was fired through the overhead window, and this time, the wooden boarding exploded– a long rope dropping and a figure sliding down it.
Bucky.
I threw my fists up and poised for attack, though he stood in a shadow of darkness – cocking his head to the side with a look that said 'don't fucking try it.'
I didn't fucking try it.
"Grab him!" Melina screamed, sending a fire of bullets our way.
Bucky threw his arm around my waist and yanked on the ceiling rope, sending us in a quick blitz to the roof where Moscow stretched like a sea of lights ahead.
We didn't talk, racing over the tiles and leaping to where an escape ladder stretched, already positioned as if Bucky had planned this all along – maybe he had.
The motorcycle wasn't far, proving that I was right – the building had only been a walk or so away.
Bucky climbed on and the motor roared to life, yanking my bloodied arms around his waist and kicking the break from the cobbled path – launching us back onto the road.
The drive to the inner city but a race away.
"Hold on." He demanded, and my legs looped together around his hips, feeling the cool bite of the metal against my thighs. "You don't want to kill me just yet."
I begged to differ.