Hello again, here's another chapter for you (chapter 50, that's insane!). As I mentioned at the end of the last chapter there are Black Widow spoilers ahead, but they're minor.
I had a guest review that asked to summarise the last entry in the last chapter and since I couldn't reply directly I'll add it here. I hope it helps.
It was Halloween and there was a dinner party to celebrate a year since Bruce merged with the Hulk. Nat, who's state of mind has been getting worse, tries to get through it but starts suffering from a panic attack, brought on by everything that's going on around her. She retreats back to her quarters and Steve notices something is wrong and tries to talk her through it.
And then it picks up here...
1 November 2020
Hi Tom,
A common side effect of life these past few years was sleeping and not resting. That was how I felt when I came to the very next morning.
Heavy head, aching...everything.
Battered. Tired. More exposed, as if more pieces of me had fallen off and disintegrated during the night.
Whenever I shifted a little my muscles screamed. I just about stifled the groan that jumped to my lips. That was when I registered the hard surface against my cheek.
Most definitely not my bed.
Flashes of the flashes of the night before lit up the space behind my eyelids like a photo reel.
Snapshots.
Blurred, disjointed, ugly.
But enough to map out yesterday's antics.
I opened my eyes, grateful the glow leaking through the curtains was a soft one, a stray thought registering I probably had Friday to thank for closing the curtains in the first place.
It wasn't a total surprise to find myself greeted by a view of my quarters I didn't often see. Or, in the interest of accuracy, to see my quarters from an angle I wasn't often at.
If all the aching was anything to go by, it's not something I wanted to repeat.
I let my eyes fall closed again.
Laugh or sob. It was difficult to know which one to do. Who falls asleep against their front door?
Ex-assassins in emotional turmoil, apparently.
And that made me wince as much as all the aches and pains because 'emotional turmoil' and 'Natasha Romanoff' weren't meant to be bedfellows. Or maybe doorfellows was the more appropriate term.
Bet Yelena never cracked like this, I thought and then stopped. She was only ever allowed in my thoughts when I let her in, and I hadn't. Not then.
I took a deep breath and allowed the sharp aches of my protesting body to wash the intruder away. There were faint wisps of the perfume I applied the night before. Beyond that, nothing. That unsettled me in a different way to all the noise and smells and activity yesterday.
A panicked thrum shot through me at the reminder.
I was never meant to leave a trace. Black Widows were meant to be as much of a ghost as the Winter Soldier. I moved from place to place without leaving an impression, and there were very few exceptions to this rule. I'd never settled anywhere for as long as I'd settled at the compound, in these rooms. A hint of me would have been logical. But, as I breathed in, my quarters gave nothing away.
It had never bothered me before, but it did now.
And that bothered me too.
Sighing away the introspection I opened my eyes and dragged myself to standing, negotiating my way through a lot of creaking and cracking. I swayed, which most people probably couldn't help when all the pins and needles began to unstick themselves. But I wasn't most people and I started to get a sense that yesterday's thing had more to say.
I fantasised about the packet of ibuprofen stashed somewhere in my kitchen.
I smiled and for a moment it was the only thing that didn't hurt. Ironic, since Yelena's pointed barb, in a small store in the middle of nowhere, was calculated to hurt me as much as my words just before had hut her.
And then I stopped smiling because I realised she was there in my thoughts again, exactly when she shouldn't be. It was agonising and there wasn't a drug strong enough to take away that pain.
At some point I started stumbling towards my room, aiming for the en suite. I was followed by memories hours and years old. I made it through the obstacle course of single steps, side units and a coffee table with nothing but a stubbed toe courtesy of the sofa.
Bastard still stings.
For the longest time I stood in my shower, staring at the tiles and not quite processing.
The water only started when Friday took pity on me.
It was warm. I jumped when it made contact.
It was a relief, though, when I got used to it. Every drop burned a trail across my skin and few of my knotted muscles eased.
I felt a bit more like me, again.
Then my eyes were on fire because some rogue shampoo crept into them.
Not too long afterwards me and my thoroughly washed eyes stood in the kitchen, dried and dressed and popping painkillers. I leant against the countertop, focussing on the point where it dug into my hip, and waited for the pain to ease away.
When it was time to leave my hand rested atop the door handle for a few long seconds, I took in some deep breaths. Even so, when I opened the door I was not prepared for several pounds of super soldier to fall through.
Surprise seeped slowly from his bleary eyes and his clothes, the same as yesterday, were as crumpled as mine had been. I mentally doubled my tally of door-sleepers to include emotionally supportive Captain Americas.
"Comfortable?" I asked, he looked up at me from the floor and my voice was tight because all I could think was that he was upside down and Yelena's voice echoed in my head once again. It was the most painful of all because she was at once the little girl I had known and the woman in the aftermath of the Red Room.
And again, there she was in my thoughts, disregarding all the walls and barriers I'd put up for the sake of not ending up like Thor. Whatever happened last night had shaken them so much cracks had appeared for her to creep through. Like when I was a kid, returned to the Red Room. I tried to forget because remembering hurt more, but she was always there somewhere in my thoughts.
"Not the word I'd use for it," Steve said and I didn't know if the call back to our brief encounter on the escalator was intentional, but it seemed to be the right thing to say as the ghost in my head quietened while a wry smile twisted my lips. He struggled to his feet and, from the way he held himself, I suspected he suffered a few of his own aches.
"You didn't leave," I said not realising what I was giving away until it was too late. His eyebrow quirked and he opened his mouth to say something but faltered. He hadn't known that I'd heard him.
"Course not," he said and his eyes, which had darted just about everywhere, finally settled on mine. He reached a hand to my face and stopped because no amount of living in the modern day was ever going to get rid of the uncertainty that plagued him. "Have you, er, have you been crying?"
"No." I blinked and shifted back, pushing away all thoughts of the sobbing mess I was the night before.
"Oh. Um, it's just..." he pointed at my eyes then his, "your eyes are red."
"Got shampoo in them."
"Doesn't sound like you."
"And crying does?"
His arm fell to his side. Useless. I meant to sound light and jokey but, as with most things since I woke, I didn't quite hit the mark. The silent seconds grew awkward and I knew that behind the eternally patient facade he put on, he was squirming because he didn't know what to say or what to do. And then, because it would have been cruel to pretend he hadn't helped me through a thing with one of his trademark acts of kindness, I said: "Thank you, for yesterday."
"Any time, Tasha," he said and there was a softening to his voice I was sure I would see reflected in his eyes if I hadn't looked away. "Wanna talk about it?"
"Not really."
He did though and he was right there, on the verge. Body language already talking, words building up on the tip of his tongue. A lecture he'd given hundreds of times before, no doubt to a rapt audience who was eager to hear, if not to listen.
And he stayed there, poised to deliver.
His hesitation was the only thing to fill the silent space between us. I waited, dreading the moment he would start, but the longer he took the more I wanted to know. To hear whatever speech he thought I was worthy of.
But he drew back, sucked those words in and replaced them with something else and I was left frustrated at the disappointment of not hearing what I never wanted to.
"Mind if I grab a shower?" He asked.
"Not at all," I said around the sudden lump in my throat and made a show of sniffing the air, "in fact, I insist on it."
"Hilarious."
"So people keep accusing."
He showered in his abandoned quarters.
I ventured to the communal kitchen to make us both coffee.
When my mind wandered, so did my body.
In the end he found me out on the dock, standing on the edge and almost daring the water to claim me. For a November morning the sun was warmer and the day more inviting than they should be. The boards beneath my feet swayed with the swell of the lake, instilling a sense of calm into my otherwise fraught nerves and, for the first time since waking, I was able to close my eyes without thinking of all the things that had fucked me over the night before.
Steve emptied his arms of the containers he brought with him then picked up the coffee I'd set on a bench, the steam wriggled into the air before he blew it away.
"Food," he said.
More like leftovers. He offered me some to try but just the thought of it came with the memories of the night before and my stomach squirmed. Instead I poked fun at him for eating salt cod for breakfast.
He treated me to a story of the old days when fine dining to him was something simple like his mum's pie (if she could afford the ingredients) or fries on the way home (usually Bucky's treat).
We joked, he ate, and it was a morning that could have been normal. But then I said something, and I don't even know what. Maybe about the Red Room, maybe not. I just felt my mouth move and the words vibrate in my throat and the horrified expression on his face was one I was far too used to. A giveaway that something that was normal to me wasn't to anyone else. And I just wanted to get rid of the look because it was so out of place on Steve's face. So I asked:
"Why didn't you lecture me?" And it worked because it morphed into something more like puzzlement. "Upstairs. And don't tell me you weren't, it was obvious."
"If it was so obvious then how come I didn't?"
"I dunno, that's why I'm asking."
"Because I know you." He gave me a small smile at my own bewildered expression. "The people who come to the support groups, I don't know them. Not really. What I say to them is something generic written for strangers. And you, Nat, you deserve something more."
"Oh yeah, and what would that be?"
"Time," he grasped my elbow and steered me towards one of the benches and we both sat. "Time to process, to think, you know. To really understand what's going on up here," he tapped his head then tapped his chest, "and maybe in here, too. You deserve someone who's going to give you the time you need to put a name to what happened."
"And what do I call it, hmm?" the lump was back. "What happened?"
"It's not for me to say. But when you're ready to, I'll be here to listen."
A faded version of myself wanted to be angry at him. Angry at presuming I would ever need someone to listen, angry at the suggestion that there was even something to listen to. It was all weakness and words and all in the way of the mission. But that was an old voice, one that had started dying the moment I chose to defect and once I swept it aside I took his words for what they were. A promise he intended to keep.
And it was the sincerity.
Looking at him in that moment, the genuine concern in his eyes, the slight crease of worry in his brow, the way he sat close enough so I could still feel his warmth but far enough away that he was still giving me my space. I almost told him.
Everything.
Thoughts of Yelena rocked my mind as her shade stamped its newfound freedom across my psyche. She clogged up everything. Closed my throat and filled my eyes with emotion that I knew he could see. And Ohio was right there, in that silence between us where his hesitation had been earlier. Ohio and all the memories it held of Yelena and Melina and Alexei - the only other family I had ever known. Whether it was fake, real or something in between.
I was so close to telling him what I hadn't told anyone except Nick.
And if I spoke about them I would break. Thinking about them was difficult enough. I only ever let the odd thought through. Rationing the pain because it was an agony I had no tolerance against. No idea how to handle. No idea how to cope with.
I could mourn all the other people that were taken, but I couldn't mourn them.
They were mine. And they were gone
When I thought of them I thought I understood Clint's actions a little better.
But they were private people. Well, maybe not so much Alexei-the-attention-seeker, but the fact remained - to tell my story was to tell theirs. And as much as I might trust Steve I had no right to make that decision for them.
With a deep breath I stashed everything that was so close to spilling back where it belonged. My family of sorts next to the three years of an almost childhood. Hidden so deep even Clint didn't know.
In that same moment I knew I had to offer Steve something, to explain whatever he had seen play across my face. So I spoke about my best friend instead.
"I saw Clint."
The words broke a spell I didn't know had been cast. The almost easy nature of our previous talk filtered away until it was something a lot more precarious. The last few moments of stillness stretched between us to the breeze and the lake and the trees and the world. Steve blinked and I took that millisecond as an opportunity to shift so I wasn't facing him quite so full on. Not able to take any more of that sincerity, which burned so bright in his eyes and hot against my skin. As if it was something I didn't deserve.
Which I didn't.
I might not be lying to him, but I was trading one truth for another, and even that tasted bitter when once it had tasted of nothing.
"When?"
"Last month, the mission."
"I thought Rocket went to help Rhodey out with that."
"He did. Clint ditched them and found me. He wanted to kill the guys we arrested."
"And you didn't let him."
"Of course I didn't let him," I snarled and jumped from the bench to retrace my steps back to the edge of the dock, "we just spoke."
"You spoke? About what?" I hadn't even heard him move but he was by my side. He was by my side and I don't think he'll ever know how grateful I am for him. Didn't make me say anything though. But then I felt his hand on my shoulder, barely even there but enough for me to turn to him. "Nat, what happened?"
"I insulted him," I said and stopped myself from shrugging because I didn't want to lose the human contact, "then I asked him to come back to the compound."
"And?"
"And he obviously refused. Guess it hurt my feelings," I joked even though I knew it wasn't funny and threw a vague gesture towards the compound before massaging my forehead, "I don't really want to talk about it."
The hand on my shoulder became firmer and the next thing I knew he'd wrapped me in a hug I couldn't be bothered to struggle against. "Doesn't mean you shouldn't," he mumbled into my hair.
I gave him another five seconds before I pushed him away and turned to face the water again. "Shouldn't you be preparing for one of your meetings tomorrow?"
"You're more important," and I heard the heavy shrug of his shoulders. "You thought about taking time off?"
"You been talking to Tony?" I said to a flash of my chat with Bruce before the dinner.
"Hardly. Doesn't mean we're not on the same page sometimes, though."
"I'm not taking time off."
"I think you should."
"Bully for you."
"There's nothing wrong with time off."
Except that I wasn't sure how to do it. My life hadn't exactly been conducive to a positive outlook on downtime. Especially now, when it felt like giving up. Even temporarily.
"I'll cover," he said when he correctly interpreted my silence, "I mean I expect Rhodey will step into your shoes, but I'll cover him."
"You're assuming a lot, Rogers."
"No. Just offering. It's what friends do."
I sighed. The morning after the night before and there was no sign of anything starting to make sense again. I still felt too raw. My heartbeat too unsettled.
"And yet you always manage to do more," I said at last.
"Oh, I don't think that's true."
"Just saying. Struck lucky the day they found you in the ice."
"Flatter me all you want, Romanoff, I still think you need to take time off."
To say it was tempting to push him into the water was an understatement and, given the kindness he showed me yesterday and today, wildly unfair.
"You're annoying."
"Only because you know I'm right."
I tried to give him a withering glare but there was a lot less wither in it than I liked. He noticed because of course he did, but he didn't say anything because of course he didn't.
"Impossible," I said.
Nothing was resolved. How can you resolve such things with a single conversation? But by the time we headed back inside things started to click a bit more into place. And that felt like a very important step in facing whatever I needed to face up to.
4 November 2020
No prizes for guessing that Steve was reluctant to leave. But you do get a prize if you guessed that I didn't try to push him out the door.
On Halloween being alone was at the top of my wish list. All that solitude and silence and none of the effort needed for socialising in a non-work related environment. I craved that emptiness. And yet, just a couple of days later it didn't feature at all. This constant upheaval of the things I wanted in my life was beginning to twist my head inside out. Reminder after reminder after reminder that nothing was stable, that the life-inflicted gut punches were going to keep on coming.
Of course, Steve did still have his meetings and there was no way I was going to let him bail on a whole group of people for the sake of one. No matter what he said.
He stood beside his car in the garage and it briefly crossed my mind to ask him to move back in. It was a selfish thought and I tossed it aside as soon as it flickered into being. Instead, we hugged and held each other a little longer than usual and I hoped he was getting all the thanks I owed him through it because, damn it, nothing could unstick words of actual emotional meaning from my tongue.
I left the garage before he even started the engine.
Life settled back around me, the one that was always just the same. Every day.
I wondered if my loss of control was a karmic punishment for daring to voice my thoughts aloud to Tony. With the same every day came the unending work of trying to make the world better, or at least not more shit than it was the day before. The good thing about work was that there was never much time to wonder anything before something cropped up.
Over the past couple of days I started to rediscover the comfort that came with the rhythm of mind-numbing reports. Tonight was supposed to be more of the same, but the front gate rang. It never rings. Not even the press go there, having learned a long time ago it was waste of their time.
"What the fuck was that?" I said to the empty room. There was a gun in my hand before I even registered ripping it from where it was taped to the underside of my desk.
"There is a delivery van, Director."
"A - what?"
"A delivery van, at the front gate," Friday responded and brought up the live feed so I could see for myself.
"And why is there a delivery van at the front gate?" I asked, thrown by the absurdity of the normality of the situation.
"I believe it has your groceries, Director."
"A delivery van?"
"Yes. There's a driver too," the AI said a little too smugly and sounding a little too much like Tony.
"Enjoying yourself, Friday?"
"Sure am."
"Why is there a delivery van full of groceries for me when I didn't order anything?" As I watched, an arm crept out from the driver's side window and pressed the button again. On cue, the offensive noise echoed through the room, clamouring for the attention it already had.
"You should probably answer that, Director."
"Definitely having too much fun," I muttered under my breath and nodded so Friday patched me through. "Hello?"
There was a sharpness to my tone, honed by a rebounding defensiveness I just couldn't shake.
"Uh, wow an answer. Yeah, hi. I have a grocery delivery for a Ms Rushman."
Any hackles that were raised went back down.
Tony.
"Hang on, I'll just open the gate."
"Cool, th-" the driver started but was cut off when I closed the line and Friday opened the gate. He revved the engine and began the long journey up the driveway.
"Tony knew what to get because?"
"The boss asked."
Rather than making me feel all warm and fuzzy, the thought of the AI discussing my eating habits with Tony left me with the distinct and not inaccurate impression that every day I lived under Friday's watchful eye was a data goldmine for her.
As much as it bothered me I couldn't stick around and chat about it while there was an unknown quantity on the grounds making his way towards the building.
There was a slight chill outside. It was not unwelcome. Some of the outside lights had come on, a few bugs flittering about them. The van's headlights grew closer and it wasn't long before the driver was stepping out, clipboard in hand. Quaint, given the technological fortress behind me. He was lanky in a way that made coordination look difficult, blonde hair flicked out from the cap he tapped in greeting.
"Evening," he said and looked at the building behind me, the awe evident in his eyes despite the darkening dimness surrounding us. He pulled the doors at the back of his vehicle open and climbed inside, but not before I heard, "Avengers Compound, wow."
There was a lot of jostling about as he jumped in and out of the van, plastic totes in hand before he placed them on his trolley, which clanked ever so slightly with each new addition.
"No bags," he said, waving generally at the boxes of loose groceries, "too much plastic. Saving the environment and all. This is everything though, I can bring it in."
"You don't need to do that," I said, trying to channel the sickly sweetness of Natalie Rushman while wrangling the ever cautious part of me that just saw the potential security risk.
"Naw, c'mon," he said and gestured wildly behind me, "Avengers Compound! I don't mind." He ducked his head a little, realising he might've stepped too far.
"That the only reason, huh?"
"Uh, well, no. I'm just happy to help, ma'am."
"Don't call me ma'am again and we have a deal." He nodded so fast his cap almost went flying, it was then I got an idea of how young he was. Likely early twenties, if not then late teens. "Follow me then."
I turned on my heel and heard him clatter about with his trolley piled high with groceries. There was an intake of breath behind me when he stepped through the door.
"Do I need to issue a visitor's pass?" Friday asked and I was grateful she dropped the 'Director' in front of our guest.
"That's okay, he won't be long."
"Wh-what was that?" The driver asked, the awe having spread from his eyes and into his voice.
"That's Friday, our AI system."
There was another mumbled 'wow' and he carried on looking around, catching his foot on his trolley a couple of time and almost spilling everything everywhere.
"I thought it was a joke, you know, when this popped up on my schedule. Thought this place was abandoned. Do you work with them? The Avengers?"
It was easy to hide my wry smile as I stayed half a step in front of him. "I do."
"No way! That's insane!" His voice echoed around the entrance hall, closely followed by a hushed 'oops'.
He managed to keep himself quiet for a few steps but I could feel the questions bubbling away. And then one of them was let loose in a breath, almost as if he'd said it by accident. "What are they like?"
I looked back at him and instead of looking where he was going, his attention was all on me. We entered the main corridor and he didn't even seem to notice the change of scenery. It was at moments like this I realised I never really spent much time rubbing shoulders with the public in my official capacity. I split myself between training, Avenging and the sort of diplomatic meetings Rhodey is carrying on his shoulders now. Every now and then I met someone with strong opinions on us either way, but not often.
"What do you mean?" I asked after some contemplation.
"Are they nice people or has it all gone to their heads? I think if it was me it might go to my head, so good thing it isn't me, right?"
He was a babbler, he'd tried to keep it cool when he first greeted me but there wasn't much he could do to hide it now. It reminded me a little of Parker. "There's not much to go to their heads right now, is there?" I said. "Here we are, sitting at the end of the world."
"Oh," he let go of the handles and the bottom of the trolley slammed down onto the floor, "but that wasn't them. They didn't cause this. They just tried to stop it. And I've never seen the point in blaming anyone for trying." His eyes widened as he kept on talking, noticing that he may very well be overstepping the mark again. Nevertheless, he pushed on.
"Let me guess," I said and nodded to the forgotten shopping to get him moving again, "Cap is your favourite."
"Nah, he's cool and all but the colonel is awesome. Well, I guess, I mean, War Machine. Seems like he's a calm guy," he said and hoisted the trolley back onto its wheels.
"He is."
"So, er, do they feel guilty about it then? Do they blame themselves?"
"Wouldn't you?"
This took him some time to think about. The rattling crates filled the silence in the absence of his voice. "I guess. Must be tough, though. This it?"
The kitchen was in a rare presentable state and the two of us made short work of piling everything onto the counters. When he thought I wasn't looking he snuck a few glances here and there, no doubt imagining one Avenger swiping a cup from the cupboard and another pilfering food from the fridge. I wondered what stories he was going to tell his friends when he got the chance.
"Who likes peanut butter this much?" He asked, adding a third jar to the growing collection on the top.
"Tony," I said without even a hint of a smile, "addicted to the stuff, got to make sure we have it on tap." Well, at least I knew one story he was going to pass on.
A couple minutes later and everything was unpacked. The guy looked a little disappointed to realise his small-time adventure was wrapping up.
"I'll see you out," I said and it looked like he was going to object until he realised that even though from his perspective being in the building was awesome, from mine he was a continuing risk.
His eyes wondered a lot more on the journey back, though he never relinquished his penchant for small talk. I fielded his questions, said things without really telling him anything and generally enjoyed the unexpected anonymity that came from a long-retired alias. It was when we stood outside again, the fresh air hitting us, that he took another step that could be considered 'pushing it'.
"You see them, you tell them it's not their fault. There's a lot of stuff out there that's better off because of them. It was difficult to sleep soundly after everyone disappeared, but knowing those guys are out there makes it that much easier."
"Think I haven't tried?" I said, finally allowing the wry smile to show up.
"Maybe you should believe it yourself this time."
"This advice all part of the service, kid? Or do I need to pay you extra?"
"On the house," he said as he stayed the totes in the back of his van before locking the back and climbing into the front behind the wheel, "this time."
He started up the engine and I headed back inside, not really sure what to do with his words. "Friday, show live feed from the gate. Want to make sure he actually leaves."
"No problem, Director."
I made my way back towards the kitchen and the footage followed along, Tony's technological advancements still amaze me even though they were a part of my everyday life.
"Can we make sure he's our guy every delivery? Run a background check first, obviously."
"I'll send a request, Director."
"Thanks."
It took a few minutes for the van to show up on the feed, which was to be expected. The gates opened for him automatically. I watched them close with a sudden lump in my throat and an inexplicable sadness at seeing my connection with the outside world disappear.
That night I fell into dreams of my short-lived pseudo childhood full of fireflies and childish giggles and the threat that it would all soon come crashing down.
13 November 2020
The days go by in that way of theirs.
Not that I see them. Feel them. Experience them.
They're just there and then they're just not.
The sun is up and then it's gone. The moon shines as bright as it can with its borrowed light and then it disappears, too.
Somewhere a clock ticks and tocks but I don't hear it because the digital world had long since muted that most analogue of sounds.
I asked Friday what the date was and I was surprised at how many days and nights had passed me by.
I don't remember sleeping.
I don't remember eating.
I must have. Thinking straight, holding a pen - not possible otherwise.
People phone. People chat. I chat back. I do my work. I do my routine.
Day in. Day out.
Day in. Day out.
The days go by.
My Russian ghosts haven't faded. Broken barriers meant release and they weren't going back into the little box I'd packed them away in without some sort of fight.
They walk the corridors with me. They listen when I talk to Friday. They look over my shoulder as I work.
Melina tsks whenever I drink while working.
Alexei gives me an indignant yelp whenever I put the vodka away.
Yelena says nothing because she was all about the action and if she were really here she would take my stowed away vodka and finish it off, sat across the desk from me with mischief dancing in her eyes and long-denied freedom singing in her veins.
But she doesn't do that because she isn't here. Instead I'm sat at my desk conjuring ghosts because I've always felt more comfortable with them than I ever have the living.
15 November 2020
Hi Tom,
At some point, and it's with deep frustration I admit that I don't know exactly when, I decided I wanted out of the compound. No. Needed out.
One moment these four walls were the only shelter I accepted and the next the epitome of safety felt like a trap. Until then, I very rarely entertained the idea of leaving the grounds. The mission last month had tested my wilting nerve to its shrinking limit, convinced shit would hit the fan if I l went.
And, let's be honest, I wasn't exactly proven wrong.
Somewhere between then, Halloween, and Steve and Tony's conspiracy to harass me into time off I realised that, sooner rather than later, I wanted to be on the other side of the gate when it closed. Tired of what I was.
A traveller not travelling. The visitor become the visited. The rootless now rooted.
I was taught to hate roots and to despise those who let them grow. They were a weakness, cut and trimmed and stunted by the legacy the Red Room left in the memories that echoed through more than just my mind. The sort of memories muscles acted on.
Rushing through my blood.
Bone deep.
Stitched into every cell of every part of my body.
Impossible to forget, hard to overcome.
By the time I untaught myself that particular Red Room bullshit, the habit had already formed. Roots might not be so bad after all, but the urge to keep moving just as deep and ingrained and a part of me.
Clint was Clint though, and he had traits that were just as difficult to shake. A collector of broken things, he opened his home to me and introduced me to the family within that never did and never would look at me as an asset. A person. Just and always a person.
The past couple of years had shown me roots and homes weren't about the four walls you found yourself existing in, but the people you found yourself living with.
Fragile people who crumble to dust without warning. Treacherous people who betray us. People we're separated from. The people who were gone but made life better simply for having been.
A hurtful revelation and despite that particular pain, though some might say because of it, I found myself burdened with the growing desire to return to where those roots grew from.
It burned and came with a restlessness that itched. It was all I could do not to jump on my new and improved bike and ride away. Just because I'd shed my reluctance to go anywhere didn't mean I'd shed my responsibility.
I couldn't just up and leave and not tell anybody.
Which is why I upped and left and phoned on the way out of the city.
No packing, no planning, just doing. The only thing I stopped for was my vest.
It was late morning. Really late, like only a handful of minutes from being the afternoon. I'm sure the wind was bitter and the sunlight mostly ineffective but it was difficult to tell, clad all in my motorbike gear as I was. My bike was powerful and smooth before Rocket got his paws on it, and powerful and smooth it still was. Except, it was somehow even more so. It made talking easy.
"Wait, what?" Rhodey said and there was nothing but pure confusion in his voice, more pronounced because, even though I was almost certain the racoon hadn't messed around with my helmet, it was much more effective than I remembered at blocking out the wind as I sped along the highway. "I don't understand, what's come up?"
I toyed with the idea of lying because I wouldn't be me if it that wasn't the first course of action to flit through my head. But even if I did come up with an emergency that required my specific skill set, it would be an almost impossible task to dissuade him from tagging along as back up.
"Nothing," I said in the end, "I just need to get out."
And he would have been justified in saying I could have given him more warning but he didn't. Which was more proof that operation get-Natasha-Romanoff-to-take-some-time-off was not only very much alive but Avenger-wide.
"Okay, so when you say you need 'to get out', you are coming back, right?"
"Of course."
"Good," he paused. "What if I have a whole bunch of political crap to deal with?"
"Then I've left you in a really difficult position." He didn't. I'd checked his schedule before attempting my disappearing act. I kept going at speed, weaving through a few cars on the way to wherever they were going to. "If you can't cover, I'm sure Rocket will be more than happy to fill in."
"No," he shouted down the line, "I'm free. I can do it. Someone needs to be available for callouts though."
"Have a word with Steve."
"If you say so." A short statement but still plenty of room for a shit ton of doubt. "Going anywhere nice?"
"Depends on who you ask," I said, studiously ignoring the road signs as I headed steadily west.
18 November 2020
My heart thrummed with the bike and hummed with the wind.
Anticipation tingled all through my muscles and even though my palms sweated in my gloves the spark of impulsivity left me giddy and weightless and a little bit drunk.
I felt a lightness I hadn't in decades. Everywhere. In my bones, in my veins, in my head and my heart and my soul.
My soul which had been so full of lead and dread and the dead. It soared above me as I rode along the highway. Intoxicated on adrenaline-soaked excitement at being exposed to the elements on the back of a high-speed two-wheeled vehicle.
The joy nameless and unexpected.
My soul. I could feel it dancing and leaping and...
...living.
Alive.
I was alive.
And in those moments it didn't feel like a burden.
I was alive and it was all I could think and feel and remember and care about.
And I knew, I knew, I was outpacing my demons and my doubts. Whatever shadow had clung on to me had lost its grip and I finally had a glimpse of the world around me. All the things that hadn't been lost. The people in the cars that sped up the highway alongside me. The futures they strode towards were very much still intact.
It didn't matter that the sky overhead was a gunmetal-grey blanket slung across the world, or that the wind a little choppy, or that the trees bidding me farewell were skeletal. It just mattered that they existed at all.
That they were.
That I could see them and feel them and memorise them.
Because I still was, too.
And whatever that might mean at other times, right then it meant something hopeful.
It was a moment of clarity. Or maybe a moment of delirium.
But it was just a moment.
What flies must land, and it wasn't long before my soul came back to roost.
And though the moment was past I continued to think about it as I travelled westward, the city receding in my wing mirrors and the country stretching out ahead. It was a thought that took me on spur of the moment detours and led me to small towns, large cities and blink-and-you-miss-them inbetweens. Anywhere with a name that pulled on the faintest thread of memory; once uttered by an agent in the halls of the helicarrier, places Clint mentioned, somewhere I'd spotted on a map.
Each location slipped by. My bike never needed filling up because Rocket was a magician.
I filled myself up on greasy food and coffee of all sorts of quality and rested in motels of no quality at all because Clint always said that was the only way to do a road trip. And I realised I'd never been on a road trip before. Not one that wasn't to do with work. Not one that didn't come with super high stakes and lives hanging in the balance.
If I was anyone else I might have commemorated it with photos. But I was who I was and the circumstances were what they were and I procrastinated a sixteen hour ride into four days.
Four days spent on my bike avoiding the journey as much as I could while still pushing on with it. Four days with that single blissful out-of-body moment at the forefront, at the back, sometimes even to the side but never ever far from my mind.
Four days that showed me more of the country than all of my previous years as a citizen. Showed me all the people with their lives and their resilience. I saw murals to the fallen and murals to the Avengers and murals against the hate and oppression everyone thought drove Thanos to his extremes. I saw rubble still in the streets and faded missing posters plastered over cracked walls and rotten fences. I saw once proud buildings condemned to demolition, damaged in the consequences of the Snap.
Ugly and broken blights in communities that had found ways to rebuild themselves. People and backgrounds and stories all coming together because differences were still differences, just celebrated instead of feared.
I saw a lot of life in those four days. Plenty I could once have disappeared into, but I'd been to my destination far too many times to get lost along the way.
The more familiar things became the more I wanted to turn back.
The better I knew the route the less I wanted to go down it.
It was never easy returning to the farm without it's people but I thought it might be easier than the other place. It was always where I felt closest to them. Even more so than the rare moments I'm with Clint.
This time though, this time it was so much harder. Maybe it was time moving on or maybe it was the audacity of listing it as the easier of the two destinations I had on my list.
As if anything was easy anymore.
As if easy was ever a real thing.
As if, as if, as if...
When I let myself in, the door sweeping junk mail and dust aside, ghost whispers and ghost murmurs and ghost voices ambushed me, not a single one belonging to the absent inhabitants.
I checked for squatters and their heavily accented words followed me.
"Where is this?" In the hallway.
"They are not family, we are family." At the collection of photos in the living room.
"Shoddy American workmanship." At the little dip in the kitchen floor that Clint always said he was going to sort but Laura was never keen on letting him tear the room apart. At the noisy staircase Clint insisted on keeping because security systems could be outwitted but a creaky stair never lied. At the doors that stuck ever so slightly and the windows that needed plenty of persuasion to open.
I stood in every doorway and tried to see beyond the emptiness in front of me. Looked out each window and was never sure how I felt knowing that life carried on outside and not within.
The light faded and I watched the shadows stretch across the floor, wishing it was all as bright as that moment, half an hour outside of New York, instead of being stuck in the moments that were too early for the moon and too late for the sun.
I went from downstairs to up, upstairs to down. Outside to in, inside to out. Stoop to barn and barn to stoop. Living room to kitchen to bedroom and back again. Over and over. Given a running commentary by the voices in my head that belonged to real people that really didn't belong here, in this house.
I didn't know what to do.
Life didn't come with instructions but it did have general guidelines based on what came before. Don't pet the creatures with the sharp teeth and sharper claws because they killed a long ago ancestor. And ditto for licking the brightly coloured ones.
But what do you do when nothing like the life you're leading has ever happened? When the disaster was so big you had nothing but whim and instinct in your corner?
Whim had brought me here.
Instinct was silent.
I settled on the sofa and slept.
It was the sun that woke me the next morning. My eyes ached. Too little sleep, maybe too much. It didn't really matter, the discomfort was still the same.
I began my ritual clean. Sorted through the mail, chucked the perished long-shelf items, then dragged the bins outside because a lot had perished since I was last here. I banished the dust and put all the bedding through the wash.
"Why do this for them?" Yelena asks.
It's not for them. I said in my head.
While the washing machine laboured noisily I grabbed a backpack and headed for the store to replace all I'd chucked.
"Eat, you," Melina commanded when I unpacked the shopping.
It's not for me. I said in my head.
In the evening I fell asleep on the sofa again.
The next was an outdoors day. I rediscovered the tracks we used to trek, remembered the puddles the kids jumped and the games we played, replayed the talks Laura and I had and berated myself for not realising how carefree those days truly were, for not making the most of them, for not savouring them.
"Is fun, right?" Alexei puffed.
There was nothing fun about being haunted.
I visited the clearing I loved so much and wished there were fireflies. Wished I was surrounded by different trees in a different time.
When I got back I hung my vest in my closet. A part of her I had left. A part of her I could keep safe.
None of it brought anything back. None of it kept anything at bay. But I needed it just the same.
I breathed, calm and natural, and found a little bit of comfort and little bit of despair at the end of each one.
I slept in my bed of dust and memories. This time, when I woke, it was the middle of the night. I was plagued by the same restlessness that had chased me out of the compound.
It was time to go.
I'm just not sure how I feel about where I'm going next. So I think of that moment outside New York and know I want to share it with you, Tom.
24 November 2020
Hi Tom,
I didn't know you were supposed to celebrate birthdays.
I'm not sure I even knew they were a thing. No one spoke about them in the Red Room.
My first birthday celebrated at Shield, I know I've written about that. But it wasn't the first birthday I celebrated. There was a time before that, a time that had long since stopped feeling real.
It was a time I preferred to forget because the light it shone made the surrounding darkness that much darker and the memories that much more painful to look into. Even now, when it feels like it isn't possible to hurt any more.
There was cake and candles and cards and gifts in bright paper. I remember that, but I was confused more than excited. Anxious that I'd been thrown into another of the training programme's difficult-to-decipher tests.
Except one look at Melina and she encouraged me to do what I knew kids were supposed to.
"Go on birthday girl," she said in her pitch-perfect American accent while Alexei kept up his off key version of 'Happy birthday'.
So I indulged myself and it felt like a privilege. I blew out the candles and opened my cards, making sure to read each and every word and not expecting the lurch of my stomach and the leap of my heart when one of them was signed mama and papa. I unwrapped the gifts, never once tearing the paper. My frugal Russian roots not quite shed.
And I laughed like a kid and played like a kid.
Forgetting that birthdays weren't ever a big deal. Forgetting, for a moment, they weren't a thing. Because I was a kid.
Except I wasn't, because even then the weight of knowing it would come to an end was settled deep in the back of my mind. And I knew what waited for me when it did. Worse than that, I knew what waited for Yelena.
I rode past the baseball pitch and ignored the memory of the night everything ended.
I rode past the institute Alexei infiltrated, it was rundown behind its ineffective chain link fencing. Shield files I dug up not long after defecting told the story of a facility that struggled to get back on its feet after such a high profile security breach.
I rode past the only school I ever attended.
I rode down the streets I'd once walked along.
The house was there. The trees behind it. I imagined the fireflies and an upside down Yelena, who always enjoyed seeing the world from a different angle to everyone else.
There was a movement behind one of the windows and while I wanted to imagine it was Melina or Alexei I couldn't because they never liked to make a target of themselves. I kicked my bike into gear and carried on driving until I came to a car park.
A place of stillness I walked out of. Whether to reorient myself or to continue getting lost in the haze of the past, I wasn't quite sure.
I was only an eight hour drive away from New York but I felt so far removed from the world I knew. Caught up in dusty memories of the only peace I'd ever known. When Tony said time off he probably had visions of some tropical island somewhere. When Steve mentioned it he probably thought of days with regular rest and food, surrounded by people.
And there I was, not really resting but not really doing anything either. Just travelling, as I hadn't for so long. Nothing to show for it except dredged up memories and clashing emotions. No plan, no goal. Just one moment and then the next, driven by nothing but the day and my mood.
I walked past shops and people and pretended to look like I knew where I was going or what I was doing. Pretended not to be shocked that the first cinema I ever went to had shut down, or that the bookstore I loved going to was gone, or that Yelena's favourite park had disappeared. Pretended there wasn't any pain in realising nothing was ever going to match up to those childhood memories.
It was only when I got back to my motel room that I bothered to look at a calendar.
Birthdays weren't ever a big deal.
I guess that's why I wasn't surprised to find I'd missed mine. In the state where I was first given it.
27 November 2020
Hi Tom,
I had a bike.
It was mine. It gave me a little bit of freedom. Permission to roam, to explore, to be a child.
It came from Melina and Alexei. I knew that because it wasn't there when we first arrived.
It wasn't Red Room approved.
Yelena had a My Little Pony. It was colourful and gave her permission to dream.
It was also not Red Room approved.
I wanted to dream, too. So I dyed my hair blue. That wasn't even Melina approved. Though it made Alexei laugh and Yelena giggle.
Ohio was not a peaceful place for me on my return. Memories crept out of the shadows. Familiar and familial and tainted with the knowledge that nothing was sincere.
Nothing except Yelena, who was Red Room approved but didn't even know they existed.
She was betrayed by Alexei.
Enslaved by Melina.
Abandoned by me.
I had a sister. She was the best thing the Red Room ever gave me, though I'm not sure I was the best thing they ever gave her.
Thanos took her away.
I want her back.