warning: minor character death, violence, car crash, guns, hospitalization

thank you for the response to the last chapter. i am glad that someone is interested in reading a story like this.

enjoy.


Budapest, Hungary

1996

There is a prickle of hairs on the back of her neck as if she's been watched, but Karolina shrugs it off with a brief glance around the extravagant hotel hallway and raps sharply on the cedar door.

Immediately, it opens to reveal a young waifish girl no older than seventeen and dressed neatly in slacks and a tailored blouse. "Yes?" she asks softly in response to seeing Karolina.

Her reply is a gun to her forehead.

To the girl's credit, she doesn't flinch or cry out, instead stepping backwards when Karolina takes a step inside the hotel room.

Prodding the girl in the back, Karolina forces her to sit down on the plush bed, gun still aimed at her head.

"My employer is not pleased with you, Agathe. Killing an American senator's son, then fleeing to Hungary…congratulations, you've made the kill list of nearly every underground organization. Everyone is coming for you," Karolina tells her in rapidly-hissed German.

"Well, you found me first," Agathe replies duly. "Get it over with."

Karolina presses the tip of the gun on the bridge of Agathe's nose, her grey eyes becoming cross-eyed as she stares at the barrel.

"I do not regret killing him," Agathe says in heavily-accented English. "He was hurting so many young girls. He had them kidnapped off of German streets and shipped to America for men's pleasure. I would redo it all exactly the same"

"It doesn't matter to me," Karolina states stolidly. Her finger tightens on the trigger of her gun.

There are two simultaneous bangs, one as Karolina squeezes the trigger and another as the heavy door to the room thrashes open.

"Drop your weapon!" an agent geared in black Kevlar yells in Hungarian. A small eagle logo on the left upper sleeve of his uniform identifies him as SHIELD, one of the more stringent international agencies that has been on Karolina's tail."Karolina Fyodora, you are under arrest!"

Karolina has already darted to the other side of the room, not sparing a glance towards the bed as the corpse falls backwards onto the mattress, and is crashing through the hotel window. Suddenly exposed to the chilly nighttime air, Karolina falls backwards, out of sight of the SHIELD agent.

She lands on the nearby rooftop, rolling and dashing to the other end. Without even stopping, Karolina blindly clears the gap as she leaps, landing on the next rooftop, rolling, and springing back up again.

There is the sensation of air whooshing past her, and Karolina dives forward into a roll as an arrow of all things streaks through the air right above where her head had been. She doesn't look back, continuing forward; she has cleared three rooftops by now.

She senses another disturbance in air pressure, a tad too late this time, and is forced to drop down uncomfortably on her knees, glancing up at the arrow as it flies over her head.

The archer is nowhere to be seen on the nearby rooftops, which means that his long-distance accuracy is incredible, and Karolina is aware of only one sniper who uses a bow and arrow.

She makes a quick decision and rises to her feet, speeding quickly down the last couple of inches of concrete before dropping like a stone off the edge of the roof.

Her descent is short, only several feet, into the thin alley, and she lands in a crouch that would have torn both knees for a normal human.

Behind her, Karolina can hear an extremely-faint muffled thud. Someone else has landed in the alley, not as silently as her but with enough grace that Karolina can tell him to be an elegant acrobat.

She takes off with adrenaline thrumming through her veins. The stone-cobbled street that passes below her feet is uneven and cracked, and so, to quicken her escape, Karolina bounces between clinging to a wall before grabbing for the next and leaping across large expanses of alley.

The archer on her tail can be heard picking up speed. He is catching onto her routine, sometimes reaching only inches away from her.

Karolina, in a sudden burst of speed, darts down the alley, disappearing from the archer's view. Within seconds, however, she reaches a dead-end and whirls around, nowhere to go, nowhere but up.

She lunges for a wall, scrabbling up the side, and cling to a ridge.

When the archer comes running directly beneath her, Karolina lets go of the ridge and drops directly onto the archer's shoulders.

Within moments, she has flipped him onto the ground where he lies for a moment stunned before springing back to his feet.

He is tall and stocky, built like a boxer, with dirty-blond hair that flops onto his face, a square jaw, and gleaming blue eyes. Outfitted in a black, well-fitted uniform, he looks the full threat that he is, and Karolina can make out a sheath of arrows and bow strung on his back.

Then he's sliding a leg out to sweep Karolina off her feet and she jumps up, landing back lightly on her feet.

They begin to trade blows, jabs to the neck dodged and knees to the stomach avoided.

Karolina studies him as they fight, observing for a weakness. Despite his dependency on bows and rifles, the archer is a formidable opponent, and they are not that unevenly-matched. For every punch that Karolina throws, he parries it and sends back a fist of his own.

Eventually, though, Karolina finds an opening.

They have been fighting for several minutes now, completely silent except for the occasional grunt or growl. She feels fine, but the archer is visibly sweating. He obviously favors fighting with his right side; hence, his guard is weaker at his left side.

Karoline grabs his fist as the archer attempts to jab her in the neck, and she uses the momentum to knee him on the left side of his stomach.

The archer groans, staggering backwards, allowing Karolina to throw a flurry of well-strategized punches at his head.

But she has underestimated him.

The archer withstands her punches and, in a move that is pure overwhelming and unexpected force, jabs at a pressure point on her neck that has her knees buckling and vision darkening as she crumples to the floor.

XX

She comes to consciousness some time later, suddenly fully aware of her surroundings. She is slumped in an uncomfortable metal chair, pressed tightly against it, but she is not restrained. She's being kept in a warehouse

Karolina attempts to regulate her breathing to mimic unconsciousness, realizing too slow that there could be someone in the room with her. Her lack of stringent training is turning her soft; she is losing her edge. She is too late however, because a man is already beginning to speak.

"You're awake!" he says, surprised, his drawl identifying him as American and most likely from the Midwest. "I honestly expected you to wake up earlier, but you never know with the Soviet assassin-types."

Karolina chooses to ignore his odd remark. "Clinton Francis Barton. Codename Hawkeye. Born January 7, 1971 in Waverly, Iowa. One sibling, Agent Barney Barton of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Underground since 1992," she tells in an almost accusatory tone. She distractedly adds, "Threat assessment: level eight."

Despite the questionable lighting, Karolina is able to see Barton's eyes light up almost proudly upon hearing of his high threat assessment. A moment later, he frowns comically. "Wait. Does every assassin know all that information about me?" He doesn't sound frightened, instead disappointed. She hears him mutter something that sounds like, "Dammit, Phil."

"No. A mutual friend tipped me off that you were coming my way. I looked into you."

Barton steps closer, into the light, and Karolina can see that he is about twenty-five years old. He looks almost boyish in the flickering light. "Does this mutual friend have a name?"

"I don't know his legal name," she admits truthfully, pressing herself against the chair. "But I do believe that you most likely know him as Cheese."

There is a brief stab of interest in his eyes. "What about the girl, Agathe, then?" he asks cautiously.

"What about her?" Karolina shrugs nonchalantly.

"Why did you kill her?"

Her lungs feel coated with sandpaper when she swallows duly. "It was my job. It was my last job."

Upon her emphasis on last, Barton begins to appear conflicted. He appears to be torn between concern and understanding. "Hold on," he finally says as he reaches a hand to tap at something in his left ear.

She hears a faint burst of static that sounds like a communication line being disconnected as Barton pulls something compact from his ear and pockets it.

Finally, he turns to face her, smiling slightly. It is an earnest look, but Karolina has to remind herself that anyone can be misleading, even twenty-something archers with puppy-dog faces.

"My name is Clint Barton, that you already know. Everything you said was correct. Except for the last four years, I haven't been underground. I have been an agent of an organization called SHIELD, or the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. My supervising officer is Cheese, though his real name is Agent Phil Coulson. I have been…" Barton begins to talk about SHIELD and his line of work and how happy he is, and Karolina becomes painfully aware of what he is doing.

When he finally stops, Karolina asks him, "What do you know about me? Apart from what your SHIELD has told you about me."

Barton shrugs distractedly. "Not much. I know that you are called the Black Widow, credited with over twenty different jobs and seventeen different assassinations in the last five years. Your name has been coming up as Karolina Fyodora in SHIELD's database since 1991, though it's most likely an alias. You look a bit younger than me, but the Black Widow's a ghost story and has been heard of since the early 1960s. I figured that you were the same person and that someone had screwed with you and your head, fucked you up, and that you're now just out there in the world, trying to survive in the only shitty way you know how."

His analysis is surprising accurate.

"Did someone do that to you?" she asks cautiously.

"Nah." Barton waves her off. "Bad family environment growing up. Shitty dad. Brother and I got out, joined the circus. Turns out that it was another shitty environment." He takes a deep breath. "But Phil, he found me when I was in a terrible place. He pulled me out, brought me to SHIELD. Saved my life. I owe him and SHIELD everything. And now I would like to offer that to you."

Somewhere along the lines, Karolina knew that this proposal was coming, but she is still surprised. "Why me?" she questions softly, a crisp rasp to her voice.

"It's a savior complex," Barton jokes. "I'm always taking in strays. You wouldn't be the first, though you'd be the first human." He grins childishly. "So, what do you think?"

Karolina pretends to consider it, but she already knows her answer. There is no need to delay it. "Yes."

Barton nods his head casually. "Welcome to SHIELD, Karolina Fyodora."

"Not Karolina Fyodora." At his confused expression, she nearly laughs. "Caroline Forbes. New life, new name."

"Welcome to SHIELD, then, Caroline Forbes."

XX

Washington DC

2009

Caroline stretches out against her Egyptian cotton sheets, nearly purring at the pleasant tug at her sore muscles. Despite being incredibly comfortable cocooned in the warm blankets of her bed, she finds the ability to slide from her little nest and tiptoe to her kitchen.

Small and quaint but still containing everything top-of-the-line, her kitchen is always one of the best investments she makes when picking and designing a safe house. Her extreme paranoia and numerous enemies have always made it difficult to settle down somewhere permanently, which is why she can count the number of people on one hand who know the location of her favorite DC residence.

She is sipping perfectly-brewed coffee and frowning at the general emptiness in her pantry when her phone buzzes on the counter. Within seconds, it's flipped up into her hand, the call answered.

"Forbes," she says curtly as she closes her refrigerator door.

"Caroline!" comes the voice of SHIELD's Assistant Director Maria Hill. "Can you come in? There's a situation."

"What?" Caroline sighs irritably.

"I know, I know. You've been in DC for a day, and you definitely deserve some time off," Maria says distractedly, sounding incredibly stressed out. "But the Iran mission just got bumped up to priority number one."

Maria's a good friend, and Caroline knows that she wouldn't be contacting Caroline herself if the mission wasn't serious or urgent. "What happened? I thought Clint was on that," she muses, making her way to her bedroom. She cradles the phone between her ear and shoulder and pulls a large duffle bag from her closet, beginning to pack it neatly-folded piles of clothes and other necessities.

"Barton's out; he's in Thailand with STRIKE Team Delta. He won't make it in time." Maria is being to sound a little flustered; it sounds like she is walking briskly down a hallway. "We'll brief you quickly; all your gear is almost ready. Just get down to the Triskelion ASAP."

"Alright."

There is a soft beep as the call is cut. Caroline thumbs the button on the top of the device, powering the phone down and tossing it into the duffel bag.

After a quick shower, she pulls on well-fitted denim jeans, a lavender sweater, black combat boots, and her favorite black leather bomber jacket, lifting the duffle bag in one hand as she uses the other to lock the apartment door.

Having made sure that the thumbprint scanner is secure, Caroline tucks the physical key into her pocket.

Then she turns, heaves her bag against her bag, and makes her way down to the street.

XX

Triskelion, SHIELD HQ

Washington DC

2009

"Our man is a nuclear scientist, alias Kingfisher," Maria explains as she pulls a map up onto the holographic screen in the conference room.

"Kingfisher?" Caroline questions as she studies the files on her tablet, flipping through pages by swiping at the glass screen.

"He's one of Fury's personal consultants, always been completely off the grid. Fury's calling him in again. Kingfisher was supposed to fly in, but his security has been compromised." Maria reaches out to pinch a spot on the holographic screen, zooming in on the map. It lights up, displaying the country of Iran.

"So I'm a security detail?" Caroline sighs, beginning to appear a little irritated. "When you say compromised…"

"When I say compromised, I say that the pilot we sent out to get Kingfisher returned." There is a long pause before Maria speaks again carefully, "In bloody pieces-in a box."

Despite herself, Caroline shivers.

Maria continues, focusing her sober steel-grey gaze on Caroline, "Consider it an extraction. You will meet Kingfisher in Tehran at 0800 hours IRDT. After that, you're all alone."

Caroline gathers her blond hair into a fist, winding a silky lock around her wrist. "Time?"

"You've got 54 hours to get to Kiev. A Quinjet will be waiting for you; you'll have a ten-hour window after that. Once your window's up, both you and Kingfisher will be declared KIA."

Caroline shrugs nonchalantly. "Same old, same old." Rising to her feet, she pockets the tablet and begins to exit the conference room.

"And, Forbes," Maria calls.

"Yeah, Hill?" Caroline glances over her shoulder to gaze at the Assistant Director.

"Fury says that he's sorry about the pigeon."

XX

Tehran, Iran

2009

Kingfisher is a man well into his late sixties, with dark shaggy hair flecked with grey, tanned leathery skin, and vulture-like nose. Despite that, his dark eyes are shrewd, and it takes only one look at Caroline for him to level a slim black rod near her forehead threateningly.

"Tell me who you are. Anything else, any sudden moves and I will fry your brain," he says in crisp, curt English, no trace of any accent, as he thumbs a switch at the base of the rod. There is a small hum as the top of the rod flares brightly, crackling with blue electricity. Kingfisher shifts the Taser-like device closer to Caroline's forehead, and she can barely avoid flinching.

Her brain and electricity have a history older than the Vietnam War.

"Fury sent me," Caroline says calmly, forcing her mind to focus on the man in front of her.

"Likely," he responds in a guarded tone.

"Fury says that he's sorry about the pigeon."

Kingfisher cocks his head, studying Caroline with such intent that only years of experience keeps her expression blank. Finally, having apparently found nothing amiss, he begrudgingly states, "Fury's agents are usually… less Barbie."

"I'm sorry that my hair is too blonde and that I am too plastic to do my job," Caroline replies dryly. "Fury's consultants are usually less bitchy."

"What do I call you?" he asks.

"Call me the Widow, or call me nothing at all," she orders firmly. "Now, get in the car."

XX

Near the southern Moldova-Ukraine border

2009

Thirty hours, six different cars, three brief meals, and one ferry later, Caroline and Kingfisher are finally in Ukraine.

Caroline has been driving the entire time, Kingfisher having never offered to switch off, and the only reason that she has not collapsed of exhaustion is both the adrenaline booster pills she keeps popping and her fucked-up enhanced biology.

They have been sitting in tense silence so thick that it would need to be sliced by a knife the entire time, and even Caroline's torture-instilled patience is beginning to run out.

Their Ukrainian version of a Jeep is the only car on the road as they travel through miles of forest and up torturous dirt paths.

"Where are we?" asks Kingfisher, some of the few words he's spoken to her in hours. His voice is loud and abrupt, words echoing in the large Jeep.

"Near Odessa," Caroline answers, rolling her aching shoulders. "Just a few more hours."

Kingfisher glances at her with an odd look in his dark eyes. "We should stop soon, rest for a few hours. You must be exhausted."

"No," Caroline insists. "We have no time-"

With a loud thump, their Jeep pitches forward, unbalanced, and then jerks out of Caroline's control.

It skids off the road, and the Jeep creaks ominously as it continues to move.

There is a quiet click, and Caroline turns, panicked, to find Kingfisher unclipping his seatbelt.

She opens her mouth to tell him to stop, but there is a long, heart-pulverizing moment of weightlessness as Caroline realizes that the Jeep has slid off the road and straight off a cliff.

Then gravity takes over, and, as the Jeep drops with incredible speed, Caroline finds her throat clogging with panic and blacks out, momentarily aware of Kingfisher in her peripheral vision.

She comes back into consciousness with white-hot flames licking up her side.

There is a stab in her side every time she inhales or exhales, but she has higher priorities.

Caroline is still strapped to her seat and still attached to the Ukrainian Jeep, though still calling it a Jeep now would be a bit of a stretch.

The outer shell, mangled and ugly, remains, crashed and jagged around Caroline. There is shattered glass and plastic that shifts as Caroline reaches a hand around her stomach to unclip her seatbelt.

As soon as she is untethered, Caroline turns onto her side, immediately moaning in pain, and almost blacks out again.

"Come on, you idiot. You have a job to do," she murmurs to herself in Russian, slowly crawling out of the remains of the Jeep. She gasps for breath, vision swimming, but slowly her bloodied palm brushes the rough rock of the ground.

The entire accident has taken approximately fifteen minutes, but Caroline is not fool enough to believe that this was an accident.

Their tires were shot out deliberately, and Caroline still is on a mission. She has Kingfisher to protect.

There is the sound of rubble shifting, and someone behind Caroline cries out in pain, low and masculine.

Caroline tracks the sound and finds Kingfisher pinned between the body of the Jeep and a rock. There is an alarming amount of blood surrounding him, but Caroline breathes a little easier when she realizes that it's all from a head wound.

She goes to hurl the Jeep off of him or at least create a space loose enough for him to roll from the rock when he holds out a silent hand.

Caroline takes a step back, unsure of how to proceed.

"Don't," Kingfisher rasps, his voice rough. He attempts to sit up but slumps back down in a moment.

Caroline immediately realizes why: there is a long, jagged end of the Jeep's frame jutting up from Kingfisher's stomach, having impaled him. It is barely hidden by the crushed Jeep.

"Oh," she breathes slowly, kneeling next to the man. She ghosts her hand over Kingfisher's shirt darkened and dampened with blood.

His wound is too deep; Caroline had misidentified most of it from the head wound. Bleeding out will be long and painful, but moving him will be even more.

"Have you ever been afraid of death, Widow?" Kingfisher murmurs quietly, voice so low that it barely registers in Caroline's mind that he spoke.

She ponders that question for a few minutes, rolling possible answers on her tongue; finally, she settles on the truth, because who is she to lie to a dying man.

"No," Caroline replies honestly, head tilted in consideration. "Not since I became a SHIELD agent."

"And before?" Kingfisher asks again, attention turning from Caroline's wan face to the open sky above them. He sounds genuinely curious; if this is his idea of comfort in his dying moments, Caroline won't deny him of that.

"I…don't remember," she admits cautiously. "Before SHIELD…there's not much I remember; someone fucked with my mind and with my body." The silence between them is tense and filled with Kingfisher's heavy breathing, so she blurts out, "But, when I think of death, I think of flames. Fire burning around you, heavy smoke making it hard to breath, dry heat on your skin."

"Thank you," he says in appreciation, settling back against the rock with a suppressed whimper. "I grow thankful that when I die, my ideas, everything I ever worked on, dies with me, in my head."

She nods silently, but, at the prickle of hair on the back of her neck, she is instantly alert. With fluid movement, she flips up, covering Kingfisher's bleeding body with her own, unwilling to leave him vulnerable to anymore danger.

Fifty feet above, perched on the cliff edge, he stands, gun aimed towards Caroline and the body beneath her. He cuts an imposing figure against the setting sun, outfitted completely in black Kevlar and a full-face mask. His hair peeks out from the mask, sandy blonde and shaggy.

When he moves silently, his left arm twitches by his side, catching the light. It is shiny and reflective and completely metal.

Something flickers at the back of Caroline's mind, stories about an assassin so secretive that he was a ghost. Metal-armed, always wearing black, credited with over 100 confirmed kills. A sniper so precise and deadly that he never missed. Rumors, ghost stories, that dated past the last fifty years.

The Winter Soldier.

The grace with which he cocks his gun is inherently familiar, and Caroline can picture his fingers wrapping around the handle of the gun and squeezing the trigger quite vividly.

Why?

"Fuck," she whispers harshly. Beneath her, Kingfisher's breathing has teetered off; he is alive but just barely.

The Soldier squeezes the trigger.

Caroline watches the bullet fly, and she can pinpoint the exact moment it tears through her skin. Kingfisher stiffens, and Caroline can tell that he too has been shot.

A clean shot, went straight through her.

She moves a hand to clutch at her abdomen, fingers attempting to stop the gushing flow of blood.

Caroline stares up at the silhouette of the Winter Soldier until he disappears and all that remains is open, blue sky.

Her lips struggle to form the shape of a name she cannot remember, but they too still as she falls into unconsciousness.

XX

SHIELD Medical Center

New York

2009

She is dimly aware of someone ranting and pacing besides her hospital bed.

"Fuck. I'm gone on a mission for three days, and you managed to not only screw your mission up and get Fury's asset murdered, but you also total a car and get yourself shot. How can you be such a god-damned screw-up?" Clint Barton rages as he runs a shaky hand through his cropped hair. In the thirteen years since Caroline joined SHIELD, Clint got married, bought a farm in Iowa for his slowly-growing family, and turned 37. His years barely show on his face most of the time, but, if seen closely, the wrinkles below his eyes are indication of his incredibly stressful lifestyle.

Of course, Caroline has not aged a day.

"Pot calling kettle," Caroline groans as her eyes flicker open.

Clint jumps but covers his evident relief with rousing sarcasm. "Finally. Looks like you decided to stop being a drama queen, Care."

"Again," she states. "Pot calling kettle," She repeats.

He scowls playfully at her. "You're lucky I didn't call Laura before I was sent it to pick up you. She would have raged up a storm until she saw you."

Caroline sits up, ignoring Clint's insistence that she stay laying down. Her body aches, but no wounds seem to open back up. She appears to be relatively healed.

"How long has it been?" she questions Clint.

"Four days," Clint tells her, handing Caroline a glass of water from the hospital side table.

She guzzles it down, mindful of the sharp dryness in her throat. "What happened?"

"You remember the mission?" he asks carefully.

"Yeah." Caroline nods slowly. "I remember we crashed…"

"And then, your mission was hijacked by a ghost assassin who no one believes actually exists." Clint frowns down on her. He is not pissed with her, but there is something he is not telling her. "He shot Kingfisher through you. In and out, clean exit wound. Should have killed you too."

"But I'm special," Caroline remarks dryly. "How long did it take to heal?"

"Wound closed up yesterday. Medical wants you to stay back for another day."

"Fuck no," she snorts as she pulls her hospital gown apart enough to eye the scar on her abdomen.

She winces. "Fuck…"

Clint's seen her naked enough times to not care out the condition of her body. "Yeah." He nods towards the healed wound. "It scarred pretty damn ugly. Bye, bye crop tops."

"More like, bye, bye bikinis."

Their gaze meets, blue to blue, and they both chuckle.

"What else?" Caroline asks.

"Oh," Clint remembers as he snaps his fingers. "A couple of broken ribs. They healed the first day, though you still be a little sore."

"How's Laura?" Caroline asks earnestly.

"Pregnant, cranky. You know how it is." Clint smiles fondly, obviously thinking of his wife. "It's gonna be a girl. We want to call her Lila."

"Caroline's always a pretty name," she states mischievously.

"We're not naming my second child after you, Forbes," Clint snaps playfully at her. "Don't want baby Barton numero dos to start looking up to your ugly mug."

"With you as a father, no one can be sure," Caroline teases back, pale lips tugging in a genuine grin. "When is she due?"

"A month."

"I'm going to visit soon. It's been a while since Cooper's seen his Aunt Care."

"He's three. He doesn't remember you." Clint smirks at Caroline mockingly.

"I'll buy him a puppy; he'll definitely remember me then."

"Whatever," he grumbles before his expression becomes sober. It is such a rare thing to see Clint completely serious that Caroline stiffens. "Caroline," Clint begins softly, "when we were airlifting you to the hospital, you drifted in and out of consciousness."

"Yeah…" Caroline says softly in reply.

"You were calling out for someone named Nik," Clint tells her concernedly.

"I don't remember," Caroline admits.

"Ok," Clint says, "I believe you." He rises to exit the hospital room, but as he turns, Caroline places a gentle hand on his wrist.

"Clint," she calls after him. "Thank you. You gave me something I couldn't remember."

"You're welcome," Clint replies as he hums distractedly.

Nik.

Caroline's lips form the shape of the name, trying it, testing it out as it weighs heavily on her tongue.

Nik.

XX

SHIELD Medical Center

New York

2009

"Your hair is liquid gold, solnyshka," he tells her in a familiar cadence of Russian as he twines a silky blond lock between his fingers, rubbing it softly.

They lie together on a dirtied mat on the floor, huddling together long after their heaving sighs and moans of pleasure died down. Through the square window high above, the faint, bleak light of Russian winter comes filtering in.

"The other Widows have such dark hair, red, brown, black. The targets see you; they see an angel. That's what makes you the deadliest little spider, solnyshka." His hushed murmur warms against her skin, breath fogging visibly.

"Soldat?" she asks quietly, unassumingly.

She wonders where he learned to speak like this, sweet and almost lovingly. The Red Room couldn't have taught him; they shaped weapons to be cruel and ruthless, not sweet and soft and loving.

"They can fuck with my brain all they want, fry my memories as many times possible, but sunshine hair never leaves me, solnyshka. Sunshine hair stays with me everywhere I go." He laughs, low, desperate, bitter, jagged.

It is not the laugh of a weapon; it is the laugh of a man.

The Red Room will upset again; the Soldat is not supposed to be a man.

He is not supposed to have a laugh of freezing, cold tundra winds.

She is not supposed to be told that she is an angel with sunshine hair.

"Soldat?" she repeats again with more urgency.

Caroline shoves herself upright in the hospital bed, chest heaving with quick, dry breaths. Perspiration runs down from her forehead and down her neck, dampening the collar of her hospital gown.

Her head is aching, aching like it hasn't in years, not since she realized that her mind was hers and hers alone.

Nik.

Nik.

Nik.

The name chants like a mantra through her mind, echoing between her dulling ears, as she settles back against the dumpy, cheap pillow and stares at the flickering, florescent lights of the ceiling.

Nik.


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