Black Widow
The sixth time hit her the hardest and was the least expected because it was her own mind that turned against her.
Clint had left for a solo mission the week before and a few days after she was also called out. After five long days her mission was over, the information had been collected and a bad man was no longer a threat. Exhausted she managed to avoid all but the basic medical check at S.H.I.E.L.D base before making her way back to her room at Stark Tower.
It was the small hours of the morning when Jarvis identified her and let her into the building. She didn't turn her light on when she entered her room and that was probably why she lashed out at the flicker of movement she saw out of the corner of her eye.
The mirror on her wall, which had caught a glint of light from the streetlights outside her window, lay in shards on the floor. Natasha looked down with detachment at her now bloody fist and her broken mirror. Seven years bad luck would probably be an improvement she decided.
She went through the motions of cleaning up after a mission. Her weapons were taken out of her bag and out of their holsters, cleaned and placed in their homes. Her uniform was tossed into the laundry and the dress she had been wearing on the mission went into the bin, beyond repair. Finally she stepped into the shower. She stayed in until the water went cold, trying to wash the blood off her hands. She thought for a moment that she was imagining the blood, a reminder of her ledger and all the lives she took, but her tired mind eventually realised that she still had bits of glass in her hand from the mirror.
After throwing on some clean clothes she did the best she could with her hand, removing the tiny glass shards, and then moved on to her other injuries. The worst was the gash in her side, which probably needed stitches but she settled for a gauze bandage for the time being. The graze down her left leg was bad but not bleeding enough to warrant a bandage. Her sprained wrist was wrapped sloppily with one hand and the numerous other cuts and bruises were minor enough not to worry. Out of energy she leant against the bathroom wall and slid down until she was sitting. The tiles felt cool and soon she found herself lying down, her many bruises soothed by the lower temperature.
"Excuse me, Agent Romanoff," Jarvis's disembodied voice called, "I couldn't help noticing that you are injured. Would you like me to call for some assistance?"
Natasha considered the A.I. "Do you ever get tired of following your programming, Jarvis?" she asked her mind far away in a different time and place.
"I do not, Agent Romanoff," Jarvis answered obligingly. "It is the reason I exist, as it were."
"I was like that once; blindly following orders, never questioning, just existing to serve."
"Forgive the intrusion, Agent Romanoff, but my information says that you overcame the programming that was forced onto you," Jarvis offered.
"Yes, but what if I didn't or what if I somehow reboot? I don't want to be that person ever again," she whispered.
"I assure you, it would not be possible or at least would not take affect for long."
"How do you know?" she asked, desperation creeping into her voice.
"You still perform the same actions through S.H.I.E.L.D. that you were programmed to do, do you not?"
"I do."
"But you are not controlled against your will?"
"No."
"That is the difference, Agent Romanoff. You did not break free of your programming. Instead you embraced it, overcame it and evolved. You are superior to the programming as you made it part of you and now control it. You cannot revert back to the programming as you are now on a different level."
"You believe that?"
"Through an examination of your case files, cases similar to yours and your daily mannerisms I can conclude that it is highly unlikely that any attempt at programming or re-programming you would be successful. In the event that it was successful you have a team behind you who would not rest until you were restored to your previous self. Agent Barton is a recent example."
Natasha slowly considered the A.I.'s words. The dark cloud that had been hovering over her head for the last few days faded a bit. "Thank you, Jarvis."
"You are most welcome, Agent Romanoff. Would you like to me to call someone for medical assistance?"
"No, I'll be fine. I'll just rest a bit before I move to my bed."
"If you are certain, Agent Romanoff."
She didn't respond as she had dozed off. Jarvis continued to monitor her temperature, heart rate and breathing and made a note to wake her in a few hours in case of concussion.
It was the next morning, technically the same day but now with the sun above the horizon, when Clint returned from his mission. He made a quick stop to his room to dump his bag, bow and quiver, before heading to the kitchen on the communal floor of the tower. Most mornings you could find whoever was in residence sitting around the kitchen counter eating breakfast or drinking a coffee while reading the newspaper.
Pepper was the first to notice him as she was facing the door. "Welcome back, Clint," she called. Steve who was sitting opposite her turned and only waved a greeting as he was in the middle of eating.
"Good to be back," he said, grabbing a chair and an apple from the fruit bowl sitting on the end of the counter. "Did I miss anything?"
"Tony and Bruce are still working on ways to shut down Tony's suit in an emergency," Steve answered. "They are having trouble finding ways that don't make it easier for enemies to do the same."
"Thor is visiting Jane," Pepper continued, "and Natasha got a mission a day or two after you left."
"Really? Do you know where?"
Pepper shook her head, "It was all pretty sudden. I don't think she even knew when she left."
Clint frowned. "Jarvis, could you call Agent Hill for me?"
"Right away, Agent Barton."
"Agent Hill," she answered.
"Hill, it's Barton. Do you have any information you can share on Agent Romanoff's mission?"
"I'm glad you asked, actually. Medical was busy when she got in and one of the green doctors got her post-mission check-up instead of her regular doctor. She charmed her way through it of course, so I wanted to make sure she got her injuries tended to properly."
Clint shared a look with Steve and Pepper. "When did she get in?" he asked sharply.
"Very early this morning," Hill answered hesitantly, sensing that something was not right. "She left base after an immediate debrief and medical."
"Jarvis, is Natasha in the building?" Clint asked.
"She is in her rooms, Agent Barton. She appears to have some injuries but is not in a critical condition. She did not wish to be disturbed."
Clint stood up, quickly followed by Steve and Pepper.
"Barton," Hill warned, "she was doing a web mission. They had her for three full days."
"Got it. I'll call you back."
"Thanks, Clint."
"What's a web mission?" Pepper asked, trying to keep up with the long strides of the two men.
"And why did she skip out on medical?" Steve asked, following Barton as he gave up on the elevator which was taking too long and headed up the stairs.
"A web mission is Natasha's specialty," he answered, taking the steps two at a time. "She does some dodgy spy work, gets caught and is interrogated. You give away the most information when you believe you are in control and Nat knows how to exploit that." They reached her floor. "As to skipping out on the medical, trust is a very fragile thing in our profession. A lot of hits are taken out by assuming a position of trust, for example doctors, police officers, firemen, even priests. It's the work of a moment to steal a white coat and stethoscope, sneak into a room and inject someone with a lethal dose of poison disguised as a booster shot."
"That's…sad," Pepper whispered.
Clint shrugged, "That's the way the world works." He stopped at Natasha's closed but unlocked bedroom door. "You two wait here, I'll let you know if I need any help."
They both nodded and Clint entered the room. The first thing he saw was pieces of mirror littering the floor, reflecting the light from the bare windows. It would almost look pretty he supposed, if it weren't for the small traces of blood on some of the edges. He stepped further into the room, noticing that the bed was untouched, but all of Natasha's weapons were in their proper places. He headed for the closed bathroom door, the only other place she could be.
"Nat?" he called softly, knocking on the door. When he didn't get a response he opened it anyway.
He found her on the floor, her red hair and the blood seeping through her shirt making a stark contrast with the white tiles and material. A quick inspection reassured him that his partner was injured but not mortally. Her breathing indicated that she was asleep, but not unconscious and the blood was seeping not gushing. Her left eye was swollen and purple, a cut on her cheekbone making him think she was punched by someone wearing a ring. Her breathing was shallow hinting at injured ribs or the bleeding cut on her side was deep. Bruises littered her skin and one leg was a solid graze no doubt from jumping out of a moving vehicle.
"Nat," he called again, not wanting to startle her. Based on the mirror outside it would not end well. The third time was the charm and Natasha slowly opened her eyes.
"I thought you were on a mission," she said groggily.
"I just got back," he said, placing a hand on her forehead to check for fever before gently inspecting her eye. "I was told that you charmed your way out of a full medical."
"I didn't feel like dealing with people," she replied honestly. Slowly she sat up with the aid of Clint.
"What happened, Tasha?" he asked gently.
"Nothing that hasn't happened before."
"Something happened for you to close yourself off. Jesus, Nat, this needs stitches," he said having lifted up the edge of her top to see her side. "What kind of knife made this?"
"Machete," she corrected.
"Natasha."
Natasha gave in once she saw Clint's worried expression. She closed her eyes and lent her head back against the wall. "It was the usual show and dance. He asked questions, I answered; he didn't like my answers and then attempted to persuade me. Except he had a lackey doing the dirty work."
"And?"
"The guy was old, in his fifties, and the look in his eye was just…broken. He did everything without question, all the fight had gone out of him. He had old scars, scars that made me think that once upon a time he had tried to get out, get away, break free…and he just couldn't. I saw what my life could have been like, still could be like."
Clint gently cupped her face and brought his forehead to hers until they were touching. "Natasha, you know that's not you. You got out, and I won't let you go back, you hear?"
"I know," she said, opening her eyes and offering him a soft smile. "Jarvis and I had a good conversation. But I'll always wonder."
"Wondering is good, it keeps you on your toes." He frowned, "Jarvis, eh? I've been trying to tell you this for years, and one conversation with Jarvis convinces you."
"Jarvis had good logic. Besides, you're biased."
"Wouldn't have it any other way," he admitted. "Now, you need stitches and probably to see someone more qualified that me in the medical field, like Dr Banner."
"If I have to," she sighed.
"You do. Up you get," he said and in one move stood up and swept her into his arms.
"I can walk," she protested, automatically wrapping her good arm around his neck.
"Yes, but someone broke a mirror in your room and you aren't wearing shoes."
"Just this once then."
Steve and Pepper followed them down to the lab where Tony and Bruce were. They were surprised to say the least when Clint entered with Natasha in his arms, but Bruce quickly snapped into doctor mode while Tony pestered her with questions enough to distract her from Bruce's ministrations. Pepper lamented over the loss of Natasha's dress after she found out its fate and then called Thor who had wanted to know when the assassins had returned. Steve offered a few observations but mostly made sure Tony didn't get carried away. And Clint was a solid presence by her side throughout the whole process.
Natasha was very conservative in her choice of friends, but these people here gave her no choice but to befriend them, for which she was glad, even if occasionally she got caught by friendly fire.
