A/N: An important note this time guys. The end of this chapter is fairly dark in terms of content. Not for the faint hearted. Don't believe in giving things away, but let's just say Natasha does some things which are thoroughly not recommended. Just a heads up for those of you who might find certain things difficult to read.
Turn
by Flaignhan
"You're late."
"I'm sorry," she says breathlessly, dumping her bag on the desk and collapsing into the chair opposite Fury's. Her chest heaves as she tries to haul in oxygen, her lungs burning. She's getting too old for this.
"When did you get back from Asgard?" Fury asks, his eye narrowed as he surveys her, his chin raised.
"About twenty minutes ago," she tells him, inhaling deeply. She ran all the way here from her apartment, having thrown a few belongings into a bag and hoping they'd be enough. With any luck, anything else she needs, SHIELD will provide, or, as long as she's not shipped off to the middle of nowhere, she can buy when she arrives.
"I told you -"
"There's a time difference," Natasha lies. "Haven't really worked out what it is yet, it varies. Apparently something to do with the seasons on Asgard and -"
"Bull. Shit."
She stops talking, realising that she should know better than to lie to Fury. He's the only one who's ever been able to see straight through her. She tugs her sleeves down, conscious of the narrow bruises scattered over her forearms. They're only light, and they don't hurt, but even so, it's probably best to keep them covered, lest he make assumptions. Fury shakes his head then opens one of his desk drawers, takes out a file, then tosses it to her. She catches it, opens the cover, and is greeted by a photograph of a man with a thick black moustache, and bulbous nose.
Name: Sergei Yanayev.
Current Location: Moscow.
Natasha closes her eyes. "You didn't say I was going back there."
"I thought it might influence your decision," Fury tells her calmly. "When it really shouldn't."
She lets out a huff and opens her eyes, absorbing all the information on the page in front of her. He's a billionaire, naturally, has serious stakes in all the major utility suppliers in Russia, his brother is one of the President's most senior advisors, and his father was a highly decorated General. He has a fierce looking wife, four children, and a mansion on the outskirts of Moscow.
"If we take him out," Natasha begins, "Is that gonna stop the whole process?"
"We want you to take out the entire research centre as well."
He has the good grace to look mildly ashamed. Natasha is one hundred per cent sure that he knew all of this when he first mentioned the mission, knew just how dirty the assignment was. Now, it all becomes clear. She's the only one who's dirty enough herself to be able to accept such an assignment. She's the only one who can justify the killing of a group of people by considering all the potential lives saved. There's never any hard evidence that lives have been saved, but when she can reasonably choose to believe that, she really fucking goes for it. It's the only thing that keeps her sane. It's the only way she'll ever add more red to her ledger, if she's wiping even more out at the same time. Not the most effective means of redemption, but one of the few ways she knows how.
"Apparently, the mentally ill are a commodity, in certain circles in Russia," Fury sighs. "Our sources have found evidence that Yanayev has been buying psychiatric patients and taking them to his research centre. After that, they've not been seen again."
"So how d'you know what's going on in the research centre?" Natasha asks, looking up from the file. "How d'you know he's stripping them of their humanity?"
"You heard of Bocharov?"
"Yeah," Natasha says. She's never met the guy, but he's one of SHIELD's finest. Ex-KGB, master of hand to hand combat, can disappear in the blink of an eye and, according to legend, took out seventeen men in less than thirty seconds on one assignment. It's a record that Natasha has attempted to beat several times herself, but the closest she's ever come is fifteen, before she ran out of men. He's nearing retirement age, and in his time has, apparently, seen stuff that would give even the hardiest of souls nightmares for the rest of their life.
"He's in counselling. He saw what was happening, raised the alarm with his superiors, and they haven't gotten a word out of him since."
"Fuck."
"Yeah. His bosses asked for you. Apparently you're still quite the legend back home."
"It's not my home," Natasha says through gritted teeth, her fist clenching, nails digging into the flesh of her palm. She tries to swallow down the rush of heat that shoots through her at his use of the word home, and ends up biting the inside of her lower lip to keep herself from saying anything she might regret.
"Whatever," Fury says dismissively. "You're gonna need to play this one out carefully. Yanayev is overseeing all of the work undertaken at the facility, so if you can get inside, he shouldn't be too hard to find."
"There's a but…" Natasha sighs, then her eyes meet Fury's calm gaze. "Isn't there?"
"Getting in…" he says, pulling out aerial photographs, maps and blue prints. "Titanium walls surrounding the place, thirty feet high, and they go about twenty feet underground. Guards are equipped with semi-automatics, retina scans needed for access -"
"So how did Bocharov get in?" Natasha asks.
"Posed as an expert on molecular redesign," Fury tells her. "Which was all working fine until he saw the subjects. Then he threw up, and they tossed him out on the street."
"So they don't know we're onto them?" She tries not to consider the fact that Bocharov, a living legend in his own right, who, if he were a few years younger, would definitely have been worthy of joining the Avengers initiative, was so badly affected by what he found in the research facility. She wonders whether it's a personal thing, maybe he saw something that hit a nerve, something a little too close to home, or whether the work going on inside the centre really is the stuff of nightmares.
"Not as far as we know," Fury says, but it's a pointless answer. Not as far as we know really just translates as I don't know, but I really fucking hope not. It's not the most comforting information she's received, that's for certain. Though none of what she's discovered so far particularly fills her with confidence.
It's with a heavy heart that she realises the only way she's going to be getting in to that facility, and when Fury meets her eyes over the top of the file, she knows he's already thought of it too, but didn't want to say it aloud. She doesn't say a word, and lets her eyes slide back down to the information in front of her, committing every last detail to memory,
Fury slides a passport across the desk, and she instantly recognises the familiar burgundy and gold design. She flips it open, finding a picture of herself and the name Irina Dezhnyov. Apparently, she's twenty six years old, and this is the first thing Natasha's found to smile about throughout this whole meeting.
"You're getting younger every year," Fury says with a smile.
Natasha manages a small chuckle, and tucks the passport into her pocket.
"There's a car waiting for you," Fury says softly. "Flight's at four thirty."
Natasha nods, hands the file back to Fury, then takes her phone, purse, and keys out of her bag. She sets them on the table and Fury takes them, opening one of the lower drawers on his desk, placing them inside, then closes and locks the drawer. He passes her a cheap looking purse, which she opens and inspects. Inside are a few thousand roubles, a dog eared photograph of a small girl with red hair and two proud looking parents, and a couple of membership cards to various inane organisations.
"And here I was hoping for diamonds and champagne," she sighs, opening her bag and chucking the purse inside.
Fury laughs, but there's little humour to it. There's a morbid atmosphere hanging between them, and Natasha is more aware than she'd like to be that this could be the last conversation they ever have. But then, she supposes, that's true of any conversation. She could walk out of here and get hit by a bus and Yanayev will carry on until somebody else picks up the baton. Even so, despite her long and not particularly wordy farewell with Loki this morning, she can't help but feel like there are still some things she'd like to say, should she not get the chance later. She opens her mouth to speak, but then decides against it. She doesn't want Fury jumping to any (correct) conclusions.
"Out with it," he says, his tone firm.
Natasha hesitates, then slowly, the words start to spill from her mouth. "If I don't come back…"
"You're coming back," Fury says, and it's not even a supportive, confidence boosting comment. It's an order.
"But if I don't. For whatever reason."
Fury sighs and looks away. Apparently he gets through the day by refusing to acknowledge such an eventuality. Maybe that's why he felt okay about withholding important information from her until after she'd accepted the assignment. Now, more than ever, it's important for him to accept the reality that she's not invincible, and even though she's damn good at her job, she's going unarmed into a centre where they're experimenting with molecular redesign. She's expected to bring the entire place down with no support, no weapons, and without getting shot, or worse. She's positive there's a way, but she knows that it most likely relies on a hell of a lot of luck, and Lady Luck has never looked too kindly on her. Perhaps this time, perhaps with this assignment, she will have atoned enough of her sins to earn herself a little bit of good fortune.
If she can pull down the building, she'll be happy with that. If she manages to escape the building before it meets its demise, even better. She's not hopeful on that last one though.
"Break it to him gently, okay?" she says, her voice soft. "He cares a lot about me. He didn't want me to leave and…he's kinda worried I'm not coming back."
"Does he really have such little faith in you?"
"Don't give him details," Natasha continues, pretending she hasn't heard him. "Be nice. And tell him…" she trails off, wondering how to put into words that strange, swirling feeling in her chest that makes her feel sick to her stomach about the prospect of getting on that plane. "Tell him if he fucks up, I'm gonna haunt his ass for all eternity."
Perfect.
Fury's lips twitch into a smile. He stands, his hands resting on his hips, and Natasha gets up too, slinging her bag over her shoulder and adjusting the strap so it's sitting comfortably. Fury holds out a hand, and Natasha shakes it, giving him one last faint smile.
"I would say good luck," he says. "But you've never really needed that."
Natasha's smile becomes wry, one of her eyebrows quirking with scepticism, and she turns on her heel, exiting the office, finally having entered her assignment headspace, where nothing can touch her, and all emotions are switched off. That is, until she runs into Clint in the corridor.
"You heading off?" he asks, glancing at her bag then back at her face. He's wearing his gym clothes, his t-shirt drenched with sweat, a towel slung around his shoulders. She can feel the heat radiating off of him, and wonders whether he's been sparring with Steve.
Natasha bites her lip. According to protocol, Clint shouldn't even know there's an assignment at all, let alone that she's about to fly out and begin it.
"Fury said you'd be away for a while," he tells her, as always managing to read her like a book.
"Oh…" she says vaguely. "Right. Yeah, it's nothing major, just a couple of weeks and then I'll be back."
"Nothing major?" Clint says doubtfully, his eyebrow raised. "Then how come it's a level seven? Or eight? Or whatever damn level it is that you're on."
"The car's waiting," Natasha says lamely, readjusting her bag strap on her shoulder, choosing to look at the floor instead of at Clint. Ever since she was promoted to level seven, prior to the Avengers initiative, she's hated the distance that it puts between them. It doesn't come into play often, but when it does, she feels awkward, even guilty. Clint's been here far longer than she has, and she wouldn't be here, wouldn't be alive were it not for him. And then, for some reason, Fury has to go and promote her above him.
"Yeah, yeah," Clint sighs, pulling her into a one-armed hug that she knows he needs more than she does. "Go, do some shooting, come back in one piece and we'll head out for a drink or something."
"Sounds good," Natasha says, forcing a smile. "I'll see you soon."
She heads for the stairs, preferring the option to keep moving as opposed to taking the lift, which will guarantee an awkward conversation with whichever occupant she ends up with. This way, she can just brush past people on her way down, her rush evident, and they won't say a word to her. She's relieved when she makes it outside, and after all her anxiety over the upcoming challenges, she just wants to get on with it. She gets into the sleek black saloon waiting for her and fastens her seatbelt, the car pulling away smoothly and joining the traffic.
Maybe she feels calmer now she's said her goodbyes and dealt with Loki. She can't afford to worry about him now, even though she knows that she will, constantly. She hopes he's out with Thor, or at the very least, that he's reading one of his paperbacks and making his way slowly through his first bar of chocolate. She made him swear to her that he'd try to be less argumentative, no matter how shitty he's feeling, and, with a little bit of persuasion, and the promise of rewards upon her return, he had grudgingly agreed to make more of an effort with Thor. She knows it will be the bare minimum, the absolute least he has to do in order for Thor to acknowledge it and comment on it to Natasha, just so he gets his rewards, but she doesn't care. Any improvement is still an improvement, and even though his effort might not be genuine in its roots, that's not her problem right now. What she cares about is making sure he gets through these few weeks without losing his mind or landing himself back in his cell after an almighty tantrum.
She rests her head against the glass, staring out at the rows and rows of cars, all packed in far too close, horns being tooted for no real reason. Their progress is slow, her driver anxiously glancing down at the clock on the dashboard every few minutes. Once they make it onto the freeway however, the journey seems to take no time at all, and before she knows it, she's standing in front of departures, ticket in hand, and making the mental transition back to Russian.
Thankfully, the girl on the check in desk is Russian herself, and so Natasha doesn't have to go through the rather embarrassing scene of pretending she's not understanding a word the girl's saying. She doesn't have the patience for playing dumb. She gets far too frustrated and wants to hurry things along, but from here on out she should, hopefully, be dealing with Russians.
It's been so long since she's been out on an assignment that she finds herself having blind moments of panic when she can't find her phone. She pats down her pockets, before realising that it's locked in Fury's desk, which means no texting, no little games, and no internet. She's relieved when the call to board comes, but studiously waits for the announcement in Russian before she looks up at the ceiling, as though it'll make the announcement more audible, then picks up her bag and heads for the gate.
Happily, they accept roubles on the flight, and she gets through a few shots of vodka before she curls up in her seat, head resting against the window, and tries to catch up on some of the sleep she missed out on the previous night. She doesn't have much luck however, and so she stares out of the glass and the rain whips past, her elbow braced against the arm rest to counter the frequent turbulence, and when the food comes, she almost sends it back. She's been so spoiled with Asgardian cuisine, but it's probably time she got used to wilted vegetables, soggy potatoes and unidentifiable meat that looks like it's never seen an animal in its life. The bland, gloopy sauce doesn't make it much better, and the chocolate pudding in the small plastic cup tastes of nothing. She washes it all down with another vodka, and, ignoring the nausea building in her stomach, she closes her eyes and forces herself to sleep.
The first thing she does is find the research facility. She treks over the rocky, snow covered ground, her scarf covering the lower half of her face to keep the wind at bay. By the time she reaches it, her feet are numb inside her boots, her joints creaking with the cold. There are watchtowers stationed at various points around the high dark wall that stretches far into the overcast sky. She can just make out the silhouettes of guards, gazing out across the land, most likely frozen to the bone and bored to death. Beyond that, she can't see anything else at all. There is a wide track that leads to the only set of gates, which are constantly manned by armed guards, and thorough checks are carried out on vehicles before they'll even consider allowing them entry. When a frosty four by four pulls up, the driver speaks briefly with the guard and within moments, the gates are open. Apparently, there are some exceptions to the rules, and she'd wager that the man sitting in the back of the car is Yanayev himself. Natasha cranes her neck to try and get a good look at the world that lies beyond the gates, but they close so quickly that she doesn't get to see anything other than the back of the four by four.
Suddenly, she hears a twig crack in the distance. She freezes, her skin erupting in goosebumps, and turns her head, trying to spot where the sound came from. Mingling with the whistling of the wind, she hears mumbling, thick, muffled voices conversing in slow, comfortable tones. Between the branches, she sees them, and quickly and silently hops her way over to the nearest, thick trunked tree, employing a few of her old ballet techniques to avoid twigs and loose stones. She holds her breath as they pass, hoping against hope that they don't notice any unaccounted for footprints, but they're far too wrapped up in their conversation to be able to notice anything.
"No, no, she left him, and then he hooked up with Isolde," the first guard says, his voice slightly croaky, as though he's nursing a sore throat.
"I heard different, but then I heard it from him," the second replies, his tone relaxed despite the harsh weather and the semi-automatic that he's cradling in his arms.
"You know how proud he is. He thinks us all stupid enough to believe him, but we know the truth. My sister was at school with Isolde you know."
Natasha rolls her eyes and carefully makes her way back through the trees, not daring to make a sound, just in case there are more guards patrolling the ground. She occasionally takes cover behind larger tree trunks, her eyes scanning the surrounding areas for any signs of life, but thankfully, there is nothing. It's something of a relief when she reaches the road again, and she walks as quickly as she can, back to the outskirts of the city, the occasional car whipping past her, spraying her with slush and mud.
On her way into the city, she passes the wrought iron fence that surrounds the psychiatric hospital, barbed wire coiling its way around the top, and keeps walking, her hair tucked under her hood, past a couple of grubby looking cafés, a newsagents and a butchers, until she arrives in a slightly busier part of the city, cars more frequent, more expensive, the people a little better dressed.
Natasha keeps her eyes peeled, drinking in every detail of her surroundings, every shop, every set of traffic lights, every narrow hotel front, and when she gets as far as the shiny new-built hospital, with huddles of people wrapped up in thick coats outside, their heads bowed against the wind, hands shaking as they take each drag on their cigarettes, she decides she's walked far enough. The darkening sky is an inky blue now, and the snow is picking up, the wind pulling at her coat, and so she heads into the nearest bar, orders a vodka, then goes to find a seat in a quiet corner.
She knows she needs to get drunk, and knows that she needs to keep enough roubles for a place to stay tonight, so she sips her vodka slowly, resolving to get a cheap bottle from the nearest store when she leaves. She doesn't order any food, knowing that it'll slow her drinking down, and so she goes hungry, scowling at the snow building on the window ledge.
She tries not to think of Loki as she drinks, tries not to picture him curled up in bed, awake and alone, tossing and turning until the small hours. She wonders if he ate alone, or if he ate at all. Maybe he, like her, has favoured a liquid dinner this evening, but somehow, she thinks he's handling things okay. Something tells her that he won't have broken yet. Maybe after a week, depending on how things go with Thor, but tonight, he'll be okay. All she can do is get on with her job and try and make her way back to him as soon as she can. She already misses him, which is ridiculous, because not only was she with him twelve hours ago, but she never misses anyone. It's not in her nature to pine after people, and so it comes as a most unpleasant surprise when she finds her chest aching for Loki.
She stubbornly decides that it's less because she misses him and more because she misses the entire situation. She hates being back in Russia. She constantly feels like she's looking over her shoulder, like someone will recognise her at any moment and stab her in the back without a moment's warning.
"You're too pretty to be drinking alone."
Natasha doesn't look up, and when a man in his thirties with messy brown hair and a scrubby beard slides into the seat opposite her, she sighs pointedly.
"You're empty. You want another?"
"Vodka," she says, without looking at him. If he's going to encroach on her personal space and throw cheap lines at her, the least he can do is refill her glass. He takes it and heads over to the bar, returning a few minutes later with a fresh helping of their finest vodka.
"So what happened?" he asks, making himself comfortable, his arms folded on the table, one hand enclosed around his beer bottle. "You look like you've had a rough day."
"Oh you know, just thinking about life," Natasha replies boredly. "And what a steaming pile of dog shit it is."
"Tell me about it," he says, smiling at her. "What's your name?"
"Irina."
"That's a beautiful name."
Natasha rolls her eyes again. He's perfectly harmless, but he's taking her for a fool, and that, she doesn't appreciate. She's not a fool, and she doesn't consider Irina to be a fool either. Damaged, yes, attention seeking too, but not a fool.
"I'm Daniil," he tells her, regardless of the fact that she hasn't bothered to ask. When she doesn't make any sign of acknowledgement, he takes a nervous sip of his beer, bites his lip, then continues. "So what's getting you down?" he asks.
Natasha gives him a withering look that she faintly thinks would put Loki's to shame. "How long have you got?"
"This place doesn't close for another couple of hours."
Natasha sighs, swirling her vodka around in the bottom of her glass, ice cubes clinking, then leans back in her chair. "Well first off, I have no family, which automatically makes every single god damn thing fifty times more difficult." She pauses to take a sip of vodka, then continues. "You know, I see people when they get down, and their parents or their brothers and sisters pick them up and dust them off and help them to keep going."
Daniil nods, his brown eyes tinged with sympathy.
"But my parents died in a fire when I was kid. So there's no one."
"I'm sorry," Daniil says softly. "That's awful."
"And then," Natasha says, pausing again to knock back some of her vodka. Daniil's eyes widen when she doesn't flinch at the burn of the alcohol, and she refrains from smirking, because she knows Irina is far too wrapped up in her own problems to be noticing anything about Daniil. She's probably forgotten his name already. "My lousy boyfriend got himself thrown into jail last week."
Daniil's eyebrows rise high on his forehead. "Really? What for?"
Natasha skews her lips from side to side, fiddling with her glass, her eyes avoiding his. "He got mixed up in the wrong crowd, got in too deep…killed a few people. He's not gonna be out for a long long while." She throws back the rest of her vodka then slides the glass across the table to Daniil, who fumbles, but manages to catch it just before it topples off of the table and crashes to the floor. Dutifully, he rises from his seat and heads back to the bar, returning even faster than before with more vodka.
"Sounds like you're having a really hard time," Daniil says unhelpfully. Natasha ignores him, and carries on listing her complaints. The lies come so easily, and it helps her get her story straight in her head, if she lays everything out in front of this poor guy who was only looking for a date with a pretty girl. To give him his credit, he hasn't run from her sob story, and he has kept her glass full, so he can't be too bad. She even thinks that he's probably given up hope of sleeping with her, and is only still hanging around because he feels bad for her. It's not Nobel Prize material, but it's nice all the same.
"I lost my job too," she says, and she sees the slight panic behind his eyes at the prospect of there being even more to her list than previously imagined.
"What did you do?" he asks softly.
"I was a ballerina," she tells him. It's the only thing she could have convincingly been. She knows nothing about retail, or offices or any of that real life shit that so many people are experts on. She can be the most organised assistant in the universe, as Pepper well knows, but working for Stark Industries is hardly a normal job. Especially not when you're really there to analyse your boss's potential for being part of a super hero group.
"Wow, really?" Daniil's eyes light up at this, and he leans forward, revealing his teeth in a gentle smile. "That's wonderful."
"It was wonderful," Natasha sighs. "Until I refused to fuck my boss. Suddenly, he didn't want me in his productions anymore."
"Asshole." Daniil takes a swig of his beer and leans back in his seat again, his elbows resting on the table, beer bottle cradled in his hands.
"I know, right?" Natasha says, raising her glass to her lips and swallowing a mouthful of vodka. She exhales softly, and shakes her head, placing her glass back on the table and resting her head in her hands. "I just…it'd be so much easier if it didn't all fall apart at once, like if I still had my job, or my boyfriend wasn't locked up, or…if my parents were here."
Daniil reaches across the table and places his hand on top of hers. She looks up at him, his eyes meeting his. He has a piercing stare, and just for a moment, it catches her off guard, causing one of her faux ragged breaths (they're always good for pretending she's about to cry) to catch in her throat.
"Things will get better. Tomorrow's a new day. A fresh start."
"Yeah," Natasha says, wiping at her eyes with the back of her spare hand. "Yeah I guess you're right."
"You'll get another job soon enough, I bet you're a fantastic dancer."
Natasha forces a watery smile and downs the last of her vodka. "Thanks," she says softly. "I'm sorry to dump all this on you, I guess I just…" she buries her face in the palm of her hand and Daniil sighs, reaching his hand forward to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture reminds her of Loki, and the alcohol has increased her yearning for Asgard, her worries about him growing vaster and ever more poisonous to the normal functions of her brain. It feels as though he is at the forefront of everything she says and does, and she has to think through him because not thinking about him just doesn't work.
"I was asking for it, I'm the one who came over," he hesitates before adding, "And I'm glad that I did. I'm glad you're not on your own now."
"You're very kind," Natasha says quietly. "There aren't many men like you. Or at least if there are, they've all stayed clear of me."
"I can't imagine why they'd ever do that," Daniil murmurs, rubbing his thumb gently across the back of her knuckles. "Tomorrow will be better, I promise you. And if it's not, then I live just down the street, in the little house between the newsagents and the pharmacy. You can come see me, any time you like."
"Really?" Natasha asks, surprised at the amount of hope she manages to inject into her voice. She feels awful for manipulating him, knowing that she'll be gone tomorrow and he'll probably be waiting for her, but she's not here to feel sorry for people. She's here to get a job done, and planting roots, even with just one person, for her story to grow and take shape, is part of that job.
"Yeah," Daniil replies, squeezing her hand gently. "Day or night, any time, just come if you need someone."
Natasha sighs. "Thank you," she says softly, placing her hand on top of his. His eyes linger on their hands, then flick back to her face. He glances down at her lips, but then seems to think better of acting on any impulses, and pulls away from her, just a little.
She doesn't feel right, conning any more drinks out of him, and so she excuses herself, thanking him for his kindness, and telling him that she's going to get some rest. He offers to walk her home, but she politely declines, telling him she'll be fine and she just wants a little thinking time. He reluctantly agrees, but sees her to the door anyway, reminding her one last time of the little house between the newsagents and the pharmacy.
She passes the house, with its narrow, wooden door and cracked black paint. She smiles and heads into the pharmacy, buying a few necessities before heading to the liquor store to get her cheap bottle of vodka. After that, she heads to the nearest hotel that doesn't look like a complete dive, and takes a room for the night.
"You have any luggage?" the man on the front desk asks.
Natasha shakes her head and he raises an eyebrow.
"Just the one night," she says, placing her money on the table. He takes it, his eyes lingering on the brown paper bag from the liquor store, but Natasha waits calmly for her change, and he doesn't comment, placing the coins in her hand then passing her a key.
"Room thirteen," he tells her.
She takes the key and heads down the corridor until she finds the brass '13' on the door at the end. She unlocks it and opens the door, before flipping on the light switch and going inside. It's clean, and it's warm, so she can't complain. The bed is nothing compared to the one she stayed in the previous night, and she knows her body will long for the soft mattress and silkily smooth sheets of Loki's quarters. She knows she will also yearn for the presence of somebody else next to her, but she needs to get over that, because this is the most comfortable night she's going to have for a while.
She kicks off her shoes with a sigh and then switches on the television, before settling on the bed, plumping up the pillows and trying to make herself as comfortable as possible. She unscrews the cap of the vodka bottle and then drinks a considerable amount, losing track of the number of glugs that sound before she sets it on the bedside table. She screws up her face and wishes she'd chosen a more recognisable brand, making a mental note to tell Fury just how committed she was to the assignment when she gets back. With any luck he'll reward her with a bottle of Lordanov or perhaps a limited edition Belvedere.
After a while she gets used to the taste (either that or her tastebuds have died completely) but she soon finds her yawns are becoming more and more frequent. She switches off the television and raises her hips, sliding the blankets out from underneath her and pulling them up around her, not bothering to get undressed. She lays on her side and closes her eyes, her knees tucked up to her chest, as she tries to remember the feeling of having Loki's arms locked around her.
If she focuses hard enough, she can remember the sensation of his lips on her neck, and some of the tension in her body disappears, as she slips into sleep.
The light hurts her eyes in the morning, which will serve her right for drinking such cheap and nasty shit. She pushes herself up, her hair all over the place, and steels herself before cracking open the vodka bottle again and downing as much as she can without gagging. It takes the edge off of her headache, but she knows she'll feel all the more awful for it later. It's of little consequence however, because she's pretty sure she'll have much bigger problems by then.
She secures her enchanted hair clip around a rough bun and she feels it lock into place, knowing it won't move until she wants it to. Then, she lies back on the bed and waits for the time to pass, occasionally sitting up to swallow down more vodka. There's a strange sense of numbness about her, as though she has accepted the inevitable. She hasn't really given much thought to the details, having decided that if she does, she might overthink it and ruin it all. She goes to take another few mouthfuls of vodka, but a single dribble slides out the neck of the bottle and into her mouth. She drops it to the floor, where it lands on the carpet with a soft thud, her hand hanging over the edge of the bed, fingers curling every now and then as though trying to maintain a grip on the bottle that's no longer there.
She falls asleep again after a while, though it's an uneasy, unrestful sort of sleep, plagued with dreams of Loki descending into madness and being locked away once more, his appetite diminished, his body along with it. He refuses to eat, blaming her for everything because she left him, telling her if she'd stayed, none of this would have happened. She argues with him, but it's fruitless, because he can't hear her through the glass, and even when she's yelling her apologies, her breath fogging the glass, her hands pressed against it, his own shouts are louder, his accusations more poisonous, his voice ringing in her ears as he grows ever more hateful.
She wakes with a start, the phone next to her bed ringing shrilly. She doesn't answer it, but one glance at the clock tells her she's overrun check-out by fifteen minutes. She doesn't have long, and so she grabs the bag from the pharmacy, emptying the contents onto the bedside cabinet. Out falls a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, some shampoo, a small bottle of shower gel and a shiny silver razor blade.
Natasha rips the packaging open, then, blade in hand, she stares down at her wrists, wishing she'd thought about this particular bit when she was sober. She holds her breath, then runs the blade along her flesh, teeth digging into her lower lip as she refuses to make a sound. She slices through her skin a few more times, then swaps hands, warm blood drenching her left forearm as she shakily tries to inflict similar wounds on her right arm. When she's done, and she can feel herself losing some of her strength, she falls back onto her pillows, the sickening drip, drip, drip of her blood landing on the carpet giving her a morbid countdown.
She doesn't have to wait long before there is a knock at the door, and when she doesn't answer, she hears a key turn in the lock, the hinges creaking as the door is pushed open, and then a high pitched scream. Loud footsteps hurry along the corridor, and then, breathless, a man swears, and Natasha hears him stumble, reaching out for the door and falling against it.
"Call an ambulance!" he orders. "Quickly!"
More footsteps, and then Natasha hears the man approach. Moments later, a coarse towel is wrapped tightly around her right wrist, and after it's been tied in a rough knot, he moves over to her left, securing a second towel around her forearm.
"You stupid, stupid girl," he hisses, pulling the knot on the towel tight. "What was it? A man?" he makes a disparaging noise. "You fool. You complete fool."
He leans over, tapping her cheek with his fingers, trying to coax some signs of life from her, but Natasha keeps her eyes closed, her breathing shallow, and her movements minimal. His taps grow stronger, until they become full on slaps, but Natasha still doesn't react, not even the slightest twitch when his hand connects harshly with the side of her face.
Giving up, he decides instead to hold her wrists in the air, letting gravity do its work. "They'll take you to the asylum you know. And in all my life I've never seen anyone come out of there. You'd best hope they don't think you're crazy."
Natasha's heart freezes in her chest, her lungs halting, and she loses her rhythm for just a second, the urge to ask questions overwhelming. But then she lets out a shallow breath as sirens begin to wail into earshot. Minutes later, there's the thundering of many pairs of feet, rushing down the corridor, and the squeaky wheels of an ambulance trolley. Her ability to focus on her surroundings starts to fade, and she's soon lifted onto the trolley and strapped in, then wheeled down the corridor, hushed whispers following her progress as the paramedics speak loudly and clearly, trying to elicit a response from her. She doesn't give them one, and after a juddering journey down the front steps, she feels the cold air of the outside world bite at her cheeks, her bare feet immediately freezing up.
In the distance, she hears a panicked shout. "Irina?"
There's a brief struggle, as though someone's pushing through a crowd of onlookers, and then -
"Irina, no!"
Daniil is by her side in an instant, his warm hand wrapped around her cold one.
"Sir, please, we need to take her to hospital."
"Why would you do this?" Daniil whispers, and Natasha tries not to grimace as even more guilt pools in her gut. "Why?" He raises her hand and presses it to his lips, his beard tickling her knuckles, before somebody pulls him away, Natasha's hand falling softly onto the blankets as the paramedics load her into the back of the ambulance. The doors slam, and then they pull away, sirens crying loudly overhead, and Natasha allows herself to slip into unconsciousness.