Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, Thor, the Black Widow Strikes comics, or the Avengers, along with the characters, the quotes, and everything else associated with Marvel.
A/N: Wrapping up my spin on what happened between Thor and Avengers. :) I hope I paced well enough to make Phase Two, Cap, and everything else seem believable given they occurred so close together in such a short time. From here on I'll be basing off the plot on the Black Widow Strikes comics (essentially Natasha's mission preceding the movie)
Any Russian spoken will not italicized but be treated as normal, English dialogue.
Apologizing for any spelling/grammar mistakes beforehand.
Hope you all like, review/favorite if you want!
"Cherish this 'cause when it doesn't last, you'll wish you had."
-Carry Your Will, The Mowgli's.
Chapter 21
Fury approached her a week later with the Moscow mission.
"We've smugglers shipping StarkTech around," he said, tapping an impatient finger on the printer as it printed her brief. "Justin Hammer's the seller, but I'll deal with him myself. I want you to chase the shipment down before it gets out of hand."
Natasha crossed her arms. Never before had they presented her with a Russian assignment.
"A nice little visit for you, I s'pose. It's been a while."
"It has."
Fury handed the printed papers to her, his expression amused. "You think I'm nuts. That's what you think of me."
"Director-"
"I don't care about the shit you say, agent Romanoff, but there are people who do. They pick through the surveillance I send them like they're looking for gold nuggets, so I suggest you take Coulson and Barton's warnings into consideration. I'm sending you onto thin ice with this mission; you make it flawless, your stand with us solidifies. You fuck it up in any way, Romanoff? The ice cracks, and it's all on you."
Fury came so close that Natasha could see his eyeball's veins. She nodded to show him she understood his intentions. "Thank you, director, for-"
"Thank yourself. If it's not for your efficiency I wouldn't hesitate to blast a hole beneath your feet. I am not the all-loving Jesus Christ that Coulson's feeding into your beliefs. This is no orphanage I'm running."
Natasha reviewed the brief in her room as she waited for Clint's return. Coulson had fetched him to weapons production that morning to see the new arrow designs before Fury called her in. S.H.I.E.L.D's limited knowledge of the mission's circumstances left a majority of her tasks to improvisation; all she had to work with was that two days ago, Hammer had transferred an unknown quantity of StarkTech into the hands of arms-dealer Mikhail Fjodorov. Fjodorov's motives with the cargo remained unknown.
Well, you wanted something interesting.
A few muffled voices echoed down the halls in chaffing tones. Natasha folded the brief to put on her bed. The door knocked. She opened. "What the hell?"
Clint grinned and stepped past her into the room, followed by Coulson. "What do you think?" He posed in front of her.
"What do I think? You told me you're trying out arrows, not costume fitting." Natasha spun him around, taking in the vest he wore. She brushed her hand over the maroon, cross-shaped design on his chest, then the rest of the outfit. "This isn't Kevlar."
"It's a new composite material, forty-five percent lighter in weight."
"If you say so..."
"Oh, and these." Clint dropped the silver, laptop-sized case he held onto her bed and revealed a dozen of gleaming arrowheads, most of what looked like they belonged in an operation room rather than on the end of an arrow.
"They look like death. I'm all for it." Natasha nodded in approval.
Coulson stepped forth to snap the case closed. "Alright, show's over." He flicked a hand at Clint. "Take that off, I need to return it for refinements. Sorry to ruin the fun."
Clint shrugged himself out of the vest and stretched while Coulson gathered all the gear. Natasha watched his torso twist without effort. Almost all his freedom had returned, but he wouldn't be partaking in any vigorous missions for a while longer, even after he's cleared.
"I want you two back behind Selvig in ten," Coulson ordered and left.
"What's the point?" Clint muttered. "All he does is poke around the cube and complain." He noticed the brief on her bed and sat down on the mattress to read it. Natasha stood in front of him and watched his expression change.
"You just got this?" His tone was neutral.
"Yeah, I'm leaving tonight." She watched Clint's hand slide along the sheath of her knife at his hip, unused to seeing the weapon on him instead of hidden in its case.
"I know. I read."
"I'm just saying."
"Moscow? Sounds nice."
"That's what Fury told me."
"Cool." His voice told the opposite. Clint crunched the brief into her mattress and got up. "I'm gonna go grab a jacket, then we should get back to work."
Natasha stuffed the papers into a drawer and swallowed a sigh. Whatever reserve and curtness he held against her now, she wanted it gone.
For once, the silence jam-packed and suffocated unnecessary space in a way that silence between them usually didn't. In the few days since they had that job, Natasha had spent her time coaxing sleep by Clint's side while he watched Selvig, and the quiet then didn't feel empty nor obtrusive. They had comfortable reasons for silence. Now she felt she ought to fill it up.
It wasn't until later, when she saw the frustrated way he tugged the zipper on her bag as he helped her pack, that his emotions came through to her. His frown wasn't because he felt excluded, his silence not because he worried about her. But she knew one thing for sure. If she didn't interfere, they'd part this way; her throwing her gear over a shoulder and smothering the door shut, him scrambling for something other than her belongings to yank and tug on.
Ridiculous.
Natasha dropped the dress she was folding and hugged him.
He nudged her arms from his waist in a tepid attempt to withdraw her from him." We don't have to do this every time you leave."
But you want to. "Should I let go?"
Clint's hands closed on her, gliding over and pressing into the curves of her body. Every bit of a no ingrained into his touch. Natasha rushed her fingers down the contours of his arms, the feel of skin and muscles she tried to savor now because she'd miss it later. Miss it harder than she ever would if she stayed in P.E.G.A.S.U.S.
He broke away first. Her insides convulsed when he jerked her drawer open and shoved her brief into her hand, pushing her to the door as he did so. Her door.
"I've still got a quarter-hour to spare," Natasha informed, puzzled by what he's doing.
"Then get there early." Clint continued edging her to the exit, picking up her equipment and forcing it onto her shoulder.
She huffed in resignation, then leaned forward, but he dodged her mouth to kiss her cheek.
"Go kill 'em, Nat."
The insertion team dropped her off on the brink of the Russian morning. Walking to her hotel, Natasha felt a strange invisibility shroud her, detaching her from her surroundings. She had never recalled downtown Moscow with specific fondness, but walking among the explosion of Russian signs and citizens, an emptiness consumed her. While she had no problems blending physically and mentally into countries she had never been before, she felt her home country refuse her. An intensified reverse culture shock for a place she never considered home. She didn't even grow up here.
Hoping her unsettled state would fade with adjustment, Natasha left for the nightclub her cover identity worked at once she checked into her hotel room. The brief had instructed her to meet with the club's management right away, as Fjodorov would depart from Moscow the next morning, making tonight her last chance to interrogate him about the StarkTech shipment.
A brief half mile walk from her hotel, and she arrived in the office with the manager: middle-aged, mustached, and a complete automaton in terms of conduct.
"Miss Sokolova, you're early," he said, and gestured for Natasha to sit down.
"Just Tatiana, please." Natasha smiled, then added, "I can start right away?"
"I don't see why not, since your employment history tells me you're a veteran hostess. Here, sign this." He slid a pen and a piece of paper towards her. "I can get someone to tour you, if you like."
"No, but thank you for the offer."
Natasha knew something was off when she retrieved her coat from the hanger outside the manager's office. It had shifted two hooks to the left. A long, black strand of hair looped around the tag inside the collar, standing out against the tan fabric on proud display.
She omitted that detail when she updated Coulson, pacing around her hotel room like a caged animal while she talked.
"Our intel uncovered more info. Fjodorov's business partner Starodoub will join him tonight to discuss transfers on their shipment, so before you make your appearance, see that they talked first."
"I got it, Coulson. I got it. Anything else?"
"We're good. Hey, you sure you're ok?"
"I'm fine." Natasha didn't notice the shake in her voice until he pointed it out.
"You want me to get Barton for you?"
"No." A mix of offense and inhibition flared at his suggestion. If Coulson thought she depended on Clint, she'd slap both of them when she returned.
"Well then, keep your comm on once the show starts, kay? I can't have you off at all when you don't have a backup team."
Intense Tetris-playing killed a few hours. Natasha dragged out the time she used to put on her dress for the night—a sheer, shimmering, almost threadbare black fabric that wouldn't make a difference to the eye if she'd stripped naked—her precise intention.
When Natasha left for the nightclub, she saw that the plastic door hanger on her doorknob had flipped, so that the "Do Not Disturb" message faced in. She held her head high, zipped her trench coat closed, and adjusted the switch blade settled into the inside of her sleeve.
The effect of the dress was instantaneous. As soon as she shed the concealing coat, she felt a change in the crowds. Twice she saw Fjodorov hunched over a booth with Starodoub, deep in discussion and oblivious to their surroundings.
She had just lured a young man into buying another drink when Starodoub's exit alerted her to proceed with the plan. Fjodorov was alone. Or as alone as he could afford to be while surrounded by his men. He knew what illegal arms-dealing would mean for his safety.
Natasha strutted to his booth and spread her palms wide over Fjodorov's back, ignoring the stares of his watchdogs a few feet away with their hands on their hips. "Why aren't you out having fun like everyone else, Mr...?" A tilt of her chin, a lilt in her voice, and she had his attention.
"Fjodorov," he provided. The heavy beard he bore stirred like a black bear over his mouth. "You look like all the fun I'll need." His eyes raked over her as she squeezed in beside him on the seat against the wall, the backs of her thighs grazing his lap.
Natasha picked up his half-full glass of vodka and nibbled the rim. She sipped, and set it back down. Fjodorov's reactions were all the right ones. He kept his eyes busy flicking back and forth from her face, her cleavage, and the lipstick she smeared on the glass.
"I'm sorry, your name?" He hadn't paid mind to the gossip around him.
"Tatiana Sokolova."
Fjorodov nodded. He obviously cared more about grabbing a handful of her than her identity, but played along for now. "I haven't seen you around before, Tatiana, and I've visited this place plenty."
"I'm new." Natasha smiled. Fjodorov managed to slide his hand along her thigh. She could still feel the ghost of it minutes later, when he decided he's had enough of her teasing, and got up in one abrupt move. Shuffling his round body out of the booth and pulling her along with him, he made it clear for her to come with him.
His head of security tried to dissuade him, but Fjodorov threatened to fire him, and that shut the fellow up. They barely made it ten steps when a gunshot tore into the air. The next moment Natasha looked at Fjodorov, he had a bullet hole dead center on his forehead.
Screams and shouts. The crowd repelled in panic. Fjodorov's men barked and launched at her. "Get her!"
Saving her shock for later, Natasha acted on instincts and fled. A few bold hands clawed at her. The stricken mob slowed her pursuers nonetheless while she writhed to get out.
Fjodorov's head guard claimed Tatiana as the killer with a shout. The unaware groups near the exit began to stir. A couple of burly men cornered and reached for her. Natasha slipped out of their grasp. She snapped an elbow aimed for her stomach and kicked at the face of another man. The bar stretching along the length of the club had the least people, she noted, and launched in its direction once she dealt with the last fool trying to catch her.
Natasha bounded onto the bar table and took off. Her heels clashed against the glass runway as she ran along its length. The act elevated and exposed her to her hunters, but now she had speed on her side. Fjodorov's men fired. The scream of exploding wine bottles and glasses trailed her.
The end of the table approached. The club's guards blocked it, expecting her to fall into their hands. Natasha scanned her options. She willed the strings of lights suspended from the ceiling ahead to hold her weight and jumped.
They held. But not long enough. The lights gave as she swung herself into the air. A floating moment later, she plummeted in a premature descent. Her heels, unprepared for this kind of impact, twisted under her upon landing. A jolting pain collapsed her ankles. She stumbled, gritted her teeth, and resumed running.
A pack of door attendants and bouncers shot forth to block her. Natasha ripped the switch blade from the inside of her belt. Coulson would skin her for furthering the mess, but her circumstances allowed no alternatives. She assessed the number of guards she could dodge, and the ones she had to fight through. Her hand tightened around the blade for a strike when a couple more gunshots dropped the nearest guards.
I could have managed them, Natasha thought, and sprinted out the now cleared doorway, ignoring her relief for not having to take them down herself.
The night air stung her lungs. A number of stares directed her way. Getting out of the club wouldn't do her much good if she stood out in the open with half her ass showing. More guards, and soon, the cops, would come after her. Natasha dove into one of the quiet alleys, scaled the second floor of an apartment building and yanked a men's sweater and a pair of jeans from the clothesline.
"What happened?" Coulson said in her ear. "And I told you to stay online while you work."
"Someone else was after Fjorodov, too. Except they wanted to kill him. And they did." Natasha tucked her hair inside the sweater and rolled the too-long pant legs up so she could walk. "They're framing my cover for murder, Coulson. I broke out."
"Any clue on the real assassin?"
"None," she lied.
"I can set up extraction for you in twenty minutes. It's best we get you out before-"
"I'm staying."
"We can't have the police department after you, Romanoff."
"Name one incident where I got caught by the cops."
"None. Because you obeyed my orders."
"You're not everything, Coulson." Natasha began to snap. "You're not the one behind my decisions. You don't-"
"You are working for S.H.I.E.L.D. I am your control for this mission. You obey my instructions by default."
She pictured Coulson sitting in his desk, signing paperwork in a heated room, while she snagged clothes from porches in the cold, thousands of miles away; witnessed another assassin kill her target and help her escape. Coulson had no idea. And she planned to maintain that ignorance.
Natasha tore the comm out of her ear and disabled it.
Hot anger rifled through her body at the sight of Valeria's twin making coffee in her hotel room. Anger not towards the intruder, but herself. Anger for not feeling that very emotion towards Sofia. She felt no surprise, no reproach, but a mere acceptance that Sofia existed. Maybe Natasha hadn't change at all if she held no sentiments against her ex-accomplice to prove otherwise.
Offering no acknowledgment to Sofia, she headed for the bathroom, undressed, and tossed the stolen clothes into the bathtub. She ground her palms into the edge of the sink and stared into the mirror long and hard, unsure of what she wanted to see or how she should act.
Sofia whisked into the reflection. Her black hair was held back in a ponytail, her expression relaxed. She watched Natasha for a moment, then approached with a pair of scissors. Sofia raised the scissors with one hand and grabbed a lock of Natasha's hair with the other.
Natasha stiffened. Sofia snorted and rolled her eyes. "You think I'd waste seven bullets on those guards so I can stab a pair of hair scissors through your skull?" She didn't wait for an answer and proceeded to snip away the red hair between her fingers. "You can't go out looking like your cover. A shooting so close to the president and the Red Square will bring extra attention; investigation's much more thorough."
"I have hair dye." Natasha watched the strands hit the sink, little wisps that had accompanied her for months, years, shed like dog fur, and felt an odd sobriety spread from her stomach. How little time it took for her acquisitions to vanish as if they never existed.
"No, you don't. I looked through your stuff."
"Don't let me catch you at that." As if Natasha didn't feel exposed enough with Sofia's hands in her hair, learning that she had searched her belongings left her hollowed.
"You wouldn't. You're underestimating me. As usual." Sofia made "as usual" sound like it belonged in yesterday instead of over half a decade ago.
"And you're underestimating me; sticking your hair in my clothes and all. Did you expect me to quiver in fear?"
"Just wanted to see if you're still as sharp."
"Contrary to your assumptions, I did not turn stupid in America." Natasha forced herself to hold still as the sound of Sofia's scissors trimming came uncomfortably close to her right ear.
"Hmm. You've turned an awful lot of other things, though."
"Sofia?"
"Yeah?" The sound of the scissors ceased.
"You're not leaving this room until you answer every single one of my questions."
Thanks for reading!