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If I'll ever get to heaven, when a million dollars gets you there

She was singing quietly, a half-remembered song from her childhood. Her arms were wrapped around her belly and she was smiling, looking over at her husband. He smiled in return, and touched her stomach.

"It's kicking," he said, awed.

"Yes, he is," she replied, considerable pride in her tone.

"I can't wait to meet him," he told her earnestly, pulling a blue ribbon out of his pocket and wrapping it around her fingers.

She smiled, touched, then turned her attention back to the life growing inside her. How amazing it was, to go from taking life to making it. Her hands were stained red but this should go some way to washing them clean. It hadn't been easy, escaping the place where she'd spent most of her life. But he was worth it. They were worth it. She wouldn't go back to that life. Surely she could serve her beloved country some other way than killing enemies of the state. That's what he'd assured her, anyway.

"Alexei," she murmured, a sudden urgency in her tone.

"I'm here, Natalia. You're safe now," he assured her, taking her hand. "They won't take you back, now that I have you. I won't let them. And they value me too highly to risk my displeasure," he added with a self-deprecating wink.

She smiled up at him; he was so handsome, so confident. Reaching up to cup his cheek, she closed her eyes as she rubbed her belly. This was going to be perfect.

Natasha tried to cling to the moment, but her traitorous subconscious carried her forward, to when this pretty image shattered. To when she woke up in a pool of blood, horrified that she could no longer feel the child moving inside of her.

"Alexei! Alexei!" she screamed, panicked.

"Natalia, I'm here, you're safe," he told her, but his voice was shaken.

"He's gone, Alexei!" she cried, burying her face in his chest.

He tried to console her, but both were consumed by grief.

It was the last time she spoke to him, the last time she was in his arms, the last time she felt – felt

Natasha woke herself up violently, jumping out of bed and grabbing her gun. What had she been thinking? That she'd never felt safe again, after she'd lost Alexei? That wasn't true. It was a troubling thought. Some of the impressions she had in her memories made her think they might have been implanted, but she had been sure of herself after leaving the Red Room. They hadn't taken her again after she'd escaped.

Dawn found her sitting by the window, absorbed in thought. After Alexei had died, been killed in action, she'd fled Russia. She'd known it was only a matter of time before her former masters exerted their influence and took her back. Not that she left to do anything better, for a while. Now she did better – now she did good. She worked with the Avengers, and with Captain America. Perhaps the latter wouldn't give her any points in another country, but she was wiping the red from her ledger, slowly but surely.

And, yesterday, she'd almost killed a man. He'd deserved it, perhaps, but that wasn't really her place to decide. Afterward, she had done research on him and alleviated some of her guilt. Still, the organization for which he was condemned was still alive and well, and under new management. Or would be, soon enough. She would have to act fast. There were other pressing matters.

Leaving her hotel with all of her belongings, she headed a little ways out of town, a place to which she had not expected to return.

"Oh, and I must apologize again for disturbing you, Svetlana," Natasha laughed, setting down her teacup in its saucer.

The old woman smiled broadly at her, adjusting her oxygen tubes. "Not at all, Natasha. I'm sure you young people don't keep the same hours that I do."

Smiling demurely, Natasha took another sip of tea. "Your grandson has been very helpful, I hope you know," she added.

"My Andre has been a good man as long as I've known him," Svetlana affirmed, nodding at her teacup.

"Oh? You haven't known him since birth?"

"It's a long story, my dear."

Natasha smiled. "I have the time, sweetie."

The old woman flushed at the endearment. "Well, I had to give up my daughter when I was young. Andre tracked me down a few years ago," she explained haltingly.

"Not so long a story," Natasha murmured when Svetlana fell silent.

She rocked back and forth for a few moments, clearly somewhere else. Then she cleared her throat and picked up her tea again. "I'm sorry. My daughter had just passed on, and Andre came looking for family. I'm afraid I haven't been what he was hoping for."

"Nonsense, I'm sure he's glad to have you," Natasha said soothingly.

Svetlana offered her a grateful smile. "So, do you have a family, Natalia?"

"I'm afraid not."

"No one in your life, my dear?" she asked sympathetically.

Natasha shrugged. "I have my work. It has always been enough."

The older woman scrutinized her for a long moment. "Is that how you met my Andre?"

"Yes."

"Then it must be a pleasant job," Svetlana offered with a wink.

Laughing, Natasha shook her head. "It's not, but you make good friends when the job's hard, I think." She waited while her elder began to nod, then close her eyes. "Finally," Natasha muttered, pulling out her purse. Inside, there was an old leather pouch containing a syringe. Without waking the woman, she inserted it carefully into her arm and pressed the hammer.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Rostov's voice interrupted her.

Natasha smiled grimly as she finished her task before removing the implement and brandishing it in his direction. "Have you brought the Sword of Judgment together yet?"

He was glaring at her, hands fisted at his sides. "What did you do to her?" he growled.

"Andre. I asked you a question. I expect an answer."

"No," he spat.

Resuming her seat, she returned the syringe to its place. "Then we still have time. What exactly was your job in the Red Room?"

"Handler. Contact. Whatever they needed on the outside to make sure your missions went off without a hitch," he told her after an angry pause.

"My missions?"

"The Black Widows' missions," he snarled, fists clenching as he took a step forward.

She pulled her gun out of her purse nonchalantly and he stopped moving. "Was your role a violent one?"

His teeth ground together before he answered. "No."

"Good. Then it won't be any trouble for you to use nonviolent means to lead your people toward change."

He snorted derisively. "No trouble at all."

She drank the last of her tea and got to her feet. "Andre. I don't get the feeling you're being sincere."

"After what you did to her," he began, staring forward.

With a sigh, she leveled her gun at Svetlana. "What did I do?"

Sufficiently cowed, he stopped again, swearing under his breath.

"Andre."

"Fine, we can stage nonviolent protests."

Smiling coldly, she returned her gun to her purse. "Good. Here," she tossed him the leather pouch. "Give her a dose of this. She'll sleep for a while, but then she probably won't need those tubes anymore."

His eyes widened, anger disappearing for a moment. "Is this…?"

"Yes. Use it wisely." She strode confidently out of the room, then paused at the door as he pulled the vial out of the leather bag and looked at it, then his grandmother, then back. "Don't disappoint me, Andre. You should know better than to underestimate what I'm capable of. It would be a shame for your former leader to wake up and find out what you tried to do to him, don't you think?"

"You little bitch," he hissed, a snarl returned to his face at the implication.

Cocking an eyebrow, she poised herself to attack, smirking at the look of fear that passed over his expression when he noticed. "What did you call me?" she questioned, voice low and full of an unspoken threat.

"Black Widow," he murmured, beaten.

"The Black Widow," she emphasized. "Top of the class, Andre. Don't forget it." She waited for him to nod, then headed for the airport, to ensure that she wouldn't be the last of that name.