A/N: I've added a new scene to chapter 32 for a future plot point (:

Chapter Forty
✭

BUDAPEST

I followed Natasha as she approached the building cautiously.

It took us two days to get to Budapest, just to make sure we weren't being tailed. As far as I knew, we weren't, and had made it to this apartment complex without any further incidents.

A very long train ride, though. Better than a car ride, at least — that would've been awkward. The extended, unrelenting silence between us was much more bearable when there were other people and distractions around.

"Whatever happens today," Natasha had told me when we got off the train. "Let me handle it. Yelena is dangerous — at her age now, she'll be just like me. Only younger, I suppose."

Considering Natasha had basically told me nothing since explaining who the girl in the picture was back in Norway, I was practically dying for more information. "Is that your way of saying that you want to be the one to kill her, not me?"

Natasha shot me a cold look. Then looked away again, as we stepped into the crowded train platform. Reluctantly, she finally answered, "Only if I don't have another choice."

She didn't even explain to me the nature of the photo. I'd been to the Red Room, once, a foggy scrapbook of memories, but I remembered enough that the place probably didn't have a classic mall photo booth. "You never told me where those pictures were taken. How long ago was that?"

Natasha sighed as we weaved through people. "Ohio. It has to be… over twenty years ago now."

"How old is she?" I asked, trying to recall what the little girl looked like. After stuffing it in her pocket, Natasha refused to let me look at the photos again. The glowing red vials, though, of significant danger and importance? I got to see them plenty. Go figure.

"Maybe… twenty-seven now. I think. We never really celebrated birthdays in the Red Room."

"And you haven't seen or spoken to her since the day you defected?" I asked, and received a nod in return. Something about this city was finally making Nat more communicative. Or maybe it was the nearness to her former widow-in-arms. "So why did she send this to you now? Has she defected, too?"

"I don't know," Natasha said, her hand rising to pat the pocket containing the photo. "Maybe. I… I hope so. She wouldn't have been allowed to keep this if she hadn't been, in some way, already rejecting the conditioning. If she'd been caught…"

Natasha didn't finish the thought, and I didn't press further. I'd seen what happened to those the Red Room found too far gone. Blood on the floor. Broken body carried away.

I shuddered, trying to shake the cold shiver that went down my spine. "Well, I'm glad you're telling me this now, instead of… later."

Natasha cut a wry smirk, shaking her head. "Never thought this would happen."

I threw her a look out of the corner of my eye. "Which part? Coming back here or seeing her again?"

"Both. A little of both," Natasha murmured, and was silent for a while more — before starting me when she suddenly gripped my arm, saying, "If this is a trap, I want you to run. Do not engage. Yelena won't be alone if the Red Room is trying to catch me. They wouldn't leave it up to just one widow, even one of their best. So you run and you go find help. Rogers is in Spain, last I heard."

I didn't like the tone of her voice, or the painful way her fingers pinched my arm. But her intense gaze brooked no argument. "I get it."

"The only reason you're here right now is because its not safe for you to go home anymore," Natasha continued, sounding like she was mentally kicking herself at the same time, teeth grit with frustration. "Not when Taskmaster has seen your face. If the Red Room is tied into this, then trouble might follow you home."

As if I needed more reasons to not go back to New York. "Fine by me."

She shot me an irritated look, but it appeared only half-hearted. We were walking well into the city now, and if we were being followed, I had yet to spot anything suspicious. But if there were other Black Widows… would I?

The day was overcast, but no rain that one might use to conceal themselves. The noise of the city drowned out any specific noise that I might've heard, that could've indicated someone or something following us. Footsteps blended together. Vehicle engines were all a dull roar drowning into the cloudy sky.

There wasn't a lot of conversation once we were closer to the safe house, though Natasha was certain this Yelena was here. One of the apartments overhead; the entrance was behind a gate, leading into an inner courtyard, and then a once-grand foyer. The apartment had some old world beauty to it, with a spiraling staircase carrying up eight floors of apartments. She stopped us outside of it, and directed me to enter from the other street. I couldn't tell which window we might be observed from, but I was only annoyed when she told me to take the stairs while she took the elevator, to meet at the same fifth floor landing. My legs could handle it, I supposed.

Once out, she stepped to the side, kneeling in front of a great, from which she dismantled and pulled out a small gun. Speaking low, as if we might already be within earshot, she said, "I'll go in first. Wait until my signal before following me. I don't think she knows I came with company."

That perhaps explained why she insisted we enter the building separately, at different entrances. "You think she knows who I am?"

Natasha frowned, and for once seemed at a loss for answer. She could only shrug, as she approached the door to one of the apartments. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I prefer the element of surprise."

I pressed my back against the wall as Natasha began her lockpicking attempt, though I had figured she'd have a key. Either way, I didn't want anyone beyond the door to be able to see me. Or shoot me through the wall.

Yet, as Natasha's picks clicked and scraped in the lock, a muffled voice came from the other side of the door. "I know you're out there."

A woman's voice. Russian. Not directly on the other side, but somewhere deeper within the apartment.

Natasha paused only for a breath, looking up slightly. Perhaps gauging the possibility of being shot right now. "I know you know I'm out here."

With a final click, the lock came free and Natasha slipped in, as silent as a cat with the pistol in her hands.

I had to fight my instincts to follow her. Just resisted a sigh and glanced down at my watch. Yelena was definitely inside. I decided to give it two minutes for Natasha to settle the situation and call for me. If it took any longer than that, well…

I could hear them talking back and forth, short tense sentences that didn't exactly sound like a warm greeting. Nor specifically a trap (why would Yelena announce herself like that if so?), but definitely not friendly.

And then, silence.

Just as I was about to get worried, I heard a sudden crash — a body hitting the floor, the clang of metal pans, the cracking of tile and wooden cupboards, the shriek of two women suddenly fighting.

I glanced at my watch, closed my eyes, and counted.

The noise continued, making me cringe every other second or so. I couldn't tell who was winning, only that it sounded violent, vicious, and yet no gun shots. Natasha had gone in gun raised, but either she had been disarmed or for whatever reason she was hesitating from firing. For that matter, neither had Yelena. At the very least, she hadn't been successful.

At last, the two minute mark rolled around, and the fighting hadn't stopped yet. If this was an easy matter, Natasha would've had it settled by now.

The longer this went on, the worse it would get. And I was pretty sure the neighbors here were normal, and might call the police if this got bad enough.

So, without waiting for the all clear, I stepped inside the apartment. With all the noise those two were making, I doubted they would've heard me even if I wasn't trying to be sneaky. As it was, I kept my steps light, moving silently into the dark hallways beyond. The first doorway on my right appeared to be the kitchen — I saw the shadows moving, and the shuffling of footsteps and rustling clothes indicated they were just inside.

In front of me, a petite blonde woman was just rising to her feet. Natasha seemed to be just out of sight, in the doorway to what must be the dining room. Maybe she had her gun on the blonde in front of me, from the way she moved, backing up, hands raised — but not surrendering. She seemed to know, as I guessed, that Natasha wasn't trigger happy.

Her fingers brushed against a knife resting on the countertop.

I had just stepped into the kitchen when she backed up into me.

The woman gasped, jumping like a cat spooked — her hand coming around with kitchen knife in hand. The kind of expert grace, perfect instinct of a Black Widow, exactly the way I'd anticipate Natasha to perform. It was uncanny how similarly she moved.

But I was still faster, grabbing her wrist before she could stab me, while my other arm clamped down on her shoulder.

The woman shrieked in indignance as I lifted her up by her collar, at arm's length. At the same time, I ripped the knife from her, leaving her hands empty and flailing at me uselessly — my reach was longer than hers, so all she could do was beat at my arms in a vain attempt to free herself.

"Mia!" Natasha swept into the room, looking furious. "I told you to stay outside!"

"You know her?" The younger woman snarled, whipping her head around to glare at Natasha. Then back at me. "You brought her here?"

"You guys were taking too long," I replied, ignoring the person I assumed to be Yelena. My arm swung slightly as she writhed, legs kicking several feet off the floor. "What was I gonna do, wait for you guys to destroy the entire apartment? We don't have time for family drama. Is she with the Red Room or not?"

Natasha glared at me, looking like she wanted to argue the point further. Then to Yelena, waiting for an answer. "Are we done?"

Yelena made a sound like a wild animal, attempting to bite me, but didn't have the right angle. At last, when she realized there was no point in fighting anymore, she huffed and sagged in my grip, arms hanging limp at her sides. Her expression dark, she mumbled, "Yeah. We're done."

Only at Natasha's nod did I finally release her, and Yelena dropped back to her feet, light as a feather, if slightly off-kilter. She shot me a venomous look before brushing herself off as if nothing happened. To Natasha, she said, "I thought you worked alone."

"I do," Natasha said, and didn't look at me. "This wasn't part of the plan."

I pretended not to hear the insult in those words. Now that everyone was calm again, I took stock of the situation. Yelena, as I assumed her to be, seemed to be a young woman in her mid-twenties, about what Natasha had guessed earlier. She was dressed casually, in a jacket, white shirt, and plain jeans. Not armed up to the gills like a widow lying in wait within a trap. Judging by the lack of noise in the rest of the apartment, she was the only one here.

Neither she nor Natasha looked too badly injured, just cuts and scrapes they managed to inflict on each other. The kitchen had been totaled but the rest of the apartment seemed untouched. The second threshold did indeed lead to a dining room, long enough for a wide table, though now filled with an assortment of old furniture, an eclectic collection of chairs, shelving, and a sideboard. Gauzy curtains covered the windows. The TV was a blocky CRT, and looked like it hadn't been turned on in years.

There was a long moment of silence, with Yelena studying us out of the corner of her eye, and Natasha staring directly at her. Her hackles lowered. "You've grown up."

Yelena threw her a wry look, as she stalked over to the fridge. "No shit."

"You just had to come to Budapest, didn't you?"

"I came here because I thought you wouldn't," Yelena was still slightly out of breath, panting a little as she stalked over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of vodka. From the broken cupboard she pulled a glass and poured herself some. "But since you're here, what bullet does that?"

She gestured with two fingers to the wall above and behind my head. We both looked up to study the strange three-pronged punctures in the wall, dusty with age. Years old.

"Not bullets." Natasha replied. "Arrows."

Those were two very important details to pass by me at once. On the one hand, Clint had been here? On the other, why did Yelena seem so unhappy to see Natasha here?

"Ah, right," Yelena sniffed, before downing her shot. Looking at Nat, she pointed at me, "You still haven't told me who she is. She's definitely not a widow."

"She's not," was all Natasha said, and deftly changed the subject again by pulling out the bundle of red vials from her jacket and placing it on the tiled island between them. "If you didn't think I'd come here, why did you send me this?"

Distraction successful, Yelena jolted at the sight of the vials. All at once, the blood drained in her face. Wide brown eyes flicked up to Nat, just the faint edge of horror slipping through the mask of cool disinterest. "You brought it back here?!"

Then, without waiting for either of us to respond, she dropped her glass and swept past me. She attempted a shoulder check, in a gesture of blatant rudeness — but only bounced off me when I proved firmly immovable. She looked disconcerted before shaking herself and sweeping out of the kitchen, seeming to be working herself up into a lather. I shot a look at Nat, wondering if this was normal behavior, but Nat only shook her head, a silent command not to give any kind of reaction. Like dealing with a bully, perhaps.

She chased after Yelena at a brisk pace, leaving me to pick up the rear, feeling at a loss, and not sure what to say. It was clear Natasha didn't want Yelena to know who, or what, I was, and if I didn't encounter Yelena in the Red Room, then she probably had no idea.

"I'm not here trying to be your friend," Natasha called after Yelena, as the other woman disappeared into a room at the far end of the hallway. On the way, we passed an open doorway — the pantry, I realized. Filled with a small army's worth of guns and ammunition.

Holy shit.

I shifted the backpack on my shoulders self-consciously. Though the canvas bag had been pretty torn up by the fight with Taskmaster, it still held my shield pretty well, covering it up enough that it didn't draw any attention, so long as no one looked too closely.

Still bulletproof. Still safe.

"It's a synthetic gas." Yelena's voice echoed from the other room. I remained in the doorway of what appeared to be a bedroom, with an open rack of clothes and a wardrobe Yelena was currently grabbing items from and stuffing into a backpack. Natasha was studying the rack, taking her time as Yelena explained. "Code Name: Rue. The counter-agent to the chemical compound known as Bliss. The gas immunizes the brain's neural pathways from external manipulation."

"Maybe in English next time?" Natasha tilted her head.

"Это противоядие от контроля над разумом," Yelena said, and not without a smirk in my direction, with the smugness of someone speaking in language she thought I couldn't understand.

"Настоящая зрелость." Nat replied with an eye roll, before glancing at me. Perhaps she saw the look on my face, surprised by the concept of a mind control antidote, because she added, in English, "Are you sure?"

"I'm sorry, do you think I made this? I'm not one of your little super scientist friends," Yelena snapped back. "If you want to know how this Rue stuff works, you should've taken it to one of them. Tony Stark, maybe? Banner?"

"They're kind of under arrest right now," I said, leaning against the door-frame and crossing my arms. At the very least, that's what I could remember. As far as I knew, Banner was still off-world somehow. For once, Ross wasn't going to get his white whale.

"Oh yeah, you know them personally?" Yelena shot at me, and the hostility was hardly veiled. She gave me a quizzical, cynical tilt of the head. "Who are you again? Natasha wouldn't bring just anyone with her if she knew she was going to find me here."

I opened my mouth to respond, but Natasha beat me to it. "The team is disbanded. Officially. We're on our own for this one."

"Great! Perfect timing!" Yelena slamming clothes even harder into her backpack, forcing a false grin on her face. It looked more like a grimace. "Where's an Avenger when you need one?"

"I don't want to be here," Natasha fired back, as she whipped a shirt off a hanger and pulled into a corner to change. "I'm on the run. You could've gotten us killed."

Yelena shot me another suspicious look, clearly trying to figure out what our deal was, before shrugging helplessly. "Well, what was I supposed to do?"

Then Natasha pulled her old shirt off and revealed the pattern of bruises on her back, and Yelena's gumption faltered, her voice dropping into something small. "…You're the only superhero person I know. That was the whole reason I sent it to you."

"I'm sorry, I only just got it the other day. I haven't been in one location long enough to get mail."

Yelena didn't look entirely surprised to hear this, perhaps only disappointed. "I didn't think they could actually stop the Avengers. All this time, I kept expecting to hear it on the news, see Captain America bringing down the Red Room."

"I wish," Natasha's chuckle was dry and soft. "It's hard enough getting people to believe it even exists. A full scale takedown? Not even SHIELD thought it could pull it off. Not easily, at least. Not with just me. It was hard enough just to escape. How long have you been out?"

"Not long enough." Yelena said, a little glum. "Just a few weeks. Haven't been found so far. Well, besides you."

"Did you get rid of the tracking chip?"

"Of course I did!" Yelena huffed, like a child being harangued over her homework, slinging the backpack onto her shoulders. "I'm not an idiot. It was the first thing I did after I got hit with the gas."

"Hm. I didn't realize the Madame had upgraded her techniques to chemical brainwashing." Natasha said, peering out the window to the street below. "Didn't really think it was her style.

"She doesn't," Yelena shook her head, swinging her backpack on her shoulder as she turned towards the door. Saw me, and looked like she wanted to plow through my body, if her last attempt hadn't already taught her that lesson. She scowled slightly, but hesitated. Before she could decide what to do, I stepped back, letting her pass without incident.

For only a moment, she seemed mollified. Then Yelena shot the words over her shoulder on the way out, "But Dreykov does."

"What? Dreykov?" Natasha spun around, looking surprised, but Yelena was already well down the hallway now. Nat, too, swept past me once more. "He's been dead for years. I killed him!"

Yelena's laugh was cold and humorless as she disappeared into the pantry of weapons. "You don't actually believe that, do you?" Then she paused, looking around at Natasha again, seeing her pale face appear in the doorway. "You really do believe that."

"Who's Dreykov?" I asked, throwing my arms out; finally annoyed enough being out of the loop and having to follow them back and forth.

"He's dead," Natasha repeated.

At the same time, Yelena replied with a jerk of her chin, "Former KGB. Or active, depending on your point of view. He always envied the Red Room and hated he never had true command of it. So he created his own, so to speak. The gas is his cheat code."

"How does he do that?" I asked. I knew what the Red Room looked like. I had a vague idea of how Widow training was generally conducted. There was no way you could cheat code your way out of almost two decades worth of conditioning and training. "The gas can't be the only way."

"It's not," Yelena replied, looking me up and down as if calculating something. Probably guessing I was no mere civilian Natasha was allowing as a sidekick. "Not that you would understand any of that, tall girl. But since Natasha trusts you enough to tag along, I'll give you abridged version, yes?" She gave a false perky smile to Nat, and didn't wait for an answer. "Classically, widows are trained in a school setting. Same way it's been done for almost a century. Dreykov doesn't have the patience for that. For the past ten years or so, he's been stealing graduates from the Madame. And now I think he's found a new workaround."

"How do you know all this?" Natasha demanded, grabbing Yelena's arm before she could slip past with a backpack full of ammunition not approved by the Geneva Convention. "Did the Madame send you on this mission? She hated Dreykov more than anyone. Are you still with her?"

"No!" Yelena snapped, yanking her arm away with such offense, you'd think Natasha kicked her dog. "I'm not with either of them! That's what I'm trying to explain to you, stupid! For once, I know something you don't!"

"Dreykov's dead," Natasha said again, as if that might somehow overcome her state of denial. "It took me almost destroying the entire city just to get to him!"

"If you're so sure, then tell me what happened." Yelena said, pausing after stuffing two pistols into her backpack. She stepped closer. "Tell me exactly."

Natasha hesitated. "We rigged bombs."

Yelena's eyes narrowed. "Who's we?"

"Clint Barton. Killing Dreykov was the final step in my defection to SHIELD."

"Simple as that?" Yelena raised her eyebrows.

"Yeah, sure, simple." Natasha's voice was low, and when she glanced in my direction, she looked away too fast, and was already walking off. "That's what I call imploding a five-story building and then shooting it out with the Hungarian special forces. Took ten days in hiding before we could even get out of Budapest."

There was something unsaid there, I knew it. Something in the hunch in her shoulders, how she avoided both of our eyes. Natasha bore guilt like a hair shirt beneath her mask, and I couldn't even begin to guess what it could be this time that she was hiding.

As if I needed further confirmation of that, Natasha's journey to the kitchen ended with a shot of vodka. Clearly whatever memories this roused, they were not ones she wanted to relive.

Still Yelena dogged her, expression intense, questions unrelenting. "And did you check the body? Confirm the kill?"

Natasha's voice was hoarse after the vodka. "There was no body left to check."

Yelena planted her hand on the table, refusing to look away from her. "You're forgetting the children."

"Children?" I asked, alarmed. From the way Yelena said it, it implied kids were hurt. And if there was one thing I knew for sure about Clint Barton, at least, he wouldn't have done that. Natasha, though… "Clint hurt kids?"

Natasha, uncharacteristically overwhelmed and frazzled by this topic, scrambled for words. "I — no, it wasn't like that —"

"You know an Avenger?" Yelena asked, speaking over Natasha and throwing me a curious look.

"Uh, well, no —" I began, not really wanting to change the subject like that.

"This isn't about Barton," Natasha said quickly, before Yelena could divert back to me again. Still, her hand shook slightly as she planted the glass back onto the counter. "It wasn't his idea."

If I had been paying attention, if I hadn't been caught up in this little family drama, I might've been more concerned about our surroundings. This never would've happened if Dad were here — I would've been focused, I would've heard the faint footsteps from above, where no sound had emitted earlier.

I would've been ready when I heard the faint beeping, so soft that neither of the widows would've ever heard it.

I wouldn't have waited until the last moment before grabbing Natasha's arm and dragging her out of the kitchen.

Right before the dining room ceiling exploded.