Chapter Text
Congratualtions,
You’ve been pretending to be human,
So well.
Might even fool the neighbors,
Reading your Sunday papers,
I won’t tell.
But I know better than to,
Bring up the whether with you,
And talk about the rain.
After you fall asleep I’ll,
Kiss both eyes and cheeks,
I know we’re not the same.
You’re an angel,
In disguise.
You’re an angel,
In my eyes.
FINNEAS (Angel)
Natasha knew this pain. She had grown up with it. Remembering the first time these waves of hurt had overcome her, drowning her it felt like. Her head would be filled with noise, nothing coherent. Thoughts, many many many confusing thoughts. Conflicting thoughts. Thoughts about death, about killing, about pain. Mostly pain. All pain. So so so much pain.
And then there was the physical hurt. It felt as if she was being stabbed, beaten. Her breath would catch as if all the air she had would suddenly leave her lungs and then…
Quiet.
The quiet always came so suddenly. Even faster than the pain.
The first time these waves of hurt had overcome her, Natasha had nearly fainted. She was only twelve. They were watching films, something from America to learn about their language, their culture. Memorizing it. They would be tested later.
Natasha remembered the uneasy feeling. Her head feeling too light, too woozy. The pain was gone, but it still lingered fresh in her mind. She was dazed.
“Answer my question Natalia!” Madame B order, slapping Natasha across the face. This only made her head hurt more.
“I… I don’t…”
No, she hadn’t nearly fainted. She had fainted. She had blacked out.
Now Steve was watching her from across the room as she brought her hand to her head. The pain was the same. The rush of thoughts. The pulsing hurt that wasn’t much more than a headache to her now. She had gotten used to it, adapted to it. In fact, it helped her pain tolerance.
“Are you okay, Nat?” he asked, concerned.
“It’s nothing. I’ve had these before,” she explained, dismissing his worry.
“What?”
“Flushes of pain.”
His gaze lingered, as if he understood, or maybe even knew something about what she was experiencing. But he didn’t say anything more, just looked back down at the electronic pad in his hand.
***
New York was beautiful in the winter. Cold, and sometimes miserable, yet it held this sort of beauty that Natasha cherished. And she didn’t mind the cold. She welcomed it more than the sticky feeling of hot humidity.
It wasn’t a miserable day, though. Natasha walked along the busy New York streets, heading nowhere specific. She just needed to get some fresh air and walk out her thoughts. Her head felt oddly jumbled, like she was confused, yet she didn’t know why.
Eventually, after navigating through subway terminals and walking quite a distance, the redhead found herself at a rundown apartment complex. It seemed practically abandoned based off of how it looked. Some windows were boarded up, others broken. The front entrance was dark as a single lightbulb flickered in the hallway. It’s carpet a musty green, smelling of mold.
Why was she here?
Then something caught her eye. Five men, scurrying to the back of the building, obvious weapons being held. Military grade weapons. She had the instinct to follow, removing the pistol she carried from her waistband. By the time she turned the corner, the back door had closed with a click.
Quickly, Natasha rounded back to the front entrance, taking the stairs while listening for any clue of these men. Eventually, she heard it: the sound of loud talking from the fifth floor hallway. With caution, Natasha slipped into the hallway, pressing her back against the wall.
“Ready?” she heard one of the men whisper.
“Ready,” a few replied.
“Let’s kill this son of a bitch.”
When she heard a loud bang— the sound of a door being kicked in— Natasha jumped into action, firing shots as she made her way down the hall. She didn’t know why, it just felt like instinct. She took down each man with a set of kicks, punches, or with a bullet or two from her pistol. They were slow to react, not even giving her a good fight.
Each man was on the ground, either unconscious or dead. Natasha glanced into the room where the door had been blasted out of its frame. It seemed as if nobody was there, yet again Natasha had this feeling, this instinct, to venture further.
She entered the room. It was bare. Empty. Seemed as if nobody even lived here… except…
Natasha saw the open window, the curtains blowing in the wind. The bullet holes on the wall, puncturing the windowsill and creating a track that led directly to the window, its glass shattered out.
This person, whoever it was, only escaped just in time. If it hadn’t been for her interfering, chances are they would’ve been dead. Meaning, she had just saved a life. But who’s?
And how was she somehow at the right place at the right time?
This whole situation puzzled her. Her way back to the Avengers Compound was filled with these questions circulating in her mind. She was dazed, confused at what had just happened.
What she had just done?
***
Later that night, Natasha had entered the compound living room to see Steve projecting something from his tablet onto the TV, studying it closely.
“It’s him,” he breathed. “It’s really him.”
“Who?” she asked, sitting down on the couch.
She saw him jump slightly, as if she had startled him. He didn’t let it show on his face, though, returning his focus back onto the screen.
“Bucky,” he explained.
“The Winter Solider? From DC?” she clarified. Steve nodded.
“He was spotted, only 45 minutes from here,” he zoomed in on the photo, seeming to have came from a random security camera. “It’s the first lead I’ve got of him since DC.”
Natasha couldn’t help but stare more closely at the photo. She felt this odd feeling flow through her. Like a feeling of familiarity, almost comfort, but concern. She had felt it in DC, in Odessa. Now here.
This was far more than just coincidence.
No, Natasha, she told herself. You’re being stupid. It’s nothing.
And just like that, once Steve had turned off the TV, the feeling was gone.
***
The next morning, he was on the news— Bucky, Steve’s friend. The same blurry photo was placed in the top left corner of the screen while the news anchor began the report.
“What’s this?” Natasha asked, entering the living room. The rest of the Avengers were present. Steve had the remote in his hand, his face stuck in a scowl. Meanwhile, Wanda, Vision and Sam were lounging on the couch and Tony was sipping his coffee.
“Shhh. Listen,” Steve silenced her, turning up the TV volume.
“We have some breaking news for you all today. The ex-Hydra assassin, James Buchanan Barnes, otherwise known as The Winter Solider, has been spotted on the edge of New York City. He’s a highly dangerous individual, committing crimes against the US for the Russian Government for decades. A manhunt is out for his arrest. He will be taken, dead or alive,” the woman spoke. Not even a few second later, the reporter switched topics completely, talking about the rising gas prices. Steve turned off the TV.
“They’re going after him,” Steve murmured.
“I mean, after what he has done, I wouldn’t be surprised…”
“Not the time, Tony,” Sam practically scolded.
“He’ll probably be alright Steve,” Wanda tried to comfort him.
“He’s on the run. There’s no telling whether he would be alright or not. What if he does more damage? Kills more people? I have to find him before they do. ‘Cause they won’t hesitate to pull the trigger,” he shook his head, before leaving the room.
“You have to expect there would be some mercy and they’d try to arrest him first…” Sam began.
“Sorry to break it to you Wilson,” Natasha spoke up, “but when you’ve created a reputation like that, there is no mercy. Not with law enforcement anyhow.”
Nobody added a comment or tried to prove her wrong. They knew she was right. All those years when she was on the run from SHIELD, being the top name on their hit list, proved it. If it hadn’t been Barton that was sent to kill her, the man that made a different call, she would’ve been dead, killed by an arrow in her skull.
One by one, the remaining Avengers in the room began to leave, until Natasha was the only one left. She heard the sound of droplets begin to hit the window. A light shower falling overhead. A perfect time for some tea.
The redhead left the living room, entering the large kitchen. She found a tea-kettle, filled it with water and was about to bring it to the stove when a sharp pain shot through her hand.
“Ow! Shit!” she cried out, dropping the kettle and holding her right hand close to her chest. Water pooled on the ground and the kettle was sure to be broken, dented at least.
“You know, an oven mitt is usually used to handle hot objects, Miss Romanoff,” Vision explained, entering the kitchen. Natasha still gripped onto her hand tightly, nursing the invisible pain that still coursed through her veins.
“The kettle wasn’t hot,” she reported. Slowly, the pain began to go away. As if it was fading. She shook out her palm, trying to move it normally again.
“The kettle wasn’t hot?” Vision repeated her statement as a question, as if he was wondering to himself the reason. “How did you hurt you hand, then?”
“Pain flushes,” Natasha explained simply, before opening some drawers to find a towel. She kneeled on the ground, attempting to clean the mess.
Vision slowly nodded, still unsure, “Miss Romanoff, if you need to be evaluated in medical, I would be happy to…”
“It’s alright, Vision. I’m used to it.”
Always her explanation: she was used to it. But she had never really asked herself why it was happening in the first place.
Natasha made herself a new cup of tea with the dented kettle, sipping it by the droplet dotted window. There was this sort of feeling of anxiety that coursed through her, twisting her stomach into knots. Worry, lots of worry. Why was she so worried?
She let out a slow breath, closing her eyes.
It didn’t help.
***
The flushes came more frequently. The voices echoed more often, especially at night. These sorts of nightmarish dreams would pull her out of her sleep, yet she never knew what they were about. And the pain, the voices, the nightmares, all of it lasted longer. Meaning it took Natasha longer to recover.
One night, she had woken with a scream. The sound of fighting, gunshots, and cries filled her head, reaching unbearable volumes. These weren’t her nightmares. Natasha had never felt anything quite like this.
Steve had knocked on her door shortly after, loud enough that Natasha could hear it over the subtle noise that was still present in her mind.
“Tasha?” Steve asked, still knocking on the door. “Natasha can I come in?”
She nodded, too shaken to speak. Natasha didn’t even think of the fact that he couldn’t see her response.
“I’m coming in, okay?” he spoke, before opening her door.
He entered the room to find Natasha sitting on her bed, a vacant expression on her face. She felt broken, horrified almost. Again, she didn’t know why. If anything she should’ve felt more confused. Yet horror was the first emotion that overcame her, followed by shame. Shame. Why as she ashamed?
“Natasha, are you okay? I heard you scream and…” Steve paused, taking a seat next to her. She looked up at him slowly, her eyes glassy, but no tears fell.
“Nightmares?” he proposed.
Natasha shook her head, “They weren’t mine. I… I don’t even know how… or what… I’m just…”
Her voice faded as she stumbled over her words.
“I think,” Steve sucked in a breath, “I think I know why this is happening to you. The pain you get. These nightmares you don’t know. I think I know why.”
Natasha’s eyes snapped up to his. She had always dismissed it, whatever this was, but now since the pain was getting worse, along with the voices, Natasha felt that she needed some answers; some truth.
“Have you ever heard about guardian angels?” he asked.