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Yelena Belova has committed arrest-worthy offenses. Tons of them. Vandalism, arson, hijacking a car and driving it down the wrong side of the road.
And those were just in Ohio before she was six. That’s not even counting what she did as an assassin — murder, treason, murder, theft, and, oh, did she mention murder yet?
Yelena is not a saint, never claimed to be, but this time she was just trying to be a Good Samaritan. This time, she did nothing wrong.
Okay, maybe that’s not true. Maybe she should have looked a little harder for the dog’s tags before assuming it was abandoned on the street and carrying it to her car. And maybe she shouldn’t have called the dog’s owner a “reckless bitch — no, I’m not talking about the dog, I’m talking about you, lady! What kind of idiot just leaves their dog chained up on the side of the street like that?” And maybe she shouldn’t have told the cops that she’d “sure like to see them try, buddy” when they threatened to arrest her for attempting to kidnap an animal and disturbing the peace.
Maybe all of that is at least a little bit true.
But what is definitely a whole lot true is that, despite her several errors in judgment, she doesn’t deserve this: to be sitting in a St. Petersburg jail cell.
And what is even truer is that, fuck, she is in so. Much. Trouble.
It’s the first three mistakes that landed her in jail. Her fourth — and perhaps most critical — is what she does when she gets there.
They give her one phone call, and she hits up Natasha because she’s in town and what are big sisters for if not to hide a body (they’ve already done that) and bail you out of jail?
“You’re calling me,” she answers gruffly. Suspiciously.
Yelena really needs to not be short-tempered considering her more-than-a-little-precarious situation, but it’s so hard with Natasha. It’s like when she was five and Natasha accused her of eating the last cookie. (Let the record show she didn’t...she hid the cookie under her bed for lunch the next day, thank you very much.)
“So?” Yelena snaps.
“So, you never call me. You just text me or send me annoying voice memos.”
“You don’t like the voice memos?” Yelena asks, unable to keep the woundedness out of her tone. Because that one hurts a little. She spends a lot of time — sometimes does many takes — before getting those voice memos just right. Her “Melina talking to her pigs while slightly inebriated” impression is really getting quite good, and not just anybody gets the pleasure of hearing it.
“They’re fine,” Natasha says in a way that does not have Yelena entirely convinced.
“Well, I’m calling now. First time for everything,” Yelena rolls her eyes, hating the fact that she has to rely on someone so humorless and ungrateful to get her out of here.
“What do you want?” Natasha asks flatly before her voice perks up. “Wait...do you have a date?”
A court date? Probably shortly, is what Yelena would have said if she wasn’t so utterly confused by the question.
“What?”
“You dressed up this morning — don’t think I didn’t notice — and I hear other voices.”
Yelena rolls her eyes. She’s been experimenting with her personal style lately, her wardrobe branching out from vests with pockets to jackets, dresses, and skirts with pockets, too. (Though they’re not particularly easy to find on women’s clothes. Fucking patriarchy.) She always dresses up when she goes into town, as — unlike the farm — she doesn’t have to worry about staining her outfit with pig shit.
She looks down at her ensemble: an olive jacket and a brown skirt. The first time she’s gotten to wear it. She really hopes she won’t have to trade it for an orange jumpsuit. She bets the pockets are severely lacking on those.
“Who’s the guy?” Natasha continues, giddy.
“Natasha,” Yelena sighs.
“Or girl. I don’t judge.”
“No, that’s not-“ Yelena rubs her temple, a headache sprouting up under her eye.
“Oh, is it not going well?” Natasha asks, lowering her voice. “You need to pretend to have an excuse to leave? Okay, let me think of one.”
“Think of what?” Yelena hears Alexei’s voice boom, and the headache intensifies exponentially, both from his volume and the fact that having her parents find out about her little run-in with the law is the exact thing she was trying to avoid by dialing Natasha’s number.
“Dad’s here,” Natasha announces as if the entire country of Russia didn’t just hear him. “Let me put you on speaker. You know he’s good at making up random shit.”
“No, Natasha, don’t-“ Yelena starts, but it’s too late.
“Yelena! Did I hear you are on date? Who is lucky person? I will give them fatherly talking to,” he vows.
“I’m not on date!” Yelena says for, what, the 79th time in the past five minutes? “I am just in town! Alone!”
“Oh,” Alexei deflates, both disappointed and relieved. “In that case, can you pick up more vodka? We are almost out.”
“I’m not at store.”
“Then where are you? Not eating, I hope,” Alexei says, nervousness threaded through the words. “We have big family dinner tonight, remember? Your mother is making shchi.”
One of the guards shoots Yelena a look, motioning for her to wrap it up.
“Natasha?” Yelena asks, infused with a new determination, conjuring up a plan. “Listen careful,” she continues, desperately. “I am behind the bars. Fuzz drove me here.”
Natasha, of course, misses the entire point.
“Fuzz? You have a friend named Fuzz? What, do you live in a black-and-white movie?”
“Is Fuzz who you are on date with?” Alexei chimes in. “I do not like sound of that. Sounds like punk name.”
Yelena scours her mind for more coded jail verbiage, grasping at straws at this point.
“We are going to pub to clink glasses and slam back drink.” She grits her teeth, making the last part as obvious as possible. “Security very tight, though. Lots of guards at door.”
“Sounds like a weird bar, sis,” is all Natasha says, and Yelena absolutely refuses to believe this is the same woman who supposedly saved the world a few times.
“What is name of place?” Alexei asks. “Maybe your mother and I will go next date night. What is term you use: pregame? Pregame for bedroom.”
“Disgusting,” Natasha gags. And Yelena would gag, too — if she had time.
“Lockup,” Yelena says bluntly. It’s a risk that Alexei will read right through it, but it’s a risk she has to take if she wants any hope of Natasha getting the point.
Except somehow she still doesn’t.
“See, why would anyone name a bar that? Why would you ever want to go there?” Natasha asks.
Yelena blows out a deep breath.
“You are dumbest smart person I know,” she says simply, resigned to her fate of being locked away for the rest of her life, or at least the rest of the night.
And, honestly, that fate might be better than what happens next. Something infinitely more terrifying than the prospect of sleeping in a prison cell. She’s slept in the Red Room, after all — her arm handcuffed to a bed. And more than that, she’s slept in some skeevy hostels while freeing other widows. Got a rash and head lice.
But she might just take the prison cell and handcuffs and head lice — simultaneously, even — over the sudden sound of her mother’s voice on the other line.
Because Alexei finding out would not be ideal, but she has him wrapped around her little finger — always has. But Melina…she’s a third of the size of her dad but somehow one hundred times more intimidating. She’s the one who would actually make Yelena stay in time-out the entire 20 minutes instead of deeming that she learned her lesson after 10. The one who limited her Halloween candy consumption to two pieces instead of letting her shove sweets into her mouth until she was sick. The one who physically carried her to the bath when Yelena, who was covered head-to-toe in vanilla pudding, refused, saying she needed it for camouflage.
“Don’t call your sister dumb,” Melina scolds, and she can hear the phone shifting hands on the other end of the line.
“Sorry,” Yelena says, immediately straightening her posture as if Melina could see her through the phone. (And honestly, Yelena wouldn’t put it past her — Melina somehow just knows things.)
“Why do you call?” Melina asks. “You forget wallet at home again?”
Yelena scoffs at that one. That is so unfair.
“Why do you always assume the worst in me?”
“Well?” Melina prompts after a moment.
“No!” Yelena snaps before patting her pocket just to confirm and...oh, shit. “Yes, but-“
“How many times I have to tell you-”
“But that is not why I’m calling!” Yelena cuts her off, defensive. Is it the wrong thing to say right now? Maybe. But she does not appreciate being accused of things, even if she has done them.
“Well, spit it out, then,” Melina says, impatient. “I am in middle of cooking — no time for silly riddles.”
Unfortunately, Yelena doesn’t have time either, the guard now curling his fingers at her, gesturing at her to give him the phone.
Yelena swallows.
“I’m…kind of in jail,” she admits, biting her lip.
The confession is met with an excruciating moment of silence on the other end of the line.
“Explain ‘kind of,’” Melina says, voice low and slow. “I have never heard this phrase — ‘kind of in jail.’”
“I mean…” Yelena grimaces, squinting her eyes as if the wall at the other end of the hall had all the answers — a way out of this shitshow of a situation. “I got arrested. And...now I am here. All there is to it, really.”
“So there is no ‘kind of,’” Melina reasons, voice infuriatingly even. “‘Kind of’ just two nonsense words meaning nothing.”
Yelena huffs. “Well, I thought it sounded better than just, ‘Hey, guess what? I’m in jail.’”
“It is less concise — how would less concise be better?”
Yelena massages her forehead, the migraine full-fledged at this point.
“Does it really matter right now?”
“Words matter a great deal always,” Melina argues, voice still calm — almost frighteningly so.
“Okay,” Yelena relents. “But can we please discuss linguistics-”
“Semantics,” Melina corrects.
“Semantics,” Yelena agrees through gritted teeth. “Somewhere less incarcerated?”
Yelena feels her heart pounding through her whole body — feels it pump a dozen times (though probably because it’s beating twice as fast as normal) before the answer comes.
“I will be there soon,” Melina says.
And that is not what she expected her to say and really not what she wanted her to. Melina doesn’t even like traveling into the city to pick up groceries, let alone her criminal daughter. Yelena was counting on easing her way into things by facing Natasha or Alexei first, banking on Melina having an extra hour to cool off.
“Just have dad or Natasha drive me so you can-”
“I will be there soon,” Melina says definitively — zero room for argument. “Do not go anywhere.”
“Will try my best,” Yelena grumbles, eyes flitting to the locked door. She hangs up before she can hear her response.
It is both the longest and shortest 30 minutes of Yelena’s life, the wait unbearable yet not nearly enough time to organize her thoughts, figure out how to face Melina. But, soon enough, the half an hour is up, the guard opening the door and motioning her out.
“Let’s go, Belova. Your mom’s here,” he barks, and some of her cellmates have the audacity to snicker as if they’re all in grade school and she’s getting called to the principal’s office. But they shut up immediately when, after a moment, Melina appears behind the guard, face stony except for the slight quirk of her eyebrow.
“Come,” she says simply. “We go now.”
Yelena’s mind is telling her to sprint like hell, try to run to another country (Finland’s not far, and she hears Sweden is lovely this time of year), but her body doesn’t move — frozen in place. She darts her eyes to the guard, wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt.
“Do you have any free cells available? I think I will hang out here for awhile if-”
“Yelena Fyodorovna,” Melina says sharply, and it’s game over. Because the middle name is always game over — even though she’s a grown woman and also has taken down dozens of the world’s most powerful leaders.
“You know what? Never mind,” Yelena says, rising from the bench and waving at the guard. “Have a great night.”
Once she’s in range, Melina grabs the sleeve of Yelena’s jacket, guiding her to the door and killing all of her dreams to sprint away from this situation and across the border.
She anticipates a lecture, but it doesn’t happen. Not in the jail hallway. Not in the parking lot. Not even in the car for the first half of the ride home. It’s just radio silence, Melina’s mouth a thin line as she maneuvers her way down the country roads.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Yelena asks after 20 agonizingly quiet minutes.
“Is that what you want?” Melina asks coldly, still staring at the road.
Yelena can’t help but wince, suddenly regretting forcing open the door to conversation. “I’m sorry, mama,” she says, hoping the mama will soften her up.
“Tell me — what trouble did you get yourself into?” Melina asks, fingers tapping the steering wheel. It’s a bad sign. Melina is always still, the fidgeting trained out of her after decades in the Red Room — something it took Yelena a long time, some would say too long, to learn. The fact she needs somewhere for the anger to go, even if it’s in the slightest movement of her pointer...well, it does not bode well for Yelena.
She decides to appeal to Melina’s sense of valor — outline her intentions.
“I was saving life,” Yelena emphasizes. “You should be proud.”
Melina glances over at her for a moment, eyes narrowed. “How so?”
“There was dog,” Yelena recounts, the thought of the situation getting her worked up again. The dog deserved better than that woman — she knows it in her heart. “It looked abandoned. I was trying to rescue it.”
Melina should be praising her. And yet all she says is:
“So you were going to take home dog after I have said time and time again we are not getting pet.”
Yelena throws her hands up. This argument is old and tired and makes no logical sense, and if there’s one thing her mother is known for, it’s logic, so it’s particularly frustrating.
“You have barn full of pigs!” Yelena points out.
“It is not same thing,” Melina shakes her head.
Yelena can’t help but scoff at that, her anxiety being replaced with irritation. She feels like a child again, the whole situation so unjust and out of her control — the arrest, the fact Natasha couldn’t get it together long enough to help her avoid this, the fact Melina is so upset with her despite this kind of being what their whole family does.
“Dad was in jail for years,” Yelena pouts, crossing her arms and sinking further into the seat.
“He is parent. Completely different,” Melina dismisses her.
“Oh, so you want me to be more like Natasha?” Yelena sulks, rolling her eyes.
It’s not like she hasn’t heard that one before. From teachers in Ohio to instructors in the Red Room to all the magazines calling her sister a hero. Perfect Natasha. Yelena loves her sister, but that gets old — fast. (Despite the fact — maybe even because of the fact — Yelena knows they’re a little bit right.)
“Natasha is global fugitive. Wanted in several countries. Galaxies,” Yelena bitterly reminds her.
“And yet I have not had to pick her up from prison. She was in time for dinner.”
Yelena blinks, sitting up straighter in her seat, latching onto the absolute absurdity of mentioning something so petty and inconsequential right now.
“That’s what you’re mad at?”
“I ask one thing of you.”
“Dinner?” Yelena clarifies, exasperated.
“I work very hard on it. Slave over hot stove all day.”
“Unbelievable,” Yelena sighs, slumping her head back against the headrest.
The car is overtaken by another silence — a worse one, even, than earlier. A suffocating one, with sour words hanging in the air and irritation clogging the atmosphere.
Yelena’s mind drifts, thinks about how she doesn’t think she’ll ever figure it out. She tried to do good in Ohio, and yet she was sent away, made into a monster. She tried to do good in the Red Room, and now she has so much blood on her hands she’ll never be able to wash them clean. She tried to do good today, save a helpless little animal, and she landed herself behind bars, disappointed someone she wants nothing more than to please.
Maybe she will always be six years old. The little kid riding her bike past dark, pedaling aimlessly. The fuckup little sister who can’t do anything right no matter how hard she tries, who always needs bailing out, who no one will ever take seriously.
Yelena almost always breaks first, unable to stand the tension, so she’s surprised when she’s snapped from her thoughts by Melina’s voice — softer than before.
“It is very rare that whole family is together,” Melina explains. “I want one nice night, and that is too much to ask?”
The question, the way Melina says it, makes Yelena deflate — the adrenaline of the frustration and anger dissipating, replaced with a heavy guilt settling in her bones, weighing her down.
Melina rarely asks for anything. Her stoic demeanor, silent strength, sometimes makes it easy to forget that she cares. Yelena knows she does, deep down — that it’s not easy for her to show it. Yelena understands that. Knows firsthand how all of their desires were wiped away, forbidden.
She went through the program once — and it was more than enough to instill that. Melina went through it four times — and Yelena doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know how she ever held onto it: the small, secret hope of wanting something they were told they’d never have. That they didn’t deserve.
But she has it now. They have it. Each other. A family.
And Yelena got so wrapped up in herself she didn’t even stop to consider the other people in her life. To remember that what she does goes beyond just her now. To stop and think that maybe her mother just wanted her home in time for dinner — that it’s more important to her than she knows how to admit.
“I’m sorry,” Yelena says, looking down at her lap in shame. It’s the first genuine apology she’s offered that day. “I did not mean to ruin it.”
Melina says nothing, jaw clenched, eyes still straight ahead. They’re turning down the driveway now, the gravel clinking against the bottom of the car, a light drizzle beginning to fall on the windshield.
“I do not have to join,” Yelena offers quietly.
“Of course you will join,” Melina shakes her head as if the suggestion were the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard. “Even when you were naughty child, draw on walls—”
“That was one time,” Yelena can’t help but mutter under her breath. Because that was 23 years ago and it was not a common occurrence so how does that still get brought up every month somehow?
“—I did not send you to bed without dinner.”
“No,” Yelena agrees. “You didn’t. I never forgot.”
Yelena always remembered. Remembered when she was a picky eater when they first got to Ohio, how Melina would somehow always find something she liked. Remembered when she was sick, toast and soup prepared just how Yelena wanted it. Remembered especially well when the Red Room starved her for days — for disobeying, for failing a training session, for nothing at all.
Melina has her faults, has made her mistakes — they all do, and they all did — but she’s still that person at the end of the day. The one who bought bright orange mac and cheese and learned to bake to give Yelena cake on her birthday and would never let her go hungry, even now. And she deserves a daughter who can at least stay out of jail long enough to partake in the meal.
“I will do better,” Yelena promises, swallowing hard as Melina pulls up near the house. “Be more like Natasha.”
Melina puts the car in park, turns the engine off but makes no move to get out. She just shifts her body so she’s looking straight at Yelena.
“Nonsense. I already have one Natasha — I do not need another.”
Yelena picks at a hangnail. “But she-“
“Is her,” Melina cuts her off. “And you are you. Different parts that make me proud and different parts that make me crazy but same love in my heart.”
And that’s all fine and good. What moms are supposed to say. But it’s not that simple, Yelena knows.
“But I have more crazy-making in me,” Yelena says. Not a question. Just a fact. One she hates.
“Oh, Yelena,” Melina laughs lightly, maybe even a little sadly, putting a palm on her cheek. Yelena considers batting it away, but she can’t bring herself to. Doesn’t want to. “That is not a bad thing. It is only because I worry.”
“That I’ll be failure,” Yelena says, a small bead of blood emerging from her thumb. Melina cups her hand over hers, stops her from agitating it further. Not allowing her to self-destruct anymore, even in this small way.
“Worry that I fail you,” Melina says, giving her hand a squeeze. Yelena can’t help but look up at her face, curiosity getting the better of her.
“You are so special, you know?” Melina says, and Yelena would laugh, except her voice sounds so sincere there’s no way she’s joking. No way she doesn’t believe it with everything she has.
“Live outside boxes when all I know is box,” Melina continues. “March to own drumbeat when I can only walk in rhythm I am told. I am out of element with you. In ways, you are so much better — so much more — than I will ever be.”
“That’s not true,” Yelena argues quietly. Because how could she ever think that? How could she ever even dream of being half of who Melina is? How could anyone?
“I do not know why of all people I was trusted with such rare and wonderful girl,” Melina says, running her hand through Yelena’s hair. “But I am so happy you are mine, always. Even when you behave like wild woman.”
Yelena sighs out a laugh. “I really was just trying to help the dog. Keep my heart,” she says.
Keep my heart like you taught me to.
She bites her lip, wondering if Melina remembers.
And of course she does.
Melina smiles, rubbing her arm. “You always had big heart.”
They sit there for a few moments, the faint sound of rain hitting the window. But they’re safe from it. Safe from everything together. Yelena feels her eyes start to flutter shut after a few moments, warm and calm and crashing after the events of the day.
“I will wash dishes tonight to make up for it,” Yelena promises drowsily, figuring she at least owes Melina that. Shchi always required a lot of dishes — it’s really a generous offer.
“Oh, you will wash dishes for rest of month.”
And that makes Yelena’s eyes snap open, raising her back from its place against the seat to face Melina in horror.
“What?”
“And clean pigpen for rest of year,” Melina nods. “You want pet, you learn responsibility of animal first, then we talk.”
Yelena mouth drops open. She can’t believe this.
“Mama, I’m 27,” Yelena reminds her, incredulous. “You can’t just punish me with chores.”
“Mm,” Melina muses, still stroking her arm. “Can’t I?”
And Yelena guesses she can’t really argue with that. She says a silent you’re welcome to Melina for going along with it, giving her a little taste of what she missed out on never having had teenagers in the house. Maybe she’ll slam a door later just for the hell of it.
“Don’t worry,” Melina consoles her. “I will be in pigpen, too.”
“Helping me?” Yelena asks hopefully.
“No, spoiling my babies and giving other baby stern talking to about being law-abiding citizen,” Melina says, patting her leg. “Full range of motherly duties, you see?”
“I see,” Yelena groans. That’s going to be fucking terrible. (And maybe a little fun. Because she’s always loved spending time with her mom just the two of them and the pigs honestly aren’t that bad and even kind of cute sometimes. But mostly fucking terrible.)
“I love you, my little convict,” Melina says, reaching over the center console to hug her. “But you will not make me drive into town again. For jail or for wallet.”
Yelena hugs her back. Savors the feeling of being in her arms.
“I can’t make any promises about the wallet,” she admits, squeezing tighter.
“I know this,” Melina replies. “And I look forward to never cleaning pigpen again.”
Yelena only lets go when she spies Natasha and Alexei opening the front door, walking out to join them.
“Ah look,” Yelena muses. “The welcome wagon.”
She opens the door and is immediately greeted by her older sister grinning like a cat that’s just eaten the biggest canary known to man.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Natasha says, pointing a finger gun toward her. “And I have the right to give you shit—”
“Language,” Melina admonishes.
“—crap,” Natasha says without missing a beat, “about this for the rest of your life.”
“Be nice unless you want dish duty, too,” Melina warns, giving her a swat on the arm. “I’m sure Yelena would not mind the help.”
“Did you get prison tattoo?” Alexei asks, an unmissable trace of excitement laced through his words.
“I was only there for hour,” Yelena rolls her eyes.
“Bah! More than enough time. This one took only 10 minutes,” Alexei says, pointing at a truly shitty...animal? Fruit? Symbol? of some kind near his hand.
Yelena raises her eyebrows. “We can tell.”
“The one on back only 30,” he says, making a move to lift this shirt.
“Okay,” Natasha says, covering her eyes. “We don’t need to see that.”
“Save for after family dinner, huh?” Melina encourages him, taking one of his hands and wrapping her other arm around Yelena.
Family. Nobody has trouble using the term anymore. Why have a problem with something that’s true? That’s always been true?
When Yelena was three, she was forced into a house with a Widow, a supersoldier, and a now-Avenger. Two decades later, she chooses to walk into a home with her mom, dad, and sister halfway across the world.
They’re not related by blood, but they’re family nonetheless.
They’re not perfect, but they show up when you need them to — to kiss your scraped knees when you fall, to take down an evil regime in the sky, to bail you out of jail when you accidentally steal a dog.
They’re the most infuriating people Yelena’s ever met, no question about it.
And she wouldn’t trade them for anything.