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Chapter Text

Natalia Alianovna Romanova lived her whole life in boxes.

It was a cold, dark one for her first cycle through the Red Room, at merely four years old. While other girls her age were riding tricycles around empty grocery store parking lots in Ohio, she was learning her third language. She woke to a handcuff around her right wrist, an ache in her bones from hours upon hours of ballet, and an even greater ache in her chest that never seemed to go away. 

Pleasing her teachers was hard--making friends even harder. She made one, eventually, about two years in. Anya had big green eyes, a crooked smile, and blonde hair so golden, it was blinding. She was smart, kind, and young, and felt like a younger sister. 

Natasha was ordered to kill her at 8 years old, in order to complete her first cycle through the Red Room. 

After her graduation, Natasha was sent on her first undercover mission. She, Melina Vostokoff, Alexei Shostakov, and Yelena Belova were to pose as a family in Ohio. Natasha made sure to say their full names in her head, to remind herself that this was not real. This was not her family. Melina Vostokoff was not really a science teacher, Alexei Shostakov did not really work for the renovation company on the other side of the highway, and the green-eyed, dirty blonde, three-years-old Yelena Belova was not really her baby sister. 

And it worked—it really did. For months, Natasha would hide her hand under the table whenever Melina, like a real mother, would reach for it to comfort her. She would shy away from Alexei’s bear hugs that Yelena would jump towards every time he came home from work. She couldn’t look at Yelena. Her big green eyes and blonde hair looked just like Anya. She flinched whenever Yelena would try to snuggle next to her while watching a scary movie. She swallowed the bile in her throat whenever Yelena fell down at the playground and she had to see the blood and scrapes on her knees, her palms, her arms, just like she had seen on the lifeless body of Anya merely five months ago. 

But, an eight-year-old—even a secret Russian agent eight-year-old—only has so much self-control. Melina and Alexei started to become her real parents, not just for Yelena and their little Ohio suburb, but for her as well. Yelena started to look like Yelena instead of Anya. Natasha was still jumpy whenever Yelena hurt herself or gave her more physical contact than holding her hand, but she loved her all the same. Yelena was even younger than Anya; she was full of fire and the fiercest five-year-old Natasha had ever seen, and she wanted to protect her even more for it. 

So, slowly, Melina became “mom.” Alexei became “dad.” Yelena became “Lena.” Natasha became a daughter and a sister. 

Her dark, cold box was a little lighter and warmer inside. 

A year later, Alexei would come home from work a little later than usual, disheveled and quieter than usual. Him and Melina would sit at the table, somber eyes. One moment of eye contact with Melina was enough to confirm her suspicions. 

“I’m sorry,” Melina had said, because she could almost hear the little cracks in Natasha’s soul, see the bruises that would litter six-year-old Yelena’s body, and feel the walls in her own heart aching like they did when Yelena would sneak into her and Alexei’s room during a thunderstorm. 

Melina had pushed back her chair to gather her weapons. Natasha didn’t know that she would pick up the little collage of family photos until twenty-one years later, with her heart aching, her eyes welling, and her teeth drawing blood from her tongue.

They left their food on the table and three years of family in a little house in Ohio. 

It was an unbreakable, iron box after that. 

Surprisingly, it wasn’t the ballet lessons that broke her. Not the combat training, the knives, the guns, the explosives, the violence. It was those three years in Ohio. The softness of Melina’s touch, the protectiveness of Alexei, and the comfort of Yelena. 

Stripped of that family and any remaining trust for allies, friends, teachers, lovers, or anything in between, Natasha became the Red Room’s most effective widow. She was the weapon—cunning, callous, ruthless—her guns, knives, batons, and tasers were simply tools. She had a failure rate of 1.3 percent . São Paulo was like breathing; the hospital fire like saying her own name. Natasha Romanoff had a very specific skill set and background, and the Red Room exploited it in every way they needed. 

The truth is, Natasha Romanoff did lose her heart. Madame B and Dreykov cut it out of her chest and threw it into the cold snow of Russia, along with her humanity. They took everything that made Natasha herself and used what was left to make a lethal weapon. 

It wouldn’t be until she was nearly twenty-three when she would stumble upon a way out of her iron box. An American S.H.I.E.L.D. agent named Clint Barton would, instead of driving an arrow through her heart, offer compassion, an outstretched hand, a second chance, and the heart that she lost. 

Blue-eyed, fuck-the-world, I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing-seventy-eight-percent-of-the-time Clint Barton was the first person in twelve years who refused to judge Natasha on her worst mistakes.

And so, with a rueful ache in her chest, Natasha watched as Dreykov’s daughter walked into a building lined with explosives. 

All clear. 

No body left. A shootout with Hungarian special forces. Two days in a subway air vent. And finally, freedom.

Natasha was recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D., to do good for the world. That was what she was told, and what she believed. Of course, S.H.I.E.L.D. was a front for HYDRA. That secret would rip her apart 7 years later. 

But for now, her little iron box was melting, the nightmares were shorter, and the Bartons felt like home. 

Chapter Text

Then, it was a box with a door. 

Nick Fury, sporting an eyepatch, an unrelenting stare, and a reputation for being wary, trusted her--a Russian assassin with the most extensive rap sheet he’d seen. He came in through the front door, flashing a S.H.I.E.L.D. ID and a warrant. He never failed to surprise Natasha, and if anyone asked her who was most like a father to her after Ohio, she would say Nick. Just, not out loud.

Fury assigned her to shadow Stark after a particularly nasty run in with an assassin by the name of the Winter Soldier. Near Odessa, the tires were shot out as well as the nuclear engineer, straight through Natasha. Soviet slug, no rifling. No bikinis or field missions until she healed. Natasha was furious, but Stark was the furthest thing from boring. 

Tony Stark, the complete and utter disaster of a man he was, barged in through the door without knocking, hair messier than his physics lab, and muttering something about Hammer Industries. With a look in his eye more determined than his flirting, Tony Stark reminded Natasha of the scientist she once called her mother. He was a complete moron-genius-enigma with both mommy and daddy issues. He was the brother Natasha never had. 

Bruce Banner, the anxious, actually mad scientist who lived in a perpetual state of wringing his hands, was a gentleman. In the depths of Natasha’s blue-green eyes, he saw a tortured woman trying to look like anything but. He saw himself. Maybe that was why, instead of knocking or barging, he waited for Natasha to let him in. And she did. 

Thor Odinson, the indestructible God of Thunder from a universe away, had a heart of gold and a body of steel. He came through the door for lunch one day, talked about his brother and his girlfriend, then left two hours later. It was hard not to adore him.

And Steve Rogers. Captain America. But, to Natasha, just Steve. Steve knocked on the door, rap sheet for insubordination and heart in hand. Fury, the bastard he was, paired the two on missions incessantly after an offhand comment from Natasha about him being “tolerably righteous.” Slowly but surely, Steve stopped having to knock. 

And there they were, bantering on a stolen S.H.I.E.L.D. ship in the middle of the Indian Ocean. An explosion, then a pang in Natasha’s heart as she realized maybe lying, cheating, and stealing is in my blood as Steve grunted out a confirmation to Batroc’s escape being her fault.

Then, a text from Maria. Foxtrot shot; get here now. Natasha jumped off her couch, bottle of vodka and sprained hip forgotten.

“Ballistics?” She gulped down a knot in her throat.

“Three slugs, no rifling. Completely untraceable.”

“Soviet-made.” 

“Yeah,” said Maria, asking her a question. Natasha didn’t answer.

Time of death, 1:03 A.M.

Fury was dead, for now. And Natasha was angrier than she was devastated. 

The next morning, in a particularly humorous funk, Natasha decided to show up to the hospital precisely five minutes before she knew Steve would come running for the file he had so stupidly put behind a couple of bubblegum packages. 

Steve had her pushed up against the wall, and was practically growling mere inches away from her face. In other circumstances, she thought, this could be fun . 

Humor was the only thing keeping her from breaking down. 

Then they were speed walking through a mall, finding honeymoon destinations, and kissing on an escalator. It was quick, forced, and strictly tactical, but Natasha let herself wonder, for a second, what it would be like for her fiance and honeymoon to be real. But then, the end of the escalator hit her. 

“Who do you want me to be?”

“How about a friend?”

Natasha scoffed, shook her head, and flashed a rueful smile to the New Jersey countryside. 

“Well, there’s a chance you might be in the wrong business, Rogers.”

(The truth is, she was beginning to think that she asked him if he had anyone special because she wanted to be special to him. To someone.)

A few hours and two McDonalds happy meals later, they were in the secret basement of an old WWI bunker, and Natasha’s heart was racing almost as fast as it was breaking. A machine that was alive, a missile from S.H.I.E.L.D., a white-hot blast, and then: nothing.

Later, she would stare into Steve’s imploring blue eyes and ask the one question she knew would crush her, no matter what Steve said. 

“I would now,” Steve assured her.

Natasha felt like her world was crumbling and building back up, over, and over, and over again. She would carry those three words with her while she gathered the courage to expose her tainted past for all to see. Alexander Pierce’s taunting words-- are you sure you’re ready for the world to see you, as you really are? --rattled around her head until she remembered that Steve, Fury, Maria, Tony, already knew her as she really was, and they didn’t give a damn. Pierce was another Dreykov--feigning moral superiority over a victim of his crimes.

“Are you? ” She taunted back. 

Natasha Romanoff had saved millions of lives that day, including one that would later change the fate of the universe. Yet, she didn’t stay. Well--couldn’t. In her eyes. 

After what Nick described as an “imprssve prfrmnce on cptl hill” from a burner phone, Natasha armed herself with a distinctly Russian folder, a leather blazer, and headed to Steve and Sam as some sort of apology gift for not telling him his best friend had been turned into Hydra’s personal guard dog. It was a little rule she made for herself: don’t tell Steve his best friend shot you through the hip, or that you spent months trying to track him down. Don’t tell him, because you’ll only cause more pain. 

She wished she had never listened to herself 5 years ago when she had seen the utter pain working through Steve’s face after the fiasco on the highway. 

She got another text from Sam—well, Sam thought he was being mysterious by using an old burner phone, but Natasha figured it out within five minutes. meet @ graveyard 20 mins , it said. 

Natasha could tell Sam was proud of his text, so she showed up three minutes late. Just to humor him. 

“Not going with him?”

“No.”

“Not staying here.” It wasn’t a question; if she wasn’t going with Nick, she wouldn’t stay with Steve. Natasha knew that was what Steve thought, and it stung her. 

“Nah.” The answer came too quick. Practiced—because she knew he’d ask. “Blew all my covers; I got to go figure out a new one.”

“That might take a while.” It was an invitation. 

“I’m counting on it.” It was a natural response for Natasha. Deflect and keep to yourself. Hell, tell him to ask out the Carter girl, but of course, don’t tell him he kissed her aunt 75 years ago. 

Natasha may have run from Captain America’s new barbershop quartet in that moment, but she came back soon enough. There was something about living out your worst nightmares with a group of people that made you willing to share your life with them for the near future. And so—after saving the world from Tony’s murder robot(s), adopting a Sovokian witch with almost as much trauma as herself, and taking in Tony’s other robot—Natasha Romanoff and Steve Rogers became the leaders of the Avengers. 

The door on her box was falling off its hinges.

Chapter Text

Happiness like that was ephemeral with her luck. Next, Natasha was shoved into a glass box, her Russian heritage and unfortunate upbringing placing her on trial in front of the world. Her long list of crimes for and against America, put on a pedestal for all the world to see. 

Then, the Sokovia Accords. Sometimes, when she would be sleeping on disease-infested mattresses in Eastern Europe two years later, she wished she punched some sense into Steve and Tony. 

Wanda had killed people. It was a mistake. Even if it was an unlucky unsuccessful attempt to save hundreds of people’s lives, when tragedy happens, people need something to blame. So, it was her fault, and the Avengers’ fault for putting her in the field--not the bomb attached to the terrorist. 

Then, everyone wanted the Avengers six feet under the government’s ballpoint pens, Natasha was agreeing with Tony, and Steve looked like a kicked puppy because yes, did you just agree with Tony? 

Then, Peggy was dead, and the whole world seemed to stop. Steve abruptly ran out of the team meeting, and Natasha found him in the stairwell five minutes later. 

“She’s gone.”

Natasha didn’t say anything. She took him into her arms and let him fall apart. 

After the funeral, Natasha began to see how this was going to work. Steve wasn’t going to sign the accords—not for 117 countries, not for the Avengers, and not for her. Not for their little found dysfunctional family. 

But she understood—maybe better than anyone else could. 

Natasha would give anything to protect the people she loved. She had threatened a group of men thrice her size with a gun and a ferocious growl in her thin eleven-year-old voice to protect little Yelena. 

She’s only six , she had whispered, voice shaking and eyes brimming with tears for the pain she knew Yelena would be put through for the rest of her life.

For Steve, Bucky was all he had left of his past. And, if he wasn’t ready to give that up yet, well, there was nothing Natasha could do about it. She walked over to him after everyone had filed out of the church that seemed to be crying itself. Steve stared at the faded picture of Peggy Carter, looking as in-control and quietly courageous as ever. 

Natasha didn’t prompt him, but Steve started: “When I came out of the ice, I thought everyone I had known was gone,” he said. 

She looked away from the little shrine to Steve’s aching countenance. “Then, I found out she was alive. I was just lucky to have her.”

“She had you back, too.” The words sounded empty, meaningless to her. Steve seemed to take it better, though.

“Who else signed?” He changed the subject. 

“Rhodey, Tony, Vision.”

“Clint?”

With a little tilt to her voice, Natasha half-smiled. “Says he’s retired.”

“Wanda?”

“T.B.D.” 

When Steve stayed quiet, Natasha prompted him. She knew the circumstances, she knew the answer. But, she wanted to hear it from his own mouth. She needed to. 

“I’m off to Vienna for the signing of the Accords...There’s plenty of room on the jet.” She paused. Taking on a softer tone, she offered, “Just because it’s the path of least resistance, doesn’t mean it’s the wrong path. Staying together is more important than how we stay together.” 

“What are we giving up to do it?”

Natasha pursed her lips in, looking down in acceptance.

“I’m sorry, Nat. I can’t sign it.”

Nodding a little, she confessed, “I know.”

“Well, then, what are you doing here?”

Natasha hesitated for a beat, then: 

“I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Steve lifted his chin in surprise. 

“Come here.”

I didn’t want you to be alone.

They stood like that for what seemed like hours, until Natasha was called to the jet.

I didn’t want you to be alone.

“Steve, you know what’s about to happen.”

I didn’t want you to be alone.

Steve and Bucky run into the hangar. Natasha knows they’re coming.

Would you trust me to do it? 

I would now.  

When she shoots the bites at T’Challa, Steve looks too relieved for her to be worried about her well-being after betraying half of the Avengers and 117 countries.

The final stage was facing Tony. Natasha wanted to see him like she needed her hair washed with champagne. Her heart stung at seeing Rhodey. Even more seeing Tony’s expression.

“We played this wrong.”

“ We? Boy, it must be hard to shake the whole...double-agent thing, huh? Sticks in the DNA.”

Bang!  

Straight to the chest--Natasha bled out right there, on the glass balcony of the hospital, the warm blood pooling around her leather boots. She swallowed in guilt disguised as incredulity and trained her voice flat and insulting. 

“Are you incapable of letting go of your ego for one goddamn second?”

Tony stared at her for a beat, almost looking sorry, then turned away. “T’Challa told Ross what you did, so...they’re coming for you.”

She searched his face for any kind of tells, but her eyes were brimming with tears and her heart was draining of blood. 

“I’m not the one who needs to watch their back.”

And with that, she was gone.

Chapter Text

It was nothing new for Natasha—being on the run. She still lived in a glass box, only she turned invisible, too. It was crazy what a little less makeup, a little more comfortable clothes, and a french braid could do for an Avenger. 

She got in touch with a few of her old contacts—Mason, a good-natured, sensitive private contractor got her a car and less than Avengers-Tower-level places to stay, but it was enough to keep her alive.

She found herself in Norway, at some point. Fanny Longbottom, living in a rat-infested trailer twenty minutes from the nearest grocery store. It was supposed to be a stay-in, watch movies, eat ice cream, and try to distract yourself from everyone you care about being in a penitentiary kind of night, but fate had other plans. 

The generator that was supposed to last longer than the few hours it did shorted out, and no amount of kicking, hitting, and Russian swearing Natasha put into it was getting it back up. So, she gathered what was left of her belongings and headed to town, only to get nearly skewered by an armored truck and exploded straight to hell. 

Natasha was absolutely, completely, utterly pissed. 

“I’m pretty sure Ross has no jurisdiction here!” She growled out, readying her gun as she watched a tall figure jump out of the truck.

“And you should know I’m a better shot when I’m pissed off.” 

The robot-like figure stalked closer as her car started tipping over the edge of the bridge and into the ice-cold river underneath. Oh, yes—that was another thing that had to happen. Not only did her car flip over, blow up, and almost impale her with a piece of windshield, but it was tipping on a bridge over the coldest river in Norway.

Life had a funny way of telling her to go fuck herself. 

As who she would later find out was called “Taskmaster” locked on to a briefcase from the Budapest safehouse, the cogs started to work overtime in Natasha’s head. She suddenly had a sinking feeling that what happened in Budapest was not, in fact, finished business.

Natasha escaped the robot of a creature with a litter of bruises and a sprained ankle, but all injuries were forgotten as soon as she pulled out a worn set of pictures of two little girls in a photobooth from the glowing red vials. It had been twenty-one years since she last saw the photo strip, but she could never forget it or who must have sent it. 

Yelena. 

“Lena.” She whispered, heart beating faster than when she was dodging a sword five minutes ago. “ боже мой [my god] , what have you done.”

To tell the truth, Natasha didn’t know whether that last sentence was meant for herself or Yelena; but, she was off to Budapest in the morning. 

____

She sees Yelena for the first time in twenty-one years, and her heart flips over. She’s the same Lena that Natasha held so close to her heart in that little suburban rouse. Grown up and terribly more somber, Yelena arms herself with a sharp knife and even sharper retorts. She’s got a deep, raspy, voice that rivals Natasha and Melina’s, and Natasha laughs at herself later for thinking of the three of them as sharing blood—genetics—for even one second.

They have a little tussle, go at each other with guns and knives, almost suffocate each other to death—the usual—and before they know it, they’re being chased by ghosts of their pasts, hiding in air vents, and making stops at run-down gas stations. 

“You just didn’t want your baby sister to tag along whilst you save the world.”

“You weren’t really my sister.”

Natasha regrets the words the second they leave her mouth. But, there’s no way to take it back. Yelena takes a dig at her role model status—a trained killer hiding behind decorated Avenger and S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Natasha thinks, in her head, I deserved that . 

Yet, later, the words come out again:

“That wasn’t real. Who cares .” 

“Don’t say that,” Yelena starts, voice shaking. Natasha’s heart starts to ache at the rawness in her voice.

“Please, don’t say that. It was real. It was real to me .” Everyone at the table is silent. Melina’s fussing and Alexei’s complaints are forgotten. “You were my mother.” Yelena swallows, turning towards Melina. “You were my real mother, the closest thing I ever had to one.”

Melina turns away, closing her eyes in pain.

“The best part of my life was fake—” Yelena pauses, a sob scratching at her throat. She blows out a breath. “—and none of you told me.”

Natasha lets out a shaky breath of her own. She picks the cuticles on her hands raw with guilt while Yelena flips over the stones covering the Vostokoff-Shostakov-Romanov-Belova family sins. 

“Don’t touch me.” Yelena snaps, snatching the bottle of vodka as she leaves the table. 

Natasha pushes down the overwhelming feeling to go after her little sister, hold her in her arms, and apologize until her voice goes hoarse. But Alexei goes after Yelena, and she moves towards where she dropped her weapons.

“Where are you going?” Melina follows after her.

“To do this myself.”

“Don’t. You won’t survive.”

“I wish I could believe you cared,” Natasha starts, her voice sharper than the knife she slipped in her boot, “but you’re not even the first mother that abandoned me.” 

Mother. You’re a brave girl. Mother. Your pain only makes you stronger.  Mother.  Come on, time for dinner. Mother. You were my real mother. The closest thing I ever had to one. 

In the other room, Yelena is breaking down all over again.

“I was the chore, the job you didn’t want to do. To me?” Yelena’s eyes bore into Alexei’s. “To me, you were everything .”

To me, you were everything .

Natasha takes one punch, two, three. For Yelena, for Melina, for the girls who had their life stripped of all humanity. Dreykov is embarrassingly weak. Natasha can’t even fight back, yet her nose or olfactory nerve hasn’t even broken yet. Part of her is glad; part of her is itching to see the utter indigance on his face when she brings down his lifetime of an operation. 

“Don’t take this personally, but thank you for your cooperation.” 

And she slams the upper part of her nose on Dreykov’s desk, finally free. 

____

In the aftermath of everything, she combs through every piece of debris for a trace of a blonde twenty-something year old who had, stupidly enough, jumped off a damn airplane with no parachute. Natasha spots the white parachute she strapped onto Yelena and runs over, quicker than time. 

She kneels down and takes Yelena’s head into her hands. Yelena opens her eyes, green meeting azure. 

“We’re both upside down.”

We’re both upside down . I bet you’re gonna fall first!

Natasha’s heart stings as she helps Yelena up and turns her around. In the tongue that had meant only pain and repression, Natasha takes back her freedom and choice, finally breaking free of the pride and unfeeling programmed into her. 

“Прости маленькая сестра” [Forgive me, little sister]. Natasha begs through tears. “I should’ve come back for you.”

“You don’t have to say that—” Yelena starts to shake her head, brushing Natasha off, not wanting more lies. 

“--Hey, hey.” Natasha focuses her back. “It was real to me, too,” she confesses. 

Yelena looks at her, dumbfounded for a few seconds. As the gears turn in her mind, the words soak into her heart, and the tears start to form, Yelena’s mouth pulls down into that pout Natasha is so familiar with—but this time it’s an infinitely happy one. She touches her forehead to her older sister’s, a promise. 

When Natasha takes her into her arms, Yelena knows everything will be alright. 

Chapter Text

Natasha shoved her emotions into boxes, too.

She was kind of a control freak in that way—never letting her professional work as a Widow bleed into any semblance of a personal life she had. She didn’t have friends; she barely had allies. 

Until the Avengers. 

Until Clint, until Tony, until Steve, Rhodey, Sam, Wanda. The Avengers became her family in and out of work—bleeding across and breaking down the walls of the compartments in her head. Natasha became used to loving, even though she’d never admit it. 

And when that fell apart, well, so did she. 

She missed the life she had two years ago. But the worst thing about it wasn’t even losing that life, it was the knowledge that no matter what she did, how much money Tony could conjure up, how much righteous anger Steve could muster, how much raw energy Wanda could summon, how much Clint could try to comfort her, she could never get that life back. Too much had changed. 

Natasha sat with this for hours while she piloted the quinjet, heading towards Australia, the last place she heard from Rhodey of the Nomad taking jobs.

“One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Our American friend—thought I saw him on a job last week.”

“You sure?”

“He grew a beard,” Rhodey supplied, with a little laugh.

“Oh, god.”

“It suits him.”

“Well, we’ll find out.”

*****************************

It did suit him. Along with the tiny scars on his forearms, the stab scar on his shoulder. Sam sported a limp, chalking it up to a twisted ankle. Natasha knew better. 

The Cap triplet was on its way to Scotland, the last known location of Vision, so consequently, the last known location of Wanda.

With the quinjet in autopilot, Sam was dozing off in the pilot seat. Natasha sat in the back, cleaning out her handgun, something she only did when she was trying not to think of something. She looked up only when Steve padded over and sat down in front of her. 

“Nat.” 

And Natasha’s nimble fingers twitch, and Steve knows he’s got a way in. 

“We’re going to get them safe, and we’re going to get Tony back.”

Natasha folds her lips in, setting the gun down on the seat next to her. She puts her head in her hands and tries not to cry loudly enough to wake up Sam. 

Because in the past week, she’s learned that Tony is gone, that Wanda is dangerously close to being put into that penitentiary again, that Clint just nearly dodged an assasination attempt, and that she almost lost Steve and Sam two months ago to a well-placed bomb and good old fashioned luck. 

She doesn’t know which is worse—watching her family tear itself apart, or watching them get picked off one by one. The only thing she has ever made for herself was crumbling down, down, down, like that goddamned nursery rhyme, and, well, what was Natasha Romanoff going to do against 117 governments and an alien spaceship?

And Natasha likes to pretend that she knew her worth and place on the Avengers—that she knew the shambles they would be in without her. Most of the time, she’s not really pretending. But right now, it’s hard not to. 

I doubt the god from space has to take an ibuprofen after a fight . 

It was a throwaway comment, yes, but to Natasha, digs at her skillset are never just thoughtless asides. The Red Room, Madame B., and Dreykov made sure of that, and even though she buried all of it months ago, her aching muscles from helping Steve and Sam out of that alleyway fight were reminding her of it all too well. 

But then she looks at Steve, his knuckles brushing the black leather over her shins. His blue eyes are just as annoyingly righteous, sickeningly determined, and softly honest as two years ago.

Natasha may not have the power of the sun in the palm of her hand or be able to control the minds of an entire army with one thought, but she has love—flowing out of her and into her.

And for now, that’ll be enough.

For now. 

*****************************

“That’s too high a price,” Wanda bites out, her voice wavering just enough for Natasha to pick up on it. 

“Only you have the power to pay it,” Vision reasons. “Thanos threatens half the universe. One life cannot stand in the way of defeating him.”

“But it should.” Steve cuts in. 

And Natasha wants to laugh. She wants to interrupt everyone, yelling and screaming because the only thing she can think right now is that again , her family is being torn apart just after they were stitched haphazardly together. And she wants to laugh because out of every person standing in that room, she knows the best that Steve is both the first and last person that should be saying this. “We don’t trade lives, Vision.”

We don’t trade lives.

We don’t trade lives, but Natasha watches each of the galaxy’s mightiest heroes fall like dominoes in front of the monster who dared to challenge Earth.

We don’t trade lives , but Natasha stands over Vision’s limp body and feels like throwing up because deep in her gut and within her soul, she just knows how devastatingly they lost this time. 

We don’t trade lives , but Natasha drives herself manic for weeks, scouring every square millimeter of the Earth and beyond for Yelena, and still fails. She only accepts it a year later. 

We don’t trade lives , but Natasha finds herself telling Steve that they’ll get him this time, this is going to work, Steve , only to find Thanos stone-less and decapitated minutes later. 

We don’t trade lives, but it sinks in that this is it—that was their shot, and it’s gone, and there’s nothing they can do about it, and half of the goddamned population is gone, and she can’t feel the entire left side of her body, and her brain is screaming while her insides feel like they’re being shredded to bits. 

We don’t trade lives, but Natasha instantly realizes that she would.

Her life in the balance, as long as they could bring everyone back, because somehow, she can’t fathom a universe where this isn’t her fault. Isn’t their fault. 

It’s probably something drilled into her from the Red Room that she still can’t move past. Something that still scratches at the walls of her heart, occasionally getting past the front gates and flooding the rooms with self-doubt and a self-destructing amount of perfectionism.

*****************************

In the aftermath of it all, she doesn’t know what to do. Thor walks out first. Then Nebula, Carol. Rhodey. Bruce. Steve looks over at her, softly saying her name. 

Natasha, shaken out of her stupor, runs over to the corner and vomits.

When she’s done, Steve turns her around, leads her to the jet, steadies her shaking legs. He hands her a rag and a bottle of water. She sits while she cleans up.

“‘Tasha.” Steve tries.

“It’s done,” Natasha says numbly. Her head nods on its own, as if agreeing with everything her heart wants to refuse to accept. “It’s over. We lost.”

Steve can’t argue; not as he sweeps dark corners for the fourteenth goddamned time since the snap and doesn’t see Bucky; not as he looks at the pilot seat and doesn’t see Sam sitting there. He sits down in front of her, elbows on his knees and hands on his head.

Natasha wonders if they’ll ever win again.