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Sink
Widows are seven years old when they learn to master the elements.
January brings fire. They strap Natasha to a table and engulf the room in flames, tell her to break free or become ashes.
April is earth. They bury her deep underground, tell her to claw her way out or stay there and accept her fate: forever lying in a locked coffin.
July blows in air. They send her into the sky behind the wheel of a plane, tell her to fly or plummet back to April.
October flows the water. The final test — the hardest test.
They put handcuffs on her wrists, on her ankles, before throwing the key to them into the lake. A moment later, they throw her body into the lake, too — the lake that’s getting colder with each passing day, the chill making every effort to paralyze her into submission, take her under. Make her buried treasure no one will ever find, never even look for.
It’s from this moment, Natasha knows: she will always have to be the one to free herself.
Many of her classmates drown, bound forever as they float down to the bottom of the lake — prisoners from birth, prisoners still after death.
But Natasha refuses to sink.
She finds the key.
She learns to swim.
Trap
Yelena learns to swim in a lake, too. Except it’s in Ohio and the water is warm and she has water wings on both her arms as she splashes around.
Natasha tries not to be jealous. Tries not to think about how those floaties will pop, just like her illusion of this fake family someday. Tries not to flinch when Alexei tosses her in, even though Yelena giggles and doggy-paddles back to him shrieking, “Again, Daddy! Again!”
Instead, Natasha flips onto her back. Lets the water fill her ears, lets the sun shine in her eyes, lets herself pretend for a moment that the gentle waves can take her far away — take her to a place where she’ll never have to go back to what she knows. She’s filled, for just a glimmer of a second, with an odd sense of peace and tries to ingrain the feeling into her brain. Remember what it’s like to feel warm. Calm. Weightless.
“Look at you, Natasha!” Alexei calls when she stands back up. When she plants her feet back on the floor of the lake. Where she belongs, really — firmly on the ground. Firmly in reality. Widows have no use for imagination. For make-believe worlds that only exist in your head. For pretending unless it’s for a mission. “Such a good swimmer!” he praises.
“Like a fish!” Yelena adds, sucking her cheeks in and opening her eyes wide.
Natasha thinks maybe she’s right. She’s a fish in a bowl: held in a tank and watched behind glass and trapped, trapped, trapped.
Dye
Natasha watches Melina fill the sink. There’s a glob of sticky blueberry jam stuck in the back of Natasha’s hair, courtesy of Yelena when Natasha was reading her book and Melina was busy making dinner. Natasha stupidly wonders if it has somehow seeped into her bloodstream, as she seems to be stuck in the entryway of the bathroom, her brain stuck on how to make the situation better. Make her punishment less severe.
She’s having trouble thinking of what to say to Melina. Having trouble thinking of anything but the time she fell asleep in class at the Red Room. They’d dragged her to the bathroom and held her head under icy water until her face went numb and her lungs stopped working. It’s not dissimilar to how she feels now: frozen like the water.
“I’m sorry,” she finally manages to stutter out, watching the sink fill higher and higher. Watching her time shrink shorter and shorter. “I know I should have been watching her more closely, and I know I—”
“Shh, it’s okay,” Melina assures her, glancing at Natasha in the doorway. She only looks over at her for a moment, but Natasha sees a flicker of recognition in her eyes, and she knows Melina knows exactly what’s going through her mind. She always seems to be able to do that — read her as easily as one of Yelena’s bedtime stories.
“You’re not in trouble. I only mean to help you wash your hair,” she explains. “Come feel — see if the temperature is to your liking,” she encourages, scooting over slightly to allow Natasha to join her side at the sink.
Natasha hesitates for a second before doing as she’s told, swallowing hard as she goes to run her hand under the tap. She relaxes slightly when she discovers it’s nice and warm.
“Good?” Melina asks, patting her shoulders when Natasha gives her a nod. “Good. Lean back for me. Let’s see what we can do.”
Natasha turns, allowing Melina to guide her head under the faucet. Run her fingers through her hair. The water is impossibly soothing, Melina’s fingers on her scalp impossibly gentle, and it makes Natasha feel like crying.
She thinks of the Wizard of Oz, believes she might be the Wicked Witch. The whole thing makes her feel like she’s melting. Melting into a feeling she knows she can’t last. Melting into a life she knows is not hers to have.
“It’s coming out easily,” Melina says, deftly removing the jam. “Was worried we were going to have to dye all your hair to match it,” she teases. “A blue-haired child — just what every mother loves.”
Natasha feels her mouth curve into a small smile. “I’d like that.”
“Oh, you would, huh?”
“No,” she replies, grin falling slightly as she remembers who she really is. Who she’s really talking to. Blue is not for blending in. Not for Widows. Not for her. “I was just kidding.”
She wasn’t. Melina knows that.
She finds blue dye on her dresser the next day with a note: “Love you. No matter what.”
She knows it means: no matter what hair.
She thinks it means: no matter what happens.
She hopes it means: forever.
It’s confusing, a little, to have Melina tell her this. Love is for children, after all.
But then again, isn’t that what she is? Maybe not back in the Red Room, but here — in this moment, in this place.
A child. Her child.
She folds up the note and carries it around in her pocket until the paper finally falls apart — only days before this entire life falls apart.
She goes back.
They dye it red, they cut it shorter, and she wonders if Melina still loves her.
Test
Widows are 14 when they master Hell. Endure Chinese water torture to show they have the discipline to make it through. She watches as the beads of water hit between her eyebrows.
She will not break.
Drip. Breathe in. Pretend it’s just the leaky pipe in the house, the one Alexei refused to call a plumber for. (He enlisted Natasha to help him fix it. She quickly figured out he didn’t really need her assistance — he just wanted her to keep him company.)
Drip. Hold it. Pretend it’s just the tap when Yelena didn’t turn it off all the way after she brushed her teeth, leaving spit and toothpaste all over the sink. (Natasha cleaned it every day so Yelena wouldn’t get in trouble. She forgot one day — and nothing happened.)
Drip. Breathe out. Pretend it’s just the eyedrops Melina helped apply when the whole class got pink eye, carefully holding her eyelid open so she didn’t blink. (She never wanted to blink in Ohio — didn’t want to miss a second.)
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Remember. Remember. Remember.
Vial
Natasha’s past and future collide like a bomb, exploding on a bridge in Norway.
She fights a mirror, the struggle culminating with her being flung into the river below, red antidote securely tucked inside her jacket pocket.
If October taught her anything, it’s that water was always going to be part of the hardest test.
It’s from this moment, Natasha knows: she will never be able to truly free herself alone.
Natasha finds Yelena. Finds Alexei. Finds Melina. In finding her family, she finds a piece of herself.
Natasha learns to stop running.
Want
She dreams she’s suffocating. Thrown into the water, handcuff key nowhere in sight, and watched as she drowns, drowns, drowns.
She wakes up screaming, trying to expel the water rapidly filling her lungs, expel the nightmares filling her brain.
She clamps her mouth shut as soon as her mind catches up to where she is — her bed, Melina’s farmhouse. But it’s too late. Melina is already there — her doorway, peering in at her.
“Natasha—” she says, eyes darting around the room for any sign of danger.
“I’m fine,” Natasha quickly assures her, waving her away. She’s glad the room is dark — glad Melina can’t see her cheeks tinged with red: from fear, from humiliation at being caught getting worked up at nothing. “You can go back to bed.”
Melina’s posture relaxes slightly. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s happened here. But then again, Melina is a genius, so it wouldn’t matter even if it did.
“Natka…” she starts again, voice filled with less urgency but just as much concern.
“I said I’m fine. Just go back to bed. Please. I’ll do the same.” Natasha lies back down, shifting to face the other direction so Melina can’t see her face — see the panic there. See that there’s no way she’s getting any more rest any time soon.
But Melina doesn’t need to see her face to know that.
Natasha feels her hover in the doorway before declaring: “Will get you glass of water.”
She huffs, rolling onto her other side to face Melina. “I don’t need water.”
“Everyone needs water. Human body 60% water.”
“Melina—”
“Am getting you water,” Melina repeats, leaving the room before Natasha can argue further. Not that she imagines it would have made much of a difference.
She returns shortly after with a cup in hand, and Natasha sighs, reluctantly sitting up and taking it from her. Her hand trembles slightly, and she hopes — futilely — that Melina won’t notice.
“Thanks,” she says flatly, planning to abandon it on the nightstand the minute she leaves on sheer principle — so Melina can find it in the morning and know she may have won the battle but Natasha claimed the war.
Except…she doesn’t leave. She just stands there, waiting for Natasha to drink it, as if she’s eight years old again and it’s cough medicine she’s making sure goes down.
“Sip,” she prompts after a moment, tapping the bottom of the glass. “Will not help just to hold it.”
Natasha grits her teeth before taking a gulp. Annoyingly, it does help a little, soothing her throat. She drinks half of it before putting it on the table, refusing to give Melina the satisfaction of completely finishing it.
She lies back down, hoping that Melina will take that as her cue to leave. But still she stays put, a worried line faintly etched between her eyebrows.
“What, you’re just going to stand there and watch me sleep?”
“Mm.” She hums, gesturing to the bed. “Is okay if I sit?”
“Do I have a choice?” Natasha mutters.
“Don’t mumble,” Melina chides, taking a step closer. “Of course you have choice.”
“Of course?” She raises an eyebrow at the phrase — she’s never had a choice. Not really. Melina certainly hasn’t given her many.
Melina didn’t give her a choice when they left Ohio.
Melina didn’t give her a choice when she alerted the Red Room.
Melina didn’t even give her a choice about the water. And it’s petty, maybe, but she waves toward the cup to prove her point — the small example representing a much larger issue.
Melina understands immediately, halting dead in her tracks. She stands there for a moment before taking a small step back as if the realization — what she said, what Natasha said, what neither of them can bring themselves to say — has punched her in the gut, knocked the wind out of her.
“You have choice. I was only—” She stops herself, lips pursed into a thin line. “Am sorry,” she says, soft but serious. “You do. You always have choice with me.” She nods once, reluctantly turning and heading toward the door.
Natasha hesitates, letting her put her hand on the doorknob before she adds: “I didn’t say no.”
It’s as close to a yes as she’ll get, and Melina knows it, going to perch herself on the edge of the bed. Natasha pushes herself up, swinging her legs so her feet are planted on the floor, the two of them sitting side by side. It’s partly about power, partly about pride, mostly about how she’s afraid she’ll crumble if she stays lying down. If she lets herself feel like the little girl in Ohio again, being tucked into bed.
She swallows down the thought, heartbeat drumming in her ears. The sound reminds her of the drip, drip, drip. Except this time she can’t get herself to breathe, breathe, breathe and she doesn’t want to remember, remember, remember or she won’t be able to hold it together.
She wraps her arms around herself, tries to keep from falling apart.
Melina, to her credit, has left a fair amount of space between them on the bed, trying to honor Natasha’s request for distance. But even facing forward, she can feel Melina’s eyes on her — watching, watching, watching. Like she’s under her microscope. Like she’s back in the fishbowl.
“Are shaking,” Melina quietly observes.
“It’s cold in here,” Natasha lies.
“Are breathing too fast.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” she says, words dripping with sarcasm.
She can see Melina’s jaw clench out of the corner of her eye.
“Are hurting,” she says softly.
“Pain only makes us stronger, right?” Natasha tries to snap, but her heart isn’t in it. It’s still too busy pounding, voice trembling like the rest of her body.
“Are strong enough already. Are stronger than I ever wanted you to have to be.” The sadness in her tone, so deep-seated and sincere, causes Natasha to flinch. It’s no more than a tiny twitch, really — not noticeable to most people — but Melina is not most people. Melina knows body language. Knows tells.
Knows Natasha.
Melina instinctively reaches out a hand, abruptly stopping herself before she can touch Natasha’s back. Natasha finds herself wishing she hadn’t.
“Is okay if I—?”
“If you want,” Natasha says gruffly, though the quickness at which she says it betrays her — gives way to the desperation.
“Do you want?” she asks gently. Melina needs to hear it. Natasha needs to say it — no matter how much she doesn’t want to.
Natasha bites the inside of her cheek. Bites it so hard she tastes blood.
“Yes,” she finally whispers. “Please.”
Melina wastes no time gathering her into her arms.
In that moment, 21 years is no time at all — just a tiny drop in the bucket of her existence. In that moment, 21 years is a lifetime — a riptide threatening to pull her under.
Accepting comfort from Melina is the most natural thing in the world and the hardest thing she’s ever done and she can’t quite pinpoint how she feels so she focuses, instead, on the what. (It’s a page she took from Melina’s book, not that she’ll let herself think about that right now.) She feels her heartbeat, slow. Her breaths, even. Her, cradled close.
“You always hugged so tight,” she recalls once she’s certain her voice won’t crack. Won’t fail her again. “You’d think it would’ve been Alexei — super strength and all — but I remember it was your hugs that always felt tightest.”
“Yes, well, is science. Firmer pressure sends signals to brain, telling it is safe to relax. Would help calm you when you were upset.”
“Ah. Should’ve known. Always goes back to science.”
“Not always.” Melina shakes her head. “Sometimes went back to fear. Knew better than him I would lose you. Knew better than him what you would lose. Wanted to hold you tight, pretend I would never have to let you go.”
She risks a glance at Melina, sees her staring straight ahead. There’s pain in her voice, pain in her eyes, and Natasha thinks maybe Melina is strong enough already, too. She sinks a little further into Melina’s embrace, resting her head on her shoulder.
“You can stop pretending now, I think,” she says quietly.
“Mm,” Melina muses, as if she can’t quite let herself believe it. Natasha knows how she feels. “Is my hope.”
Natasha looks down at her lap, lets herself say something she’s never even admitted to herself. “It’s mine, too.”
“That is what I hope more than anything — that you get all the things you hope for. All those things you deserve. Have always deserved. Things I was too much of a coward to give you earlier.”
That word — coward — makes something in Natasha’s stomach twist. The bullet she shot at the dinner table all those months ago still clearly lodged in Melina’s memory. It felt good to pull the trigger at the time, but now she wishes she’d never picked up the gun at all, the sting of guilt ricocheting back to hit her in the gut.
“Melina, I—”
“Is okay.” Melina promises. “Is just truth. Sky is blue. Grass is green. And I was coward. But you, Natasha? You are hero.”
The compliment makes her cheeks burn — Melina’s words as strong as her hug. “Yeah, well, that’s kind of my job…” She tries to underplay it. She tries to scoot away.
Melina doesn’t let her do either.
“No. Not job.” She shakes her head, squeezing her arm. “Is who you are. Who you always have been — in here.” She puts her fist to Natasha’s heart, lightly tapping it with her knuckles.
Natasha finds her own hand drifting up to meet it, lightly cupping it with her palm. “You’re the one who told me to keep that, you know.”
“Hm. Only good thing I ever did for world.”
“That’s not true.”
“It may be. But I don’t care much about world,” Melina admits, shifting her hand to lace their fingers together. “You, your sister, Alexei — you are all I care about. You three are my world. My whole world.”
Natasha turns her head, zeroing in on the water on the table while she tries to keep the moisture in her eyes at bay.
“You lived without us,” Natasha reminds her, still trying to cling onto the objective, the provable.
“No. Did not live,” Melina disagrees. “Used to have dreams — about you then, about what you would be like now — and when I woke up, when I realized you were still gone, is like I died new death every day.”
Natasha breathes out a small laugh — her last line of defense. “That’s a very dramatic, Russian way of putting that.”
“Is not dramatic,” Melina replies, voice serious. Matter-of-fact. No room for argument. “Is not exclusively Russian, either. Is love. No matter what,” she says. Natasha thinks of the note — the one she carried around in her pocket, the one she still carries around in her heart — as Melina strokes her hair.
She dyed it blonde, she cut it short, and — in this moment — she knows Melina still loves her.
It’s enough to break the dam. Enough to make her start to cry. Enough to make her bury her face in Melina’s shoulder.
Melina protectively tucks her head under her chin, rocks her back and forth. The movement reminds her of floating in the lake, sun warm on her face as the water moved around her. Held by someone and watched out for and free, free, free.
She indulges in the comfort of it for a few moments until a wave of embarrassment crashes over her — too strong to ignore. “Sorry,” she says as she pulls away, covering her face. “I don’t know what the hell that was.”
“No, Natka,” Melina says sternly, clicking her tongue. “There will be none of that.”
“What happened to always having a choice?” Natasha groans but allows Melina to move her hands from her face. Allows her to look her in the eye. Allows her to gently thumb her tears away.
“Yes, well, are exceptions to every rule. Do not have choice to apologize for something is no shame in.”
“What about for getting your shirt all snotty and gross?” Natasha cringes, noting the patch of damp fabric. “Can I apologize for that?”
Melina glances down at her arm, unfazed. “What is Mama’s shoulder for if not to cry on?” she asks, gaze snapping up to meet Natasha’s a second after the words leave her mouth — as soon as she realizes what she’s said. “Sorry.” She holds her palms up. “Is habit.”
“Hey — none of that, huh?” Natasha’s voice is light, but she’s not teasing.
Melina blinks, expression stricken with disbelief. “Is okay with you?” she asks slowly. “To call myself that?”
Natasha shrugs, giving her a tiny smile. “It’s just the truth, isn’t it? The sky is blue. The grass is green. And you’re my mama.” She knocks her knee against Melina’s. “That okay with you?”
“No. Is not okay.” A tear slides down Melina’s own cheek as she leans in close — whispering, as if letting her in on a secret. “Is everything.”