Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

⧗

Natasha Romanoff met her reflection in the mirror.

It stared back at her through streaks of muck and grime, with hungry, empty eyes. She observed her unusually frazzled brown hair, having woken up mere minutes ago — her slim leather jacket clashed with her equally black jumpsuit. She had forgotten to take it off and hang it up, because she had dropped like a rock into her sleeping bag the moment she arrived back at the safe-house. That was probably why her makeup had also started to run.

She had spent the entire afternoon standing guard at the office… a task that had been a lot more demanding than she expected. She and her fellow Widows had to give the constant impression of standing still. The appearance of being intimidating. They had to listen, and not talk. They had to speak only when spoken to, move only when instructed, and otherwise fade into the background as much as possible.

All the better for us to do our jobs.

Now, she somehow had to find the time to make herself presentable for tomorrow. Impossibility was expected of her — no, it was required — because it made all the difference whether she stayed on this Earth a day or two longer.

Natasha looked about as ragged as she felt; but that was because it was less than ten minutes to midnight. On the last night of the year, everyone in Budapest was out somewhere, counting down the days to the beginning of the next one. Even now, she heard muffled voices coming from the paper-thin walls… someone was hosting a party next door. It had started out as barely inaudible, but had become louder as more guests had arrived and made themselves known. If she honed her ears, she could also make out the news broadcast on the television that would soon be showing the fireworks.

She supposed it seemed like fun. But Natasha had never been to a New Year’s Eve party, and she never would. The most 'fun' she had as an assassin was squeezing the life out of her victims. To make sure that they were dead, of course.

So, in what possible world would I even belong in that other room?

She stopped leaning on the sink, and turned on the tap. Filling up water in her cupped hands, she washed the makeup off her face — the lipstick, the eyeshadow, the blemishes that covered up her moles and creased wrinkles. When she looked into the mirror again (after wiping the grime away), she looked a little better.

More human.

Natasha put her hands on her hips, hiking up her jacket. It was freezing now, and she hadn’t been provided with a portable heater of any kind. The Red Room could only be so generous.

Okay, let’s do this.

She left the bathroom, turning off the light. She headed to the kitchen, which was about as barebones as it possibly could be. The rental had been dirt cheap. Going to the fridge, she brought out a little something she had bought earlier in the town on her way back, after she had made sure that no one was watching her. That is — it was crucial that no one had watched her get this.

A cupcake.

She went to a kitchen drawer and pulled out a small candle. She walked straight into the living room, sitting on a cold, hard couch in front of a cold, hard coffee table. It was barren and empty, save for the closed, curtained window that when opened led out onto the fire escape. She placed the cupcake there and stuck the candle in it. She pulled out a small box of matches, and struck one alight. In the dim glow of the room, it attracted her eye.

Yeah… she leaned forward, holding it up. That’s how you light a match. She lit the candle, and then extinguished the match before placing it back on the table. A faint bit of lingering smoke wafted in the air.

She gazed at the cupcake. Then at the clock — it was 11:58 PM.

"Happy New Year,” she whispered quietly.

She leaned back, keeping her eye on the cupcake. Trying not to listen to the room next door, of people who were more ignorant, and yet clearly much happier. As they drank, smoked, made merry cheer, and anticipated the fresh new start that was waiting for them. They sat around comfortable with better heating, better lighting, and the constant threat of death far behind them.

But there was nothing like that for Natasha. The next year would be the same as this one… and the year after that. And the year after that.

As long as I'm still here, she thought listlessly. It will always be like this. I'm only still here… because my skills are all I'm good for. Madame B made sure of that.

It would have been a mercy if they had just killed me.

Natasha closed her eyes. She squeezed them shut, trying to not let the tears escape. It was a sign of weakness — and Black Widows couldn’t show weaknesses.

But she failed, obviously. She knew that she was not strong in any way. She just let them fall as the next room erupted with cheers, as the sounds of fireworks exploded out from somewhere further away in the city.

BOOOM.

BOOOOOOM.

BOOOM.

Natasha opened her eyes and looked down at the cupcake. The candle flickered, and she sighed with relief — secretly glad that there was no one around to see this slip of hers. The fireworks were a great distraction. She loved distractions.

She only wished she was able to be more open, able to share this burden that had been forced upon her. But after years of wrestling with herself and what she was doing, she was all but finished with it. Now, she had to keep these rebellious thoughts as buried as much she could.

A funny thing, she reflected bitterly. When I grew up in the academy, I thought it was all normal. I came to accept it. I didn’t even blink when they told me they had killed my mother. When they had forced me into line. When they had stolen me away, and when they went digging straight into me and…

No, I can’t relive those memories. She winced, and leaned back. Staring at the ceiling, forcing herself to forget. For the sake of her sanity.

It had happened years ago, but it was still too fresh. She would break down even more if she thought about it now.

I think it was the Ohio mission when I realised… Nat remembered. What I had found myself in. When I got a taste of American suburbia, and… I missed it when I came back. There was an innocence, a normality that we children-at-the-time were supposed to have. But there’s nothing like that in the Red Room. In the training programme.

In the shadow of General Dreykov.

Dreykov. Natasha felt the sudden involuntary urge to spit at something, in anger and fear. God, I hate him so much. He… she clenched her teeth.

He took my childhood. She trembled with silent rage. And now he’s planning something, behind our backs. Something worse than anything we've been forced into before. Worse than the Brazilian hostages, worse than the prostitution ring.

Something I won’t be able to run away from. He took everything from me — my family, my sister, my freedom… my own bodily autotomy. What could possibly be worse than that?

Natasha felt herself start to panic — a pressure building in her chest. Like an anvil was threatening to split her down the middle. Her head started to pound. She clutched her face, spreading it past her lip. No no no, don’t think about him. There’s nothing you can do.

Think about Yelena — no! Don’t think about her, either. We were never sisters, and we will never be. I haven’t even talked to her in years.

She shuddered, and sat up on the couch. Ugh, I'm so tired. This was a mistake… I thought it would make me feel more sane. But it’s just made everything worse.

Natasha couldn’t be normal. Nothing about her or what she did was normal. It was cruelty and torture, under someone else’s name. It was commands that she had to follow by day, and then cry herself to sleep about at night. It was guilt, and pain, and endless sorrow and apathy beyond the imaginable. It was something she'd never be able to forgive herself for. 

It was a hell of her own making. A hole she had buried herself in.

I need to go to sleep. She gulped, allowing herself to breathe as the noise in the other room began to die down. Seeing the melting candle on the cupcake, she blew it out and took the cupcake with her back to the kitchen. She wasn’t hungry, so she would save it for another time. Or maybe — she wouldn’t eat it at all, so that she could still remain thin and healthy as much as possible.

So that I can pass the weight test when we get back to headquarters. Just another symptom of conditional living.

Natasha put the cupcake back into the fridge. She lingered there, arms dangling, as she felt the cold breeze over her as she left it open. She remembered faintly, that she was expected at the office again tomorrow afternoon for her shift.

Bed it is, then. She shut the fridge door and turned to leave — and froze.

She had heard something.

Something coming from the window in the living room. It was not the party — that was still going on next door. But Natasha had to strain to hear this… the squeaking, scrabbling sounds of something being unscrewed. A window being slowly opened.

An alarm rang in her ears.

Someone’s breaking in. I've been compromised.

She crouched down at once, right beside the nearest door. She unzipped her jacket and took a pocket knife into her hands, along with a small can of pepper spray that she kept on her person at all times — and as always, a small, silenced pistol hidden in her pants pocket.

After a lifetime of working with the gear, she had all but gotten used to handling weapons. She was still one, after all.

WHOOSH. She heard the sound of a window opening. A few moments later, it closed and blocked out the noise of the traffic. But — and Natasha noticed this intensely — it was muffled under the noise of the party. Whoever this was, they had chosen a perfect time to be sneaky.

But who? She wondered, hiding herself behind a corner back in the small hallway. Far from the opening that led her into the living room. Obviously not a Widow or a KGB agent. They know I would have just let them in through the front door.

Natasha knew that the hallway extended downward to the living room, past the kitchen. She decided to walk the opposite direction of her intruder, so she could get the jump on him… although she wasn’t confident in her chances tonight. She was too exhausted to engage normally.

This was not good.

She heard footsteps, and counted them carefully. She started moving the opposite direction, into the darkness — only the kitchen light had been left on. She assumed the intruder was somewhere there… possibly inching their way to the bedroom.

Natasha rounded the corner, looping back into the shadowed living room. Light spilled from the wide opening in the kitchen. In the corner, she saw the curtain buffeted by wind… the window cracked open a slip. She heard the faint sounds of traffic down below.

I could just escape that way… she thought. Save myself the trouble. The implications, if this guy turns out to be smarter than I assume.

She paused. She heard small footsteps inching around the kitchen. The intruder was out of sight — she couldn’t see him.

And she closed her eyes, letting her head bobble. Her hair draping down her neck.

I can’t. They'll kill me… if I don’t kill them.

That’s how it works.

Fine. She straightened up a little, rolling her knuckles. Bracing herself for a fight, Natasha tiptoed closer to the kitchen. Slowly unloading her pocket knife. Ready to slit a throat.

She saw the intruder, and slowed to a shuffle — not letting her guard down even for a moment.  Clearly a guy: shorter than average, but with a stocky build. He wore a black hoodie with gloves and a pair of skinny jeans, the hood pulled over his head so that Natasha couldn’t make out his physical characteristics as his back was turned to hers. But the kicker was that he had a weapon… and an interesting one at that too.

Slung over his shoulder was a quiver of arrows. Gripped firmly with his right glove… was a longbow.

Natasha felt an immediate sense of unease. She was trained for many weapons and for many different scenarios: she had managed to disarm guns, knives, swords, rifles and had managed to best the best of KGB war veterans in tight combat. She knew the logistics of how to tackle an opponent one on one; she could relatively predict all the moves they could make. She was also forced to learn from every encounter, so that she would do better and more efficiently for the next one — not just because it was the decree of the Red Room, but so that she would be able to survive what they threw her at next.

She had never fought someone with a longbow.

But I can’t stop now… she supposed, shaking her head. She inched closer. Treat it like a rifle.

The man had grown still. He seemed to pause — right in the middle of the kitchen. His head seemed to be looking at the fridge.

Natasha raised her knife.

Silence. There was just the party behind the walls.

She lunged towards him. Quick and vicious, like the killer she was made to be.

WHAP. Almost as if he knew, the man twisted, raising his left arm up to block hers. Natasha’s eyes widened, as he swung the longbow like a stick —

She ducked under it, the air escaping her. WHOOSH. Swooping under him, she gritted her teeth, driving the knife up into his ribs. He hissed, but with his left arm free, it was brought down to meet her face —

WHACK. Natasha almost gasped as he socked her across the chin. A second later, with lightning-fast reflexes — the man wrapped the longbow around her neck, the taut string pressed against her jugular. She was starting to constrict.

The knee. Natasha growled, kicking at his leg. It barely knocked him off balance, but that was enough: she rolled back, hefting her arms below his shoulders and throwing him down with her. She rolled over, pushing right across the open entrance of the kitchen, tumbling into the living room.

SLAM. He landed on his back, the hood coming off. Natasha, having landed on her knees, grabbed an end of the bow and firmly pulled it off her neck. As she did, she heard the man flipping up on his knees. She swivelled to see him launch right at her —

And she swung the bow on top of him, narrowly missing his head, hitting his shoulder. It bounced off, and as she got up to do it again — WHAP. He extended an arm, grasping it with his hand. They were both holding it at the same time, looking right at each other.

Stupid. She stared wildly at him, holding onto it, straining — she could see him now. He had brown, short-cropped hair and pale blue eyes. Stubble on his chin, slight wrinkles in his face; he was what, possibly a few years older than her?

And his face was one of evident bewilderment. But it quickly furrowed into deep concentration. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be,” he muttered.

Natasha shook her head furiously. The knife, she thought.

She went to stab him again, pulling the longbow towards her, pushing him forward. But WHAM — and she felt a deep force push into her gut, realizing that she had been kicked in the stomach. As she let go, the other knee drove into her torso, driving her onto her back. She gripped the floor under her, ignoring the hair in her face, about to roll out of the way whenever he came close, try to trip him —

SCHWING. She cried out in pain, jerked back by something striking the blade of her shoulder. Looking down at it, she saw a ten-inch arrow sticking out of her — the man having loaded, aimed and shot it in the span of… she estimated it had been less than five seconds.

Who — Natasha’s mind blurred for a moment — who IS this guy?

She was not quick enough for him. As if he had super speed, he had automatically reloaded and was now aiming another arrow at her. She was pinned down.

Come on! Groaning, she reached for the knife.

SCHWING. She almost choked on a gasp, as another arrow went right into her left leg. The pain was less than she was used to — but enough to incapacitate her. She closed her eyes briefly as her vision swam — 

And when they were open again, she saw the shadow of him towering over her. A final arrow. Pointed straight at her head.

She was done.

Just as well, she thought, gulping for air. At least he won’t draw it out. I don’t know who he is, what I did to warrant this, what pawn I am in this game… but it doesn’t really matter to me. Not anymore.

She glared at him with defiance. He narrowed his blue eyes at her. In the background, Natasha heard the continued voices of partygoers having a good time — always remaining ignorant.

“Well?”

It seemed like he was considering it.

“Get it over with,” she hissed miserably.

Finally. She shut her eyes. I am free.

THUMP.

Chapter Text

➳

Clint Barton waited impatiently in the dim-lit conference room, at the long end of an oval table. He was the only one there.

He was waiting for his boss. In the meantime, he was conducting a lengthy examination on his bow and arrows. Ensuring the taut string was hooked, fitted firmly around the groove. That the limbs were at their full tensile strength — that they wouldn’t snap when he pulled too far. He often was forced to, in the short timeframe it took to fire an arrow.

As for the arrows themselves, he hadn’t yet decided which ones to bug. They were all plain and sturdy, having been carved back at the farmhouse with the spare wood he could muster: a blueprint he had created and perfected over multiple years of working in this line of business. Each arrow had a component either baked into them when they were created, or a small slot that he could use to put anything that would fit — mostly, he could do a medium stick of dynamite since it was the best explosive that was small enough, and something he was capable of working with. Making each of these took time and considerable effort… and there were few and far between resources available to him to speed it up.

No one else was able to do what he could: so no one else made the tools. The curse of being a skilled, specific marksman.

Maybe I can get SHIELD to lend me something, Clint considered. If Fury could just push investment away from Project Insight… but he thinks I'm doing as fine as it is. Technically. Whatever he says, I guess.

Or maybe he could just open up to me more. I mean — I don’t even know if I may have to kill someone today.

He paused in his tasks. Part of him just felt glad that he was good at his job. If he activated the explosive arrows, he wouldn’t need to make more of them. Because he knew he would hit his target — as he always did.

He put the arrow down and pushed it back into his yoke, the bundle that he often slung over his back. He slotted it back into the metal case next to his bow and snapped it shut. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and tried to take a little nap. He wrapped his arms around him, feeling uncomfortable in his short sleeved plaid shirt. He wished, if a little selfishly, that he had stayed home.

A second later, he arose to the sound of rapping on the table. 

“Barton?”

He opened his eyes and grunted. Phil Coulson moved his hand away, on the side of the table opposite to him, and sat back down. Next to him, Nick Fury looked carefully at Barton with considerable interest.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Fury smirked. "How you holding up?”

“Me?” Barton rubbed his eyes. “I came over from Iowa at 3 in the morning. Thanks for the flight, by the way,” he added. “But you haven’t even told me what I'm doing here. So — I, uh, think I would like to know.”

“Fair enough,” Coulson shrugged. He bent down and brought out a small Windows laptop. He started to open it and log in.

“Yes, let’s get down to business,” Fury said promptly, placing his palm on the table. “Your mission… should you choose to accept it.”

“Funny,” Clint said dryly. He pretended he liked the reference. “Who’s my target?”

“Several persons of interest,” Fury explained. “All currently situated in Budapest, Hungary. This is a big deal — a series of secret Soviet meetings are taking place there, by the KGB’s shadiest organizations. Something that has apparently been organized for a long time, but that we've only discovered recently.”

“Observe,” Coulson muttered. He turned the laptop to show a security camera image of what seemed like a federal agent, on some street that Clint couldn’t recognize. He seemed Japanese.

“Souta Enmei,” he identified. “Agent for the World Security Council — or at least he was, before he disappeared two weeks ago and no one could figure out what happened to him. Until we discovered his body off the shore of Odessa.”

Clint clenched his teeth. Hmm. That’s not great.

"He had apparently been worming his way in, feeding them information about these planned meetings as well as his knowledge on who would be attending them,” Fury continued. “But he died before he could explain what these meetings were about… so we are all in agreement that he was likely caught stepping over a line he wasn’t supposed to cross. Now, we're being asked to step in.”

“To find out what they're doing?”

“That’s a bonus,” Fury clarified. “More to the point, we're being asked to stop it. So I'm going to bring you into the city for a while, where you have a timeframe of a few weeks to… do what you do best.” He grinned. “There are a couple of groups on this list we'd like to disband, some who are in no way prepared for us. And others who will pose much more of a challenge.”

“A hit list.”

“Exactly,” said Coulson. “In doing this, you'd be destroying some of our enemies and setting back others. All under the table, too — so the Russian government won’t be able to protest about it without being forced to mention them. We would view the outcome of this as a net positive.”

“A little callous, Coulson,” Fury remarked, side-eying him. “But… yes, that’s what we're hoping for. Beyond that, the usual rules.”

The usual rules. Clint nodded, understanding.  Don’t get caught, don’t reveal secrets, be prepared to take the bullet if you do. The standard protocols for working as an assassin in SHIELD.

He wouldn’t get caught. There was just too much at stake for that to happen.

“And what if I don’t find out what they're all planning?”

“Not the end of the world,” Coulson shook his head. “Because if you sow enough chaos, it won’t matter — they'll be forced to regroup, and that'll take lots of time depending on how much we're able to accomplish. Their plans will obviously have to change.”

“That makes sense,” Clint muttered. “So I guess that’s what I have to do. When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow,” Fury answered.

Clint stared at him. Then he sighed. “And it can’t wait until next year?”

“We don’t have time to waste,” Fury said firmly. “They'll be gone halfway through January. We want you to strike now, while the iron’s hot. Yes, I know what that means but —" he scoffed. “You are our best man for the job. You do this now, we'll give you a couple months off.”

Clint closed his eyes and facepalmed. God damnit.

I was never good at scheduling. Or — maybe it’s not me. Maybe SHIELD doesn’t know when to give me a heads up… incredibly frustrating.

“Okay, okay,” Clint grumbled. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

“Good,” said Fury. He patted Coulson on the back. “Coulson will keep in contact. You will work together to weed out the people on our list.”

Coulson handed him a paper, filled with names. Clint’s eyes breezed over it, not recognizing the names… but definitely recognizing the groups they belonged to. He raised an eye at a few of them. But he didn’t speak until he reached the last one.

“Anton Dreykov,” he mumbled, frowning. “The Red Room?” He looked up at them, suddenly hesitant. “The Red Room?”

“Yep, pretty much,” Coulson said, tight-lipped. “I saved that one for last, because we're gonna need some time to figure out how we're going to get him.”

“Of course,” agreed Fury. “You can probably expect some Hungarian guards, some KGB officers… and they should be all manageable, at least by the standards of your training. As well, most of those names belong to obscure politicians and desk jobs — they should not be a problem, either. But Dreykov is his own beast, and he has his own team of elites who protect him particularly.”

The Black Widows. Clint’s eyes narrowed. The deadliest assassins in the world… so some say. I've never ever fought one, but I know it’s not easy to survive. Negotiating tactics won’t work, either.

"How should I deal with them?” Clint asked. “None of these are… well…"

“You may have to get through the Widows to get to Dreykov. If you are going to do that,” Fury stressed. “Don’t bother being fair. Hit them in their weak spot, get them pinned down… and squash them.”

Clint grunted. No matter what, he remembered. He couldn’t keep his hands off the bow for this, not even for a moment. Otherwise, he was finished.

I guess that’s everything. He stood up, lifting the case onto his side. He held the paper in his hands.

“I'll go get changed. Transport?”

“We've got our air force pilot out back,” Fury said, getting to his feet. Coulson closed his laptop and got up, too. "He'll drop you off, a few miles away from Budapest.”

“Understood, sir.”

Fury bowed his head. “Thank you… and good luck. Ronin.”

Clint headed straight to the changing room. When he was there, he gathered his SHIELD gear from his locker and started to suit up. He focused on doing it so well, as he had done a hundred times before, that it wasn’t until he was clad in his hoodie and jeans, with his bow stored in its case, that he thought about what he was about to do.

I'm going to miss Christmas, he realized. I probably won’t be able to contact anyone other than Coulson while I'm there. I guess that means… yeah, I have to break the news to Laura.

He brought out his phone and dialed her. He leaned against the locker, trying to calm himself — he at least wanted to give the impression that everything was under control, that he didn’t sound as frustrated as he was. That he had a plan, that it would be executed in the shortest time possible and that he would somehow… no, that was not possible. There was no way he would be back by New Year’s.

A minute later, she picked up. “Clint? What’s happening?”

“New mission,” He cleared his throat and scratched his nose. “I'm going to be away in Europe for the next few weeks. I'm — I'm not gonna make it. I'm sorry.”

"… I see.” Laura sounded a little crushed.

“I know,” Clint muttered. He felt pain in his chest. “It’s important, however. They're giving me an addendum if I get this one right.”

“I understand. I'll take your word for it… but the kids won’t be happy about it.”

Clint gulped. “I know. Tell them I'm sorry… and give them both my hugs and kisses.” He smiled sadly.

“Come back as soon as possible, okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“And… god, try not to die,” Laura finished, sniffing. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Clint reciprocated to her. He soon heard the beep as Laura hung up the phone.

At least I said goodbye, he thought. If anything happens to me, this will only make things a little less harder for them. Such was the life he had chosen to live.

He tilted his head back onto the locker, feeling cold metal press against him. He limply splayed his arms out, almost caring as his phone threatened to slip out of his grip. He had been so focused, but part of him realized… he really did need to get some sleep on the plane. At least, before they arrived.

And then, he thought, a little stiffly. I guess I have to start doing my job.

The next few days were a strange blur for Clint. He had never been to Budapest, but once he touched down on the airstrip, drove to the city and started following directions from Coulson… it was like transversing around New York City. It all became second nature to him.

He mainly paced the highways, with his bow in tow — hiding in alleys, rooftops and amidst the crowds, particularly in areas where police and guards were well and truly present. There was no telling which one of them worked for the secret organizations he was being tasked to crumble, so there was a general precedent established that required Clint to avoid law enforcement (and similar authorities) altogether.

Clint mainly stuck to the shadows. He never stayed at a hotel, but often camped out late at restaurants where he could sit alone the entire time. He slept in some places that were much more comfortable than others, spending money only if he had to — drawing straight from the ATMs to help pay for food here and there. All coming from a private bank account that Coulson had set up for him, and paid only in hard cash.

If Clint didn’t have Coulson for that, as well as just for general conversation… he reckoned it would have been a pretty miserable experience.

And this was all mainly during the day. But Clint was also following a set path, that detailed where Coulson reckoned his targets would be situated — and so, he slowly started to move around in the dead of night, when no one could see him coming. He climbed buildings via fire escapes, with grappling tools and his nimble reflexes. With just a lock pick, he snuck through windows and straight into people’s bedrooms: easily the sneakiest and quietest way he knew to eliminate them. Sometimes, he had to wait until they had fallen asleep. Other times, there hadn’t been a good opportunity to strike at all… so then had to wait until the next night.

He was able to bypass the guards easily as well; Most people here had not been trained enough to spot someone like him. Whenever there were security cameras, he found out where they came from so that Coulson could jam them long enough for Clint to strike without being spotted. Of course, Clint had to verify with Coulson — whenever he was at the victim’s bed, or whenever he was spying on them from a distance — whether this was the right person who was on the list. Whether this was a person who had supposedly gathered some record of heinous acts, was justified in being assassinated for their crimes.

Whether it was good for him to slit their throat. That was the question.

Maybe Clint hadn’t considered it before — because usually, killing was not easy. He was not ordinarily tasked with doing it like this, and the ones he did kill (which were few and far between) were far more capable of taking him down than those who had thought were safer in their high and mighty towers. So as he looked at the men in their beds, usually alone and asleep, now silently bleeding out from a thin hole in their neck… 

He felt somewhat disturbed. Dissociated from the action.

I think I know why.

Clint soon left the room and retreated to a nearby rooftop — propelling himself back down by a nylon rope, that he had shot his arrow out to the balcony with.  His movements were instinctual and trained, so that had left him plenty of space to think about other things, mainly about what he had done. Not feel guilty, per se.

A few nights ago, I was considering setting up the Christmas tree in the farmhouse, Clint remembered. Now, I'm a hundred miles away — and I have a hit list of people I'm now in the middle of eliminating. The two worlds of my life are so starkly different.

And so much harder to ignore. He grimaced. I mean… one day, I might have to explain what I do to the kids. But how could I grow up with them, while trying to keep it all disconnected? Being away from them for weeks at a time? Not explaining why we live where we do?… What will they think of me when they're much older, much wiser — and should even I try explaining why any of this is justified?

Ugh, no. Clint shuddered slightly. That is a rabbit hole I do not want to go down. They'll just see me worser that way.

This was the conundrum he was now faced with. And it wasn’t like he had been forced into this position, either — Laura and he had both joined SHIELD long ago as contracted agents, who were both good at what they did. But no one could have predicted, not even Fury, that he would fall in love with this woman. That he would marry her… and then start a family with her soon afterward. And that the both of them would decide to commit to that decision.

Despite the risks, it had all been worth it. Laura would thankfully be the one to hang down her own weapons and settle into a more protective role, while Clint decided to continue working — and that exchange had worked out for the both of them. Laura did not miss her previous life. But this thing that Clint had to do, this monumental task… well, it was the first time in a while when everything had come into conflict. The first time where Clint had been demanded to prioritize the job.

It’s all for several good reasons, Clint reassured himself. Laura understands. But he still heard his wife’s disappointment in his mind. Still was contemplating about what his kids would have to say.

He forced himself to try and not think about that — as far as decisions go, it was not the end of the world. But with the answer being left unaddressed, he continued to press further on with an invisible weight dragging him down.

At least a week had gone by, and Clint was doing well. Christmas had long since passed, and he had taken down most of the targets on the list — and according to Coulson, had not been found out just yet. That was… honestly extraordinary.

“Just to be clear,” Coulson spoke to him over his intercom, while he sat at a table of an open restaurant. “They know something is up. But there’s not much they can do now, and I think this means that the meetings will not proceed as planned. You've already done half the work, maybe even have set them back at least ten years.”

"Hmm. Good.” Clint considered himself to a man of not many words. He just drank the black coffee he had just bought, wondering why American coffees couldn’t taste like this.

“But, now we have to talk… about the big one. Dreykov.”

Yes. Clint gripped his mug. I mean. If we have to…

I could just leave now. But I don’t like loose ends, and it seems the Red Room is a big one.

“Does he know?”

“If he does… he’s not doing anything about it,” said Coulson. “I don’t know. We're not familiar with how he works, but we've been told he is not to be underestimated. This could be good or bad — either he’s a narcissist, or he’s hiding something. Maybe even expects the Widows to cover for him.”

“That makes sense.” Clint had been thinking about that. He had spent an afternoon scouting out the place from a rooftop, where Dreykov was supposedly located, and had not missed the Widows guarding the gate entrance. Or surveilling the corridors inside the ornate building, all marching back and forth like they had broomsticks taped to their spines… he couldn’t identify anything else about them from his viewpoint, but he had seen enough. He had gotten the general impression that it was all to protect a certain something… or more appropriately, a certain someone.

“So, we need to take him down. Any plans?”

“Well, I'm not just gonna sneak in there like with the others,” Clint muttered, turning his face away from a nearby waiter. He looked out to the plaza he was at. “That would be a death sentence. But maybe I can take out his lackeys, one by one. When they're alone and unable to call for help.”

“Good plan. It’s just that…" Coulson cleared his throat, sounding sardonic. “They're Black Widows, Barton. I am confident in your skills, but if you slip up —"

“We'll see about that,” Clint interrupted.

All the same, Clint had some idea of what opportunities there could be if he was going to isolate them — but that would involve watching their moving patterns, and seeing when they were alone. Perhaps some of them had set up house in nearby areas in the night? Then he would trace them there and gut them while they were sleeping.

For the next day leading up to the New Year, Clint formed a plan in his mind as he continued watching from the rooftops. There was no point in hurrying this up, as there seemed to be little sign of Dreykov moving out for at least another week or two. So Clint just watched and waited, soon noticing that the Widows changed their shifts. That some of them broke off in the evenings, and trudged home to empty apartments and bare room flats. That one of them had just left her shift, and was now heading back to her own place… quite a few neighborhoods away from Dreykov’s office.

So Clint decided that was the one he would start with. Then, the next one who was close by would follow — and then the next one after that. And he would try to do as much as he could all in one night, and then reassess the situation the next day. And what an opportunity it would be for him to do so. After all, it was New Year’s Eve — one of the busiest nights of the year.

But the first attempt went wrong immediately.

It didn’t seem that way at first. The apartment was barren, and it seemed (from a distance) that this Widow was the only one there. Next door, there was a huge party going on that was drowning out everything else as people watched their television sets in anticipation. She was alone, and unless something drastic happened there was little chance that anyone would notice an ambush.

So, Clint waited for the fireworks.

When they started, he shot a corded arrow into the side of the building — right in the midst of the fire escape, providing him an opportunity to shimmy across. When he landed onto the metal railings, he climbed up a level to the window and began to pick the lock. It was not screwed very tightly, and it took only a minute to open.

He entered through the window ledge, treading his footsteps lightly. He kept his hood up, not wanting to be seen. But as he started making his way to where he assumed the bedroom would be… he immediately knew that something was up. The kitchen light was on. The refrigerator door was ajar.

And Clint knew something was behind him.

He always prided himself on his good instincts.

The girl was pinned to the ground. When Clint’s thoughts caught up to him, he realized that he had shot her down with three of his arrows — usually, one was just enough. That was unexpected for him personally.

But not as unexpected as when he had fully seen her just moments before. He hadn’t realized until a Widow was in front of him… but he had never once considered how young they actually were. This girl looked as if she had just graduated out of college. She had brown hair that curled down to her shoulders, some of it now splayed against her round face. Her nose was upturned, her blue eyes glaring at him with a mixture of hatred — and something else, though he couldn’t tell what.

Clint was pointing the bow at her, contemplating whether it was worth shooting into her skull. She was young, but she was still an assassin. The girl, meanwhile, had muttered something under her breath and closed her eyes. He was too focused, but she had clearly accepted her fate. She had failed to see a way out.

He supposed that this was what Widows were trained to do: to accept their death. But he looked at her again… and he felt himself hesitate. Pull back.

She’s a Black Widow? Clint thought, utterly confused. But she just… looks like a girl. It was hard to tell earlier, from all the makeup they were wearing — but she’s just a girl.

He went cold. Looking at her, he was vaguely reminded of his daughter. And then by familal relation, his son.

What am… he froze. What am I doing?

He shook his head roughly. He furiously thought about it again, looking down at her. Thought about driving that arrow into her, aiming the bow to strike —

And he quivered.

No. Clint exhaled and lowered the bow… and just like that, he had suddenly made the decision. I guess I'm not doing this.

He clutched the limb of the bow and knocked her out.

THUMP.

Clint took a step back. All was quiet now — even the people from next door were beginning to go quiet.

Damn it.

He raised his other hand to his ear and contacted Coulson.

“Barton?”

Clint’s voice was unsually low. “We're gonna have to come up with a new plan.”

Chapter Text

⧗

Every bit of Natasha ached.

When she had come to, she quickly realized that she had been propped up in a position befitting of an individual who clearly knew what they were doing. Her jacket had been pulled right off her, leaving her in just her undershirt and jeans in the cold, dimly lit living room. Her arms and legs were tied to a big chair — the arms to the stiles, and the legs to the spindles. She had woken up while tipped over, so that her head was pressed against the stone-cold floor, her hair partially draped over her face; essentially leaving her entirely incapacitated. She couldn’t muster up the strength to tip herself back or forward with the weight of the chair on top of her, and she couldn’t reach for any of her arms to undo her bindings.

She was pinned down. About to be squashed.

Of course… Natasha thought, her heart sinking. He wants to get answers out of me. He probably cannot afford to kill me until he does.

She closed her eyes, knowing that moving was pointless — it would only signal that she was clearly awake. Or maybe this would have made no difference, as the living room was almost completely in darkness — with just a solitary lamp on. Her face was turned towards the couch, so she couldn’t see the clock on the wall behind her… but she heard it ticking. Counting down to the last moments of her life?

It was still ice cold. The air permeated her skin, locking her in place. It went straight into her wounds, causing them to throb and sting. She had to bite her tongue to avoid moaning in pain. To avoid alerting her attacker’s presence.

After all, if her fate was to be sealed — it was not worth begging for her life. She would die gazing into her killer’s eyes.

WOOM. The sliding door to the kitchen opened, exposing Natasha to the bright kitchen light. She squinted to avoid being blinded, but the door afterwards closed. She knew immediately who it was that had come in — and went still at once, hoping to at least work up a way to escape.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he muttered, chewing something. He had his hood off, and seemed to be on a call talking to someone, even as he held no phone. “But Coulson, I meant what I said. I can’t — no, listen to me. I'll try and talk to this girl. Get her to give me something useful, and then leave her alone.”

The man sat down on the couch, about where she had been sitting earlier. Nat peeked a little from where she could see, and she scowled as she saw what he was eating — the cupcake. A small part of her wanted to shout, Hey. That was mine!

But she just said nothing. She silently paid attention as this man sighed, scraping his forehead. “If it doesn’t go well, I'll stage an accident. But I'm not going to do it myself.”

Do… what? Nat’s scowl deepened. Kill me?

"How much should I tell her?”

An inaudible voice from the phone.

“She’s not going anywhere,” The man sighed. “I've made sure of that. She’s not going to run to Dreykov and tip him off, I promise. I'll — I'll make sure she knows what happens otherwise.”

Dreykov? Natasha’s thoughts tumbled over one another, as she started to put the pieces together. This man doesn’t work for him. Is Dreykov his main target? He speaks English, he’s dressed in shadowed attire, he somehow managed to scale an entire building with the pure intention to kill me — at least, that it would seem. If there’s something he thought he would find here, he would have mentioned it.

Then Natasha remembered a few days ago — when she had heard from some fellow Widows about a series of attacks on other groups that had been in the area to meet with their leader. All had been apparently assassinated, the killer both unknown and untraced. She had been keeping her head down too long to even think about it at the time, but…

Could it be? She wondered. Is this the assassin? But if it is, why did he not kill me when he had the chance? Does he want information out of me?

Then it clicked.

He’s going after Dreykov. He needs me to tell him how.

“Yeah,” the man nodded. “I'll wait until she wakes up, and grill her for —"

A sudden thrill shook Natasha to her core — and lest she let her guard down, she felt a sensation of opportunity. This… this could be my chance to escape.

She shuffled a little. “I can help you.”

The man froze.

“I — I —" she stammered. “I want to defect.”

The man went to tap something in his ear that Natasha couldn’t see. “I'll call you back.”

He leaned forward… narrowing his eyes down at her suspiciously. Scanning her closely, scrutinising her body language to see if she was trying to lead him on. And maybe she was, maybe she was just deluding herself… but Natasha knew, for the first time she had ever known, that if she was to survive — then honesty was truly the best policy.

"How much did you hear?”

“Enough.”

The man said nothing… and Nat felt herself losing hope. She knew English well, but not enough to do away with her accent. It was probably tainting how he was viewing her. Yet, as he was about to ask her something —

“You want to kill Dreykov, and I want to help you,” she said breathlessly. “I'll even help you get to him.”

“You want him… dead?”

“More than you could ever know,” she whispered, staring intensely at him.

“Then why have you —"

“I can’t,” Natasha clenched her jaw. "He did something to all of us, that — that makes it harder to go near him. Physically.”

The man’s eyes widened. Natasha contemplated exactly how much he had been informed about what he was dealing with.

"How much did you hear?” she challenged him.

“A few rumours,” the man muttered, his head down. He avoided eye contact with her. “Some stories of what happens to young girls. I — I thought they were made up.”

“Whatever you heard…" Natasha said, attempting to shake the hair from her face. “The truth is a thousand times worse. What you heard was only just the beginning of what happened to us, and if I hadn’t known better I would have been driven mad. Those 'rumours' are the reasons I've always wanted to leave.”

“But you haven’t.”

“Because I have nowhere else to go!” her voice trembled. “But… but you must come from somewhere else. Somewhere better. Somewhere from the West.”

“The West?” the man scowled. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“From America,” Natasha pressed him. “I spent some parts of my childhood there. They were the best moments of my life, because I was able to be normal. I didn’t have to be who I am. I…" she gulped. “I can’t be that child anymore, but you can still take me away. To America, and I would — I would —"

“You would work for us,” the man finished, following along. He leaned back, looking at a complete loss for words. Then… he granted her a look of suspicion. "How should I know that you're not lying to me?”

"How do I know that I can trust you?” Natasha questioned. “Because you decided to spare me instead of killing me when you should have?”

“I didn’t do it because of you,” he snapped. He bobbed his head forward, looking tired. “Look, do you even know anything about us? How could you just choose to defect somewhere else if —"

“I don’t know much, but I do know that you are like me,” Natasha said. “You do what I do, and you are trying to destroy the Red Room. That’s all I need to know.”

"… And what if we're worse than the Red Room?”

“Nothing is worse than the Red Room.”

The man fell silent. Natasha glared at him, waiting for him to speak — her heart starting to pound. She could say and promise whatever she wanted, but he would make the final call.

“Okay, so…" the man grunted. “I see what this is. You want to join shield —" Natasha frowned in confusion as he said that word, uncertain of why he had said it, “And by doing so, you would have to actively help me kill your boss. Any means necessary, and with my clear approval. And… if it all shook out and we got away, then both me and my superiors would have to take you up on the offer.”

“Deal,” Natasha answered immediately.

“Uh…" he nodded carefully. “Sure. Well, this didn’t go how I thought it would. I obviously need to talk to my boss, so… just… keep staying there, and don’t do anything stupid.”

Natasha squirmed, still extremely uncomfortable. But she understood and just nodded. It was better than being dead.

➳

Clint moved into the hallway, a few rooms away from where he had stored the Widow. If something happened for some damn reason, he would get time to escape — but all windows and doors were closed, and everything was silent. It seemed that the coast was clear, if only for now.

But that this girl may have overheard this conversation with him and Coulson… that was foolhardy. He had only been glad that he hadn’t revealed more that he had — and yet, did it even matter? The strangest thing had happened after they had fought and almost killed each other. She had done the most honest, and yet the most bewildering thing imaginable: she had insisted on helping him with this mission. All in exchange for her safety.

And if she hadn’t been so blunt about it, I would have just laughed at her, Clint thought, shaking his head. Am I… losing my intuition? Did I miss something? Is this a double agent, attempting to sabotage me? Did she have a knife somewhere on her that I missed when I was patting her down?

And then, Clint remembered how she looked, sprawled on the floor and looking up at him. Right before he had been about to kill her.

If she is a double agent… then what happened back there was one hell of a risk.

Ugh. He tapped his earphone, and waited a moment to contact Coulson.

“What happened?”

“The girl made me an offer,” Clint muttered, checking his arrows. “A really good one, unfortunately — she helps me infiltrate, and I take her back with me when I go.”

“Really?” Coulson knew Clint well enough to know when he was being sarcastic. This was the first time he seemed to have been caught off guard. "Huh, well… considering all that I've heard, I get it. A Black Widow helping us would be just the big break we needed. But can you trust her?”

“I — I have no idea,” Clint admitted, baffled. “She’s gotta have a Gusiness record for being too honest. She didn’t seem to recognize me when we saw each other, and when I dropped SHIELD in conversation she didn’t seem to know what that meant. In terms of the Red Room hierarchy, she’s probably just a lackey like the others.”

“That lines up — from your description of her, I haven’t found a name or a connection anywhere. And if she was someone important, I don’t think she would have been where you found her. What did you see her doing again?”

“Guarding the building outside. I don’t think she was even allowed to go in.”

"Hmm… well, that complicates things a bit. You may have a Black Widow, but what good will she be if she can’t take you up to the big guy?”

“She may not have to,” Clint said steadily. He paused. “In fact — yeah, I could find a good way to get us in. But that would require a lot of trust…"

“And what about the previous plan?”

Clint grumbled. He strapped on his quiver of arrows.

“Still not going for that one, then?”

“Probably not. Too long, too many moving variables, Dreykov will probably pack up the second he gets wind. Yeah…" Clint said heavily, digging his knuckles into his eyes. “We'll have to strike hard and fast. And the only way to do that is to —"

“Is to use this girl. Okay, well…" Clint heard the sounds of typing. “If this works, we can certainly pick you up in a bigger helicopter.”

“I… I guess.” Clint didn’t know how to feel about this: but he supposed he would find out soon enough. He stopped leaning on the wall. “I'll go back.”

“Alright,” Coulson agreed. “Good idea to not kill her, as it would seem. Well done. But, uh… I'd still keep an eye on her if I were you. If she deviates from the plan, or does anything suspicious, then…"

“Yeah.”

Clint briefly had an out-of-body experience, that same sense of uncertainty he had before. He was again reminded of his daughter.

“Do what you have to. I'll talk again soon.”

Clint signed off, and walked back into the kitchen — where he again opened the kitchen door, casting light over the girl. He kept his chin up as he looked down at her, trying not to appear as exhausted as he was. This was not the time to expose his vulnerabilities.

“What’s your name?”

The girl tilted her head to look up at him — her face becoming redder, from her sustained injuries. Clint couldn’t bring himself to look at them.

“N-Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.”

“Natasha…" Clint repeated. “Okay.”

Here goes nothing. He leaned down and immediately began untying her bonds. He heard an audible sigh of relief as she was freed from being stretched apart, and immediately began rubbing her wrists and the undersides of her ankle. She didn’t seem to be reaching for a weapon, which was good.

The girl, Natasha, tilted her head up at him from the ground, finally brushing back her hair back. She gazed at him with subdued blue eyes. “And what about you?”

"Hmm?”

“Your name.”

Clint stiffened a little.

"… Call me Ronin.”

Natasha looked a little disappointed, but nodded.

Yeah… nothing we need to worry about, Clint thought sarcastically. I can’t believe I'm actually doing this.

But he cleared his throat, and brought Natasha up to the couch. “Yeah, so… let’s leave it at that. You don’t mind if I bandage you up?”

“No,” she answered, turning to bring her injured shoulder closer to him.

“Okay, then —" Clint paused, remembering. He swore under his breath. “Shit. I left my medical kit with all my other stuff on the other rooftop. I may have to go get it, so… you don’t mind —"

“Not really,” the girl sighed. She looked up at the clock, seeing it was just after 4 am. “What’s the rush?”

“I don’t wanna be seen.”

“Then go. I'll leave the window open — I just need my jacket back.”

Clint grew still. You're just gonna let me go? Just like that.

“Yeah, okay.” The corner of his mouth turned up a little.

One hell of a double agent.

Chapter Text

➳

In a sudden twist of fate, the girl that Clint had captured and attempted to kill would now be working with him. As he ruminated over this once again, while crossing his zip line between buildings to go retrieve his possessions… he almost slipped and fell off. It was just for a brief moment, nothing he wouldn’t recover from. But he slowly made his way back before the dawn broke, finding himself reflecting on how quickly things had spiraled out of his control.

I am losing my mind, he thought. I'm putting my trust in someone who I don’t know, and who I've gotten off on the wrong foot with. I… I really need to retire. He chuckled to himself, slipping back through the window. I've honestly been thinking about it since I entered my 30s, but I mean it now. I gotta stop.

He was just kidding, of course. What would he do if he didn’t have this job? And yet… he still kept those thoughts in the back of his mind, in a dark corner. There was some truth to them, but he was in too deep now to do anything about it.

When he returned, he got out his medical kit and spent the next hour gently bandaging up Natasha on the couch. Specifically the wound in her left leg, which she propped up on a corresponding chair as she sat. And the one to her shoulder, which required her to take off her jacket. As he applied antiseptic and rubbed it into her wounds, he gauged her face for a reaction which would signal him to be gentler — but she just gazed at him without emotion, not even flinching a little. She didn’t look away either as he glanced at her every now and then, instead keeping her jaw clenched, staring into the distance while hungry and dispassionate. Whatever light was present in her eyes, Clint couldn’t see it.

And he wasn’t particularly surprised. This is probably nothing compared to what she has been through, he assumed. But… I guess she’s also doing this to prove that she has nothing to hide. I'll decide the truth when these days are long behind us.

He finished with her shoulder and helped put her jacket back on. A little roughly, sensing that he was now starting to slip into true exhaustion — and he quickly realized that planning was out of the question until they actually got some sleep.

Still, as Natasha stood to head to her own room, he cleared his throat. “You're not sleeping unless it’s near me, okay? I wanna keep my eye on you.”

Natasha didn’t respond.

She went away for a moment, and Clint chose to be patient. Sure enough, she came back with her blanket from the bedroom and laid it out on the floor. It seemed that this was where she wanted to rest, even though the couch was wide enough for them both… but Clint understood her decision.

She slid the door shut and crawled under the blankets. Clint scrutinized her one more time to see if she was hiding something, anything — if she had called up someone in the other room, or had touched some kind of pager. He was usually able to tell if someone was hiding something. It showed in their body language; in the way they looked at him, in how they addressed him. There were always lots of clues that tipped him off… and they had always proved to be correct.

But he couldn’t tell with her. She just looked quizzically at Clint, as if expecting him to speak.

He drew his eyes away from Natasha, staring up at the ceiling. What did I tell you? I'm out of touch.

Or maybe… some dark part of him wondered. This is just what all Widows are like. They're so good at what they do, having become so brainwashed into this… goddamn Red Room… that it’s become impossible to tell the difference of whether they are lying or not.

He exhaled. Oh man… I really hope I made the right call. Or else, I'm not gonna get a good night’s sleep after this is over.

Clint and Natasha sat together at the kitchen table. Having checked the clock moments earlier, it was now early morning.

Natasha only had water. She poured a glass for her and Clint, and passed it to him to drink — which he did, after quickly checking that it hadn’t been poisoned. (It wasn’t, but it was quite lukewarm.)

Clint looked back up at Natasha, who had been peering down into her own glass. “So… uh, when do you have to get back to Dreykov’s office?”

She was tight-lipped at first. Then she nodded.

“I take afternoon shifts,” she said quietly. “I have a few hours to get ready, but I can’t be there any later than twelve. Or else… you understand.” She shrugged.

"Hmm.” Clint shrugged. “And you'll be back around six or seven. Okay, you'll have to run me through the floor plan so I can decide the best path to sneak around all the other guards. While you're over there, do you think you could get anyone else to help us? Or at least, to give us leeway to —"

“No.”

Clint squinted. “Why?”

“I have no friends over there,” Natasha stated. “I have no friends at all. Camaraderie was heavily discouraged in the training academy, and whatever connections I had with anybody drifted apart when I went solo… I've only been with other Widows on, what, four missions in the last six years?”

She sat there, stunned at the realisation. “It’s on purpose, of course. I've tried to at least to reconnect with some of them, but… they almost pretend like I'm not there. There is no one who would help us.”

Clint frowned, thinking about this. Not even a conversation with the others? Or any form of social interaction? How was that even possible?

And then, he remembered: when he had been watching the Widows from outside the previous day, he had not seen any one of them talk to each other for more than a few sentences — and most likely not about anything else. They all had seemed unwilling to be distracted from their roles for even a moment… almost like they had been programmed to behave that way.

He grimaced. “Jesus.”

Natasha closed her eyes. “I did have one friend during my time in America — well, it was a little closer than that. But we grew apart too, once we returned to the Red Room. I haven’t connected to her either.”

“So… I guess allies are out of the question,” Clint muttered. “And you don’t want to at least try to convince them about rebelling, or…?”

Natasha firmly shook her head. “What if they tell Dreykov?”

“What’s stopping you from telling Dreykov about me?”

Natasha stiffened. “I…" her voice trembled a little. “I really can’t talk to them. It’s not that I'm not allowed to, but whenever I try to gain sympathy… I always get the impression that I'm the only one who actually wants to leave. No one else seems to care.”

Clint looked at her face. She seemed completely serious.

“We're on our own, then.”

“Yes.”

Clint curled his hand on the table. He knew Natasha was not lying: this was going to be a situation where they were heavily outnumbered, where the chances of getting away quitely were second to none.

"… Fine,” Clint sat up in his chair, and looked through to the living room at his duffel bag on the couch. “This simplifies matters. I have an idea for how we're gonna kill him quickly, even if we will have to work much harder to cover up our trail.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“We blow him up.”

“Oh…" Natasha’s eyes widened. “Well, uh — that’s not the answer I expected.”

“But I think there’s a case to be made, from what I'm hearing,” Clint explained. “That we will have to leave quickly as soon as this is done. There’s just not a perfect scenario here where we can pull this off sneakily, so…" he sighed. “We might as well go all out. I can call my boss well in advance, then find us a place to hide until the exit is open.”

“And the bombs?”

“All in the bag,” Clint waved her off. “I can do quite a few things with them that I think you'll like. I'll probably get that all assembled together while you're gone.”

Natasha looked confused, but Clint chose to ignore. He would tell her more about that later.

He leaned forward, preparing to share the idea he had thought of the previous night. “So, plan of action: you take me in as a captive, you slip my restraints when I get to the hold, and then stand guard outside until an explosion happens. We leave together shortly after that, and I get us as far away as possible.”

Natasha blanched. “You… you want me to just take you in?”

“Well,” Clint scratched his chin. “What’s the protocol for dealing with hostages?”

“To kill them.”

“You —yeah, I should have seen that coming,” he muttered. “Look, you're a double agent. Could you just tell them that, uh… Dreykov will probably want to see me, interrogate or torture me before that happens?”

“That…" Natasha paused. “That could work.”

I knew it. Clint grinned a little. “Yeah, I suspected he was a narcissistic prick. It would be in character for him to do a monologue or some crap like that. That’s the golden opportunity to kill him — right then and there.”

“But what about navigating the building?” Natasha asked. “You won’t know how to get to his office. You could as well just wait for someone to take you —"

“No,” Clint interrupted, shaking his head. “This is already dangerous as it is, but it becomes unpredictable the longer I am left a hostage. There’s no guarantee that I won’t run into someone, or that this hypothetical person assigning me to Dreykov won’t be you. And the longer we stay, the more questions will be asked.”

“Everything will happen very quickly,” Natasha assumed.

“Yep, pretty much.”

“So… how you plan to navigate?”

“That’s where you come in. Today, your job is to plan my route to the office. Make as many excuses to stay in the office if you need to, but give me the directions that will lead me straight to this guy so I can kill him. Does that sound like a deal?”

Natasha stared. “That’s a lot of trust you're putting in for me.”

Clint leaned back. This was indeed a massive gamble… but having thought about it as soon as he had woken up, he always knew that he needed to reciprocate the trust she had shown him. He had never once gotten the impression that Natasha was trying to trick him, or clawing at ways to escape; every part of her seemed to beg to leave. So having saved her from certain death — now, he would just have to expect the same from her.

But he couldn’t tell her that. He just said quietly, “If I hadn’t been sure about you, you would have never left this place alive.”

Natasha took a sip of water.

She left the glass on the table. “Okay,” she said, getting up. “There’s not some kind of jail at the office… but there is a small basement. That is where I'll leave you. Now, I'm going to go get ready.”

She headed off to the bathroom. Clint’s eyes followed her as she did, checking her once again: she didn’t seem to be surprised by his choice of words. That was good, if it showed that she was thinking along the same lines as him.

All the same… Clint thought about it. Yeah, might as well. I could head back to the rooftops and do another scan of the perimeter. Check to see if she’s doing what I asked her to… maybe see if she really has no one to talk to over there.

And yet, he felt a twinge of melancholy. Maybe he didn’t need to. He had already been able to tell.

No one to talk to, huh? He rubbed his forehead. … Sounds like hell.

⧗

Natasha steered herself, as she walked the streets that took her back to hell.

She was dressed back in her leather jacket, her hair tied up into a long braid that tugged down past her back. She had applied the required amount of makeup, had developed the required pose she needed to resemble a mannequin — had slowly calmed herself down enough to the point where she was able to dissociate.

As she walked past the crowds, the brand old buildings of Budapest… everything that was normal to her became unreal. She tuned it all out: the sounds, the conversations, anything that anyone was doing past her all the time. Pure, complete concentration on her task, which was to chart the route she took from the apartment to the building where she would be expected to stand guard outside for as long as she could. And be so deeply focused on that task, that the monotony and soul-crushing oppressiveness of her current existence would pass by in an instant. She'd only break out of that stupor to exercise her basic faculties, to eat and drink, and then prepare herself to do it all over again.

And now, she thought, somewhat hopefully. To do something for this man who claims he can kill Dreykov. After that, there may never again be a need for me to…

No, don’t get your hopes up.

Natasha was not stupid; this plan was reckless, there was a great margin of error in what Ronin had proposed to her. (At least he hadn’t been stupid enough to tell her his name.) And yet at the same time, she didn’t really mind that it wasn’t perfect — at least it was something. And if it failed… at least she would have nothing else to look forward to. There was no scenario where the Red Room would actually want to keep her around after this.

Yes. She was that desperate.

Don’t forget what happened the last time you tried to fail… a small voice reminded her. Do you really think they'll let you go?

Natasha stopped in her tracks. She closed her eyes and sighed.

I can’t stop this now, she told herself. And I don’t want to. I'll take that chance. She steered herself up, and put on the act. Soon, she arrived at the iron gates that led to the building.

Throughout the day, Natasha made excuses to her fellow Widows to relieve herself whenever possible. Every time she did, and took a longer alternate path to the bathroom — a part of her became increasingly worried that her fellow Widows would start asking questions. None of them really did, just sort of didn’t pay attention to her. Likely having their own problems to worry about, which was the sensible explanation. Or perhaps they thought she was on her period, or thought that there was something else that they wouldn’t tell Dreykov about in solidarity of covering for her — but those were both just wishful thinking.

In any case, Natasha found the route that Ronin would take. She had a vague idea of the building’s layout, from that basement, to the small closed courtyard of the ground floor, to the upper floors where Dreykov and his family were situated. But this was the first time she chose to pay attention, and she decided on not only the quickest route imaginable, but also kept track of the patrols that would go along that route. There was no indication that they would change, or that anything was known that would change them — except for the sudden awareness of an assassin that had killed political allies.

Natasha never found out if anyone knew anything about that. It became easier for her to blend in, actually, once she knew that they suspected no sign on the horizon that would foil their plan. And so the rest of the day passed in relative quiet, and Natasha was able to do one more quick sweep to memorise the layout as best she could before returning to the apartment that night. Carefully keeping an eye behind her back for anyone who was following, of course.

But when she reached the front door, she knew she was in the clear.

When she came back and entered the dimly-lit living room, she found the man who called himself Ronin. He was currently examining each of his various arrows laid out in front of him, which looked like nothing she had ever seen. Nearby was what looked like a small set of tools, which seemed to have been used to open them carefully… and to slide some of those sticks of dynamite inside.

The man nodded to her. “Good to see you, Na…tasha. Too many vowels,” he mumbled. “Do you mind if I just call you Nat?”

Natasha blinked. “Uh… sure.” She didn’t know what to make of it, but she led it slide.

“Cool. Nat, over here,” Ronin leaned over past the duffel bag, and brought out what looked like a large white sheet of paper. But on closer inspection, Nat realised that this was a bunch of torn paper towels, that looked like they had been glued together.

“You need something to map things out to me,” he explained. “And I can’t risk going out to get that stuff for you. Luckily, there was a pen and a roll of paper towels under the kitchen cupboard.” He gave her a small, exhausted smile.

Natasha smiled back. She felt… well, she didn’t know how to describe it, but she knew it was good. She welcomed it.

“Okay…" she sat down opposite him and grabbed the 'paper', and started to sketch out a rough layout of the building’s floors and what each of the rooms were. Ronin watched her on, asking a clarifying question every now and then.

She focused on that for a while, indulging the man who not even 24 hours ago had been intending to kill her. And yet… this task somehow felt far more freeing to do. She felt more like a contributor, someone who was actually planning an escape and an exit of action, not someone who was forced to follow the orders of a heartless leader — or worse had been tasked to kill without consideration of how, and with little care of what happened to her. Natasha had to push through previous missions before despite all the wounds she sustained, because she had been taught well that she would only be taken care of when she was successful.

No one wanted to keep a defective weapon.

Natasha found herself scowling. Then, she blinked, seeing she was looking down at Ronin’s bow nestled in his lap. And then… despite all that she had been told, she decided to spite Madame B, and instead satiate her own curiosity.

She looked back at her drawings. “Why a bow?”

"Hm?”

“A bow is an interesting choice of weapon.”

Ronin gazed steadily at her. No doubt, figuring out what to answer.

“It started out as a joke,” he said. “When I was little, I attended a local fair back in — where I still live now, actually,” he gave a side-eye to Natasha, who just rolled her eyes and indicated for him to continue. “I saw a guy who dressed up and pretended to be Robin Hood. I was with my mom at the time, and we thought it kind of funny that this one guy who steals from the rich and gives to the poor, who manages to be so damn heroic… somehow manages to do it all with just a bow and arrow.”

“Robin Hood?” Natasha frowned. “If I vaguely remember, from hearing that tale once… wasn’t there other people that he worked with in order to do that?”

“Yeah, his merry band of men. But I didn’t know that at the time,” Ronin waved a hand. “Anyway, that was what spurred Mom on to enrol me in archery classes. As it would soon turn out, I would come to like it — and I would actually have quite an eye for it.” He grinned. “I came to be more comfortable with it than just using a gun, or any other kind of weapon. So now, I guess the joke’s on me.”

Natasha found herself smiling too. “That’s a very sweet story. You must have had a good mother.”

“Yeah…" Ronin looked away. “I guess.”

Natasha’s smile disappeared at this. Did something happen to her?

He saw her, and he shrugged offhandedly. “Great mom — admittedly not so great at taking care of me. My dad probably divorced her because she was ironically quite the kleptomaniac… stole a lot of stuff. After she tried stealing from a general store, things sort of escalated to the point where she landed in jail for a few good years. I would have to live for myself, and things fell apart between us after that.”

“Oh… I see,” Natasha said quietly.

“Yeah. I got into, er, this current line of business later afterwards,” Ronin sighed. “I was left kind of purposeless, but I decided to use my unique skillset to establish myself as an agent. I grew up loving old Samurai movies, so I decided to codename myself as Ronin… not the most accurate name, but it did sound kind of threatening enough to work. It probably make me seem more of a lone wanderer than I actually am.”

Natasha pondered on this silently. She had been wondering about that too. As well as… well, the reason of how this man turned to contract kills, to the point where he now seemed capable of destroying all the people that she was unable to destroy herself. Admittedly… it made her a little jealous that he had been able to make that choice when she hadn’t.

And well, that messed with her a little. She had never wanted to be an assassin — but that was what she got. And unfortunately, she also happened to be too good at it.

Too abnormal for anything else.

She remembered the party, and all the people that she knew she couldn’t belong with — and she just swallowed and shook her head, deciding not to think about it further: to do so would make her lose her nerve. No, she had to leave.

“You, uh, okay?” Ronin looked at her with confusion.

Natasha cleared her throat, and pointed at the duffel bag. “I-I'm fine. Run me through on these bombs. I'd like to know how they work, how we plan to detonate them.”

Ronin scratched his chin, and gingerly picked up a rigged arrow. “Pretty straightforward, actually. Some of my arrows have hollowed out compartments — I call them bugs — that allow me to slip explosives and other shit into them. That makes these very dangerous, unless they are handled carefully… carrying them is fine. But if I snapped an arrow forcefully, it would explode in my hands. And I shoot the arrow, the impact alone would also be enough to also make it explode.”

Natasha couldn’t help being impressed. This was nothing like she had seen before. "How long had you been working on this for?”

“Quite a while. There was a mission that required explosives, but they were obviously hard to come by,” he explained. “So I have since been future-proofing for other scenarios like this.”

“Interesting.” Natasha peered in the duffel bag, and saw more dynamite in there. “And the rest of these? Could we rig them to blow them up?”

“Yes, I already have.”

Ronin picked up what looked like a black metal band, slotted around a stick of dynamite with what looked like a red button. “I firmly press this down for a few seconds — and a minute long timer quietly counts down, which gives me around that amount of time to plant and retreat. Then, the plastic is broken, therefore triggering the explosion.”

Natasha nodded. “Sort of like a grenade.”

“Yes, but much more concentrated. I had these made to account for missions that required stealth, but… I haven’t needed to use these much until now.” He hesitated. “But there’s a time and place for everything.”

“Thank you for explaining that to me.”

Ronin smiled again… a little warmer this time. “Of course.”

Natasha nodded, half-listening. She still was uncertain of Ronin — he certainly had been quite chipper about what they were planning, far more than she had. In general, he seemed more lax about what they were risking far more than she was. But it was a nice change from what she was used to… and it felt more genuine. More like this was something she could be a part of, and continue to be a part of.

But — we have to survive first, she remembered. And Natasha felt her throat close up, in anticipation of what the next day would bring them.

“Now…" Ronin changed the subject. “Let’s talk about tomorrow morning.”

They both rested in the same place that night, as they had done before. Well, one of them did — the other stared up at the ceiling, unable to stop thinking about what was going to happen.

Natasha pulled up her blanket a little more. Tomorrow, we will either be free… or we will both be dead. Those are the only acceptable outcomes.

She felt a sense of unease. A faint hint of dread.

And then… she slowly lifted herself up. She crawled right over to the duffel bag, being so quiet as to not wake Ronin. She slowly unzipped it, squinted inside as best as she could in the darkness… and took for herself a stick of dynamite. Wrapped in one of those black metal bands with the red button.

She unwrapped the band as to avoid risking switching it on. She slid the dynamite under her blanket and covered herself over it, huddling herself closer.

She resolved to take it with her tomorrow. Just in case, she reassured herself.

After that, Natasha was finally able to go to sleep.

Chapter Text

⧗

The next day, Natasha and Ronin got up early and ate breakfast quickly. As Natasha clambered to her feet, she gently hid the dynamite she had taken and moved into the bathroom as quickly as she could to avoid having to look at him.

She quietly got dressed back in her jeans and jacket, putting on her makeup, tying her hair back into its long ponytail, all as if she was preparing for the same job as usual — but this time, every movement felt far more intentional. Far more important. For one, there was a bomb in the room with her, just… lying on the kitchen sink. (She tried not to look at it, even though she held the pin that could trigger it in her pocket: some irrational fear stupidly told her it would go off if she did.)

For another fact, she had strangely realised that this would probably be one of the most significant days of her life. And not because she would likely die, but because she would be free. Free from the Red Room, free from the invisible cell she had been dragged into at gunpoint. Free from being a perfect weapon, from participating in things that horrified and tainted her soul.

It all felt exciting — and also terrifying. But she tried not to think about it too much. To do so would be inviting false hope, but it would also force her to confront herself about what would come afterward.

No… the plan was to escape before any other. Then she would decide.

She finished dressing up. And at last, she took back the stick of dynamite and fitted it into her inside jacket pocket. She still didn’t know why she had taken it without Ronin’s permission — maybe she had thought it would be a good idea to have a plan of her own. Just in case Ronin’s didn’t work, or he turned out to be a traitor who was somehow working for Dreykov: a test of her loyalty, perhaps. Dreykov had sunk lower time and time again, in ways that Natasha had never forgotten and never wanted to speak of.

… Maybe. Natasha swallowed. She had never gotten the impression that Ronin would do that. But then again, the Red Room had tricked her before.

She left, shutting the door behind her and checking to make herself less conspicuous. Ronin was out of his hoodie and now in a short sleeved armoured vest, zipping up the duffel bag with all of his weapons inside, including his longbow. He looked up and nodded approvingly at her getup.

“So,” Natasha breathed. "How am I going to do this?”

She knew the plan they had outlined. But there was still a question that hinged on his 'kidnapping' looking convincing.

Ronin dropped the bag and walked up to her, right in the middle of the room. He handed her some of his ropes, and a plastic bag that had been underneath the sink. “Okay, so you tie me up with these. When you alert security and everything kicks into action, you do everything you can to make sure me and my stuff reaches the basement together. Knock me around if you have to, if that will make it look legit.”

“But you have to be unconscious for this to work,” Natasha remembered, frowning. “That’s what you told me. Could you really fake —"

“Relatively,” Ronin said cautiously. “But I think it will look better if I'm a little roughed up.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow.

Then she shrugged. It’s what he wants.

WHACK. She wiped the smile off his face, socking him straight in the jaw. He groaned, crumpling to his feet. She then kicked him a couple of times, to be sure.

“Okay, that is enough,” she muttered, reaching for her buzzer. “Now…"

“Not — convincing — enough,” he hissed. His head bobbed.

“What?” Natasha scowled at him. “Ronin, how are you supposed to kill Dreykov if you are too injured to do it?”

“I — I got an idea,” he panted, rolling over onto his back. “Give me a black eye. And kick my ear, while you're at it. That will make me look worse than I actually am.”

“But —"

“I can take it.”

Natasha stared off into the middle distance. We're going to die.

SLAM. Natasha made sure to avoid giving him a concussion. But when she was done, one of his eyelids were swollen and bruised and his left ear looked it had been thrust straight into a wall. Now, he looked like he had been through a fight. She had to admit, it did now seem like a pretty smart idea.

Now for the hard part, she thought. She pressed her buzzer that signified need of assistance, and spoke Russian into it. “I have been infiltrated. Attacker is down, requesting immediate backup to subdue.”

A moment later, she heard a voice — one of the other Widows, of whom she was of course not familiar with. “I'm on my way. I will be there within ten minutes.”

“And so it begins,” Natasha muttered. She grabbed the rope. "Hold still.”

“Yeah…" Ronin wheezed. “That sounds like a great idea.”

Natasha loosely tied her rope around his knees, his hands together behind his back — loosely enough that she felt he would be able to slip them. She asked him once if she had made it too tight for that to happen, but he shook his head and told her that she was doing fine.

Despite what she was doing, she found herself smiling. This is a disaster in the making, she admitted to herself. But until everything falls apart, I should at least revel in the continued success of our plan. What else am I going to do?

As she was finishing up, opening up the plastic bag to throw straight onto Ronin’s head… he glanced up and gave her a reassuring smile. “Good job, Nat.”

"… Thank you.”

“And, uh…" he faltered. “Don’t feel like you need to hide things from me.”

"Hm?”

“I get why you decided to take some of the dynamite. Fair enough, one can never take too many precautions.”

She froze.

“I would have done it too,” he muttered. “But I know what you want to do it for… so I'm not mad about it. Nice thinking — just, er, keep it to yourself. Okay?”

Natasha stared at him. Then she just gave a curt bow of the head, and threw the bag over him, trying not to lose her composure at having been caught red-handed — how, she didn’t know. Maybe Ronin just kept good track of his ammunition.

A minute later…  a ring came from the doorbell.

Natasha, calming herself down to that same feeling of dissociation, and opened the door to a Widow dressed in the same getup as her. Tan skin, curly hair, stone cold face — but her appearance and her name didn’t matter in this place. She only peered past her into the living room, and then over to her for guidance.

“There are no tenants around,” she spoke rigidly. “My transport is downstairs.”

“Good,” Natasha replied. “Carry him by his feet, I'll take him by his head. I'll hold the bag, too.”

If the Widow had any interest to object to this, she certainly didn’t. She followed orders to the letter, and soon they were carrying Ronin down the stairwell as fast as they could. As stealthily as they could, to avoid risk of tipping off other tenants and blowing this whole operation wide open.

Natasha heaved a little, carrying the bag. Part of her briefly thought about putting it down — but it was crucial that she keep it close by. If she lost the bag, it would already be over before it even began.

The van, painted black and featureless, was parked right outside for them. The Widow lowered Ronin down so she could open the door — and did a long, hard scan of the street. This location that Natasha had been assigned to live in, as all Widows who were living here, were relatively suburban areas where there were only a small chance of eyewitnesses seeing them. So she wasn’t surprised when the Widow signalled that the coast was clear.

Silently, they both slid Ronin into the backseat. His head flopped, his limbs loose and limp — giving quite a convincing impression that he was out of it. If I didn’t know any better, thought Natasha, gazing right at him, I would think he was.

She opened the back of the van and placed the duffel bag inside, making a mental reminder to get it out later herself. She came back around to the shotgun seat, and sat up next to the Widow, who reached for the pedal and started the car. VROOM.

Natasha watched the road, thinking about what to say to her.

She didn’t get a lot of time. They had just steered onto the road when the Widow finally spoke again. “Who is this man who tried to kill you?”

“No clue.” Natasha tried to keep her face as still as possible. “But… I heard of someone matching his description. He was probably the man going after our allies.”

Silence.

“Shall we kill him?”

“No,” Natasha stated, feeling herself tense up. “Dreykov will want to speak to him. I'll put him somewhere secure for now, far away where he can’t reach him. The basement.”

“I'll post a guard.”

Natasha felt her heart skip a beat. She opened her mouth to say something — and then shut it, thinking about her next action very carefully.

“I know how he moves,” she just said. “I managed to defeat him. I'll take the watch.”

Even more silence. Natasha side-eyed her driver — who wasn’t even looking at her, but at the road without even a hint of suspicion.

“Very well.”

She exhaled a little, trying not to appear too relieved. Okay… we're getting somewhere. Now, for the really hard part.

➳

Clint felt the vehicle vibrate. He kept as still as possible, despite the fact that this meant that he was at risk of being overturned on the backseat: he had not been strapped in, so there would a chance, however small, that he would fall and land on his face. On top of all that, he'd have to dissuade himself from an involuntary reaction when he was picked up again… so this made the drive a bit of a tense affair.

Keep calm, he thought. Play dead.

Or you will be dead.

The van turned a corner — and with sudden alarm, he felt himself tip to the side too. THUMP. His legs knocked against the side door, sending pain up to his torso, exacerbating the pins and needles that was already spreading up his legs.

Fuck. Clint clenched his teeth. It took every ounce of willpower not to move them. He was just secretly glad that it hadn’t been his head.

This is all in Nat’s hands now. He almost chuckled mirthlessly. She had the power to kill me long ago, when I gave her access to those bombs. Now, she'll have the power to decide whether I leave this damn van.

A couple more turns later, each shorter and slower than the last… he felt the vehicle come to a complete stop. The engine shut off.

Then, the doors open. He let the sharp air rush up his nose, bracing himself for touch.

He was roughly pulled out. His arm was wrapped around someone’s slim shoulders, their clothes of which he vaguely recognized as some kind of tough leather. It didn’t seem to belong to Nat, however — it would have been the other Widow.

Sure enough, she said something in Russian to someone else who spoke back. Clint recognized that voice as Nat. She spoke Russian too, as well as a separate third party that had joined them a moment later. Clint’s Russian was okay, but not fluent — and he certainly missed a lot by being too busy acting like he couldn’t hear a thing. But he got enough to assume that Nat was trying to control the logistics of the situation, so there was likely not much danger in missing anything anyway.

He was again moved. He felt his arms wrap around someone else, and this time, a picture of Nat popped into his mind.

But I have to be sure before I can talk to her.

He was pulled — his shoes dragged over something hard, like concrete. Then something more polished, like wood or some kind of marble. It was almost silent, with only the faint noises of traffic coming from what felt like far away. This lasted a few minutes, which lead him to imagine the map Nat had sketched out for him… and he suspected they were going down that small corridor that led into the general area where the basement would be.

Sure enough, he felt the presence of stairs. It became a little more slippery as he was taken down below, and whatever light that had shone through the bag over his head quickly receded into darkness. He keened his ears around him to check and see if there were more footsteps, more people waiting with Nat to see if he would move — but he heard nothing, except the occasional soft grunt from her.

CLINK. CLINK. Clint then heard the sound of chains. He felt something wrap around his waist.

Now, it was so quiet that he could hear a pin drop. And Clint was seized with a sudden fear.

Wait — did… I just walk into a trap?!

His bag was ripped off. Despite himself, he blinked involuntarily… and for a split second, he thought he had blown his cover.

Then he swiveled his head around. The basement was compact and dimly lit, with not much other than boxes of wine glasses, a few antique chairs and the stairs that led up to the ground floor. He glanced at his wrist, and saw that it hadn’t been chains — but handcuffs instead, which were attached around a chair leg next to him.

Okay. He exhaled with relief. I can certainly handle that.

Clint looked up at Nat, standing over him. She pursed her lips. “It was just standard protocol. You thought I had tricked you there, huh?”

Clint just shook his head, a little frustrated at his brief moment of panic. But yeah, he had… he had thought he was on his third strike there.

He decided to change the subject. “No cameras? No nothing?”

“None.”

“Good. Considering who we're dealing with, you'd think that they would be a little more careful.”

“This is a temporary residence, and there is usually no incentive to capture hostages,” Natasha warned him. “Ronin, I am the reason you are still alive.”

“Thank you,” he said gratefully. "… let’s keep it that way?”

“Likewise. Someone is going to report to Dreykov soon,” Nat added. “So… give it five or so minutes until they report back to me, and we'll see if you get an audience. If not, I'll let you slip by. When you're done, I'll meet you at the entrance with something we can drive off in.”

Clint nodded.

“Also… an unexpected development. Russian Mafia soldiers are here.”

"… What?”

“A small quadrant taken in on Dreykov’s behalf,” she sighed. They apparently came in this morning to set up residence in the upper floors — not in the way of the path I outlined, but I would look out for them on top of the usual staff.”

Ugh… okay. Clint squirmed. That’s a bad sign.

Nat gave a nervous glance to the stairs. “I have to go up now.”

She left Clint to his own devices.

He immediately unlocked the handcuff from his wrist. It was pathetically easy, just a few twists of his fingernail were enough to do it. Part of him wondered if Nat may have done something to these for that to happen… but maybe she thought Clint would just bypass it entirely by lifting the chair leg.

She clearly didn’t know me very well, he slyly assumed. Clint flexed his free wrist with the rest of his muscles. He proceeded to untangle himself from the rest of the rope.

Now… my weapons. He glanced around. I hope Nat brought them down here with me.

He looked into a nearby corner, that would have been just out of reach if he had still been tied up. And they all were, stored safely in the duffel bag.

Clint smirked a little. Showtime.

⧗

Natasha waited at the closed entrance to the stairs, standing like she had a broomstick attached to her spine. She could not afford to slip off her guard, here and now.

Yet even so, she was thinking of Ronin — and the look on his face when she had unveiled him. She had thought that he was incapable of uncertainty, which obviously hadn’t alleviated her suspicions of him being some kind of spy… but she had seen the brief look of fear on his face. The fear that he had misplaced his trust in her, that he would have been suddenly left behind in a closed space he couldn’t escape from. A genuine fear that his intuition had failed him.

No one who was truly a spy of Dreykov would have done that, she supposed. He… he really might be who he claims to be. I don’t know if that means that this makes things easier, or makes it harder now that there will not be a safety net when the walls come crumbling down…

Stop. I have to leave. She closed her eyes, trying not to topple down herself. Trying to remind herself why she was still here.

It’s this way, or no way. Natasha took a deep breath in her attempt to remain calm.

She looked out into the empty corridor, an ornate hall with palace-esque trim and large windows that let in the sunlight and the majestic view of a barren, car-infested parking lot. She suspected that this building probably once belonged to some noble Turkish family or other in Victorian times. It no longer mattered now, when it became the secret headquarters for both the Mafia and Dreykov’s limited supply of Widows — and when it was the Widows that were tasked to safeguard it.

The Mafia had not been something I expected, she thought. But they're nothing compared to Widows. If Ronin is smart to not let them overwhelm him, he could take them. If he’s smarter, he'll stay out of their way.

Natasha’s head snapped on the Widow heading toward her now back through that corridor. The other one who had brought the news to Dreykov. She was brown haired, freckled and slightly shorter than her — but her movements and her demeanour were about the same as the others.

“What did he say?” Natasha asked her, as she came up.

"He asked for you.”

Natasha straightened up immediately and turned towards the stairs. This would be Ronin’s opportunity to strike — it was perfect. “I will go retrieve him then.”

“Not him,” the Widow continued. She seemed to look past her. “Just you.”

Natasha looked back. “Me?”

"He asked to see Natasha Romanoff.”

Alone? She wanted to say.

But Natasha’s words died in her throat.

No… I don’t. I don’t want to be alone with him.

She couldn’t stop herself from trembling. She stammered over her next words. “Could — could you ask him if I could bring the hostage?”

“Ask him yourself,” the Widow responded. Her face did not move — no sympathy, nor interest showed in her empty eyes. There was nothing in there, almost if the emotions had been surgically removed from her very being… like she had sometimes wondered. That made Natasha even more scared.

“B-But —"

"He asked... to see Natasha Romanoff.”

Natasha broke eye contact. She couldn’t bear to look at her a moment longer.

She let out a shaky breath… knowing that her life and her mission depended on following those orders. Other girls had been casually executed for less.

“Alright,” she whispered.

➳

Clint paced impatiently at the bottom of the stairwell. He had gathered what weapons he could and strapped most of them on, his longbow in his arm, his standard and explosive arrows in seperate packs in the quiver around his shoulder — and he left the rest in the bag. There was no point trying to take it all with him when the exit route would be something that he would have to get to immediately.

It had been ten minutes. Nat hadn’t come down at all.

She said she would. Clint scowled up the stairwell. Something must have happened.

He crawled up to the door, attempting to hear anyone outside. But it was quiet, with the occasional opening and closing of doors from some far off distance. As much as he could tell — and he was somewhat okay at assessing these things — there didn’t seem to be anybody guarding the entrance.

He held an arrow in his quiver, prepared to pull it out. He slipped the door open a crack, peering through it with one eye.

An empty room. No signs of life.

He leaned back and took the arrow out anyway, nocking it in his bow. Well, he assumed. There could also be a good chance that someone’s waiting right behind the door.

He swung it open and stepped out, pivoting around to meet this presumed person.

Again… nothing. He lowered his bow, slightly unnerved.

Nat said someone would come… huh. He licked his lips. She must have been sent back to her post. Good, she may be out the clear of the impact. Now, Dreykov is probably too busy to see me or anyone — so now would a good time to visit.

Right, let’s see. Having memorized the route, Nat had outlined, he opened a nearby door. Then he remembered to take the room on his left, which led to the corridor turning right. And so on and so forth, he traversed throughout the ground floor… sweeping every corner for nary a sign of a Widow or a guard, with the concentrated intent of shooting to kill. He could not choose to be picky who he aimed his longbow at.

Maybe in the future, he again thought, remembering how he had once considered toning back on being an assassin. But after having spent some time with Nat, he didn’t have many moral qualms about giving Dreykov what he deserved.

His movements throughout the building was light work. Clint did occasionally stumble on a guard or two, who happened to be facing the opposite way from him. He just quietly snuck past and got some distance between them, weapon primed on any unfortunate soul who would dare to spot him, and then attempt to alarm the others. He only had one chance, and it was curtains for him otherwise.

He was nearly to the stairs. But it was when he prepared to take a shortcut the closed courtyard in the middle of this multi-floored complex… that he finally spotted a Widow. He hadn’t seen any before, assuming most of them were guarding the entrance. But he saw this girl in the center of the courtyard, posted like a hat rack.

Clint stopped at the window, right next to the double doors that led outward. He bent down to watch her as she patroled around… wondering whether it was worth the effort of taking the shortcut, or taking a longer, more risky route. Which then led him to ask himself if he could take this Widow in a fight — either with the purpose to knock down or take down, he was unconcerned with.

He watched the girl walk near the door, getting a closer look at her. She also wore makeup and a similar leather jacket and jeans. She seemed somewhat younger than Nat, with platinum blonde hair that was also in a ponytail down her back. But he could see a gun in her pocket, and possibly a utility belt of tools if he was at the right angle. Definitely a Widow.

It was possible. I did manage to take down Nat, he assumed. And that was an ambush. This would have to be one too.

Ah… okay. He leaned back against the wall. One Widow versus a dozen Russian criminals. So be it. It would have been nice if Nat was here, but she’s in a safer place now.

Clint tried to ignore the doubt in his mind. At least… I hope so.

Chapter Text

⧗

It was all falling apart.

Natasha followed her escort to the upper floors, unable to notice anything else that passed them by. She was too wrapped up in her own tumultuous feelings, while still attempting in vain to maintain some kind of outward appearance indicating that she didn’t want to bolt for her life.

And of course, she was scared shitless of what was about to happen. How could she not be?

It’s worse that I have to listen — and be touched — and be watched from all over by that man. She closed her eyes, refusing to think about the specifics. It’s that I have to, and that I also can’t kill him. I can’t do anything to him, and I have no idea as to why. My body, for all the training it has to take, has never once failed me… except when it comes to existing next to this hateful man.

This — this monster.

Natasha had never been taught to believe in God. But what force was there in this universe that let its fundamental rules bend to Dreykov’s will? How was she able to go just within a few feet of him, and feel like her organs were shutting down one by one? Like she was paralysed with shock, as if this man who couldn’t even wield a knife was more dangerous than anyone she had ever known?

She hated having to think of this too. She forced herself to remain calm, so that she didn’t break down into tears and anguisj like she did the last time. That only would make dealing with this much longer and more painful than it needed to be.

Then I can get out the way, and Ronin can kill him.

But now, she didn’t want to think about that either. She hadn’t been able to tell her 'partner' about what was happening. How long would it be now before his cover was blown? Before fate bent to Dreykov’s will yet again?

They headed straight into Dreykov’s quarters — an auditorium connecting a suite of rooms where he worked, and slept, and strayed far away from the balcony. (Probably more often than ever, now that Ronin came into the picture.) She had only been here once, along with all the other Widows when they were receiving their tasks in guarding this place. Once in the office had been one time enough… but now, she was somehow returning again at the worst time imaginable.

Natasha stopped outside the front door, and glanced at the Widow.

Again, her supposed companion didn’t seem to notice that she was struggling. Nor did she seem to care, as if she didn’t seem to notice anything at all.

Pleading is useless. Natasha looked around, pretending to look for something — but she was merely buying herself time. Not for Ronin, but for her. No, she had to get this over with so she could get away from here as soon as possible.

Still, her eyes did briefly linger onto something… she knew it to be Dreykov’s little eleven year old daughter. She and her mother had apparently been staying in the other room, here for what godforsaken reason Nat did not know. Yet here was this child today, minding her own business in the small corner of the auditorium. Sitting on a chair drawing something on paper, a big tote bag of colouring pencils next to her. Nat wouldn’t even have noticed her if she hadn’t been looking, since she was so quiet.

So quiet. Natasha felt a wave of pity.

It’s just so bizarre that Dreykov has a daughter. This is, what, one of the only times I've ever seen her? I know so little about her, but part of me wonders how she and her mother feel about what Dreykov does for a living…

Will she ever grow up normal like everyone else? Or… will she join us?

A chilling thought. Natasha swallowed and faced the door again. She was just delaying the inevitable.

CREAK.

She tried to look past the man at the desk. She felt her throat clench, her lip tremble with fear.

“Dreykov, Romanoff is here to see you.”

“Thank you, Ingrid.”

CLICK. The door shut behind Natasha.

Dreykov leaned forward from the desk, leering at her. And Natasha felt her chest collapse in on itself.

➳

Okay, here goes nothing.

Clint waited at the door. He had been crouching underneath the stained window, but had seen enough to guess that this Widow would be coming by right — about —

Now. He swung the door open and tackled the first thing he saw.

WHAM. He pinned the Widow to the ground. For a few seconds, they were scrabbling at each other on the floor, as Clint was dragging himself up, attempting to straddle and keep her down, while reaching to his quiver for an arrow to shoot straight at her neck — if not for him having to grapple both her arms to keep them from touching him.

He winced a little as a knee dug into his ribs. But with force, he held her down, dared to pull his hand behind his back…

And almost fell over, as the blonde Widow shot something out her jacket with lightning speed. A small dagger — which she embedded into his stomach. CHK.

Clint gritted his teeth. Immediately, he knew this was going to be much harder that Nat: this girl was far more alert and far quicker. Either she had been trained more, or she had been more prepared.

So he improvised. He twisted, and the girl was flipped onto her back, making her drop the dagger. Clint clambered to his feet, grabbing his longbow and preparing to sling around her neck so he could snap her windpipe —

FWOOP. He felt himself lurched forward. As if jerked, the girl had rolled forward onto her back, taking the bow with her. Clint let go of the bow, and felt his stomach drop as she flipped onto her knees and untied the bow from around her neck. It was tossed aside like garbage, clattering to a few meters away from his reach.

Fuck! Clint damned himself for his incompetence.

The knife, he thought. He pulled it out and launched at her.

CLICK. He swung to the side, recognizing the sound of a loaded gun. He didn’t hear it as it fired — a silenced pistol came to mind in that moment — but he didn’t look to check if she was holding one. He just kept moving around her, inching back towards the bow.

Clint felt a sharp pain as a bullet grazed his shin. But adrenaline rushed through his mind, allowing him to grab the bow from the ground, pull out the quiver, pull out an arrow (of which, he didn’t care about) and fire.

SCHWING.

It narrowly missed the Widow. She brushed aside the strands her blonde hair that had not been tied up, and started running towards him with her gun. On instinct Clint immediately pulled out yet another arrow —

And he immediately regretted it, as the Widow managed to fire first. BAM. Clint felt his right shoulder rupture.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Guns, for all their flashiness… were indeed still faster and more deadly than arrows. It was just usually that most people didn’t deal with archers in situations like this: but for this unsually quick girl, it didn’t seem to matter. Them’s the breaks, he thought with exhaustion.

Still, Clint got the last laugh — his arrow managed to escape the longbow, and sank deeply into the Widow’s own gut. THWACK. She was brought to her knees right after Clint did.

They both breathed heavily, glaring each other down from each end of the courtyard.

⧗

Natasha couldn’t breathe.

She didn’t let that stop her from remaining composed: she was good at playing dead. The undetectable odor that made everything go numb was unintentionally making this easier to do, but her thoughts were still screaming at her to run away.

Dreykov tilted his head at her. “Explain what happened at your vantage point.”

Oh… right. Natasha forced herself to look at him. He was dressed in a slightly oversized suit with pointed leather shoes, to account for his own size. He had the big head and hair of someone who seemed like a 'narcisstic prick'… as Ronin had said. But just because he seemed like a sleazeball, did not make him any less of a villain. Especially when whatever he had on him allowed him to get close, and to sniff their odors, and to leave marks on their wrists and their necks —

With a spasm of terror, Natasha realised that Dreykov was now right in front of her. Still staring her up and down, as if waiting for an answer. His mouth opened a little, exposing his yellow stained teeth.

Natasha tried again to breathe — but she felt her lungs fail her, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Still, her last moments depended on whether she would be able to speak.

“I…" She cleared her throat, unable to hear her voice. “I was ambushed early this morning, just as I was getting changed. I was able to take him down quickly, and immediately called in afterward to have him brought in.”

Dreykov said nothing. He didn’t seem to be listening, but was looking down — at somewhere she couldn’t see, but didn’t need to.

“Na.. tashaaa…" he drawled. Natasha felt prickles on her skin from just his breath. “Why did you not just kill him?”

Natasha blinked. Her mind was slow — as if it was rebooting.

But she fought through the sluggishness. “I had heard about the assassin. I thought you would want to interrogate him for more information regarding who he works for.”

Dreykov’s lip split into a nasty smile. He leaned in close to her ear, as if he was about to share a secret.

“Good girl.”

Natasha wanted to curl up and die. There was no other way to put it.

He took a step back, looking away from her. “I appreciate the gesture…" he said softly. “But you girls shouldn’t need to be so careful. I've already had an inkling of where this man had already come from, once I had started hearing about him. It would have been much quicker if you had just killed him.”

Natasha looked away, not wanting to meet his eyes. “I —"

“Silence,” Dreykov interrupted, waving a hand.  “You do not need to worry. You did a good job, so don’t make excuses. But I do want you to stick around for when we get back, so that…" Dreykov wrote something in a binder. “We can fix your attitude next time.”

Natasha’s eyes snapped to him, momentarily confused. Then she remembered — it was the thing she had been expecting. The thing she had been dreading, that part of her had long suspected that had been somehow done to the other Widows. The thing that remained unspoken, but had seemed to be something that just happened when any of the girls were fully grown.

It was bad. Really bad.

Maybe I don’t want to know. She gulped. Maybe I could shut up, and just go back to my post. Let Ronin do his job.

But despite everything, the curiosity got the better of her. She was leaving this place one way or another, but she knew that she would be wondering the rest of her life if she didn’t ask.

“What do you mean?”

Dreykov closed the binder, and leaned again on the desk with both palms. He slowly licked her lips… watching at her like a predator watched its prey. Natasha immediately regretted the question.

“You'll get what you should have gotten earlier, my girl,” he whispered. “It’s a quick surgery. It'll steer you right… it'll remove all those lingering doubts that you still have. It'll make you answer my damn questions a little faster, it will —" he shrugged. “It will make you a much better listener. And other things too, but those are not important… it’s really just the listening that is important to me.”

Natasha felt her heart shatter into a thousand little pieces. It was somehow worse than she had expected.

Now, I wish you had left me wondering.

➳

Clint clutched his right shoulder, trying to staunch the bleeding. I probably should have worn a bulletproof vest, he cursed. But they're heavy, and I'm too fucking arrogant to know better. Now, I'm crippled here.

It wasn’t over yet, however. The Widow in front of him was still looking at him, but had one hand gripped around the arrow in her stomach. She seemed to be trying to steadily pull it out with minimal distress, despite the pain it seemed to be causing to her. Already, Clint found himself grimacing, less from the bullet in his shoulder and more for what she was trying to do —

SQUELCH. Clint’s eyes almost bugged out of their skull. The Widow had pulled it out like it was nothing. Her wound, red and almost open wide, was still raw and bleeding. She dropped to one knee as she threw the arrow aside, a lock of hair now hang down in front of one of her steely eyes.

That is… Clint gulped. Not possible. I knew Nat was tough, but this girl should have passed out from doing that.

Oh… for Christ’s sake. His chances of survival were getting ever more slim.

Clint launched behind to his quiver, grabbing another arrow — this time, hoping that it would be an explosive one. He nocked it in his bow as fast as he could, feeling his shoulder strain from the injury (he was right-handed, after all), and he fired — SCHWING.

BOOOOOM! Clint was blown back by an eruption of flame and force that had enveloped almost right in front of him.

He tumbled over and over on his back, longbow still clutched in his hand. The world briefly turned upside down, as the open space of the courtyard dropped below him while face down… leading him to stare up at a stark, blue sky.

How odd. It reminded him of Iowa.

He laid on his back, ears ringing. He heard the sounds of footsteps intertwined, and shook his head furiously — here was still a chance that he could get a surprise attack on this Widow.

He bent his arm until it was scraping the cobblestones. He nocked another arrow in his bow, the only weapon he had left... even if it was supposed to be his best, yet this girl had somehow dodged every one.

The girl came into focus, blocking out the sky. She was panting heavily… but almost as if she was being controlled by a puppet, she lifted her arm to point her handgun right at Clint’s face. She almost didn’t seem to notice that he had aimed the longbow at her head too, but he just tightened the string anyway, with the intent to fire—

And he felt himself hesitate.

This feels… familiar.

He stared at the girl, and suddenly realised why she hadn’t shot him yet. She'll do it if I try and kill her.

She was even younger than Nat — better perhaps, but still younger.

No, I have to do this! Clint’s hands trembled around the groove. She'll kill me if I don’t. What about my family?

But Clint always prided himself on his good instincts. And they were somehow telling him through this girl, that if he tried… it would be the last thing he ever did.

And then, he was again reminded of his daughter. Of his son. Of Laura. Of the thoughts he had been thinking all the way to get here. How he had been falling out of line with what was expected for him; how he had already failed to kill someone he should have killed a few days ago.

And he realised that he had to decide. Now.

…

He lowered his bow, closing his eyes. I guess I'm not doing this.

THUMP.

⧗

Natasha lowered her head, a tear crawling down her cheek. There was no point in pretending — the revolting man in front of her knew that she didn’t like it. He had been counting on it.

"Hush, hush…" he cooed, approaching her once again. Natasha once again locked up, as if she was trapped in a dilated state of rigor mortis. Dreykov, eyes wide with what seemed like concern, held a hand against her cheek.

He wiped away the tear. “There’s no shame in crying, my girl…" he said gently. “All the others have done it. You are not wrong to do so — I know it’s a lot to take in.”

He’s manipulating me. Natasha felt a white hot spark of anger. God, I want to kill him.

Natasha shut her mouth, trying to remember the plan. Not attempting to lash out, but to dissociate as much as possible. She didn’t want to be here right now. She wanted to be wherever Ronin had come from: somewhere warmer and sunnier, where girls weren’t controlled by greater minds. Where she could be happy and free, even if she knew in her heart that she didn’t deserve it.

Even in her coping mechanism, she found herself still being torn apart by reason. No, I have to focus! If I let this happen to me, I will never get to see that place. If I think I deserve it…

She swivelled around, seperating herself from him. “I — I will return to my post.”

“I understand,” Dreykov said, although Natasha noted that his voice was now laced with expectation. That she would try to run away?

He wants what he thinks is best for me. Natasha kept her eyes on the ground. But nothing about this is.

“It’s a lot to process.”

You fucking pig. You're the one doing it.

“I would not envy myself, if I were in your shoes.”

HOLLOW WORDS.

Natasha showed a vague sign of acceptance, however. He’s provoking me for a reaction. I must not give him one.

Dreykov seemed to fall silent, as something buzzed on his desk. Natasha heard him shuffle back, presuming he was looking at a phone of some kind — an alert by another Widow. She was waiting for him to say the command that would let her go.

But her hackles were raised when he spoke again, this time in a much less empathetic manner. “That being said, I do feel that this process shall be necessary.”

The front doors swung open in front of her. Natasha glanced up, wiping away the rest of her tears so she could at least pretend to be invulnerable to someone else. But when she saw the Widow at the door, and the person she was singlehandedly pulling along in tow…

Her jaw hung open in shock. It was Ronin — bloodied, bruised, dragged along the floor with his longbow still gripped in his hands. No one had needed to be worried about him using that, for he was well and truly out cold. He seemed to be alive, which was a small blessing. But he was also unconscious, which was not.

Natasha felt herself begin to panic. But, but, but, HOW is he going to kill Dreykov if — if — if he’s down and I can’t —

She looked to the Widow. And with another start, she recognised her, too.

“Yelena?”

But the Widow did not react. She was looking past her, at Dreykov.

Natasha clamped her mouth, unable to hide her desolation. She now understood.

"Hmm?” Dreykov glanced past Nat as he walked around her to investigate Ronin. He nodded after that, seeming to remember. “Oh, yes. This is the one you were with in America, with Alexei and Melina.” He smirked, if he was reflecting on fonder memories. “In much better times, before that old sot landed himself in the gulag.”

Natasha tried to avoid looking at Ronin, although part of her was praying that he would wake up. That this would be a trick! That he would flip onto his knees and stick an arrow in Dreykov’s throat, so that it would somehow free Yelena of her mind control…

“But no matter.” Dreykov wiped his hands. “After this fiasco, I will make it a priority to have you prepped for your transformation… and maybe Yelena for the next iteration, so she can actually kill the target the next time.”

Yelena bowed her head, as if half-listening. She was so still.

So quiet. Natasha trembled, imagining herself in her shoes.

“Sir…" Her voice was hoarse. “Do you want us to leave the assassin with you?”

“No, I don’t care about him.” Dreykov turned up his nose. “We shall get rid of him — but not here. Yelena, you will do it in the courtyard.”

He gave a final sneer to Natasha. “And Nataaasha…" he hissed like a viper. “You will return to your post. And report to ground base next Monday.”

Natasha couldn’t stop another tear from coming out of her eye. While the other one had represented her fear… this one represented her loss of hope. How, despite all the plans, the one who would remain alive would be the one responsible for it all. And here and now, she still was powerless to do anything about it.

What a cruel world.

She wiped that tear away, and grudgingly followed Yelena out to the auditorium. Dreykov did not extend any kind words for her this time.

Chapter Text

⧗

The front doors shut behind them. Natasha lingered in the auditorium, ignoring the Widow that once had been her sister, as she dragged Ronin’s limp body with her while wrapping her arm around and his shoulder and his torso — merely as if she was taking out a garbage bag. It was just unsurprising in this hellscape that Nat kept finding herself in.

She just hanged there for a moment… remembering how she had dared the winds of fate to take her away.

Dead or alive.

But fate, it seemed, was determined to contain her with neither. She was still here, and very soon she would remain here forever.

What am I to do? She wanted to cry out, to anyone who would listen. Am I to stay, and keep killing in someone’s name… and let Dreykov take my freedom, my body, my mind away from me?

Would the process even take my mind? Natasha lurched up at the thought. Or what if it just controls me like it did back when I was in front of him, and I have to follow his every order when I'm trapped in my body? Is that what Yelena is going through?

NO! She rocked back and forth on the balls of her shoes, both desperately and desperately not trying to sink to her knees. Don’t think about her — don’t think about what’s coming. There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing you can do.

You have to accept it. Natasha swallowed. You shouldn’t. But no, you have to — you have to — you HAVE to —

She froze.

Her head snapped to the corner… and her eyes again met those of Dreykov’s daughter. She had been resting against the floor, still drawing what seemed (at least as far as she could see) her little crayon drawings of animals and cute looking things. The quiet girl glanced to Yelena, who was taking Ronin out into the hall.

She didn’t seem surprised, either — of course not, why wouldn’t she?

Maybe Dreykov had big plans for her. Maybe she would be the next in an endless chorus line of girls, all being separated from their mothers to be chopped up and fed to the pigs. To be stripped and violated, and to follow a man who continually pretended to shower love onto them. And then, were forced to perform with a gun to their heads.

Natasha remembered the academy. Ballet. Madame B.

The trials. The executions. The fights and the bets. The suicide attempts. The screaming and crying in the night. One time, the terrible figure of a hulking man with a metal arm. Another, the massacre of an entire group of girls who had attempted to escape.

All silenced. All forgotten. All having become collective part of the tragedy of the Red Room.

“And all who still remain to die…" Natasha whispered underneath her breath.

Her mind was tumbling over and over. She felt like she was going insane, as if she was about to snap — no, she had already snapped. This was just the part that came after, where she'd start to claw out like an animal, and attempt to fight for herself — to seize whatever remained of her life raft. Even if she couldn’t tackle Dreykov head on. Even if it all seemed entirely impossible, even if it meant she would never see America.

Even if it meant damning herself for good.

I have to get out of here.

She locked her eyes onto the girl.

➳

Clint was slowly swimming into consciousness, feeling little else than pain, but the vice grip of someone clinging to his arm.

Argh. He gritted his teeth, head wobbling. When he opened his eyes, he saw himself being dragged backwards along an empty corridor. Peeking to his right to see the bright sunlight creeping in through the large windows, he saw that he was still on the first floor — and possibly (knowing he was uncertain, for he felt like he had been run over by a steamroller) being dragged away from wherever he was supposed to be.

He tilted his head to see who was carrying him. He let out a soft groan as he recognized the blonde Widow: she was noticeably injured and limping a little, but her strength as she clung onto him was still industrially tensile. She was looking ahead of her.

I'm… Clint wheezed. I'm still alive. How?

He decided not to question it — he never questioned a stroke of good fortune. But it seemed that his abductor had not yet noticed he was awake, so he started thinking about how to lie in wait… and strike when the moment came.

His brain went into overdrive, forcing him to close his eyes. I can’t do it now until I can move all these bones again. And probably not while this girl is still holding onto me… otherwise, I'm at too vulnerable of a position to wriggle my way out.

But what if she doesn’t let go? Clint blanched a little. Then I guess I wait until she pulls out her gun.

Yeah. Yeah… that will work.

Now, he was doubting himself. But this was his last chance. If not this, how else was he going to do to finish the job?

He heard hurried steps of boots, heading towards them from back the way they came. He leaned his head back, wondering if he had already given himself away… but he certainly wasn’t going to let whoever this was find out now.

Or at least, he would… once he felt someone grab his other shoulder, and mutter something in Russian to the other Widow. Finding that voice familiar, he peeked open an eye — and saw, staring wildly at him —

“Nat?”

He didn’t mean to speak. It just came out as a sound of utter incredulity.

Nat, with her other hand, pulled her ponytail over her other shoulder. Clutching Clint’s arm, she looked to him and mouthed something multiple times. She was exchanging harsh glances between him and the other Widow, as if she was considering something.

What the fuck are you doing here? Clint wanted to snap back. But gulping, he instead tried to make out what she was saying:

“Get ready to run.”

Clint felt himself tense up. Run? Run from what?

He looked back down the corridor. There was nothing there, except… oh, well, what looked like two Mafia soldiers coming in from a nearby door and then walking away in the opposite direction. But nothing seemed off, and no one (other than Nat) seemed to be anticipating anything.

Did Nat do something? Clint felt a little uneasy. I've never seen her act like this. Although for what reason, I can’t —

BOOOOM.

The impact of an explosion emanated from what seemed like upstairs… followed by the sound of creaking, and a hint of plaster crumbling from the roof above them. Everyone froze: the mafia soldiers, Nat, the Widow. Everyone.

And then, a fire alarm. The faint voices of swearing and utter outrage.

The Mafia soldiers started running frantically, towards the stairs in the direction of the sound. The other Widow watched them go.

Clint arched an eyebrow. Then he looked at Nat — who was not looking at the others, but was shaking like a leaf. Holding something in, attempting not to break down. And then, she whipped her head to Clint with a sudden urgency.

“Get the car.”

“Nat?”

YANK. Clint was pulled aside, ripping him from the relaxed grip of the other Widow. He tumbled onto his back, feeling his bow digging into his spine, the clattering of some of his arrows as they almost fell out of his quiver.

Clint glanced up, shocked. THWACK. Nat had swung a leg at the Widow, knocking her upside the head. Twirling with the other leg, she had wrapped her legs around her waist and was now pinning her to the floor — one wrist holding hers down, the other palm forcing her head into the stone floor. The Widow was now snarling, struggling as she attempted to wrestle free for her revolver.

Nat glared at Clint. “RUN!”

“But —"

“JUST GO!” Nat growled.

Clint clambered to his feet, slowly on account of his aching shoulder. “What about Dreykov —?!”

“DREYKOV IS DEAD.” Nat spat. “GO.”

Clint narrowed his eyebrows. But he saw it in her expression, that she believed it to be the truth.

Well… I'll be damned.

“YARRRRGH!' screeched the Widow. She kicked Nat off of her — and Clint jolted back at this sudden movement. His mind caught up with his body, and he recalled the path to the front parking lot.

He turned tail and ran down the hall at a frenetic pace. He heard the sounds of more scuffling, punching and kicking from far behind him, but he didn’t dare to look back —

BANG! BANG! BANG! At once, Clint ducked and weaved to avoid the gunshots. Never mind, he cursed himself. That was a mistake.

He reached the end of the hallway and rounded the corner, crouching behind it. He peeked around it to see the Widow, being pulled back by her hair, wailing — as Nat held out her arms to hold her in place, stopping her from launching herself down the hallway.

Clint decided to assist. He reached back into his quiver and pulled out another standard arrow, and nocked it in his bow. Okay. Let’s see how my skills hold up.

SCHWING. THWACK.

The Widow collapsed, Clint having launched an arrow straight into her thigh. Not long after that Nat climbed on top of her and punched her again and again, as if attempting to knock her out.

Clint winced. A bit excessive, he surmised. But he had no more time to intervene — he backed off, and quickly started making his way to the front.

If there was one good thing that had come out of this mess — it was that there was no point in hiding anymore.

Clint felt his muscles unclench as he hurried his way down the corridors. When he passed by Mafia soldiers, he easily knocked them down with a swing kick and a nonlethal shot to the chest. For any of the few Widows that came up, he dealt with them more simply — he fired an explosive arrow right at their feet, and ran down a detour before they could follow. After having struggled to take down one, he had no patience in attempting to do that all over again.

As if attempting to break a world record, he was out at the front in no time. It was a bare courtyard with heaps of black SUVs and motorbikes awaiting him nearby at the parking lot. He squinted against the light of the sun, and made out even more Widows near the entrance — dozens of them having spotted him, and were now rapidly approaching. He assumed they had identified him from when he had been brought in.

He didn’t stick around when he saw them pulling out their guns. Fuck that, he scoffed.

He bolted to the parking lot, and skidded behind an SUV, staying close to the wheel as bullet holes permeated through the windows above him. BANG BANG BANG! Clint sheltered his head as shattered glass rained on him — but most of it came off him easily. As long as he didn’t press any of it into his skin, he didn’t have to worry about getting cut.

They'll be here before I know it. How do I shake them off? Clint saw a shorter car right in the next parking space. Assuming his given strength, he pulled out yet another explosive arrow and nocked it in his bow.

He took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

He leaped forward — and clung onto the hood of the car. CLANK. He clambered up until he was on the roof, knowing that this would bring him out into the open. If any of the Widows got a clear shot, he would be in trouble.

But Clint would not be a sitting target. Immediately, he leaped again, hopping over onto the car in the next parking space. Then, the next one after that — getting away from the SUV as fast as he could. He cleared half the parking lot in ten seconds, all the while squeezing his fingers for his next shot.

Then he swiveled around — in mid air, mid jump — and FIRED. Not for a Widow in particular, but right at the SUV’s gas tank.

BOOOOOOM!

The explosion, created by another explosion, made the whole vehicle erupt into an enormous fireball. At that moment, the Widows who had been running around the vehicle to intercept him were blown back by sheer force — bodies tumbling over one another, crashing into nearby cars and knocking over nearby motorcycles. One Widow who was particularly close was smashed into the concrete. She didn’t move again.

Clint did a quick sweep. There were a few more nearby that seemed to be unconscious. The ones furthest away had stumbled, and were now attempting to regain their feet.

Now would be a good time to go. Clint turned to his right, focusing on a truck at the back corner. The distance would give him time to get in and start the engine… so he hopped down and started to sprint for it.

BANG. BANG. Clint’s instinct told him to keep at it — he was moving too fast to be caught.

Soon, he was at the front seat. He clambered inside, and went to turn it on.

Then, he froze. It needs a key.

Shit.

Clint shook his head. I told you… losing my touch.

PSCHH. The car window shattered. Clint cursed, holding up his hands, and ducked out of view.

He heard even more gunshots, ringing in his ears. With a chill of horror, he realized that he was cornered. He was hearing footsteps, accompanied by the barks of Russian orders, as they were surely moving to cut him off —  just to be sure, if him being trapped wasn’t enough. He had likely only seconds before someone got close enough to snipe him from a good angle.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He clambered over on all fours to the backseat, as low as he could.

He slowly took out his bow and a standard arrow, as he heard louder and louder voices… and people stopped shooting. Were they finding places to take cover if he took cover? Possibly sending someone out to finish the job? He didn’t dare to look out a window and find out.

Well, I have something special for them if they try. Gritting his teeth, he clutched the grip with one hand and pulled back the bow string with the other. He aimed at the front where he had just been, presuming that’s where they would dare to look first.

He waited.

And waited.

Then, he heard boots against the pavement. Saw a shadow of something as they rounded the car. Heard the cock of a gun.

Here we go. He narrowed his eyes, planning to aim for the jugular.

“Ronin?”

He paused… then, he got it. Unless he had somehow been betrayed, which at this point seemed wholly unlikely. He lowered his bow.

Nat got into the front on her knees, with a revolver in her hand. She spotted Clint and nodded, still appearing to be a lot less calm than usual. "Hey.”

"Hey,” said Clint, letting in a sharp breath. “What’s going on out there?”

“They're surrounding us on all sides,” Nat muttered, not moving. Maybe she was being watched, too. “I managed to volunteer as bait, since I was able to take you down last time — but mainly, because most of them are all incapable of rational thought.” She scowled bitterly at this.

Clint was uncertain what that meant, but now was not the time to ask. “You have a key?”

“Yes. Once I start the car, it’s going to be a rough ride out here. You ready?”

“Am I?” Clint gaped.

Then he snorted.

“You're goddamn right I am.”

Nat pulled out her key, and started the engine. VROOM. Clint assumed that meant she would be driving — sure, why not? She knows the roads well. He sat up straight in the backseat, bow raised.

“This open enough for you?” Nat asked.

“Yeah.”

She gazed at Clint. “Then cover me.”

SKRRRT. Nat lurched forward out of the parking spot, slowly weaving her way out while keeping her head as low as possible. Gunshots started to ring out once again… and Clint scooted up to the open window, adjusting his arm to aim at whatever moved.

SCHWING! Clint knew he had hit his target. Quick as a flash, he reloaded another arrow and aimed another, while also checking the other window opposite the side of the carpark, for anyone gunning for them from there. At the same time, he was listening out for more gunshots that would signal where the Widow was coming from — he didn’t expect to strike someone again, but he did expect the target to be lured out.

SCHWING.

Clint leaned forward. He was right — his arrow had struck a tire, and he saw someone in leather move because of it. Again, he reloaded while keeping his eyes on that figure — and hit them flawlessly as they attempted to move from that spot to another. They tripped onto their face in the middle of the heat-soaked pavement.

Nat shook her head. “Amazing.”

“Thanks.”

VROOM. Engine noises from the distance.

“Motorbikes,” Nat hissed.

Oh. A car chase it is, then. Clint gripped the seat. “Get us out of here.”

“On it.”

VROOM. CRASH. The car knocked another car aside, as Nat started to speed up. With that, more distant sounds of running and shooting were coming from behind them — with Widows trying to shoot the best they could. Quickly, Clint was realizing that though the Widows were truly deadly in close combat, they had very few options to engage enemies from a long range. That was a weakness that he would gladly exploit.

Nat stepped on the pedal. Tires screeching, the car shot out of the carpark right to the front of the building, which now seemed to be evacuated — there was a trail of smoke coming into the air from where they couldn’t see. On a steep turn, Nat steered towards a series of ornate gates that led onto the streets — Clint assuming where they would have to try and lose their pursuers the best they could.

“Shit.” Nat had glanced back towards the office. Clint followed her eye, and grunted as he saw another Widow limping out from the entrance — the blonde one from earlier, speeding to the parking lot to grab a motorbike. Looking back at Natasha, he saw her face pale.

“She can’t seem to stay down, huh?” Clint grumbled, picking up his longbow.

Natasha focused on the road again. “I don’t want to think about her.”

Clint frowned. “You know her?”

Nat trembled a little, wiping away a tear. "Her name was Yelena. She was the friend I told you about, the one I was with when we were in America.”

Clint pursed his lips. I see. Then, this is personal. “Not anymore, I assume?”

“I don’t know… they're all brainwashed.”

“Yeah, they're really out for us —"

“No,” Nat whispered. “They're all under his control. They're all following him.”

Clint stared at Nat. She seemed to believe that to be the truth as well.

And if Clint hadn’t witnessed them himself… well, he wasn’t sure if he still would have believed it. But mind control unfortunately makes a lot of sense, he realized, looking back on everything thus far. They all had seemed so inhuman and committed to the task, but he had thought it was the result of extreme Red Room training.

He was speechless. In that moment, he almost had forgotten that they were being chased.

“But not anymore,” Nat spat out. “Dreykov is dead. I made sure of it.”

"He’s… but, Nat,” Clint tilted his head. “You told me you couldn’t get near him yourself. What happened? How did you do it?”

Nat didn’t answer. Her face screwed up in pain.

“Nat?” Clint asked, worried. “What did — what did you do? Did you use that bomb you took from me?”

She just nodded. But Clint saw it plainly, she was hiding something from him.

“And what happened in there?” Clint pressed further. “What?”

“It’s okay,” she mumbled. “It’s sorted… just l-let me drive.”

“Nat?”

He saw tears in her eyes.

⧗

She locked her eyes onto the girl.

Natasha took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself down. She glanced behind her to make sure the study door was closed. She didn’t want to be heard.

She came up to the girl in the corner, and saw her glance up at her blankly. She shuffled a little, clasping her fingers together to find the right words to say.

“That’s —" Natasha put on her best smile. “That’s a wonderful drawing. Can I have a look at that?”

Dreykov’s daughter shrugged and gave her the paper. Natasha’s eyes glazed over a little as she saw the little house she had drawn — and what looked like a girl playing with a cat, and some lady that was probably her mother.

“This is beautiful,” Natasha said softly. She crouched down to smile at the girl, who grinned back. “Oh, I wish I was a good drawer like you!”

“Well…" the girl raised her shoulders up and down, a little shyly. “You learn to get better at it after doing it for a while.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” She nodded. “It took me a lot of practice before I was happy with it. And I think I might need more, but… I'm happy I tried, at least.”

“That’s a very wise way of looking at it,” Natasha remarked. “I feel there’s a lot of people who could really hear from you.”

The girl looked down, grinning. “Thanks.”

Natasha held still for a bit. Licking her lips, she almost thought about — well, just leaving it be. Not going through with it — finding another way, although she knew there would most likely be none.

Then, she remembered Dreykov. And she swallowed, reaching deep into her jacket pocket… knowing that she would have to.

She shook her head. “Uh, yeah…" She leisurely grabbed the nearby tote bag filled with drawing utensils, and slipped the drawing in — covering something else that she had slipped from her own jacket. “I just, uh, wanted to let you know that your father is expecting you in there. He wants to tell you something. Just take this with you, and… and show him what you're working on.”

The girl straightened up. “Oh! Thank you.”

Natasha clutched the tote bag in her hands. Then… she stood and gave it to the girl. “I know he'll love it.”

The girl beamed, picked up a few more pencils lying on the ground and placed them into the bag. She then ran over to the office door, opened it and made her way in.

“Daddy?”

Natasha didn’t stick around. She set off at once down the corridor, at a much more frenzied pace. Focusing on catching to Ronin and Yelena, so she could intercept them — so that she could somehow get his unconscious body away before he was killed.

So… she could escape from what she had just done.

She almost felt like sobbing. Part of her wished she could have said she had been brainwashed into doing it, that she had a gun put to her head in some way. That explanation would have been easier than the actual truth, which was that she knew it to be the only choice. What other option had there been?

She couldn’t possibly think of one. This was all that made sense to her.

This was how it worked.

Chapter Text

➳

They hadn’t gone far down the highway when they started hearing the roars of cars and motorbikes.

“Focus on the road,” Clint ordered Nat. Getting to his feet, he opened the sunroof above him, letting in the wind as they drove fast. While clutching his longbow, he slowly fit his head into the small opening, blinked out the light from the sun — and tilted his whole body to see who was chasing them.

In the distance, he counted four or five motorbikes amongst the traffic, all of the riders helmeted and around the same body type. An open military truck of Mafia soldiers, with burly men in camo gear holding rifles and vicious expressions on their faces. He assumed that after what had just happened, they were probably no longer interested in capturing them.

So be it, Clint thought. His lips flattened into a thin line.

Taking it all in, he ducked back quickly into the car. “Right, there’s a lot of them. I'm going to pick them off as much as I can, but brace yourself in case someone gets too close. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nat nodded nervously.

Clint poked through the sunroof again, this time with bow in tow. Immediately, he saw the Widows start to shoot at him — and with that sudden influx of gunfire, startled people on the street started to scatter off the road. Cars nearby swerved a little, slowing down in the process, two of them slowly crashing into one another… but the nearby Widows steered their bikes around them easily. Some of them turning, an outstretched knee close to the asphalt.

Shooting at the same time, Clint thought, nocking an arrow. They're versatile… but moving at an inconstant rate makes you a bad shot.

Let’s even the odds. Holding still, he extended his bow at a cluster of a few of them. He waited only a moment — checking that there were no civilians nearby.

He let it rip. SCHWING.

BOOOM! The explosion rocked all of them, blasting back them and their motorbikes. One Widow landed on their side, skidding and spinning on their bike. The other one collided into the third, and they fell behind in a pile, crashing into the front of a nearby vehicle.

Clint ducked again. “Throw them off!”

Nat put pressure on the steering wheel, causing the car to swing left and right from its lane. CLINK, CLINK! Bullets rang off the rudder.

“Take the corner!”

Letting out a beeping sound, Nat spun the steering wheel — and the car pulled into a narrower, much less crowded lane. Clint breathed a little.

And again. Clint went through the sunroof. As a motorbike followed them into the road, Clint fired a standard arrow at the wheel spokes — causing it to shudder and grind to a halt. SKRRRT. The motorbike pasted the wall as the Widow on top fell from it and tumbled onto the pavement.

She was left far behind — overtaken by the military truck. The men hanging off it aimed their rifles at Clint. Instincts kicking in, he dropped back into the car.

RATATATATATA. Clint heard the whistling of bullet shells overhead. Then realizing what was about to happen, he clutched Nat’s shoulder. “DUCK!”

SMASH. RATATATATATA. The rear window smashed into pieces — Clint threw himself to the floor, glass raining all over him — then looking up to see Nat sinking into her seat, keeping herself below shooting range, undoing the seatbelt, one hand still on the steering wheel.

“BLOW THEM UP!” she yelled back.

On it. Clint unloaded and reloaded another explosive arrow. He drew the string taut, preparing to fire —

And as he heard a few clicks of ammo running out — he sat up and shot through the window. The arrow made impact with the front grill.

BOOOOOOMMMMM!!!

Clint’s ears rang — he hissed, eyes shut, as he clutched them. Almost went completely deaf there.

He looked up and saw the truck slowing down — blood streaked across the front, what he before saw of the soldiers hanging off the side no longer present. The shooting had long since stopped.

There was no point in sticking around. Shaking, he brushed off the glass and looked to Nat. "Hit the gas.”

Nat sat up and slammed the pedal. The car sped up, and she took a right. Then a left.

“What are we going to do?” she demanded. Still clearly worried.

Clint took a moment to check his pockets. “I'm going to throw them off,” he muttered. “I'm going to make a call. And we're going to find a place to hide — for now.”

“For now?”

“Until we leave the city, we won’t be safe. We have to play the waiting game.”

“And when do we leave the city?” Nat clutched the steering wheel.

“Well, you see, that’s what the call is for —" Clint cut himself off.

RRRRRR. More engine noises. Clint swiveled around past each window, trying to figure out where it came from.

There. Clint looked to his left — and he saw another motorbike roar into view, with someone on it that he recognized. There was also the wavy platinum blonde hair, and murderous eyes she was exchanging through her helmet to him and the driver.

Nat saw. She gritted her teeth, and clenched the wheel — as the girl, Yelena pulled out a gun from behind —

SCHWING! Clint fired an arrow through the window, right at her hand. WHAP. He knocked the gun right out of her hand, causing her to teeter.

Then Nat pulled the steering wheel abruptly with a snarl, and Clint clung on for dear life as their car rammed her. WHAM. Nat pulled back, and just as quickly, not even looking at the road — WHAM. Rammed her again.

“Nat, focus on driving. I'll take care of this!” Clint went to draw another arrow — and almost fell over backwards, as the car suddenly swerved again —

WHAM — and struck the motorbike. Yelena went flying. The motorbike separated, spinning off — rider not included — onto the sidewalk, as people yelped and ran out of their way to avoid being hit by it. It came to a stop crashing into the side of a brick wall. BOOM.

Nat, still driving stared at the spot where Yelena had been… completely baffled. Clint was still too, in shock at what had just happened.

Then he heard a grunt — and dived out of the way, as Yelena’s arm shot down from the sunroof and almost grabbed his bow right out of his hand.

Nat yelped. “What?!”

“She rolled onto the roof!” Clint hissed. He rolled up his arms, ready to fight, and jabbed a finger at Nat. “Stay here.”

“Uh… where am I going to go?”

Clint grabbed Yelena’s arm as she swiped down yet again. He pushed himself up, out of the sunroof — And WHAP. Reached up an arm to absorb the impact of a swing kick. It still hurt like hell.

WHAP. With Yelena’s other arm, she clocked Clint in the face. His cheek burned with the impact, but he grabbed it too — and putting pressure on her, lifted himself all the way out of the sunroof, grabbing a leg to stabilize himself on the roof.

He pushed — and Yelena stumbled back, letting go entirely. Then, Nat yelled, “I'm about to turn!”

SKRRT. Clint yelled out loud as his shoulders dug into the hull, as the car took a right — trees, old buildings, street signs flashing by. Looking ahead, he saw Yelena fall flat onto her face — fingers scrabbling for a purchase, as she slowly inched closer and closer to falling off the roof. As the car straightened again, Clint took that opportunity to thrust an arm back into the interior and grip the limbs of the longbow. It was a good thing that he did, because he heard a scream —

And held up his bow out in front of him, hands on both ends. Yelena leaped forward towards him and grabbed onto it, having been blocked from getting close to punching him again — but still kicking his leg, attempting to get him to slip.

Ugh! Clint strained under the pain. I don’t know if I can take more of this — uh! UH!

He groaned as Yelena pushed on top of him, drawing his own weapon close to his chest — close to his neck. Trying to choke him out… he wrestled with her, trying to push her back, bracing himself as she raised a fist…

SKRRRT. They both were jolted by the sudden turn to the left. Yelena lost her grip, falling back, hands outstretched — right onto the road.

BUMP.

Clint almost wanted to look away... but he couldn’t. He just winced, as Yelena tumbled off and onto the corner of the asphalt for several meters. She quickly came to a stop, as nearby participants drew away from her path with surprise and horror. She didn’t move again.

Jesus. Clint grimaced. A couple of broken bones at least.

He dropped himself back into the car. Nat met his glance through the rearview mirror. “Did we lose her?”

“Yeah,” he panted. He glared at Nat. “Look, that was really —"

“I know, I know!” she cut him off, exasperated. “I shouldn’t have done that. I just — I didn’t want —"

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint mumbled, not wishing to listen to piteous excuses. “Drive faster. I'm going to try and figure out our next steps.”

⧗

Natasha sat on the kerb, outside of the exterior of the enormous grand train station. She crouched a little, trying to make herself as small as possible… but still, keenly observing her surroundings for signs of Widows or any of the Mafia. Nearby, Ronin had entered a telephone booth and had paid for a private call — back to someone at base, probably. He had been in there for quite a bit, head down and leaning against the glass pane.

Natasha huddled herself closer. It was getting cold, and the sun had disappeared behind the clouds… and she was hoping to get some sleep. At least, as much as she could to wipe off the stink of what she had done.

I should not have done that, she thought, racked with guilt. That was my sister, and… yet, something came over me. I wanted her gone. I just wanted to get away.

I — I thought it was over.

Dreykov was dead. The Widows had to be disbanded after this. The Red Room shut down, or invaded in its entirety. All the people who had controlled and abused her should have been going to jail — or would, once they were caught. They had completed their mission, and soon, they would be out of here. Somewhere safer.

So… why did she still feel like she was trapped?

Why couldn’t she make herself stop thinking of Yelena?

Of the girl?

“I don’t understand,” she murmured.

"Hmm?”

She looked behind her. Ronin was looking down at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh… nothing.” Natasha got to her feet, crossing her arms. “Well?”

“I got in contact,” Ronin replied. “A chopper is going to arrive in Pest County in ten days to pick us up, with my man on board.”

“Ten days?” Natasha repeated, her eyes widening. “What — why not now?”

“They're still actively searching for us,” Ronin said, looking out into the traffic. “My side wants no loose ends. If they see the chopper, find any hint of who I am and where we're going… we're compromised. So we're going to find a place to roost, and inch our way closer to the outskirts of the city.”

“Oh,” Natasha said dumbly. Knowing the Red Room well, she did not want any Widows to come after them and try to take them down. It was unfortunately a good plan.

“Trust me,” Ronin muttered, rolling his eyes. “I want to get out of here as much as you do. But we cannot take risks or cut corners.”

Natasha sighed. Yeah, yeah… I get it. I screwed it up.

“What’s next?”

Ronin wrinkled his nose. “I got a code I'll use at an ATM for straight hard cash… they'll cover food costs. And I'll go get a map so we can plan out the route.”

“Okay.”

“Speaking of…" Ronin narrowed his eyes at the street. Natasha glanced out too… and heard more heavy sounds of motorcycles in the distance. And some flashes of camo green amongst the blue and beige cars of the highway, belonging to what looked like even more military trucks.

She almost felt like sinking to her knees. Maybe that’s why I feel trapped, she supposed. Because they somehow keep on coming back to torment us. What greater purgatory can there be than that?

“Alright, we're going to do something different. I think…" Ronin rummaged in his pocket. He pulled out a couple of dollar bills — Hungarian forints in Budapest. “Excellent. We're going to split up.”

“And?”

“I'll go get everything we need from the station. You're going to take some of this and pay off some of the taxis lining up there to go off someplace else.”

Natasha took her share, glancing up at him. “What do I tell them?”

“That if anyone asks… to tell them that they dropped us off that spot, and never saw where we went since.”

Natasha immediately got it. In doing this, Ronin was obfuscating their location — in correlating information about where they went while they snuck somewhere else, this decision would ensure that he and Natasha remained hard to pin down.

“No loose ends,” she remarked, visibly impressed.

Ronin shrugged. “Get to it. Meet me back around the corner afterward. Stick to the crowds.” Natasha nodded, and he set off.

Natasha set to work. She stopped by every taxi waiting in a line, one after the other, and relayed the instructions as best as she could. Some drivers turned her down — no matter, she just moved on. Others charged an exorbitant fee, eyeing the money in her hands greedily, so she couldn’t follow up with them without throwing away all of it at once. But some did listen, and she asked them to go to the first places she could think of:

“Drive off to Castle Hill, thank you.”

“You wouldn’t mind going as far as you could, to Lupa Beach probably?”

“Yes, yes… Ipari Park. I think I got that right.”

She was able to get through to six taxis before she ran out. When she realized, she shoved the rest in her jacket and ducked her head down before retreating into the crowd. She glanced back to see a military truck exiting off the highway towards the station, towards them.

But she was still a Black Widow, and very good at blending in. She hurried her pace, and she was out of there before she even knew it.

Natasha spotted Ronin after a careful look around. He was hard to see, hiding behind a close corner while looking down at a paper map. That was the point, however.

She sauntered up to him and spoke out the corner of her mouth. “I'm done.”

Ronin folded up his map. “Good. I'm going to go on ahead… but you follow me from a distance.”

Natasha looked down at her feet, pretending not to listen. Ronin set off.

When he reached a corner of the street, Natasha started following him. No longer could she dissociate when moving — she had to keep her eyes peeled on the people around her, and her ears tuning out for any signs of approaching enemies. This frenetic dance continued as she spotted Ronin head down another street, and another after that… and another, leading them far away from the train station.

Natasha felt a sudden fear. Maybe I should have told him what I had told the drivers… so that we can stay away from the places where the cavalry will pass by.

But she relaxed a little when — after half an hour of walking through the city — Ronin ducked into a small alleyway within a crowded intersection. Natasha sweeped her head left and right, making absolutely sure that she wasn’t being watched. But around her in this plaza were dozens of people clustered together, feeding seagulls, watching street performers, sitting at open tables near open restaurants. No one was watching her.

Thank god.

She slipped into the narrow alleyway. Walking down, she came to a dead end where Ronin was waiting, still looking at his map, next to a big garbage container. Natasha screwed up her nose a little, but the smell was not enough to drive her away.

"Here we go,” Ronin sighed. “We'll move once people start snooping around here.”

Natasha looked at him expectantly. “Where is here? I don’t know this place well.”

He showed her on the map.

She nodded in satisfaction. “Okay, this is nowhere near where I listed. We should be safe for now.”

“Yes,” Ronin agreed. “But we need to keep a watch out. And if we're unlucky, we may need to retreat our steps back the the way we came… but as long as we stay down and we're not spotted, we'll be good to go for where we need to be on the 12th.”

“Since we're both in deep, you might as well show me where that is,” Natasha suggested.

She was egging him on, but she meant that too. She knew that if she were to be somehow captured again in that time… well, she would almost be certainly killed — or worse, brainwashed like the rest of them. This meant that getting out was now crucial, now that the task was over. She may have cemented her place in some kind of other hell, but she was not going to throw that opportunity away to escape.

I did not blow up a little girl, just to fail here and now. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehad, still seeing her face in her mind.

“You… you okay?” Ronin asked. He stared at her, still holding out the map in front of him.

Natasha snapped out of it. She saw the spot Ronin was pointing to, where they would be picked up. She decided to try and paint that spot in her mind instead.

“Okay,” Ronin repeated. He took a step back, and dug through his pockets. “It’s getting late, so I'll grab myself a medkit and something cheap. What do you want?”

“A coffee will just do, thank you.” Natasha said, her voice hoarse. She really wasn’t that hungry.

Ronin watched her, face unmoving. Then he nodded and headed back out… leaving Natasha to find a comfortable enough spot. After taking a look around, she settled for a dry patch of concrete far enough away from the dumpster.

Chapter Text

➳

The two of them spent the next two days hiding in that alleyway — by far, the longest and most boring stakeout of Clint’s life. The most excitement he had was occasionally leaving that place to grab something small like some coffees or some cold pastries with the cash they had on hand, that they were not to overspend if a scenario ever came up that required it. (Nat agreed that though it was more painful, it was for the best.) Every time he went into a cafe, he became vividly aware of the faint odor and undistinguished appearance he had developed after lying for hours next to a dumpster; so he always felt like he was going to be kicked out at any moment. He never stuck around long enough to find out. He never dared to bring his weapon.

Despite their current situation, it was the best they could hope for. It would have been suicidal to return to Nat’s apartment.

Yet even so... Clint soon found himself becoming resentful of it anyway. The reason for it was not a mystery; he missed his family deeply, and he had already skipped Christmas and the New Year for this mission, that had turned out to be much longer and more of a death rattle than what he had signed up for. He spent most of his watching hours figuring out how exactly he was going to tell Fury to shove it so he could extend his vacation… that he was sure as hell going to take after this.

Although, he remembered once again. If it hadn’t been for my job, I probably still wouldn’t be doing this right now. And then, all of the people I killed would still be out there, doing horrible shit to girls like Nat. He sighed in annoyance with himself. You take the good with the bad.

Speaking of Nat — it hadn’t happened all at once. But Clint was also becoming resentful of her.

He hadn’t talked to Nat much. But watching her when she was awake, he could see that she had somehow been able to withstand the utter tedium that was now being put on them. Waiting patiently, listening in a way he had not such seen, for the moment that they would move to the next place. For the moment they would get out of this city… and she seemed very unaffected by how long it was taking. It made Clint envious.

I probably shouldn’t even be thinking this right now… he was watching Nat while she slept now, at this time of night… at least, when he had checked his watch, it was after midnight.

No, screw it. I wish I had some of what she and the other Widows would have had. It would have gotten me out of that bear trap that I stumbled my way into, or at least set me straight when I had been losing my mind all this time… trusting her to lead me on this plan, making myself be thrown into stupid circus stunts like this. Being made to feel like I don’t have what it takes to do this job anymore.

Clint’s bitterness suddenly vanished. He gulped.

Well… I don’t have what it takes.

He sat in silence against the brick wall, peering at Nat. But she does… I'd like to know how she did it — despite telling me that she couldn’t. Even it will make me feel worse for having not been the one to do it myself.

He sat there for a few more minutes.

Then, he finally had enough. He got to his feet, and gently nudged Nat. As she stirred, he told her, “We're gonna move. Now is as good a time as any to do so.”

Nat rubbed her eyes, and nodded. “Okay.”

Clint found himself both appreciating the attitude… and also wishing that she had a thicker skin about it. It would have reminded him more of his kids, who were stubborn little shits when they wanted to be.

They exited the alleyway… and Clint slowly breathed in the fresh air. For a brief moment, he didn’t feel so crappy anymore.

⧗

The next few days after the alley were even more peaceful. Natasha followed Ronin around on the streets, until he soon decided that the safest place they could stay was at the top of a building. They stepped into some random tall apartment, and sneakily climbed the stairs until they arrived up on the rooftop, being granted to a large-scale view of downtown Budafok — the local area.

This turned out to be a good plan, as it allowed them a wide view of the streets if anyone swung by to look for them. And the chill was starting to settle in here, so they soon became accustomed to cold nights and breezy days, where one of them staked out the area while the other got some sleep. There was little chatter, but customary exchanges as one of them bit the bullet to head back down without being seen to grab some food. They both knew that they would have to leave once they were discovered, or people started asking questions, or anyone showed up at their door. But for now… it was a comfortable and quiet time in the urban outdoors.

Natasha, having long since undone her ponytail and wiped all the makeup off, sat back in a folding chair in the late afternoon, looking out to the tall, imposing buildings of Budapest. If she dared to look down, she would be able to see some glimpses of the hustle and bustle of people walking around, shopping, living normal lives — but she felt more at home here, where there was no one around. Where she could be alone.

Where she couldn’t hurt anyone.

She remembered the party that had preceded all of this, and how she thought she didn’t belong at the time. Well, she thought numbly, after what happened, I guess that was an understatement.

I don’t even know what comes next after this… I suppose I will join Ronin’s group after all? I asked to defect, and this is probably what they want from me in return. Natasha leaned forward a bit, chin held on the guardrail. That’s nice, I suppose — it’s still what I'm best at, but at least it will be somewhere where I can be paid and not whipped. Maybe I could continue to work with Ronin, as long as he doesn’t find out what I did.

But if he does, will it matter anyway? She tilted her head off to the side to look down at him, taking a nap near the stairwell in the shade of a cold sun. She squirmed a little. He’s better at this than I am — and probably better than all the other Widows, if not for what Dreykov did to them. He probably has more conviction than I'll ever have...

Maybe he can teach me to get better at killing. It'll help if all the targets are bad like Dreykov was… then, who knows? She smiled with some semblance of comfort. I could actually get used to it.

At that moment — the girl’s face flashed in her mind again. She closed her eyes, trying to cast her out of her mind. Trying not to let the guilt overwhelm her.

Maybe…

Natasha stirred a little, glancing down at the street again… and became alert, as she spotted another military truck slowing down from across a nearby highway, not far from the building they were scoping out.

She went and woke up Ronin at once. He didn’t even have a moment to yawn before she blurted out, “Military’s here. We have to go.”

Ronin grumbled, but he stretched and got to his feet. “You up for a walk?”

Natasha didn’t break a sweat as they trounced the stairway, no longer concerned about remaining quiet.

As it turned out, the next location they would soon hide at was one that was arrived at by necessity.

It had been slowly approaching nighttime as they trudged through the city, wearied by their vigilant attempts to watch their surroundings. Not wanting to slow down, Ronin hadn’t even bothered to visit a cafe for some kind of snack. They still had plenty of money on hand, but none of it would matter in the end if they were caught.

They however had not managed to get far at the speed they were going, before bad luck finally struck. Turning the corner, Ronin and Natasha froze as they spotted another military truck — parked across the road from them under a streetlight, soldiers watching around with guns in their hands.

Ronin pulled Natasha back around the corner just as quickly. He clenched his teeth. “That’s not good,” he muttered. “They're in the way we need to go.”

He sounded utterly exhausted. Natasha hadn’t gotten her share of sleep either, which made her fairly worried. They could not handle another fight with the energy they had, and with Ronin’s wounds still not having been fully dealt with. He was bandaged up to some extent with the bullet holes he had sustained, but that would not save him if they had no strength to make it to Pest County.

Then, she remembered. “Wait…" she rubbed her head. “There’s a subway station nearby. We can just take that.”

Ronin visibly hesitated. Tickets were expensive. But one look at Natasha’s face and he seemed to agree: they had little other choice.

Down they went. Ronin held his tongue as he bought two tickets for them. Soon, they were through the barrier and on their way to the exact station they would be leaving from — two or three stops, Natasha reckoned. They would have to see.

As they were hurrying that way, an old man stopped Ronin in his tracks. He was hunched over, with a shock of white hair, tinted sunglasses and a light-coloured jacket. He scratched his head as he held up a subway map. “Aw, jeez…" he said in a thick American accent, quite embarrassed. “Say, do you know the way I could get to the airport from here? I need to be there tomorrow for a flight back to New York.”

Ronin glanced over the map, but Natasha stepped in. “I know.” She and the other Widows had been flown in from there, so the route was familiar to her — she laid it out for the old man as best as she could, and pointed across the station to the sign of where he was aiming for.

The old man beamed. “Thanks! You're a real big help.”

Despite herself, the corner of Natasha’s mouth wrinkled into a smile. “No worries.” She watched the old man go, as he waved behind her with a cheerful pep in his step.

And then… her smile vanished. The man had walked away, but in his place and coming in their direction — a bunch of girls wearing leather jackets and blank expressions on their faces.

Widows.

Natasha tugged Ronin’s arm. “Widows on our six. Let’s keep moving.”

They descended the down the revolving escalator, and quickly got to the darkly lit underground station where the train was supposed to leave. It was almost deserted here… but there was nowhere to hide. Natasha hadn’t been sure if they were following them, but this nor the train was the last place they wanted to be cornered in.

“What are we going to do?” she demanded, whipping her head around. “We have to lose them.”

“Calm down,” Ronin rolled his eyes slowly. “I've crowded into tighter places before, so that’s what we're going to do. You keep a watch out.”

“Okay…" Natasha turned her back, hoping that she wouldn’t see her partner somehow crushed by a train.

A few moments later, he tapped her arm.

“Found it.”

Natasha looked back for a moment… and stared. His finger was pointed at the upper vents, hanging low from the ceiling — but not within reach of the station platform. These vents were hanging over the train tracks itself.

“What?” Natasha squinted. “That’s the first thing you think of?”

“No one else will think of it. That’s why it will work.”

“But…" Natasha groaned, glancing back at the escalator. "How would we even get up there? Should —"

“You know we are perfectly capable,” Ronin said calmly, shaking his head. “We just wait for the train to come, climb on top, open up the vent with this —" he showed her his pocket knife. “And we wait it out.”

Natasha blinked at the knife. “What if we fall?”

“We're not gonna fall. We're going to succeed.”

Natasha shook her head, staring straight ahead. “We should just take our chances on the train.”

“No, I — I really want to do it,” Ronin snapped at her. “I'm exhausted, and I'm not going to fight another Widow again if I can help it. You're either with me here and now, or you're getting left behind. Do you understand?”

Natasha looked at her shoes. She hadn’t expected that sudden outburst.

I… okay, sure. She shrugged. Well, we it’s one thing to say we can do it. But the question of this is really about whether we actually will…

Will we?

They did.

The vent itself was thankfully a small compact place — but big enough for the both of them. There was a revolving fan behind a fan guard that filtered the little light in the room they had, with the rest of it coming up from underneath the grate. Still, it was dark enough to sleep despite the ventilation, and the occasional screeching noises of the train underneath. Natasha and Ronin also had to double check that the floor they were resting on wouldn’t drop out from them… but it seemed airtight. As long as they didn’t lose that pocket knife or kicked it too hard, they weren’t going anywhere.

As it had turned out, Ronin was indeed extremely tired: he laid down on his quiver of arrows like a pillow, and drifted off to sleep immediately. As such, Natasha found herself willing to swallow all that anger he had shown her just earlier… they were both having a rough few days, but she got the impression that he was more fed up about it than she was.

Natasha got some sleep too, for the stunt they had pulled to get up here was what towed her over the line. She didn’t wake through all the dancing shadows and the loud (but consistent) noises, until much later. She had also checked beforehand that the Widows hadn’t followed them, and was not surprised to find that they had — but had long missed their opportunity when they hopped on the train. Not one of them even looked towards their hiding place… which meant that Ronin had indeed been right once again.

Natasha had given an amused look to Ronin, sleeping soundly. Credit where credit’s due.

When Natasha woke up again, she sat up to see Ronin awake as well. He was leaning back against the wall, sluggishly peering down through the vent grate to watch the station and all the passengers walk off and on. Despite there being more people than the previous night, it was still relatively quiet.

That was good. Although I fear that if we stay here much longer… Natasha rubbed her temple, propped up on her elbow. It certainly won’t FEEL like such a good idea.

They sat in silence. Watching. Waiting.

And then — Ronin side-eyed Natasha, and asked her an unexpected question.

"How did you kill him?”

Natasha wondered what to say. What was there to say?

“Uh, that…" she stammered, now uncomfortable. “Well, I'd prefer not to talk about it.”

“I think you should,” Ronin replied. “Because I get the impression you're hiding something from me. And I would like an explanation as to how you did it when you had told me earlier that you couldn’t touch him.”

“That wasn’t a lie.” Natasha shook her head.

“I know,” Ronin shrugged. “But you did it anyway. Want to get it off your chest?”

“What?” Natasha narrowed her eyes. “Do — do you still not trust me, after everything I did for us?”

“I do. And if I still thought you were working for them, we would have never ended up here — so honestly, what is it that you can’t tell me?”

“It’s not that important.” Natasha sighed. “You'll hear about it later anyway in the report I'll have to make, I'm sure.”

Ronin leaned in. “Then what’s the rush? We're both doing the same job here… so there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Natasha froze.

“But if you prefer not to tell, then I guess I'll just —"

“I attached a bomb to Dreykov’s eleven year old daughter and sent her to his office to be blown up.” Natasha glared at Ronin.

For the first time since she had met him, he appeared completely speechless.

“That…"

“Shut up.” Suddenly, Natasha was angry — actually, indescribably furious. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you. You may not be ashamed of this, but I am. And you don’t need to sugarcoat this by implying that it’s a normal nine-to-five job… what, like it’s something that people do every day?” Her face screwed up, openly showing her disbelief. “We kill people — plain and simple. And anyone else who gets in the way. Collateral damage.”

Ronin avoided eye contact with Natasha, visibly shaken. This somehow made Natasha even more angry at him.

"… Natasha —"

Natasha flinched. The way he said it, she was starkly reminded of Dreykov.

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed. “You cannot possibly understand how I feel. You chose to be involved in this life, but  I did not. I was raised and modified to do this for the Red Room.”

“I —"

“I killed for the first time when I was eleven.” Natasha started to tremble, a tear crawling out of her eye. “I had my uterus and my reproductive organs removed when I was fifteen. I was selected and deployed to the field when I graduated at eighteen, while most of the others were executed. And I didn’t have a choice then in any of it, so what choice did I have now?”

Ronin fell silent. Whatever he had to say had shrivelled up in his throat.

“Did any of that happen to you, Ronin?” Natasha whispered. “Of course not. You decided to do this. You could have been an archer, or a police officer, or anything else in all of the world… but you decided to be a killer. One who kills those who deserve it, but a killer nonetheless. But I never wanted to slaughter that Serbian prostitution ring, and then leave the victims in that hospital to burn. I never wanted to assassinate that innocent priest in Sao Paulo.”

“So…" Natasha exhaled. “Even if this is all I've ever known, don’t you dare drag me down to your level. I would rather kill myself than to share more of these stories with you.”

Silence.

“Okay.”

Natasha scooted back — away from him. She couldn’t stand to look at him right now.

“It’s just that…" he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You never gave me the impression that you hated it.”

“Never??” Natasha stared at Ronin. “I begged you to get me out of here!”

“You offered to become a paid assassin like me!” he cried. “You told me that yourself.”

“Wha…" Natasha opened her mouth — and shut it again, realising that he was right. “Well, how else was I going to convince you to let me in, if not to help you kill Dreykov?”

“For the record, I would have accepted you even if you had been more clear.”

“Would you?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I proved myself,” she proclaimed. “That’s why I'm here. You came to take down Dreykov, not save his victims. If I hadn’t been useful to you, you would have washed me off like a shit stain under your heel.”

“Then why did I not kill you?”

Natasha’s face dropped. She had forgotten that part.

Ronin uncrossed his legs and stretched them out. He looked displeased… as if he was wrestling with some kind of decision on his part.

“I may not be good at reading you,” he said slowly. “But you are not much better at reading me. I also don’t want to kill little girls.”

More silence.

Natasha saw it in his eyes that he believed it to be true. She had never gotten the vibe that the man in front of him was about as enthusiastic as she was, except when he had an opportunity to knock someone down a peg. Really… she shouldn’t have been surprised to hear this as she was. Even compared to someone who killed, her case was an anomaly.

I don’t know how to feel. Natasha leaned against her end of the vent, against the fan guard. What… did I only manage to project myself onto him? Did I just try to act like I was superior, to make up for who I am?

Have I never belonged… even in the world of espionage? Of politicking, trafficking and shadowed deception?

“My name is Clint.”

Natasha snapped out of her trance. She stared back up at him.

“What?”

“Clint is my name. Not Ronin.”

Natasha trained her weary eyes on Ro… no, not Ronin.

Clint.

She heaved a little. Fine, she thought bitterly. And without another word, she languidly turned over on her back to sleep some more.

➳

Another day passed before they decided to leave the station. It was easier getting down than it had been to get up; Clint, using his pocket knife, once again created a gap where they were able to hop on the roof of the train as it came over. They landed back on the platform and quickly slid inside before it left, quickly dipping into the crowd before anyone could process what had just happened. They were soon out of there.

There was only one day left before they needed to be at Pest County, so they just decided to travel to their designated location at once to be picked up — fully expecting both the Widows and the Mafia to have moved on. Clint had been resting more than ever to avoid having to sit through the pain of his wounds… which were not getting much better. This was not good, but it also meant that he would certainly be out of commission after it was all over: and that privilege, he was more than happy to abuse. He needed a long rest and some personal time before he could even think about tackling another mission.

As they walked the quiet suburban streets that led to the big park where they would wait, Clint and Nat didn’t speak to one another. This also made him ache on the inside as well on the out… because he knew well that it was really his fault.

Ah, damn… He was glum. If I had known what Nat had to sacrifice to get Dreykov… and with admittedly not many other options — then maybe I wouldn’t have been prying her for answers. I feel so stupid.

And… helpless.

He had no idea what would come next for Nat. Despite her obvious hesitations, she seemed committed to joining SHIELD to partake in dirty work along with him. But how could he play along, when she clearly didn’t want to kill anymore — having put on her best face, having obviously tried to lie to herself that she wanted to?

And… how could he play along, when he didn’t want to either?

Ugh, this is complicated. Clint scratched the back of his head, trying to ignore the pain below his shoulders. I don’t really want to quit SHIELD — I have friends there, and I fully agree with most the work they do. But I can’t keep pretending that I WANT to do this… as both a man-for-hire, a federal agent and someone who gets paid a lot for it. It wouldn’t be something I continue when my family will soon grow up, when I have colleagues who share that want with me… he looked over to Nat, walking alongside with him.

And — when it would be a disservice to what I'm capable of. Ronin bowed his head. Because considering what I can do… I can be better than this. I should be better.

I should ask for more.

When they reached the park, they took turns holding shifts in the open field while waiting for the chopper. The grass was cold and wet, with it likely having rained here before. Hints of snowflakes were also creeping in, threatening to leave them out in the chill. But with luck on their side and not the middle finger of God, they would be long gone by then.

At least… Clint hoped so. But he didn’t stop holding his breath until he saw the chopper in the distance.

It soon landed near them, blades rotating and kicking up the hilly grass. This quickly woke Nat, who — despite her stoicism — cracked a relieved smile as she saw it land. And this time, it was big enough for the both of them.

“Thank God,” Natasha mouthed. Clint saw her lips move. He echoed that sentiment.

As it landed, the door slid open and Clint saw Coulson — a welcome sight. His signature tie flapping, he yelled over the noise so that he could be heard. “Well done! Get in, now. I want to leave before they circle us.”

“Thank you!” Clint cried. He clapped Coulson on the back, and was given a hand into the chopper. He almost passed out as soon as he took his seat.

“Ah,” Coulson grinned, looking at his partner. “And you must be Natasha Romanoff! I must admit I doubted you, but Clint here has told me that you were incredible. If you want in to SHIELD, you sure as hell are gonna get it.”

“Uh… thanks.” Natasha responded. She stiffly held out a hand, and was brought in as well.

Coulson slammed the door and gave them both heavy-duty earphones to hear, with mics to speak into. He took his seat opposite them. “Alright, please take your seatbelt, feel free to strap in and relax. You've both done more than enough.”

“We better have,” Clint grumbled. He pinched his fingers together. “I was this close to dying, Coulson. I am going to bargain with Fury for more time off after this, and you are not gonna stop me.”

Coulson shook his head. “Of course! On the contrary, I will help you. You deserve that break, man. Some time spent with —" he smacked his lips. “Well, whatever you're going to use it for.”

Almost slipped there. But Clint held his tongue.

“Good…" he paused. “There’s also another thing, not relevant to the mission. But I'll ask that when we get back.”

“Ooh, exciting…" Coulson smirked. “We do have a tight budget, so at least be mindful of that.”

“That won’t be a problem.” Clint avoided the curious glances of Nat to look out the chopper window.

They began to rise far above the ground, through a sheet of light rain and snow. Budapest stretched out before him, now so far and aerial to give him a view of the whole place that had been his home for the last several days — the complex of buildings, rivers and national parks that probably would have been more pleasant in a less turbulent time. But both he and Nat had almost died in one day, and driven each other mad in the several days after that, being pursued relentlessly by people who wanted them dead. (Even what Clint had managed to accomplish while he was there, was now only but a distant memory.)

They were now leaving it all behind — and escaping back home where it was safe, where they could watch the destruction of the Red Room from a hundred miles away. Though there certainly would be questions and followups that would bleed into the following months, the main event was finally over… and the man who had started it all was finally gone at last.

Good riddance.

Chapter Text

➳

A few days after they finally returned to the headquarters in Washington, both Clint and Nat were finally able to report to Fury. In the meantime, Clint had submitted himself to the medical clinic and gotten proper bandages, proper medication, and all those bullet holes taken care of. He was given an estimate of a few weeks before he could take his bandages off, and even longer than that before he would fully heal… but as a bonus, no serious organs had been ruptured. He would soon be able to go back to work — whatever work looked like now.

He rejoined Fury in a more brightly-lit meeting room, now wearing a more casual jacket and pants, that felt like the freshest air after the tight, odorous suit he had been forced to wear for the whole time. The rest of his possessions were also packed in a bag to take back with him on the flight. (Whether Fury approved or not, he was going home, goddamnit.)  Nat was also there, even if uncomfortable with her own casual clothes… she kept pulling her yoga pants up, as if she considered it too baggy. Too loose.

But that, Clint assumed, is probably because it’s more than what she has been used to. He recalled their argument in the subway station, and he felt another twinge of guilt. Not so fresh however, since he had long been given more time to think.

But he had to put that aside for now. He looked across the table to Fury, standing in his signature trench coat. Gazing across at the both of them, with one piercing eye.

Clint glanced at Nat again, and saw her stiffen at his intimidating appearance. But Fury drawled, a little softer than Clint had expected, “No need to fear, Miss Romanoff. This will not be a lecture, or anything like what you're used to.”

“Oh.” Nat clenched her jaw, but nodded. Clint remembered that this was all new to her.

Fury knew this, too. The corner of his mouth turned up a little. “This will be straightforward. We'll go over everything that happened, and you will both answer my questions. We'll discuss what comes next afterward.”

And so they did — in great detail, making sure not to leave anything out: the mission prep, the obstacles Clint ran into, the escape and the aftermath as well. Not even Nat withheld the information that she had told Clint to be ashamed of… and that was because Clint had advised her to beforehand, if she truly wanted to be signed into SHIELD. He knew already that what had happened was awful… but it was not unexpected either. He guessed that Fury wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow.

When they got to that part, Fury did grip the side of his chair. But a moment later, he sighed. “Yeah… that was likely for the best. Miss Romanoff, I was not optimistic about that girl’s chances anyway. But you did what you had to.”

Nat looked down, face burning. If Fury noticed, he chose not to say anything about it. It was just as well — they both knew he was not that great at comforting people, that was for sure. So he just asked Clint to continue.

There weren’t many more questions at the end. Fury stepped away from the table and looked out of the window, processing what they had told him. Then, he spoke again.

“Alright, so…" Fury crossed his arms. “No loose ends, as far as we know. No lingering clues, all conducted in relative secrecy. All targets eliminated — I think we can consider this an unequivocal success.”

Clint exhaled. Despite himself and the credit he owed Nat, he couldn’t help smirking a little. As per usual.

“Great,” he leaned forward. “So… anything we need to know? Relations with the government, anything in the news?”

“Well, we caught wind of a small article of a gas explosion in the local paper,” Fury explained. “Very vague on details, but it lines up perfectly with what you've told me. So that could either mean that they want to keep this under the table, or they still think you two are over there. Either way, they're never gonna find out — and having been to a recent meeting, they are very good at pretending like it didn’t happen. But rest assured, what you have done will set them back a very long time.”

“And no one will ever know…" Clint finished. He casually shrugged. “Shame.”

“I think that’s for the best,” Nat muttered.

“I agree!” Fury remarked, sharing a glance with Nat. “As for the Red Room, none of us have heard anything much yet — as far as it seems, it’s pretty much in some stage of disrepair right now. Maybe it’s too early to say that they're finished, but without their glorious leader to keep it all in one place… it will probably remain at some reduced capacity for quite a while.”

Nat stared off into the distance. “Well… as long as they don’t come after me, I don’t care what they are. I want to be finished with them.”

“Well, now that you've blown up Dreykov, I think they'll be too busy staying afloat to care about you,” Fury assumed. "Hell, even if they do come back — it’s probably not worth the effort to come all the way up here to just kill a dissident. Maybe not unless you become famous for some reason, or do something that will more actively hurt them… but I don’t think we need to worry about that.”

He trailed off. Nat didn’t meet his eyes, and Clint suddenly suspected that she really didn’t want to. She probably had enough of the Red Room for a lifetime —and Clint didn’t blame her one bit. But they would need to fight back at some point, maybe someday when it was warranted.

“So, um…" he cleared his throat. “That’s done with. Can we talk about Nat’s initiation?”

“Sure,” Fury looked at her. “So… you still want to join us?”

“Of course,” Nat replied. “I believe my skills will be of considerable use to you… on top of the payment benefits and all the other privileges that I had been previously denied of. If there is also something else you need me to do to prove my loyalty, I shall do that too.”

She sounded confident — like she was daring Fury to turn her down, knowing full well that he absolutely wouldn’t. Clint stared at her, impressed.

“I don’t think we will need to, Miss Romanoff. You have already shown me your intentions, both in the way you performed and in the integrity of your report. On the contrary…" Fury leaned forward. “Is there anything we need to do for you?”

Nat was still for a moment.

Then, she stared directly at Fury. “There is. What will it take for you to wipe the slate clean?”

Clint clasped his hands together.

Fury squinted. “Elaborate.”

"… When I said I wanted to be finished, I meant it,” Nat said stiffly — but with absolute certainty. “I don’t want to be associated with that life anymore. And you are good at keeping secrets, aren’t you? Well, I want you to make sure that no matter what happens, none of that is traced back to me.”

Fury tapped his fingers on the table, thinking.

“I mean…" Nat sighed. “I suspect you will probably write something… some kind of ledger, perhaps. That’s fine, whatever. But you redact as much of it as you can, and you lock that shit in a vault. I want to start over, director... and I can’t do that as long as I still have to remember the past, and risk having that coming back somehow. So when we all leave this room, I want us to never speak of it again.”

“As long as you want to, Nat?” asked Clint. He was skeptical… that didn’t really sound like a healthy mechanism for dealing with her trauma. The way she looked at him, confused, it seemed that she also hadn’t thought about it being her choice. He wondered whether it was worth breaking that to her — and whether it was worth losing a rib for.

“Uh…" Nat didn’t meet his eye. “Sure, I guess.”

Fury crossed his arms. “I can certainly do that… but the way you frame it, Miss Romanoff, I get more of an impression that you want to change your identity, start a new life in Bermuda or something. And yet, you also want to join this line of work along with Barton here to do more of what you did in the Red Room. That comes off as a bit conflicting… so could you explain to me how doing this would be different?”

Clint understood what Fury was talking about — he wanted to test Nat’s commitment. Was he doubting her intentions, out of some lack of resolve?

Is she? Clint looked over to Nat, sitting in silence.

Then, he found himself looking down at his hands.

Am I?

“Well, I can only do what I know,” Nat explained, sitting up. “And… it’s fine, anyway. You're the good guys. You managed to save me, right? If I keep killing people like Dreykov, like what Clint does…" she looked to him softly. “Then that will be good enough for me.”

Clint stared at her.

I didn’t think it was possible, he thought with awe. To tell such unfathomable lies, and be unaware of doing it.

He remembered his thoughts from earlier… and he knew, suddenly, that he would finally have to do something about them. With some kind of shock, he was already seeing what was going to happen if he didn’t do something — no, it had to be now.

I have to do it right here… or else, we will have another misunderstanding like before. He bundled his knuckles into fists. And… Nat will never have the knowledge to do it herself. Otherwise, I'll either be a coward or a hypocrite.

“Yeah, so…" Clint said gruffly. “About that. Fury, I've been thinking about this for a while now.”

He paused, considering how to break it to him.

“I want to stop.”

Fury didn’t react.

“If you have any more missions for me, I don’t want it to be another hit list.” Clint sniffed. “I don’t mind having to kill, but it seems more and more apparent these days… that it’s just what the world needs less of. And I mean, I did you a solid by having to do all your dirty work for you — but I lost my soul doing it, and I would really like it back.”

He choked a little. “Most importantly… I have to set an example for people who don’t know that another path is there for them.”

He didn’t look at Nat. He just kept his eyes on Fury, who hadn’t moved at all during this speech.

Then he chuckled… amused. “I should have seen the writing on the wall when Laura left.”

Clint smirked, eyes watering a little. Yeah. He gets it.

“Your wish is granted,” Fury replied. “I think you'll be of better use to us as a field agent, anyway. We usually need them far more than assassins… the hours are longer, but your chances of ending up in a cemetery are greatly reduced.”

“Thank you, Fury.”

“Then go, before I change my mind. I still have to officiate Miss Romanoff.”

Clint nodded. Feeling like a weight had lifted off his chest, he got to his feet and slid his chair back into place. And then… another idea came to him — one that was even better than the one he had before.

“Nat…" he looked at her. As he expected, she seemed half-betrayed and half-numb by this sudden news. “Can I talk to you after you finish up with Fury?” he glanced at Fury. “Provided she doesn’t have anything else to do, of course.”

“No,” Fury shook his head. “We'll ease her in with a simpler mission, so she can get used to how SHIELD operates. But I often have to dig deeper for one.”

“Great. I'll leave you be.”

Nat nodded. Clint exited the meeting room and hurriedly dialed a number on his phone — mind racing as to what he was planning, wanting to hear a voice he hadn’t been able to for a frustratingly long time.

“Clint?”

He grinned. He would have lots of time later to talk to Laura about his decision… and how proud he was to have made it. But for right now, there were more pressing matters to talk about.

“Laura. I want to talk to you about something.”

⧗

Natasha’s registration went smoothly. She was out of the meeting room ten minutes after Ronin — no, Clint — was. But whereas he seemed somewhat relieved, she felt a lot more emptier.

She leaned against the doorframe, thinking — wondering, how she could not have seen it earlier. Yes, it hadn’t surprised her much to know that he obviously didn’t like killing innocents and young people. But to find out that he didn’t really like his job at all was… well, Natasha didn’t know how to feel about it. She was probably supposed to support his choice, she reckoned… but that left her on her own. To be an assassin and to take his place, and figure it all out for herself.

But… she closed her eyes, frustrated now. I thought I would at least have someone to do this with. If I don’t, is it even worth doing it at all? Should I choose to follow him, or… 

Could I even follow him? She gulped. He clearly wants me to. But — but it’s too scary. I don’t belong — and once people find out where I came from and what I did, then…

Clint came up to her. She snapped out of her stupor.

He appeared to be excited, which didn’t help her mood. “Okay, Nat… so, uh, I would like to ask you to come with me back home to stay — for a bit.”

Natasha blinked.

“What?” She tilted her head, wondering if she was reading him correctly. “Why?”

“In case you're wondering,” Clint said, holding up a finger. “It’s so we can, er, get to know each other better. The place I'm at is wonderful: really sunny, gorgeous scenery, I think you'll really like it. Besides, you'll probably need somewhere to stay on your feet before SHIELD can start giving you assignments, and…" he shrugged, grinning. “I can give you that free of charge.”

“Uh…" Natasha avoided eye contact with him. Part of her wanted to say no — in case it was some kind of trick, or some attempt to lure her out.

“Is it quiet?”

“Relatively.”

Natasha had to admit that sounded tempting.

What the hell? I got nothing to lose. She nodded. “Give me half an hour to get ready.”

Clint booked Natasha an extra ticket. She timidly followed him throughout the airport, to the terminal, on the plane and out to Iowa — at least, that’s where she assumed it landed. For all her fantasies about America, Natasha had to admit that she didn’t really know the country that well… all of the places on the signs she didn’t know the name of, and though it was still cold, something about the climate was different than what she was used to. It was indeed more quiet.

But now that Natasha was free, she supposed she would have all the time in the world to get used to America. A truly wild thought for someone to have, who had thought escape to be impossible less than a month ago. Now, her tormentor was dead and she was in a safe place — or at least, somewhere where she could stay for the time being. She guessed she would have to return to Europe on some mission or other… but before that, she was more than happy to wait.

They drove for a few hours. Well — Clint drove, now clad in a plaid shirt and denim jeans. Natasha just looked out the window at the blue skies and rolling hills, admittedly in the same clothes that she had left Washington with. She thought she had needed some time to get used to the way they felt, and it turned out that she was right.

“We're almost here,” Clint told her. Natasha relaxed a little.

They pulled from the dirt road into some semblance of a gravel driveway, with a somewhat trimmed lawn, another parked truck, leafless trees — but no fence. The white-painted house they had pulled up to was small and squat with a slanted cobblestone roof, two chimneys and a row of shrubbery lined across the walls, threatening to cover the house. There was a front porch with two chairs, and a small front door with an additional fly screen. Natasha glanced around the edge of the perimeter for that little shed that Clint told her he made his arrows in… and immediately spotted it, about a mile away across the grass. It seemed to be made out of wood.

“What do you think?” Clint asked. He was beaming — clearly overjoyed to have returned. Natasha couldn’t help smiling too.

“It’s so different,” she muttered. “But… I like it a lot.”

“Wait till you see the inside.” Clint strolled over to the front door, and Natasha followed.

She expected him to pull out a key… but he just knocked on the front door a few times, and waited patiently with his head held up high. “Just as a precaution,” he added. “If you ever come here on your own, just knock instead of ringing the doorbell. We'll probably let you in immediately.”

Natasha frowned. "Huh?”

“Clint!”

The door swung open. She froze.

A woman came out, wearing a woolen sweater. She had curly brown hair down to her shoulders, a wide toothy smile, with the kindest eyes Natasha could imagine. As she stepped out, she wrapped her arms around Clint and kissed him tightly. “Oh, it’s so so good to see you.”

“Laura…"

The woman, Laura pulled away — and grinned at Natasha, although she thankfully did not hug her. “And you must be Nat! Ih, thank you so much for protecting Clint.”

“Protecting?” Natasha shifted uncomfortably. She had not expected anyone else to be here. “No, I just —"

“No need to explain, he told me everything,” Laura reassured her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I'm his wife, Laura Barton.”

“You're his…" Natasha trailed off, stunned. She stared at Clint — who just winked.

I can’t believe it. She looked Laura up and down. The whole time?

“We've been expecting you,” Laura said. “Please, please come inside! It’s cold out here, and I've gotta get ready for dinner. The children are making cupcakes.”

Natasha’s heart leaped into her throat. Children? … Cupcakes?

“Uh…" she steadied herself, trying not to let her tears slip out. “O-of course. Thank you.”

Laura held the door open, and Natasha led the way inside. The inside was even cozier, with the kitchen interconnecting to the cramped (but quaint) living room. At the bench, licking their fingers, were a young boy and girl, who descended from their step stools at once to be embraced by Clint instead.

“DADDY! DADDY!” They cried. Clint heaved he as scooped the girl up into his arms.

"Hey, kids!” He hugged them both back. He then gestured over to Natasha. “Meet Aunt Nat. Nat, meet Cooper and Lila.”

"Hi, Nat!”

"HI!”

Natasha waved shyly. She was beyond terrified — she had never dealt with anything like this before. Part of her just wanted to leave back through the front door, grab some fresh air… take the car back to the airport, preferably. But she just fought down her impulses, and instead sheepishly said 'hello' back.

“Now, now…" Clint put them down. “We're gonna have cupcakes later. Dinner first, okay?”

“YEAH, YEAH!”

“Boooo.” Natasha raised a hand to her mouth, to stop herself from giggling.

She looked at the bench, and her eyes focused on the cupcakes that the kids had been icing — red, they seemed like. She assumed Clint had put his family up to doing this… maybe as an apology, perhaps? Though it seemed somewhat impertinent, definitely unprovoked, a memory popped into her head in that moment.

My own cupcake didn’t have any icing. Those are… well. They're a considerable step up.

She felt something warm and fuzzy inside… and she felt something that she hadn’t in a long time. She couldn’t figure out what it even was.

But… she thought. I could probably get used to this.

“These are delicious.”

“Mm. First thing we fully agree on.”

Natasha laughed. She and Clint were eating their cupcakes out on the front porch, while Laura was putting the kids to bed. It was approaching evening, and the light of the sun was fading — but there was a singular shaded light bulb hanging over them, providing them eyes to see. A gentle breeze filled the air.

“Maybe I could make more of this with them…" she said wistfully. “Get to know them better. Provided you let me stay, and Laura’s okay with it —"

“She is,” Clint promised. “We both trust you with the kids. If I hadn’t thought you as a good person at heart, for all the help you gave me during this mission… you would have never seen this place.”

Natasha left that unspoken. She had her doubts about reintegrating with the world — but within the last hour, she had managed to open up to this family that Clint had been secretly hiding from everyone this whole time. Whatever doubts had remained about her doing so, they had all been undermined by this sudden and pleasant development.

She looked sleepily at Clint. “I get it now.”

"Hm?”

“Well, why you decided to stop…" she paused. “But, wow. Were you really killing people, while raising your kids at the same time?”

Clint looked out into the darkness.

“Me and Laura were both in the same business. We fell in love, and we both made the decision to start a family, despite knowing the risks that would come with that… either one of us could die. We could put our kids at risk, if we were not cautious. Alienate them from everyone else, if we were too cautious… but with SHIELD’s help, we were able to compromise. Laura chose to quit for this, to take care of them and help out with some of the paperwork — and drive them down to prep in town. I kept on going… and in turn, took over the dangerous assignments.”

“But… no longer.”

“Well… not in the way I've been doing it before.” Clint took a drink from a soft drink can, side-eying Natasha. “I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to stop. I've been thinking a lot… about what I'm explain to my kids when they grow up. How I'm going to explain to myself that this feels important to do so, even though the novelty of vigilante justice wore off long ago. How much more I can risk by being Ronin — this assassin, whose role is to kill people first and foremost? Never caring how good or bad they turn out to be?”

Natasha frowned. “When you put it all together like that… I can see why you did it. It just makes me more surprised that you didn’t do it earlier.”

Clint snorted. “Yep, pretty much. But we can all be pretty stubborn, can we?”

Natasha understood.

Clint looked at Nat, resting his head on his elbow. “So… yeah, that’s it for me. I'm happy to keep working with SHIELD, but I'm willing to hold myself to a higher standard — preferably to act more as a protector, as you could say. Maybe some kind of bodyguard or security agent… maybe somewhere above that, since I have a feeling SHIELD will still be expecting my skills.”

“Will they also give you enough for more creative ways to shoot arrows?”

"Hmmm….” Clint rolled his eyes. “When they stop focusing on their high-tech crap and investing more into me, maybe. Otherwise, I'll find the time and budget for that myself. Whatever, it’s not a priority…"

“Ah.”

“And I'll need a new codename,” Clint added. “Ronin was cool, but it feels… tainted now, somehow. For this next phase of my career, I probably want something more accurate to what I'll be doing.”

“Oh, uh… okay.” Natasha shrugged. “What do you have in mind? Maybe something related to archery"

Clint was quiet for a moment.

“Well?”

He lit up.

“That — nah, never mind.” He slumped, shaking his head. “I'll come up with something. I would ask my kids, but I'm going to wait until they're in primary school before I feel comfortable opening up to them about… all this.”

“Fair enough,” Natasha agreed.

“What about you?”

Natasha didn’t move. She just looked down at what remained of her crumbling cupcake, and took a small bite.

“Yes. Tell me, Nat…" Clint said slowly, peering at her. “Do you still want to be an assassin?”

She licked her lips, eyes narrowing.

“I guess you've already got an answer for me?” she asked sardonically.

“It was either that I tell you now, or that I decided to tell you when it was too late. If I can stop, Nat… then so can you. You can join me as a field agent, and likely never have to slit another throat for the rest of your life.”

“That’s true,” Natasha mumbled. She didn’t want to look at Clint.

He is right, she thought. I was already thinking about this to some extent, but now… it seems like Clint is forcing me into a choice — well, not really. He took the choice he was given, and he got out of the game before he could truly lose. If I take this opportunity and join him… then perhaps I could too.

I could protect people in the same way… use my abilities for good. Natasha’s face softened. I would never need to kill again, at least not to the same extent as I have for everyone else… from Dreykov, to his daughter. Her face flashed into her mind. Ugh, that —

She shook her head. That’s in the past… and really, that’s where it should stay. If I am going to move on completely, I will make sure that Fury keeps everything about me hidden – as much as it can… although if a time somehow comes where I will have to share, I should at least be prepared for it.

“Nat?”

Natasha exhaled.

She looked at Clint. And she remembered the last piece of the puzzle… the one that had not fitted in yet.

“Clint.” The name still sounded strange on his tongue. “Why did you decide not to kill me?”

Clint frowned. “You already know.”

“No, I don’t…" Natasha rubbed her eyes. “Whatever I assumed back at the subway station, that clearly wasn’t it. You didn’t do it because I could have been useful to you, and you didn’t know that I wanted to get out. Did you really spare me because you…" she drew in a sharp breath, frustrated. “Just tell me.”

Clint stared.

“You reminded me of Lila,” he said. “Much older, but yet still so young… and yet, you were attempting to kill me. I could see it in your eyes that you didn’t want to do it.”

“And?”

“That made me not want to do it either.”

They sat in silence.

Natasha felt a flood coming on — a flood of her own tears. She at least steered herself a little, trying to retain her composure.

"How am I going to pay you back for this?” she whispered. “I feel like I owe you a debt…"

“You saved my life, Nat. That’s good enough for me —"

“No, it’s not good enough…" Nat trailed off. “What could I do to make it up to you?”

Then, she realised she was being stupid. The answer to that question was right in front of her.

She wiped away a tear. She leaned forward, turning her chair to face Clint. “I'll make you a deal.”

"… Go on.”

“I'll join you as a SHIELD agent,” she said. “I'll talk to Fury, get him to switch me… if he hasn’t done it already,” she added, remembering the flaw he had picked out in her logic. “You can teach me all you know, and I can teach you whatever I know. You can help me understand America, and I'll help you understand the rest of the world.”

Clint cocked his head at her, grinning.

“You can show me what it’s like to be human,” she said, stammering. Trying to force herself not to break down. “And… I'll never have to kill again. I mean, as long as you are not.”

“Not planning on it any time soon,” he replied. “Maybe if things get intense… but that will be on a case-by-case basis.”

Natasha nodded. She knew enough to know, sometimes, that the reality of the situation would misalign with what their morality would allow. But the least they could do was to make sure that they did the right thing — whenever it was possible.

“Well?” She looked for confirmation.

Clint beamed, and held out his hand. “It’s a deal.”

Natasha held out hers too. “Then… let us both start over. I'm Natasha Romanoff.”

“I'm Clint Barton.”

They shook hands on it.

A few moments later… Natasha found herself sobbing. Feeling like a burden had finally disconnected from her — feeling thankful, absorbing the fact that this was what her future looked like.

No more Red Room. No more killing. No more fear, and suffering, and everything that came of it.

It was over.

Clint pulled her in for a hug, patting her back. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay… what did you think of the cupcake?”

She heaved out a sob. But she found herself laughing a little too. “I — oh, well… it was delicious. I loved it.”

Clint let out a throaty laugh. He tightened his hug around Nat. “Good… there’s more where that came from.”

And there was.