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Truth is beautiful, without doubt; but so are lies.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
5.
The problem with the weather in Lagos, Natasha mused, scanning her perimeter as she took small, appreciative sips of her coffee, was the humidity. The heat, while excessive--especially when she was dressed for espionage and the concealment of a number of weapons--wouldn’t be nearly as stifling if the air didn’t feel like it was clinging damply to her skin.
But then, they hadn’t come to Nigeria to be comfortable.
She kept a careful watch on Wanda out of the corner of her eye. Wanda’s powers had heightened her senses considerably, but enhanced observation meant nothing without the skill to analyze. Both Natasha and Steve had been working with her, both on mission and off, on isolating relevant information in and around engagement zones, and she was, Natasha thought, getting much better at it.
(She was also fairly sure that Clint had been practicing with her on her visits out to the farm--Wanda had developed a furrow in her brow when she was concentrating that was so like Clint’s that Natasha had to duck her head to hide a smile when she saw it.)
Now, though, Wanda’s expression was all her own as she scanned the street around them. Natasha listened with quiet pride as Wanda clocked the police station, officers, and limited retreat options, but had to stifle a small sigh of disappointment when she missed the armored plating on the SUV.
Steve caught it too, gently cautioning Wanda against getting complacent. Wanda, clearly bristling slightly, retorted with a hint of sarcasm that made Natasha’s lips twitch. Either the petulance that Wanda hadn’t gotten to experience as a teenager was finally beginning to bleed through, or she was spending too much of her down time with Clint. She wasn’t sure which. Still, it wouldn’t help any of them for Wanda to depend too much on her enhancements and not enough on her skills. “Looking over your shoulder needs to be second nature,” she said.
Up on his perch, Sam snorted. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a little paranoid?”
Natasha narrowed her eyes. Briefly, she debated telling him about the number of times that she’d been called paranoid, times that usually came right before someone (or, more usually, many someones) decided to shoot, stab, strangle, or otherwise attack her. She also debated giving him some of the gorier details of those stories, but decided against it--mostly because Sam had seen too much gore to be properly disturbed by them.
“Not to my face,” she said instead, lounging back in her seat and sipping her coffee. She smiled. “Why, did you hear something?”
4.
The flight back from Lagos was tense and silent. Natasha leaned back in her seat, wincing as the sore skin of her back touched the firm leather. Using Rumlow’s crony as her personal human shield had kept her from being grenade bait, but the smoke in her lungs still stung, and her shoulders and back felt raw under the fabric of her jacket.
Wearily, she opened her eyes and looked around the rest of the quinjet. Sam sat in the co-pilot’s seat, his head bowed and his jaw tightly set. Beside him, Steve’s face was pale under the dust and grime on his face, his eyes fixed straight ahead of him and his hands clenched around the jet’s controls.
No one seemed willing to look at Wanda. Natasha dragged her eyes over to her. She had curled herself into a ball on the floor, her arms tight around her knees and her face burrowed against them. Her shoulders shook every few seconds, but she’d made it clear after the first few attempts that she didn’t want to be comforted. Another tremor ran through her as Natasha watched, and she curled her hands into fists to keep from reaching out to her.
Her phone rang almost the instant they crossed into U.S. airspace, the trill of the ringtone shattering the quiet of the jet. She shot an apologetic glance at Steve, who inclined his head toward her, and ducked into the rear of the quinjet to pick up. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Clint said, his voice tight with worry. “Nigeria’s all over the news. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. It came out in a rasp, and she swallowed, massaging her throat. “I’m okay. A little banged up.” She pressed her lips together, but Clint was silent on the other end of the line. She took a careful breath, testing her lungs, before she spoke again. “What are they saying?”
“Nothing good.” Clint was quiet for a moment. “Is Wanda alright?”
His concern came through the line loud and clear, and Natasha hesitated. She glanced at Wanda, and, as if sensing her gaze, Wanda looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bright with unshed tears, her eyeliner smudged at the corners, and her lips trembled as she met Natasha’s eyes. Natasha inclined her head slightly, holding up the phone, and Wanda’s lips parted slightly, her expression uncertain. Natasha knew that look well, had worn it herself--a look that meant she was holding back tears by a thread, and that a soft word or a touch of comfort would push her over the edge. Slowly, Wanda shook her head, mouthing two silent words:
I can’t.
Natasha took a breath, and lifted the phone to hear ear once more. “She’s fine,” she said. “She’s sleeping. I’ll have her call you when we dock in.”
“Right.” Clint paused. Dimly, Natasha could hear the quiet noises of the farm--pattering footsteps, children laughing. Her heart ached. “Fly safe, Nat.”
She closed her eyes. “We will,” she said, and the words stung against the smoke in her throat.
3.
When she got to the farm, Clint and Laura were waiting for her.
They let the kids greet her first, Lila leaping into her arms and Cooper, grinning, fairly bouncing as he waited for his turn. Laura deposited Nathaniel into her arms with a smile, and he grabbed a handful of her hair, crowing in delight. Clint watched from the doorway, his eyes crinkling at the corners and the afternoon sun glinting off the gold of his wedding ring, and Natasha met his eyes and tried to smile.
After dinner, when the kids had gone to bed and Lucky had abandoned his attempts to slobber against Natasha’s knee in favor of drooling contentedly over his tennis ball under the table, Natasha curled her hands around her mug of tea and took a steadying breath. “I’m not here just to see you.”
Neither of them showed any surprise. “We know,” Laura said simply. “It’s been all over the news.”
Natasha looked back and forth between them, at Clint’s steady gaze and Laura’s soft resignation, and her heart sank in her chest. “You won’t sign,” she said. “Will you.”
She didn’t bother to make it a question. Clint’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Did you really think I would? You know how I feel about other people calling my shots, Nat.”
“You did it with SHIELD,” Natasha pointed out, and knew immediately that it was the wrong thing to say when Clint’s face shut down.
Laura curled a hand around his wrist, her expression calm. “Clint’s right,” she said. “It would be one thing if they gave you a liaison of some kind, or gave you all a say in how this would go, but like this?” She shook her head. “It’s bad enough that the world turned you into weapons. No one else should be able to use you.”
“It’s the United Nations, Laura,” Natasha said, running a frustrated hand through her hair. It was Rhodey’s argument, but a good one. “Not Hydra. You’re telling me you don’t trust the UN?”
Clint snorted. “Come on, Nat. You’re telling me you do?”
She hesitated, and it was enough to put grim satisfaction into Clint’s eyes. She shook her head. “It’s the right thing to do, Clint. We need the oversight.”
“Seriously, Natasha?” He leaned back in his chair. “You really want to tell me you believe in this? That you’d sign this thing if there was any other way to keep the team together?”
Natasha pressed her hands against her mug. The ceramic was too hot, stinging against her hands, and she pressed them tighter. “Yes,” she said, holding his gaze. “I would. I do.” Clint narrowed his eyes at her, and she swallowed hard. She could never hold a lie when he looked at her like that. She tore her gaze away from his, looking at Laura instead. “You’re okay with this? Him not signing?”
Laura slipped her fingers through Clint’s, but kept her eyes on Natasha. “I know who I married,” she said quietly.
Natasha closed her eyes, breathing out slowly. She opened her eyes, and raised her chin to look at Clint. “What do you want me to tell Cap?”
“Your choice,” he said. His eyes were sad, but gentle. “I trust you. Tell him whatever you want.”
2.
Stark booked her a private flight directly to Vienna for the signing of the Accords, but she rerouted the pilot to London when she got the news about Carter.
Natasha had only met Peggy Carter a few times before her dementia had forced her into retirement. What little she’d gotten to know, she’d liked--even in her old age, Carter had had a biting wit and a sharp mind, her compassionate heart veiled under steel-hard strength of conviction. Her guiding hand at SHIELD had still been evident when Natasha had joined, and she’d felt the loss of her influence keenly when her health declined too far for her to stay active.
She sat in the back of the church, dressed for respectful mourning, sunglasses in place to disguise her features. It was likely an unnecessary precaution--with Captain America front and center as a pallbearer, no one would be looking at her. But she liked to think that Carter would like it. Subtlety was the guiding light of espionage, and a female agent blending in with perfect ease was the greatest nod to Carter’s legacy she could think to give.
When the church was empty, Steve cutting a lone figure leaning against his pew, she made her way up the aisle toward him. He glanced at her, managing a sad half-smile in greeting. “When I came out of the ice, I thought everyone I knew was gone,” he said. His lips twitched, and she pretended not to see the redness around his eyes. “I was just lucky to have her.”
Natasha wished, not for the first time, that she had Laura’s gift for words of comfort, or Clint’s for pep talks. “She had you, too.”
He ducked his head, but a pleased light flickered in his eyes.When he glanced up again, he was all business. “Who else signed?”
“Tony, Rhodey. Vision.” She added the last name as an afterthought. He had signed, but there was some debate, both internal and not, as to whether an artificial life form’s signature had legal standing.
Steve nodded. “Clint?”
She forced a smile, and lied through her teeth. “Says he’s retired.”
He cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t push her. “Wanda?”
Easier ground there. “TBD,” she said. That, at least, was half true. Wanda hadn’t made a decision, at least not that she’d told anyone. But Natasha saw the haunted look in her eyes when she looked at the document Ross had left on their conference room table, and knew there was no way she’d touch her signature to it. “I’m off to Vienna for the signing of the records,” she said, making a last attempt. “Plenty of room on the jet.” Steve’s expression didn’t waver, and she pressed on. “Just because it’s the path of least resistance doesn’t mean it’s the wrong path. Staying together is more important than how we stay together.”
The words tasted like dust in her mouth, and she could see from the expression on Steve’s face that he believed it as little as she did. “What are we giving up to do it?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Nat. I can’t sign it.”
She’d known he wouldn’t. “I know.”
He frowned. “Then what are you doing here?”
Natasha exhaled slowly. For this, at least, she could be honest. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”
Steve’s expression shifted, Captain America’s professionalism giving way to Steve Rogers’ grief, and she reached up, folding him into a hug.
It felt like a goodbye.
1.
The look on Clint’s face as Ross’s men handcuffed him and shoved him roughly into the back of a van would haunt her for weeks.
She didn’t have time to dwell. Stark was a mess, all but hyperventilating as the paramedics loaded Rhodes, half-conscious, into the back of an ambulance. Natasha shot a glance at T’Challa--half-warning, half-pleading--and received a curt nod in response as she took Tony’s arm, talking him through collapsing his suit back into a carrying case and guiding him by the arm into the ambulance. His face was pale and panicked, and Natasha wrapped her hand around his wrist, squeezing in time with her own calm pulse until he quieted.
The fragile peace didn’t last. She lost track of him at the hospital when she went to change clothes and sit through an unnecessarily long debrief with one of Ross’s staffers. When she saw him again, he was staring out the window outside of the MRI suite, his shoulders tight with tension, one arm strapped to his chest in a sling. She pressed her lips together, stepping quietly next to him, unsure of exactly what to say.
Tony’s anxious need to fill silences took over. Natasha winced at the damage he recited. Still, she thought, Rhodes was luckier than most would have been. His armor had kept him alive, and he was best friends with Tony Stark. If Stark could build himself an arc reactor in a cave, she didn’t have a doubt in the world that he could build something to mitigate the impact of paralysis.
But it would still be a long road, and anger and guilt boiled off Stark’s body like steam. He always lashed out when he was angry, and she gritted her teeth as he pushed at her, clearly trying to provoke a reaction. She held herself steady, taking careful breaths, but--
“Guess the whole double agent thing is too hard to shake.”
She snapped. “Are you incapable of dropping your ego for one goddamned second?”
Tony started, and she realized that she’d never spoken to him like that, not really. For a moment they stared at each other, an uneasy tableau, and then he set his jaw. “T’Challa told Ross what you did,” he said tightly. “So they’re coming for you.” He gave a half-jerk of his head, his typical tell, forced ease completely failing to mask the betrayal in his eyes. “That’s how it works now.”
Natasha heard what he didn’t say. With Rhodes out of commission, Vision shaken, Spider-Man sent home on the first flight out to JFK, and T’Challa on his own agenda, their team was splintered. You knew this was how it was now. Fuck you for leaving me alone. She bristled, defensiveness conquering calm. “I’m not the one who needs to watch their back.”
It wasn’t true, and she knew it. Ross had wanted his hands on her since before she’d spilled SHIELD’s secrets onto the net, and there were plenty of people in his administration who’d wanted her head on a plate since Fury had sent Clint to put an arrow through her heart. Tony might have gotten himself onto Steve’s shitlist--and probably Clint’s, by now--but she was on the government’s.
She did the only thing she could.
She ran.
0.
She went to the farm first, and found it empty.
For an instant, her heart stopped, panic flooding through her veins as she stepped into the dark, silent house. No, she thought, trembling as she made her way inside, searching for signs of life, no, no--
A flash of gold on the refrigerator caught her eye and she turned, looking at the bright, zinnia-patterned calendar. She stepped closer and barked out a sharp laugh of relief, reading Laura’s neat handwriting on today’s date: Laura & kids → Joe’s! She exhaled, tilting her head against the refrigerator door and closing her eyes briefly.
Joe’s was gone into hiding. Joe’s was we’re safe. Joe’s was waiting for contact.
She should have known. Clint was too smart to leave them without a contingency plan. She wondered, briefly, if he’d given her a time window, told her if you don’t hear from me by then, go, and don’t tell anyone where, or if Laura had seen the mess in Germany on the news and made her own call.
Either way, they were safe. Natasha touched her fingertips to Laura’s handwriting.
Safe.
Natasha took a breath, cast a last glance around the living room to commit it to memory, and then ran again.
She didn’t stop until her burner phone buzzed in Madrid. The chiming of the text tone, half-muffled by the fabric of her bag, startled her nearly into dropping the empanada she was buying off a vendor, and she fumbled to open the text message.
Two strings of numbers, instantly recognizable as coordinates. She closed her eyes, mapping them out in her head, and nearly dropped her empanada.
Wakanda.
It took her thirty-six hours to fly from Spain to Wakanda. A car flying the official royal flags met her at the airport, a tall, solemn driver standing beside it with a sign bearing her name. Natasha let him open the door for her, sliding into the back seat and breathing slowly, evenly, keeping herself calm. The Wakandan roads were smooth and even under the tires, and she watched through the tinted window as the palace loomed closer and closer with each passing mile, wondering, with the faintest shiver of anticipation, what would meet her when she got there.
T’Challa himself met her inside the palace gates. “Miss Romanoff,” he said, his smooth accent curling around her name.
“Your Highness,” she said automatically, and cocked her head to one side. “Am I here for you to kill me?”
He shook his head. “You kept me from taking vengeance on an innocent man,” he said. “There is no quarrel between us.”
Natasha nodded slowly. “But here I am.”
“Yes.” He smiled. “You were missed.”
“Auntie Nat!”
Lila’s shriek of glee cut through the air. Heart in her throat, Natasha turned, and hardly had time to gasp out a breath of joy before Clint’s daughter flung herself up and into her arms. Natasha held her fiercely, burying her face in Lila’s sun-warmed brown hair. Impact against her waist an instant later made her stagger and she put out an automatic arm to wrap around Cooper.
“Natasha.”
She dragged her head up from Lila’s hair. Laura stood only a few feet away, Nathaniel on her hip. She looked weary, but gentle relief shone in her eyes, her dark hair swept back from her face in a messy bun. Natasha swallowed hard, looking past her to Clint, standing just over Laura’s shoulder with his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. She couldn’t read his expression, and she set Lila carefully down on the flagstones, pressing a kiss to the top of Cooper’s head and ruffling his hair gently before making her way to them. “Hi,” she said softly.
Laura just looked at her, eyes soft, as if she was studying her face for signs of harm or agenda. Natasha looked back at her, trying to keep her hands from trembling, wondering if she should apologize, unsure how she’d even start.
Clint spoke first. “So,” he said, and she dragged her gaze to meet his. His lips quirked into a faint smile, and bone-weakening relief spread through her. “Anything to say, Nat?”
A dozen responses caught on the tip of her tongue, a jumble truths and half-truths and lies. I’m sorry. I’m not sorry. It wasn’t worth it. I thought it was the only way to keep us together. I’d do it again. I’d choose differently if I could. I thought it was the right thing to do. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
She took a breath, and said the only thing that was purely, unapologetically true. “I missed you,” she said. “I wanted to come home.”
Clint’s smile softened, and then, gently, warmed. “Yeah,” he said. He lifted a hand, brushing his knuckles over her cheek, and she closed her eyes, even as Laura’s fingertips grazed a feather-light touch against her waist. “We missed you, too.”
Natasha opened her eyes. The Wakandan sun painted Clint’s skin gold, cast warmth and light onto Laura’s hair. She exhaled, and months of tension bled away from her bones. “Good,” she said, the word falling from her lips in a whisper. Laura’s shining gaze washed over her like a blessing, and slowly, meaning it for the first time in months, Natasha let herself smile.