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When Natasha leaves Tony’s side, she makes sure she leaves like she has all the time in the world. He doesn’t need to know; he doesn’t need to be involved any further. And with his track record, the last thing she needs right now is Tony Stark to the rescue with a helping hand. Doesn’t matter how good his intentions are, it gets complicated when he’s involved and she can’t cope with complicated until she’s figured out how to disappear with nothing left. It’s been a long time since she’s had nothing: no more secret identities, no more safe houses, no more stashes of passports in safety deposit boxes around the world, no more ready-bags under the bed, in the wall, or underneath the floorboards. She’s given all that up in a bid to save the world- and it would be awesome if the world stayed saved for more than a few months at a time.
There is no time to head to her room, no time to say goodbye, no time for sentiment. People are coming for her to lock her up with the rest of them. Well, what they think will be the rest of them. There’s no way that Steve would let the others rot on The Raft. She’s been there. Its security is high but not high enough to keep a bunch of Avengers locked up. Even without Steve rescuing them, she knows Clint would find a way- after he’s moped around for a while insisting that Steve and Bucky should rescue them. She presses her lips together. Normally, in times like these, she would head to the farm and lay low with Laura and the kids while SHIELD dealt with whatever aftermath there was. That’s how it works when you’re a secret agent, a spy, but it isn’t how it works when you’re a hero who signed a document holding her accountable for her actions in front of an international court. A hero on the run, that’s not new. At least last time, she was certain she was doing the right thing.
In this very moment, the ‘right’ thing seems more elusive, a grey area with a wobbly line in the middle and Natasha can’t get a grasp on which side she is. The worst part is that none of it feels like the right thing. Logically, both sides have valid points and in spite of everything she’s done, she still sees both and they’re both equally right and equally wrong. It’s something she will need to ponder alone on a snowy peak in the Urals for a month. And maybe that’s where she’ll go. Maybe that’s what she needs: time alone, away from everyone. Or maybe that’s what she tells herself in order to make it through this.
First, she has to get out of the compound and out of the country. Natasha runs a hand over her face- a gesture she knows she’s picked up from hanging around with Tony too much- and steps into the elevator. There’s an envelope taped to the glass wall with her name on it. Tony’s hand writing. She opens it as the doors opens on the garage floor. Cash. A lot of it. In another life, she would have left it scattered on the floor. But that’s another life, a life with extractions and safe houses. So, she shoves the money into her boots, bra, and jacket pocket, and jogs to Steve’s motorcycle. He won’t mind, she knows that much. He’s trusted her to ride his bikes when he’s gotten fussy when Sam only looked at them with longing. Of course, she knows where he taped the spare key, because he knew she’d have his back when it came down to it. And he’s never not had hers. She smiles and doesn’t ride into the sunset. Okay, so technically she is driving west and the sun is setting, but that’s just the beginning of it. She’ll have to ditch the bike by morning, because that’s when people in suits with dark sunglasses will knock on Tony’s door. He won’t- can’t- turn them away. Judging by how much money he threw at her, he’s going to misdirect as much and as long as he can. She’ll send him a Thank You card from across the ocean later.
The ride through the night is uneventful. She stops twice, once to pick up food in such quantities that the black hair dye won’t be noticed by the security camera behind her, and once again a hundred miles later to fill up gas at a seedy gas station in the middle of nowhere; and sit in the surprisingly clean bathroom as she ties her hair neatly into a pony tail and chops it off before she dyes the rest of her hair in the sink. It’s quite cliché, but she doesn’t have much to work with and this isn’t even the hard part. The hard part also isn’t ditching the bike and procuring new clothes and supplies while avoiding cameras the next morning. And it’s not even showing up at a port in Northern Maine to pay a tanker captain enough money to not ask questions. No, the hard part is on the rough seas across the Atlantic. She’s never had sea legs and her stomach isn’t going to start helping her out now. Thankfully, no one bothers her. No one asks questions. In fact, everyone pretends like she isn’t there. Good.
It takes a week of eating crackers and rice because her intestines refuse to let her keep anything else down before she disembarks at a port in a tiny town in Eastern Iceland and slips onto a bus away from the coast with a group of over a dozen backpackers of all types. She’s just one of the crowd, holding conversations, looking like she belongs with her small pack, stained jeans, and oversized hoodie. Over the past week, Natasha’s managed to come up with a semblance of a plan: Iceland where she’ll lay low for a few weeks in the middle of nowhere. Then she’ll make her way to Finland and the Russian border. With Hydra and the Red Room destroyed, she can easily make herself a temporary new life up in Siberia. It’s not her first choice, but as a US citizen, she would likely have to face extradition once found anywhere in Europe. Russia is the closest place to a safe house she has. It’s a good plan, good enough anyhow.
Natasha pushes down the emptiness she feels when she stands in a small, barren room she’s renting at a farm house halfway into the Icelandic interior. Loads of tourists and backpackers, are still around in this area, so no one will question her presence. Or notice it in the first place. She looks at the twin bed, grey sheets, white walls, almost sterile in comparison to the rest of the house. The tiny desk against the wall was painted red not too long ago, to give it a pop of colour her host had explained. She can feel the tackiness of not quite dry paint against her fingers when she puts her purse down on it. She hates purses, never carries one. It makes sense to have one now even though most of her money is taped to her waist under her tank top. She’s about to sit down on the bed when there’s a soft knock on the door.
“I’m okay for now, I’m going to take a nap. Long journey.” She says. It’s not a lie and the last thing she wants right now is hospitality. The elderly woman, her son and his husband were extremely welcoming and friendly and maybe she should have chosen to stay somewhere else, but something about having the option to feel even a tiny bit like being part of a family again was too enticing. She knows she has to drop that need soon enough because it’s only going to get lonelier. It’s surprising how fast you can get used to feeling part of a family, even if it’s found. How fast you can get used to feeling loved. She’s about to sigh and force herself to nap these thoughts out of her head when the door opens.
“I said, I-,” she turns around with an annoyed frown.
“Does the Lady need a lift somewhere?” Nope that’s not Sigmundur or his husband Gunnar. That’s definitely Steve Rogers standing in her doorway in jeans and a t-shirt, holding a flower like a romantic jackass.
“I think I’m good.” She says with a smile.
“Then how about some company?” He looks at the floor before he looks at her with that smile. “I like what you did with your hair.”
“I think I could do with some company.” Natasha watches him as he closes the door behind him and crosses the distance between them. She knows he will tell her how he found her and what the plan is after this. But that’s after. Now is for kissing and feeling like coming home.