Chapter Text
She’s cornered, literally cornered: backed up against the intersection of a pair of splintery warehouse walls. She’s out of bullets and options, so she drops her handgun and raises her hands in useless surrender. She doesn’t beg for her life, just asks a question that’s been bothering her a while. “How did my mother really die?”
Ilya considers her, not lowering his pistol. But finally he answers, seeing as it will cease to matter in a second or two. “She tried to run,” he says.
“How many—,” she starts to ask, and the left side of Ilya’s head explodes into gore.
She stands there, mildly splattered with blood, as a half-dozen men wearing body armor and carrying assault rifles storm in. They’re followed by a three men and one Scandinavian amazon wearing suits and holding handguns.
“Recall Hawkeye,” one of the suits barks into a radio, and she just stands there, not moving or saying anything, until one of the suits steps in front of her. “Ms. Romanov, we understand you’ve had a falling out with your employer. We are willing to intercede on your behalf.”
She’d had her death right in front of her, as real as anything.
“Black Widow?” another of the suits asks, voice uncertain.
She ceases to stare at where Ilya had been standing, and shifts her gaze to the man who had spoken. “Who are you?” she asks pleasantly. She’s not interested in fighting, not with the number of guns pointed her way, not if she can talk her way out.
“SHIELD, ma’am,” he says, and she looks down at the fine flecks of blood dotting her hands.
“We can talk,” she says, and doesn’t resist when they cuff her hands behind her back and throw a bag over her head.
When they pull it off, she’s sitting across an interrogation room table from the Scandinavian amazon. She’s tall and slender, and very beautiful, in an austere way. Her jacket has been carefully folded on the back of the chair behind her, revealing a sleeveless blouse of silver-blue silk and a slender gold chain wound twice around her wrist. “My name is Agent Stone, I’m conducting this negotiation.” She crosses her long legs. “What do you like to be called?”
“Romanov is fine.”
“We do know your full name, Natalya Alianovna. Natalya? Natasha?”
They watch each other for a long moment. Finally, “You can call me Natasha,” Galina says.