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natasha-romanoff-deserved-better · 10 months

Note

So glad I logged in today to see you are doing this cool event! For the ask game (apologies if I'm early but it should already be 2 July in your timezone right?) of course I'd take platonic Nat & Tony with "That cut isn't gonna stitch itself back together, is it?" Feeling slightly malancholic post-battle comrady if that remotely makes sense (but feel free to take it and run with it whether it takes you <3)

Oh my dear friend, yay for joining in. Thanks for the ask, I hope I did it justice, would be very willing to do a part two on this as I wanted to do more just ran out of time. <3

Black Widow Fest 2023 -Ask Game

Warnings: mission gone wrong fic (nothing graphic)

Word count: 737

Pairing: Clint/Nat, Tony and Nat

safe. guard.

Clint’s unconscious body is underneath Natasha’s, and although she’s moving slowly, Jarvis tells him she’s conscious and alive.

Tony focuses and lands softly next to her, quickly motioning for his suit to disarm and appear as unassuming as possible.

“Sentry mode,” he tells the suit.

It scans the area, and faces away from them; guarding his friends as he assesses them both and calls it in.

“I’ve found them,” he tells Steve as Natasha focusses on him and covers Clint in her haze.

“It’s okay Natasha, it’s me.”

A deep frown meets his eyes, and recognition seems to spawn.

“They found us, we ran, Tony, and they chased after us,” she says in a rush, “they’re close, I’m sure; they can’t..”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he assures.

He wants to touch her, the bullet graze in her hairline, and the gravel rash over her left side, speaks of more than just run and hide.

“Clint,” she tries to rouse him, but he doesn’t wake.

“Help him, Tony, please?”

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard her sound so worried, so tired and concerned for Clint. But to be fair, he’s never seen Clint unconscious.

“Steve’s coming with the jet, okay? He’ll be here…”

The jet lands close to the explosion site, and the sound drowns out his voice.

“Now.”

It’s how they’d known where she was. The flare that had been set beforehand seemed like it was set just for him.

The explosion that followed overloaded the output and he’d had to take time before flying across; his friends lost in the debris.

“Okay Nat, can you stand?”

“Help him?”

Steve’s by his side and tending to Clint, as Tony focuses on Natasha, still trying to get her to focus.

“Come on, follow me.”

When she doesn’t move, he motions for Steve to pick up Clint and carry him to the jet.

“Follow him,” he tells her, and walks behind her as she gingerly follows after them, limping and holding her left arm.

Tony watches her carefully. Assessing her as she so often assesses him.

The limp.

The graze.

The gravel.

It had taken them only two hours to find them, but still the wounds feel big. It doesn’t even take into account Clint’s unconsciousness.

She stumbles and immediately he’s by her side, steadying her as she tries to move as quickly as Steve does.

“I got you,” he mutters.

Steve lays Clint flat on the stretcher, and straps him in.

Tony’s left with both Natasha’s panic and Clint’s prone body, as he moves to the front of the plane to take off.

He’s glad Steve knows what to do, without having to talk about it.

He checks on Clint, telling his unconscious friend to wake up, before he rechecks the straps and hopes it’s just a bump on the head.

“Natasha, come here,” he says gently, assessing that Clint looks relatively stable, but Natasha, shivering and hyper vigilant, needs.. More.

“That cut isn't gonna stitch itself back together, is it?"

She meets his eyes, and the panic abates as she slowly nods.

“He got hit on the head,” she tells him honestly.

“The debris from the explosion, it hit him. I think it killed the hydra team.”

She gives him a dead stare.

He offers her a blanket, gently placing it next to her as she doesn’t move to touch it.

“Nat?”

He shows her the stitching kit and she takes a deep breath before cocking her head.

“Tony.”

She offers her arm, the gravel embedded deep.

“We can wait for the hospital,” he tells her, suddenly feeling not up to the task, of helping her alongside protecting her mental health.

At this point, he’s sure the latter is more important.

“Tony,” she repeats, “it’s okay. I can do it.”

She takes the tweezers from him, and slowly starts removing the gravel.

“Stop,” he tells her, her hands shaking from the adrenaline dump.

“I can help.”

Carefully, he grabs his water bottle and washes the wound, watching her carefully as he does so.

Next, he removes the bigger pieces, slowly, carefully washing blood away.

He’s as gentle as he can be, worried about the bullet graze, wondering if he should have prioritized that over the gravel rash.

Natasha’s face doesn’t show pain, just concern, as she doesn’t take her eyes off Clint.

“He’ll be okay, Nat, promise,” he tells her.

“Yeah,” she replies, tiredly, “I know.”

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natasha-romanoff-deserved-better · 10 months

Text

Black Widow Fest - Day Six

Stay Alive.

Warnings: broken bones and car chases, swearing?

Word Count: 2047

Pairing: Clint/Nat

@broken--bow asked - and I should have replied to the ask box rather than making a post, but we’ve come too far now - for a fic where (as in the hunger games with Peeta and Katniss) a simple thing is asked, to stay alive, even though it turns out to be one of the harder things to do. Ty for sending in solid asks, my friend, they are ⭐️.

“How is this the first time you’ve ever broken your collar bone?”

Clint shrugs, regrets it and pouts.

“Do broken collarbones always need surgery?” Natasha asks the doctor.

The doctor looks to her clipboard and then back to Clint.

“No, not always, but if you leave these things for a week and keep…”

She looks back down and quirks her eyebrows

“Keep shooting arrows and guns?”

Clint smiles, easily.

Natasha stands in front of him, knowing his fake smile hides the worry of questions he won’t ask.

“He’ll be able to shoot again, right? No problem?”

He peeks out from behind her to watch the doctor nod.

“Yes, of course, but he needs to let this heal, 4 weeks in a sling. And physiotherapy - the you need to follow - otherwise, you’ll always have pain and it will always not feel straight.”

Natasha smirks, sharing a look with Clint.

“Guess I won’t be coming with you then,” he says, holding her hand with his good one.

“Surgery is scheduled for around 1.30pm, don’t have any more to eat or drink.”

She turns to Natasha, “you’ll be here to pick him up?”

Natasha’s face turns sour.

“Uh, no actually. Maria will be here, um a friend. I’ll leave my number and her number here though, in case you need anything, or if he’s not being cooperative.”

“Hey,” Clint pipes up, “drugged me is delightful.”

The doctor puts her clipboard away, and nods.

“I’m sure Mr Barton. No food, no drink until we come and get you. Ms Romanoff, you can stay until he goes in if you want.”

Natasha nods, sighing softly as she sits down next to him

“You’ll be okay here without me?” she asks, guilt on her face.

“Of course,” he tells her, “it’s a simple operation, no gunshot wounds, no knife wounds, no complex broken bones or head injury. It’s easy in and out.”

Natasha smirks again, “that’s what she said.”

Clint laughs and winces.

“Where are they sending you?” he asks, knowing she’s now going alone.

“Vladivostok.”

“You’re not.”

His stomach drops.

“Nat, you’re going into Russia, alone?”

She swallows and nods with a small smile. More of a grimace, he thinks.

He wants nothing more than to talk this through with her, tell her not to go, and hug her tight.

“I’m the only one that knows the dialect.”

He hates this.

He also hates that if he hadn’t asked, she wouldn’t have said anything, not complained, just gone.. Whilst he was under and couldn’t do anything.

He still can’t. He’s going into surgery, and she’s going to Russia alone.

The laughter from seconds ago is now abject fear for her.

The small peninsula town.

Anyone could spot her.

Know her.

Take her.

“It’s only for a day, not even. More like hours. In and out,” she tries.

He tries too.

“That’s what she said.”

Except this time, they both don’t laugh.

He moves over in the single bed and motions for her to sit.

Hesitating slightly, she crawls next to him.

Using his good arm he encircles her and kisses the top of her head.

“You’ll be okay?” he whispers.

The nurse comes in and cocks her head at the way they’re curled.

“I need to put the drip in, Mr Barton,” she tells him.

Natasha starts to move away, the nurse stops her, tells her to stay.

“I can move around you, don’t move, hun.”

Clint looks away as his vein is pierced.

“All done,” she says, moving away.

“They’ll be back in fifteen minutes to take you up, okay?”

She turns to Natasha, “you can stay in the waiting room, but it may be a while.”

Natasha looks at her watch.

“No, it’s okay I need to leave soon anyway.”

The nurse nods and leaves the room.

He continues to hold her, bring her head down so that it’s touching his.

“I have to go,” she sighs, not moving a muscle.

“When exactly will you be home?”

“Tuesday 11.20pm, the flight should land.”

She really is counting down the time.

“Stay Alive,” Clint tells her, looking at her directly in the eyes.

Slowly she manoeuvres her body out, kisses him softly and breathes him in.

“Maria will be here when you wake up, and I’ll be fine, I promise.”

He growls, the sound low and guttural.

“Promise me again.”

“I promise.”

One last kiss and she finally stands.

“Stay alive, Natasha,” his voice commanding.

Head butting him again, and one last peck, she waves off his worry and leaves the hospital room as the nurse returns.

She says something to the nurse that he can’t hear but he lays back in his worry and prays the next two days go quickly.

Vladivostok is not what she expected, or remembered.

Slightly removed from the mainland, Natasha sighs and pushes down the apprehension.

The last time she was here, she has visited a widow and his daughter, made them give her information. It had been a pleasant trip, ending with some candy.

The hire car is slow, white and generic and the gps guides her to the meet with the man Fury had deemed worthy of her time.

Clint would be out of surgery now, she hopes anyway. She wants to message Maria and make sure they’re all okay, but her cloned phone doesn’t have the level of security and her own phone is in the locker at the airport.

She was now Rosa Tuttle for all intents and purposes, and so she acted as such.

Blonde wig.

Long nails.

Make up to change the structure of her face.

She was not Natasha Romanoff.

And she was not worried about her partner.

The café is a small hole in the wall.

Posters line the walls, maybe to cover some holes, the corners peeling and old. The old woman approaches her, scarf covering her hair as she shuffled around.

Natasha orders the strongest coffee she can think and the woman nods with a gentle smile.

She faces the door, eyes on the two exits and waits.

The man that enters afterwards is dishevelled; her mark clearly.

“Hello,” she smiles.

He hands her an envelope and looks around in vigilance.

Natasha has seen this before, the skittishness of man who is too stupid to follow the basic instructions. They think they’re smarter and can be better at basic espionage than the people they’re informing on.

“You didn’t follow the rules, did you Igor?”

He looks behind him, and the car he’s parked haphazardly out the front.

“It’s fine. We do this quickly. This is the information. Where is my money?”

Natasha shakes her head.

“No, it is not fine. You think you weren’t being watched? That the Komutet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti, don’t have eyes everywhere, even here in Vladivostok?”

He looks guilty, shocked and scared, and knows she’s right. Especially when a large black car pulls up next to his blue one.

Natasha sighs heavily, looks to the back exit and pushes him towards it.

She apologizes to the woman and tells her to tell them which way they’ve gone. She doesn’t want the elderly woman’s blood on her hands.

Natasha’s car is old, but the fact that everyone here has a similar one, she’s confident of losing the tail they’ll surely have.

“Get in.”

The words are said harshly as he moves slowly, fear locking him up and making him move slow.

He does eventually and she drives away carefully.

The KGB knows though.

She sometimes forgets how much autocracy it is here, and how closely the citizens are watched.

“Igor. How long have they been watching you for?”

“They aren’t. They’re not, they..” he stutters, looking back around at the cars that surround him.

There’s two options Natasha can think of.

Run and hide.

Fight.

Neither are good options.

If they hide, she’s not making her flight.

Not going home to Clint and spending another day in a country she feels least safe in.

Fight.

Well there’s an option that she’s not getting out alive if she does that.

“Igor, you’re not helping yourself.”

The first shot ricochets off the car, and Natasha’s mind is made up.

Fight it is.

Calling quickly off the sat com phone, she puts the distress through, finding Fury on the other end.

Whilst not strange in itself, she knows there are others who could be on the night phone for this.

“Ah, we are coming in hot, the idiot didn’t follow procedures, and we have the KGB on our tail. Any exit plan?”

Fury’s silent and considering as she hears him typing and then..

“There’s a boat, the contact will meet you in 15 minutes if you can get there.”

Natasha looks down and nods.

“Affirmative, we’ll be there.”

Igor looks terrified.

There’s cars around them and although there’s still bullets flying, Natasha’s mind is clear.

“What did he say?” Igor asks.

She ignores him.

The side street she turns down is narrow enough that only one car can follow and she tells Igor to get ready to move.

He doesn’t need to, the car is hit on the side at full speed and it flips into the nearby building. Natasha is held by her seatbelt, but Igor, who never wore his, is thrown out of the car through the windshield.

Natasha assumes he’s dead on impact, not moving, his body brokenly laying on the asphalt.

She has bigger issues.

Held by a seatbelt that didn’t release, upside down and a dripping blood nose, she works at wiggling out.

Clint’s voice echoes in her head.

Her knife finally cuts through the seatbelt and she’s dumped upside down onto the ceiling of the car.

Pain pulses through the her left arm.

Ignoring it, she crawls out, grabbing the files she came for.

She needs to disappear, get out of here and get to the rendezvous point in less than ten minutes.

Natasha wipes her face.

Her wig now askew.

If she takes it off, there’s a greater chance of being recognised for who she is.

If she doesn’t, they’ll find her quick.

If only she had time to go back to the airport.

Natasha rolls her eyes, remembering. Her phone and her jacket.

Fuck.

Wiping the blood from her nose, she hopes Fury can send someone for them.

She hates starting a new phone again. In reality she shouldn’t have taken it but she was worried about Clint being in surgery. It feels stupid now. It was just resetting the bone.

Deciding on removing the wig and tying her hair up, she changes her appearance quickly.

Her arm hurts.

Quickly checking, she finds the quickest way to the port, and moves.

7 minutes.

At 3 minutes she finds the boat.

At two minutes, she’s on the boat.

And as time is up, they’re moving out of the port and she’s in the cabin, with the captain by the name of Ned steering her away.

“Broken collarbone? You’re kidding me.”

Clint laughs, arm in a sling.

“She what?”

The doctor points to the break and tells them again.

“When you landed, you must have landed on your shoulder because it looks like it’s a kind of green stick fracture. Unlike his, which needed surgery, it’s likely yours will just heal with immobilization and a sling.”

Clint laughs again, gleefully.

“Matching slings!”

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“How long am I benched for?”

The doctor looks to Clint, and then back to Natasha.

“You’ll probably be going back at the same time.”

“Six weeks?!” Natasha exclaims incredulously.

The doctor nods.

“If you both immobilize it, do the rehab and take care of it.”

Clint smiles.

“Don’t worry, Doc. She has a good right hand and I have a good left one. We’ll be a good team.”

The doctor remains straight faced, then can’t hide her smile as Clint helps Natasha back up.

She sets Natasha up with a sling and teaches her how to strap it.

Watching the two spies leave, the doctor watches as Clint readjusts their positions so he can half hug her.

Even though she hopes to never see them, she knows it’s likely they’ll be back before she knows it.

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natasha-romanoff-deserved-better · 10 months

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Love love love. Its great how you describe nat separating herself from the her in the reflection as different people. The comparison between 1 and 4 were great- the first her being upset (?) about the bruises and then later on her seeing them as a sign of what she accomplished. Also, the scenerio of watching something awful happen behind you through a mirror is really something. You write emotions so so well.

Black Widow Fest 2023 - Day Seven

Mirror, Mirror.

Warnings: dead dove. child abuse, child death (red room)

Word count: 2694

Pairing: nil. Natasha Centric.

A/N: truthfully, this has been a hard one to write but as it got going it got easier. Borne of beautiful artwork by @lightmotifs and a conversation about Natasha looking at herself in the mirror, spawned.. well, this. A five parter of times Natasha looked at herself in the mirror. So please heed the warnings. <3 (also this was supposed to be the last fic of the years bwf but I had to add in Kiss the Dread) As always your comments and support gives these fics life. <3

The scariest thing I had to encounter,

Wasn’t a ghost, or a scary monster.

It was the reflection, I saw as I looked in the mirror.

The moment I had to face,

All the dark parts, I tried hard to erase

Yet as I looked a bit closely, at the eyes staring back at me,

I realised they were still there,

Untouched and unfazed.

Waiting for the day to be let out of their cage.

- Reflection (S.S.W)

1/ Ohio

Touching the bruise softly, Natasha watches her face wince in the mirror. It doesn’t hurt, it stings, maybe that’s the sensation she’s feeling.

She’s old enough to know that she won’t be going to school tomorrow, because they ask questions about those sorts of of things.

Melina had promised to show her how to put make up on bruises, but she’d left in the hours of the morning with Yelena, leaving Natasha and Alexei together.

“Let me teach you something new,” he’d laughed, grabbing her wrist and pulling her away from her book.

“Don’t let the American language corrupt your mind.”

She’d tried to pull her wrist away, but he’d held on, and it was only when she trailed behind him, did she smell the vodka on his breath.

Whatever he had planned to show her, he wouldn’t remember, not being as drunk as what he was.

“Sambo is a man’s sport, but you will learn,” he’d said.

Natasha knows the bruise on her face isn’t the only visible one, but if she thought about what really hurt, her back would be top priority.

She takes her tshirt off to see if it has the same coloured hue as her eye. She takes the chair and puts it under the door so that Alexei does not wander in, and then twisting in the mirror, she catches a glance at her back.

It’s as she suspected, bruises mottling down her spine from where he’d picked her up and crashed her down.

His laugher had made her smile, even as she winced in hurt.

“Come on Natasha, show me how the Red Room girls defend themselves.”

She didn’t really know how to react, and so had thrown a half hearted punch, before he picked her up and threw her again.

Natasha wasn’t sure when it had turned, his laughter turned serious and she’d missed the cue for his anger. Suddenly, his attempt at playing, mutated and as she’d got up again, he pushed her down.

“I win,” he said conversationally.

She missed the warning in his voice as she stood back up.

Natasha tried not to cry when he open hand slapped her in the face, the sound shocking her more than the hit, and she’d stayed down.

He stood over her, grabbing the nearby bottle and taking a swig.

“I win,” he snarled, “I will always win.”

And then stalked off to find a corner to drink some more.

She’d only moved when she’d heard his loud snores coming from the bedroom, and had risen on shaking legs, making her way to the bathroom to assess the damage.

The mirror doesn’t lie, she thinks as she stares at herself, poking softly at the swelling, wishing quietly for a way to swap places with the mirror version of herself.

2/ Location Unknown. Russia.

They’re lined up like they always are, and take their places on the bar. The distance between them is measured and they’ve done this often enough to know exactly what to do.

Madam strikes her switch and the music starts.

Natasha follows the movement and lets her mind wander. It comes with such ease that she no longer even has to think about it.

Today feels different, but she can’t figure out why.

Madam, perhaps looks more strict, but she hasn’t said anything, hasn’t corrected anything, has let them follow the music without yelling or hitting them with switch to correct movement.

The longer it goes on, the more it feels wrong.

There’s no talking.

They breathe hard as training continues longer than it should.

She shares a glance with the other girls, and she knows everyone is feeling the strangeness.

Legs shaking they’re lined up again, and at last; Natasha thinks, they can go into the lunch hall and eat.

Except they don’t.

They’re sat, facing the mirror in the hall, and Natasha takes the opportunity to look at the other girls in the reflection.

Something she rarely does.

They all look as tired as she does.

They all look nervous at the change in routine.

Even those that know how to mask their faces, have shifting eyes and clenched fists.

She stares at herself, and takes her demeanour in, focusing first at relaxing her face, making her features become stoic and straight faced. Next she relaxes her shoulders, keeping her breathing even.

Her legs give nothing away, so she puts her hands flat on her knees and keeps her back straight.

No slouching.

Dreykov enters.

Immediately, her hands tighten on her knees but she sees it in the mirror.

Natasha knows now this is going to be a lesson.

And not a good one.

She stares stoically at the mirror.

Reasoning, that she can see everything in the room, and she can focus on herself.

It becomes more important when Anabelle is dragged in by her hair.

Natasha’s heart sinks.

They knew she was missing in the morning and had gossiped about her whereabouts. They’d concluded that she was in medical.

Because no one would be stupid enough to do what they assumed she had done.

As Dreykov starts to talk, Natasha’s heart sinks further.

She’d tried to escape.

They’d caught her at the border of the forest.

Glancing quickly at her, Anabelle seems to know her fate, her clothes ripped by what Natasha assumes is handiwork of Dreykov’s dogs.

She turns back to the mirror.

If she watches the mirror, she can make it seem like she’s watching an American movie.

She’s not here.

It’s not happening in front of her.

The mirror shows all the horrors, the monologue from a villain.

It’s just a movie, Natasha tells herself, nails digging into her knees.

Nails pieces her skin as the gunshot goes off.

She doesn’t want to look.

Dreykov’s voice is nothing in the back of her head as she watches the blood spread on the floor.

Staring stoically forward, she watches the others stand, numbly; she does the same.

She takes one last look in the mirror, and the scene of horror, and knows the truth that it holds.

3/ Location Unknown. America.

The interrogation room in Shield is simple.

Table.

Chairs.

Handcuffs holding her wrists on the table.

Two way mirror.

She wonders idly how many people sit behind that mirror, how many are evaluating her, if Clint Barton is watching too.

Maria Hill, the SIC of Shield, crosses her legs again and waits.

“We can make this more uncomfortable,” she states.

Natasha doesn’t doubt it.

“But Barton has assured us that you would cooperate, and abide by the rules of your surrender.”

Natasha nods.

Stares at the two way mirror.

“I will,” she speaks to it.

She has no interest in Maria, and is willing to talk, but there’s a certain anxiety that comes with divulging her country’s secrets.

If they find her, she’s dead, but she was already dead anyway.

She wishes she could see him through the mirror.

Instead, she just sees her own face, dead eyes staring back to her.

“Tell us about Bali, and your role in the assassination of American diplomat,” Maria repeats.

Natasha frowns.

“How do you know that was me?”

Maria bristles.

“Was it?”

Natasha doesn’t have enough information to know how much they know. If she lies, or tells less than they truth, and they know more than she tells them, there’s not telling what they’ll do.

It’s not a winnable game unless she answers their questions with more questions and gauge her response from that, she could perhaps play it that way.

It seems too hard though.

And she’ll let Clint down.

After all he went through to get her out.

She looks to the mirror again, and finds her eyes pleading.

Turning back to Maria and sighing, she uses the mirror as an anchor.

“No one ever assumes that the woman in a dress is a threat.”

The tiniest of smiles crosses Maria’s face, and it’s more like a softening of features than anything else.

“I passed him twice, once to slit his femoral artery and the second to make sure he’s dead.”

The clanking of the handcuffs make her brain short out alongside the anxiety, the fact that she’s in America, talking about missions, is tantamount to death.

Dreykov’s face appears in the mirror and her eyes go wide.

“He’s dead,” she says out loud, and the image fades.

Maria nods.

“Yes, he died, as you’ve stated.”

She’s thankful her fuck up isn’t noticed, despite the fact her heart is beating hard against her chest.

“Do you need a break?” Maria’s asks, the words kind, even if the delivery is not.

Natasha shakes her head, calming herself, as she grounds herself by looking back to the mirror.

If nothing else is real, at least she is.

She knows this by the way she raises her head and her mirror image copies the action.

The way she talks and the image opens and closes her mouth in time.

There’s no delay like in dreams.

Hours they continue, and she grows tired of the constant questions, the interrogation that occurs when her story doesn’t line up with her timelines of events.

It’s just, it’s how she remembers it’s happening.

It’s not like she has the mission reports in front of her.

She’s not even trying to hide lies in the truth anymore.

What would be the point?

They’ll either take her in and help protect her from the last standing Red Room members or they’ll kill her.

In the back of her mind, she doesn’t care about whatever way they go.

She’s dead either way, and being alive never seemed to help anyone.

“Tell me about Ohio,” Maria asks.

But it’s too much.

“No,” Natasha states, staring hard at her.

“No.”

“We’ve been at this for hours, days, handcuffed, toileted like a child, made to wait, been asked the same questions, about the same missions over and over to see if my story varies. It doesn’t, and still you ask.”

Sick of the handcuffs, she slips out of them, and rubs her wrists, a familiar action that feels grounding in the moment, allowing her to continue her rant.

Her mouth speaks, her mind wanders.

They know about Ohio.

They might know about Yelena.

“Either kill me or agree to the terms of my defection.”

She stares at the mirror.

“I don’t care,” she finishes, “I don’t care.”

Despondent eyes look back to her as she hastens a glance.

The door opens and Clint strides in.

There’s a sense of dread and relief simultaneously.

“You’re the one they send to kill me?”

He stands next to her, argues, for her, not against her.

He tells Maria off for keeping her in cuffs, for not bringing in food or water and keeping Natasha in longer than she should.

He sighs and she hastens a look up to the mirror finding their images standing together.

Maybe shes not alone in this.

4/ The Avengers Tower, New York.

The mirrors in the lift are usually easily ignored.

Sometimes she’ll even take the stairs.

This time Natasha looks forward to it.

She wants to see how she looks, wants to see how feral she is.

Blood in her hairline, bruises on her face, she smiles at herself.

For once she feels like the outside matches the inside.

The doors close and it ascends upwards without her having to press a button, and she can’t stop looking at herself.

She did good.

Her body, her mind, her training, for once, paid off.

She got Tony out, and he’s safe because of her.

Getting closer to the mirror, she eyes the way her hair is unkempt, flyaway bits adorn her face, almost lining it, even though it’s all tied up in a tight bun. Not red, but brown this week. Clint had commented and pouted that he missed her hair, Steve reported that he was going to go blonde and Tony called her chameleon. She likes her brown hair, so different to her natural colour.

Next, she looks at her eyes.

Green watches her.

The speckled brown seemingly more, when contrasted with her brown hair.

She likes the way her pupils are wide as she changes her expression with the move of an eyebrow.

Natasha used to do this in the Red Room, practice facial expressions so she could school her face, remember how to look angry, sad, happy.

She touches the scar on her lip softly.

No make up.

She didn’t need it for the fight she fought.

Pale skin, blemish on her chin.

The bruises from the fight coming through slowly.

Since when did she stop wearing makeup daily just to hide who she was? She thinks it’s been months. Only wearing it when needed, when meeting with higher ups.

Here though; she doesn’t need it.

She’s Natasha. Not made up, not fake.

She touches her lips again, swollen, cut.

Pushes it into a smile, a frown, playing with pushing them in and out, watching how the cut expands and shrinks depending on her how she curls it.

The elevator stops, the doors don’t open.

Turning and glancing at doors, she realises Jarvis has recognised she’s entranced.

They’d call it vanity, she’d call it a luxury.

“Thanks,” she whispers, and turns her attention back to herself.

Eyebrows, up and down.

Frown, practicing facial expressions; she feels like a marionette.

Eyes big, eyes small. Sad. Happy.

It’s what it looks like on other people anyway.

She can fake any emotion.

She can pretend.

She’s been doing it all her life.

It doesn’t take much practice.

Being unmasked does.

Years of it.

Sometimes she feels like she’ll never be able to fully unmask and be herself.

Natasha knows the lengths she’s gone to, to hide who she is. Being vulnerable is too hard, rarely worth it.

The select few that know her know her like this, feral, unkempt, truthful.

The more she stares, the more she likes this version of herself.

“Thanks,” she tells empty space around her, “we can go now.”

The elevator starts, and delivers her to the floor with her room.

Natasha takes one last look at herself, smiles, and leaves.

5/ Norway

Natasha feels the artificial lighting; her head hurting due to the lack of sleep and constant vigilance.

The phone, now sans the SIM card, sits on the sink, and she stares heavily, taking in every part of her.

So tired of running, missing the stability she’s had.

Weak, she calls herself.

How could she forget the trials and lessons of her childhood?

She should have known that it would inevitably fall apart.

It was always going to end like this, with her alone, and being tracked by people she once considered allies.

“Once a traitor, always a traitor,” Rumlow had once whispered in her ear, and she’d tried to not take it to heart.

The thing is, she’d always known, she only needed to stay true to herself.

Her own morals.

She’d once told Clint that that only person she could trust was herself.

He’s told her that he wished she’d change her mind on that.

Perhaps for a time she did.

Maybe at the tower; maybe for that short period of her life where Tony showed her tech, Steve showed her how to draw and Bruce taught her how to cook. Times that seemed much simpler.

Now.

That’s gone.

The only person you can trust is yourself, she scalds herself, frowning in the mirror.

The mirror doesn’t lie.

The mirror holds truth.

Reaching out for herself she touches it gently.

She is real and not alone.

She has herself, and she knows the power of that.

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