#bwf2022

[quietlyimplode]

Things you taught me when I was young

4 times Melina’s life intersects with Natasha’s; and the one time it doesn’t.

AN: warnings for child abuse, death, relinquishment of a child. I’m not really happy with this one, but has been clarifying in setting straight some of my thoughts about Melina. (bwf2022 (day 4), 3.2k, gif not mine.)

1/

Promises. Promises.

Melina stands in front of Dreykov, the urge to roll her eyes terminal as she curls her fists instead.

The genetic testing of the first line of Widows had proved that whatever they had been injected with had made them sterile.

Followed by the complete hysterectomy, the Red Room had shot themselves in the foot.

Women, were child bearers, they didn’t need to steal children, buy them, traffic them, when they could birth them onsite.

But, the men running the program decided that they wanted the enhancements more than they wanted to fund child bearing women, so, the mission was finding those that would inevitably be worthy.

Dreykov pats her face condescendingly.

“You’re supposed to be smart, this can be your special mission. Pick two others. Find six children with potential. If they succeed, you live. If they don’t, I suppose back to basics for you.”

She knows he means reconditioning.

Reprogramming.

Mind wipe.

She sighs inaudibly.

“Yes sir.”

Melina has a good place to start. What men don’t know is that women will always be ten times more cunning and street smart than their oppressors; survival always breeds it’s own type of street smarts.

Homeless shelters.

Since the end of the Cold War (if it had indeed ended) meant the displacement of thousands, the divide between those that were aligned with the bureaucracy and those that didn’t.

She knows it’s self serving, that it’s wrong, but if she’s honest with herself, she doesn’t care.

.

There’s a holy man she ignores as she walks through the door.

“Can I help you?” he asks, gently.

“I’m here for my sister,” she tells him, looking around for where the women’s quarters are.

“Where are the women held?”

She pushes past him, seeing a small child peeking from around the door.

Jackpot, she thinks. Where there are children there are women. The man doesn’t stop her as she enters and looks around. There’s two woman sitting on beds, both holding small infants.

Melina stands tall, changing her approach, her demeanor and rearranging her face to one of kindness, just like the instructors taught her.

“Hello,” she opens.

The women look to her and almost shrink. They’re unkempt, skinny, and wary.

She explains to them who she is, that the Red Room is an orphanage for girls, that they are fed; educated and supported.

It’s a safe life. A good life.

She tells them they can come back for their children when they want, and they can take them back.

It’s a lie, but they look to her with hope.

Melina knows it’s a long term play. But it’s a good one. If it works, it means a stream of girls.

The women hug their children tighter as she talks. She assures them, food, education, safety, and leaves them with a card with an address.

She visits two more and gets another idea.

.

There are orphanages.

Abandoned children, traumatised lives. It reeks of poverty and pain.

She tells the director she wants the youngest of girls. There’s no shortage.

They agree to two a year, with proper payment of course. He grabs her arm, and tells her he’s only doing this so he can feed the rest of the children.

She shrugs. She doesn’t care for his guilt.

Tells him she’ll return in three days for the two girls agreed upon.

Dreykov will be pleased.

She sees two more orphanages before lunch, and realises that by the end of the week, she got the six girls that he asked for.

.

The woman meets her at the gate as she walks to it. The day has been long but still she recognises her from the first orphanage.

She knows her because her infant has a wisp of red hair and her eidetic memory recalls the way the infant had watched her with intelligent eyes.

The infant is scrawling now, as the woman shushes her and calms the child with just words. She looks distraught as Melina meets her.

The woman is skinny, and Melina thinks she must have missed the cut off for the shelter.

Wind bites at her face and Melina shivers deeply and looks expectantly at her. The compound looms over them as they stand opposite each other.

“She will be safe?” The woman asks, desperate, angry at her choices in life.

Melina nods. Lies.

“The red room will be her home,” she tells her.

There’s a beat as she seems to battle inwards.

“I’ll come for you,” she promises, kissing her baby’s nose, her face, nuzzling in, appearing to memorise every inch.

“Stay alive,” Melina hears the woman say, “and I will too.”

She hugs the child tightly.

“I’ll come for you,” she promises.

“This is not forever.”

But Melina knows it is. Once the child is in her hands, she is the property of the Red Room.

The woman turns her back, hunching over her little girl, almost keening in grief.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobs, tears coming fast, “this is not the end, I’ll come for you. Just stay alive; ok my Natalia? I’ll find you, I’ll always find you.”

Melina moves to touch her shoulder.

“Give her to me,” she says gently.

And the woman does.

She lifts the baby away, the blanket going with her. The bereaved stares as her red headed child, starts to cry, pathetically.

“You can go now,” Melina tells her.

But she seems to be rooted to the spot.

She wants her baby back.

“I’m sorry,” the woman sobs, falling to her knees as Melina walks off, indifferent, ignoring the pull in her heart, unsure what it means.

2/

Melina throws the knife at the target, hitting just above the girls head. The girl has a far away off look, that Melina knows, if she’s caught distancing herself from the activity she’ll be punished.

She knows she was.

Two more throws land next to either of her ears, seemingly waking her up and bringing her back to the present.

The training is interrupted as Dreykov enters the hall, flanked by two men in suits.

“Come here,” he orders.

She sighs inwardly and follows her feet to stand in front of him, eyes down.

He hands her a dossier and tells her she has a mission.

Hope springs in her gut at being able to leave the darkness of these four walls.

She nods at his orders and he dismisses her, telling her she has twenty minutes to meet her handlers at the front gate.

Wandering back to her room, she tosses the dossier on the military made bed, and changes into tactical gear.

She pushes down the anger and disgust at herself making sure the mirror is covered still.

She gathers herself.

A simple mission. A simple assassination.

The Red Room is the most depressing place, and when she leaves it’s like she remembers colours, smells and sounds. Even if those colours are still red, the metallic smell of blood and the sound of a gun shot.

She grasps for the dossier and looks over it, stopping short at the picture and name.

The woman.

The first one that gave her child to Melina.

She looks older now; it makes sense, four years have passed. The child is now close to six, she’s completed the first round of Black Widow training.

Not that Melina has been keeping tabs on her.

She hasn’t. She doesn’t care for anyone.

But she never forgets a face.

Scanning down, she wonders what the woman has done to deserve the wrath of the Dreykov.

Oh.

Melina thinks.

She wants her child back.

A laugh breaks free of her lips as she reads some of the things the woman has attempted in efforts to rescue and get back her child.

Breaking into the red room? She’s lucky she wasn’t shot on the spot.

This must be one special child.

Melina moves through the hallway, stopping where the class of six year olds have headphones on their heads learning the intricacies of English. She spots red hair straight away and stares.

What about this child is so special that the woman would risk her own life for her? She moves on, the paper heavy in her hand.

She doesn’t understand.

But she does understand orders.

The two large men flank her as she leaves in a black car and contemplative thoughts.

.

She watches her for a day.

The woman seems insignificant. No power. No pull on state of the world.

Irrelevant.

The sniper rifle is heavy on her shoulder as she watches from the rooftop. She plans to kill her in her sleep, then set her house on fire. No one looks for a bullet in a fire, no one should think twice anyway.

But she’s not one for making mistakes.

The night grows around her, the woman setting a fire, sitting on the rocking chair as she nurses a drink, looking at a worn photo that Melina zooms in at.

Natalia, the woman had called her. They’d kept the name for within the Red Room, she’d noticed the change to Natasha, the American diminutive, for obvious reasons.

It takes her ages to settle, to do something other than drink and stare.

Finally, she heads to bed, and Melina watches through the scope. Watches as she completes her mundane routines, eating, bathing, placing the photograph carefully on her night stand.

She lines up the shot, takes a deep breath and slows her heart rate down.

3. 2. 1.

The shot is clean and the woman is dead.

Melina feels strange.

It’s not a sadness, she knows that, maybe it’s a pity. The woman was killed because of her love for her daughter.

Moving carefully, she drops down to the pavement, entering the house.

The kills is confirmed as she sees blood and the body.

Pouring the gasoline, first on the body then she moves from room to room, dousing everything as she goes.

Lastly, the room that could be a child’s bedroom she finds a shrine built, to honor the living. A teddy bear, a small pink infants dress, a candle and a small poem sit on a table.

Melina licks her lips, the smell of gasoline becoming strong.

It’s not sadness she’s feeling, because she doesn’t feel that. The tears that threaten are because of the smell. The guilt that hangs low in her gut is nothing, she just needs to leave.

Exiting through the back, she takes a match and sets it to the fumes.

She stays to honor the dead, the poem in hand, wondering what it might be like to love that fiercely.

3/

Melina feels sweat dripping off her body.

The training regime she’s set for Natasha is child’s play.

“Almost there,” she tells the wiry girl.

Natasha runs, her small legs beating fast on the pavement, they reach the house and slow down to a stop.

“Was it faster?” Natasha asks, a small amount of hope in her voice.

Melina looks; it is faster but she doesn’t want the girls hope.

“No,” she lies.

“Again.”

“Oh,” there’s so much disappointment in her voice that Melina almost feels bad.

They set off in a steady pace, and Melina feels her mind go blank as all she concentrates on is the way her muscles are propelling her forward.

“Start,” she commands.

Natasha’s breath is audible as she starts talking in German, recounting the story of Sleeping Beauty.

She gets half way and stops, heaving for breaths.

“Come on Natasha, pain only makes you stronger,” she encourages.

It’s enough to scare the child into moving.

She gives her reprieve and then nods.

“Start.”

Natasha starts again.

.

The food is in a locked box.

Yelena thinks it’s hilarious, but Natasha knows better. She hasn’t eaten in a day and a half.

Melina had hidden the key in front of her in the morning. She should have been paying attention to everything.

“Think Natasha,” she says in Mandarin.

“You saw me put it away this morning.”

Melinda knows how it feels when you’re hungry, that the only thing you want is food, you can’t think of anything else. It’s why this is so important.

When they leave here, Natasha enters the next stage of training. It’s brutal.

Melina would know.

She needs to be prepared.

Natasha climbs on bench, opens the cupboard and looks in the sugar bowl.

She’s right of course, looking up in triumph.

“Good, child,” she praises, unlocking the box and handing over the muffin that lived inside.

Natasha takes it, and without thinking hands half over to Yelena.

It makes Melina’s heart pull.

The return to the Red Room is going to break her and take her heart.

.

Natasha and Alexei are sparring. He’s not holding back and she worries that he’s going to break her tiny bones.

She tests Yelena on her Arabic, focusing on verbal instructions, when she hears the distinctive sound of a backhand hitting skin.

“Get up,” Alexei growls.

She wants to intervene, spare Natasha some pain, but that’s not who she is.

Melinda knows this is nothing compared to what’s coming.

She turns her back and guides Yelena out.

“Don’t worry,” she’s assured the blonde girl, “Daddy will make sure she is okay.”

Later; she finds Natasha crying in the bathroom, holding ice to her bruised cheek, gently touching her broken nose. She enters, and shows her how to reset it.

“Pain only makes your stronger,” she whispers to her, like it’s a long held secret, as tears leak out of Natasha’s eyes.

Blood is wiped away, and Natasha looks to her, with sadness.

Melina flashes to the picture of her mother, their eyes the same as she places a hand on her shoulder.

.

“Hide and seek,” she says to Yelena and Natasha, grinning.

Yelena cheers and Natasha gives a rare smile.

“Don’t fall for the traps,” she hints.

First, she handcuffs them both, then she ties them to a chair.

“You have twenty minutes to ring the bell,” she stipulates.

“First one to ring it, chooses dinner.”

It’s a meager prize but seems motivating enough.

“Go.”

Natasha is first out of the cuffs, Yelena close behind as she frowns and stops at the door. Yelena doesn’t stop and runs straight into the tripwire, setting off the smoke grenade.

Immediately, Natasha covers her face and encourages Yelena to do so, she moves into the next room and finds the doors locked.

Vision obscured, Melina watches as Natasha picks the lock, coughing harshly as smoke permeates the air.

Yelena attempts the other door, but Natasha is first.

There’s two more traps, and Melina watches with interest as Natasha stops and thinks, even though the air is thick.

Yelena sets off the alarm and Natasha grins knowingly. She opens the next door slowly, running her finger along the side finding the string attached to the handle. She produces a knife cutting it then opening the door, finding the bell inside.

She rings it and smiles.

“Mac and Cheese,” she announces, much to Yelena’s delight.

And Melina’s heart sinks.

They’re going to kill you, child; she thinks.

4/

Melina wakes up, pain radiating throughout her body.

There’s doctors around her as she drifts in and out of consciousness. She’s handcuffed to the hospital cot and she sighs.

The plane, the girls, the escape, all come back to her.

She’s lost them.

She’d said to Natasha she was sorry, and it was the first time she’d ever said those words.

But they were truthful.

She is sorry.

The Red Room is her home; it should not have been Natasha’s.

If she’d turned her mother away…

If she’d chosen another homeless shelter…

If she’d helped her mother instead of killing her…

Guilt makes bile rise in her throat, but she pushes it down.

Melina understands why no one came for her when she was young, she was rotten, even then; abandoned, unwanted; but that’s not the case for Natasha.

She wonders if she will ever see her again.

She doubts Dreykov will ever let that happen.

Pain only makes you stronger, she says to herself, believing it with every essence of her being.

This experience may just make her invincible.

She misses them.

Natasha’s stoic face and the rare smile.

Yelena’s easy laugh and simple understanding of life.

She pulls against the handcuffs, preferring the pain on her wrists than the one in her heart.

.

She’s sent back. She’s always sent back.

Reprogramming, Dreykov tells her, and then she’ll be sent away.

“We have a new program for you to work on,” he smiles.

She will never admit that the thought fills her with dread, even if her life is not her own.

Melina wants to know, what’s happened to the two girls.

She sees Natasha first, her hair now red, face now more serious as she fights ruthlessly against another girl twice her size.

“You taught them well,” a voice in her ear says.

She can’t repress the shudder.

“The younger one is a spitfire,” he laughs.

“We’ve sent her to Dikson.”

Melina’s heart sinks.

Everyone knows what happens in the small coastal town.

If she believed in God, she’d pray.

Instead, she turns to him and smiles at his mirth.

“I’m ready,” she tells him.

And she is, ready to die again and come back as someone new, without all this guilt and pain.

+1

The Avengers.

Her Natasha is an avenger.

She has the power of a god, a scientist, a science experiment and a man of iron at her side.

The worlds greatest spy.

She doesn’t care about the happenings in New York, although the appearance of aliens was a surprise, it doesn’t concern her.

Melina watches Natasha with interest on the news, her near perfect American accent, as she stands next to Iron Man asking for privacy at this time.

She sets up her scanner to always alert her to Natasha, whether she is on the news, radio, or being hunted by police.

Maybe.

Just maybe, the choices in her life have not lead to destruction and ruin.

The break of the day brings with it the birth of piglets and feeling of renewal.

.

<3

#bwf2022 #natasha romanoff #melina vostokoff #melina #black widow #bwfilm #Melina vostokov fic #natasha romanoff fic #black widow fic #my fic #implied child abuse #4+1 fic #death tw

[quietlyimplode]

Hi there! I have a prompt or more a rough idea: Nat being kind and caring to everyone else but not herself, e.g. making sure someone's favourite snack is available but choosing one for herself she doesn't actually like. Feel free to go anywhere with it or not if you don't want to. You're amazing, have a great day!

Oh Anon, this is a lovely prompt and fit with a quote I’ve been wanting to do for such a long time - thank you for the prompt, the opportunity to write this one, and for your kind words <3.

If you know the Doctor Who quote “All that pain, and misery and loneliness and it just made it kind” I love this quote for Natasha, and have been wanting to write it. I wish I had time to make this longer but alas time got the better of me. (5+1 fic, 1.5k, gif not mine, bwf2022)

How to be Kind

1/ Tony

“Thanks,” Tony grins, as she hands him the ratchet. Swinging her legs, she stifles a yawn and points out that the components don’t align.

He nods, fixing it and then pulling the metal tight.

The clock reads 3am, and she promised she’d help.

She’s learning, how to be kind.

Natasha knows that following through on what you say you will is one of those steps. So when he’d asked, she’d of course said yes.

Even if she’d only had two hours sleep last night.

It’s nice, spending time with him, even if concentrating is hard, and means she digs her nails into her palm to refocus herself when she finds herself drifting.

“Nat?” He asks, popping his head out of the work space.

She smiles and nods, and tries to think about what he just asked but she comes up blank.

“Sorry?”

“You’re tired?”

She shrugs, “I’ll be fine,” she smiles, counting the hours in her head til she needs to leave for Bali.

Sleeping on the plane with Rumlow and Clint will have to do, even if it’s something she hates.

“Do you want to try it out?”

Natasha sips the water on her right then stretches, she wants to go to bed, but this feels more important.

“Of course,” she smiles.

His sheer delight back is worth it.

She’s learning to be kind.

2/ Steve

The first roundhouse she hits him with knocks him back, following up she feints and punches at his face.

Steve avoids it, the first time he does so, and picks her up and throws her to the ground. She lands heavily, winded.

“Oh shit!” He exclaims, “Sorry Nat, I just reacted.”

She manages a laugh. It comes out more as a huff but she pulls it off.

“It was good, Steve, but you shouldn’t have been hit with the first.”

She takes a breath with her back away from him, touching her rib gently, knowing there’s some bruising there.

“Again,” she commands.

He can’t keep falling for stupid mistakes, someone will find out; he’s at risk.

Worry makes her stand straight as she readies her stance and faces off against him.

He dodges the first kick, the next punch but not the back hand that smacks him across the face.

“Shit!”

Natasha cringes, expecting a hit back.

“Sorry,” she apologises quickly.

To her surprise he nods and apologise back.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have been so lax about training.”

He rubs his face ruefully.

“Will you help me train?”

Natasha thinks of the blooming bruises on her ribs and arms as she adjusts her sleeves down.

If he knew the cost to her body, he’d never ask.

And she’s never going to tell him.

She needs to keep him safe, so that he can keep the others safe.

“Of course, Steve,” she promises.

.

3/ Bruce

She hears the Hulk roar over the cacophony of chaos reigning in the city.

She’s the only on that can calm him down, to reassure Bruce and hope against hope that he doesn’t destroy the neighboring town.

She can feel her breath catch as she knows it has to be her, that of it was Tony then anyone on the ground would be at risk to not have his cover.

She’s expendable.

Running, she cuts off the Hulk off at the lake.

It would be comical if she wasn’t so scared. He’s throwing a bike and then startles as it lands and the bell on it rings.

“Hey Green,” she shouts, hoping he turns to her.

It works and it takes all of Natasha’s courage to stand her ground.

For Bruce, she thinks, this is for Bruce.

He stamps at her, once; twice and she waves tentatively.

“It’s time to go home,” she squints at him, her voice shaking a little.

She can’t breathe.

All the weapons on her body are useless, even her body is useless.

All she has is her words.

“We’ve won,” she smiles, “you did it.”

Natasha has no idea if the Hulk understands, or even will respond to flattery.

She’s working at a disadvantage and knows ultimately she needs more intel to help Bruce with this.

“Can you come with me?”

There’s a noticeable shift and she knows what’s coming next.

Using the reflection of the lake, she turns her body as he de-transitions to Bruce.

Her body feels hot, panicked, but she maintains her composure.

Her childhood has taught her to remain calm. She bites the inside of her mouth til the metallic taste of blood gives her something else to think about.

“Nat?”

Bruce is down on one knee and she’s never been so thankful to hear his voice.

“Hey.”

She schools her face to one of neutrality and ignores her body screaming at her to run and hide.

The compact suitcase containing clothes is kicked over to him and he thanks her from afar.

“How bad?” he cringes as she turns to face him.

She chooses kindness these days, even if all she wants to do scream and run away in fear.

“Better,” she placates.

.

Later, when she’s alone, she evaluates herself.

Better, she thinks, she did better too.

Even if she’s still awake at 2am and can’t stop shaking.

Next time, she’ll do better.

4/ Thor

“My brother,” Thor starts, “was a menace as a child, he’d throw snakes at me. You know the ones with three heads that have the piecing tail?”

She’d found him sitting alone, drinking Asguardian alcohol that made the room smell like rose water.

He wasn’t okay, as sad eyes looked at her hopefully for someone to talk to.

No one else wanted to hear about Loki, and he knew it.

His brother was a source of pain for so many of the others, for obvious reasons, but this was something she could share.

Natasha nudges him, “we don’t have three headed snakes,” she reminds him.

“What else did you do together?”

The tiny smile on his face is worth the question, as she remembers running with Yelena, practicing gymnastics.

“We liked to fight,” Thor reminisces, launching into a story of taking on some aliens.

Natasha leans back, letting his words wash over her. Talking about family is always painful.

Always hurts.

It reminds her of all her losses.

But as Thor talks, she’s reminded that not all familial memories are bad, that they can be met with an affection too.

“You can go, if you want to,” Thor tells her, taking a swig, and leaning back with her. “I know this isn’t how you wanted to spend your evening.”

He’s right of course, this isn’t how she wants to spend her evening, but she can’t leave him in this stupor either.

“Tell me more,” she decides, at the expense of herself, “tell me about your brother.”

.

5/ Clint

“You fucking idiot,” Natasha swears, pulling his unconscious body around the corner.

“Fuck,” she swears again, as she sets up the comms and sends a distress signal out.

She heaves his body into the office building, and secures them in, breathing heavily.

It’s only then does she feel blood running down her arm and sweat running down her back.

She ignores the pain as she checks his vitals.

She hopes just knocked out.

“Clint?”

Trying to rouse him, the blood reaches her fingers. She doesn’t even remember how she got hurt, only the distress at seeing him get hit and drop.

The explosion that followed had been enough to make the world light up and the heat permeate into the cold streets.

The renegades had dispersed, some dead, some injured, and she’d completed the mission of recovering the anthrax vials, now securely with her.

‘ETA 1 hour’ the text reads from the exfil team.

She sighs in relief, adrenaline fading.

“Clint?” She tries again, rubbing his chest as finally he starts to come to.

Letting out a small sigh, she bumps her head into his, wondering at the pain that radiates as she does so.

“You’re okay,” she assures as he holds his hand to his head and groans.

“We got it?” He asks after a minute.

“Yeah, we got it, don’t worry,” she sighs.

He pats her thigh.

“Why would I worry? You have my back.”

It’s said flippantly and post concussion, but his faith in her never ceases to amaze her.

“Always, Clint,” she tells him seriously.

He looks up at her and frowns.

“Nat, your head…”

She’s confused at his concern.

The world tips.

“Oh,” she says out loud.

At least he’s safe, she thinks before she blacks out.

.

6/ The Team +1

Their kindness is not lost on her.

Tony reconfigures her widow bites so they no longer burn her.

Steve draws her pictures of flowers and birds.

Bruce teaches her about medicine, about patching herself up and when and how to seek help so that she feels safe.

Thor let’s her talk about Yelena and the girls in the Red Room without judgement or comment.

Clint loves her unconditionally.

One day.

One day she’ll learn to be unconditionally kind like they are.

#marvel fic #natasha romanoff fic #avengers fic #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #black widow fic #bwf2022 #clint barton #my fic #hawkeye #Thor #Tony stark #steve rogers fic #clintasha fanfic

[quietlyimplode]

Travel Through the Shadows with Me

Part One - Summon Your Courage

Natasha is tortured by her Red Room handlers for a mission gone wrong. Clint, who has been watching the Black Widow for Shield in the effort to get more information on Russian Special Ops saves her, and offers her another way.

Part Two - Invite Your Demons to Tea

Natasha systematically takes out key Red Room superiors, at great risk to herself. She has decisions about her future to make - death, double agent or defection. She can't be tied to the Red Room and she wants to burn it down.

Part Three - Kiss The Dread

Natasha asks to defect, on the provisor that Shield helps her kill General Dreykov. Only it’s never that easy. Two days in the vents and ten days in Budpest is a story that both of them would rather forget.

I’ll be uploading the first and second chapters on here and Ao3 - the rest will just be ao3 (unless anyone wants it on here as well).

Those that know me, know how personal this story is and has become. It’s been one of those that I was unsure if I would ever ready to part with; but, now seems like as good as time as any. Otherwise I might never do it.

For everyone who has commented on it, encouraged me, listened to my inane ramblings and frustrations as I wrote it, thank you. For those that do it (I hope you know who you are) and listen to me with such patience and understanding, know that your kindness is never far from my mind and I know how lucky I am to have friends such as you. X

Thank you legends, you’re all amazing.

This is poem where the titles of the story have come from.

Kiss The Dread

And darling I hope you remember

To kiss the ghosts goodnight

They are only older versions of you

That you have had to discard and forget

And I have faith that when you put the sins to bed

You check under their beds for monsters

Just say hello to them after all these years

I hope you summon your courage

and you invite your demons to tea

And you listen to all their stories

Sometimes war is not the answer

After all light needs the darkness

To glisten against, and what are we without our sins?

The moons glow in rhapsody calm

Would hardly be so soothing, without

The dark shawl night drapes behind it

So sing a soft lullaby

To the things you hate about yourself

And get to know them too

Remind yourself the gentleness

Of your own love is also meant to go

To the darkest parts of you.

<3 💕

#travel through the shadows #natasha romanoff #black widow #clint barton #clintasha #hawkeye #my fic #origins stories #natasha romanoff fic #bwf2022 #natasha romanov & clint barton #Natasha Romanoff imagine

[quietlyimplode]

After The Bridge

an: scene insert for Black Widow for (obviously) after the bridge, or how Natasha got from Norway to Budapest. (Warnings for nightmares/bad dreams. 1k, Gif not mine, BWF2022. I’m tired friends.)

.

Panting heavily, Natasha uses the last of her energy to wade through the frigid water.

Collapsing heavily on the rocks at the bank, she focuses hard on her breathing.

In.

Out.

She holds onto her ribs, she’s not sure if they're bruised or broken.

Her hand falls on the vials and she pulls them out, the bright red pierces through the darkness and she winces at the light.

Breathe, she reminds herself.

Her hands shake as she pulls the picture out. The other half of the one that’s stored in her go box in Ohio.

The one that Clint knows to grab if, when, anything happens to her.

It’s safe there.

She swears. This means..

This means so much.

Yelena is alive.

Yelena is in Budapest.

Yelena… needs her help.

She can’t stay here.

Panic curls in her chest as she pushes herself into a seated position.

She has to go back to the RV, her ID and money are there. If she can do that, she can get a phone and check in to the airport hotel, book a flight.

But first; she just needs to get up.

Holding her breath, Natasha braces and stands. Her legs feel like lead, and her vision blurs as she starts to walk.

She’s going to steal a car, that much she knows, she can’t keep this up, she’s tired and cold and in pain.

The first opportunity comes when she sees a Volkswagen Golf parked. It’s a older model that she thinks she can hot wire.

Turning away, she elbows the window and smashes it. The car alarm blasts; and she slides in, body uncooperative and fine motor skills shot as she pulls the wires down, severs two and joins them together.

An electrical current pulses through her fingertips and she swears heavily, sucking on her fingers. The alarm finally stops as the car starts up and she leans back on the seat and heaves a breath.

Pain shudders through her body. She wants to be somewhere safe so she can focus on what the fuck just happened.

If she thinks about it now and replays it in her head, she’s sure her body will shut down.

She drives; shivering heavily, and only remembering to breathe when her brain screams for it.

Natasha makes it back to the pitch black RV and remembers why she went out in the first place. She forces her body to move.

Like the generator, she’s running on empty.

She wants to make this as quick as possible. Unlocking the door, she strips and heads to the bedroom, peeling her wet clothes off.

She deliberately does not look over her body, preferring to be ignorant of her injuries. She knows it hurts, that’s good enough for now.

Natasha feels marginally better with fresh clothes and picks up two ID packs she’s separated out.

Packing the laptop and stuffing it into her backpack; she wraps some clothes around the vials and kneels to feel for the wad of money under the mattress.

She dumps that into the bag and then a water bottle and some food and leaves; back to the car. She contemplates blowing it up, but decides against it, sentimentality overriding sense.

There’s nothing in there that ties her to this place, and she doesn’t want to piss off Remy any more than she has.

Climbing back into the idling car, she pulls away.

To think that four hours ago, she was in her element watching Bond movies and eating chocolate, and now, she’s back on the fucking run.

At least this time she’s running somewhere.

To someone.

.

Natasha checks in to the Radisson Blu Hotel at the airport, and is barely holding it together as she rides the elevator.

Her hands are ice cold, and pain is radiating from every inch of her, breathing is hard; she’s on the edge of a panic attack and can feel it rising.

Room 705, she tells herself.

Opening the door, she eyes the bed.

She still needs to book the flight to Budapest.

She needs to clean her wounds.

Yelena is waiting.

.

She disguises her hair as short and takes on the alias of Ruth Smith, an engineer from England.

The accent is easy enough to fake as she boards the plane, hiding in economy at the back of the plane.

Everything hurts.

She is so tired.

Everything about the last night is a blur and all she can remember is the ice bath in the hotel that finally grounded her enough to book a flight and patch her wounds.

She’d woken on the floor, not remembering how she got to sleep, which in itself was worrying. Natasha knows she’s probably got a low grade concussion and it’s making her reflexes slower.

Thankful for the window seat, she pushes her bag under the seat in front of her and pulls her jacket around her.

There’s still cold in her bones from falling in the water, and a feeling that, until this is over, she’ll never get warm.

The plane ride is predictable.

The flight attendants check on her, ask her if she’s okay, and within her row there’s only one other person. He keeps to himself, and looks harmless enough.

Threats assessed, Natasha closes her eyes.

.

She dreams of swimming.

Fake memories mix with real ones, as she sees Yelena drowning. She’s too far away and can’t save her.

The dream morphs and it’s Yelena behind the mask.

“You killed me,” she growls.

It changes and it’s Dreykov; his face is burning, and and he laughs.

Natasha feels a hand on her thigh and she startles.

The feeling withdraws and she orients to the owner.

It’s her seat mate.

“Sorry,” he whispers, “you sounded distressed.”

The fact that she’d made any noise at all feels disturbing to Natasha, as she nods and licks her lips .

“Thank you, sorry,” she says quietly back.

The plane is dark and quiet, and the man nods, adjusting his attention back to the tiny screen in front of him.

He pats the seat between them, drawing Natasha’s attention to the small packaged cake and bottle of water.

“You were asleep,” he says by way of explanation, not turning to her but watching the movie. He seems to know instinctively that she does not want interaction.

Tears prick at Natasha’s eyes.

She’s always surprised at the kindness of strangers.

She shouldn’t be.

Maybe one day she’ll repay the world.

Taking the water, she sips it slowly, hoping that she’s not walking into a trap.

.

<3

#bwf2022 #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #my fic #black widow fic #black widow film #Natasha Romanoff fic

[quietlyimplode]

Do u think you could write something with Clint and Natasha using one of the two (very similar) dialogue prompts?

“Do you trust me?”

“Only you.”

or

“You would trust the word of a spy?”

“Only this one.”

Hey Anon! Thank you for the prompt, it took me a little while to think of this one, so I hope it sort of meets expectations.

(Bwf2022, 1k, warnings for a fight I guess, probably others - if you want this to hurt a bit more may I suggest the song Lost Boy by Ruth B.)

Run Boy Run (this world is not meant for you)

Dear Clint.

The paper sits inert underneath her pen, and she wonders just how to put this in words.

‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t cut it.

‘I didn’t mean it’ seems stupid.

Because she’s not sorry, and she does mean it, and she promised she’d never lie.

She scrunches the paper and starts again.

Clint.

Do you trust me?

I hope you do, because if you do then you know what I’m doing is necessary.

Needed.

Do you trust the word of a spy?

Can you?

If the tables were turned, I’m not sure I could.

But it’s you.

I’m sorry this can’t be a conversation.

Know that this needs to be like this, needs to be covert and only me.

I’m not betraying you.

Trust me.

She signs off, folds the paper into a paper crane and puts it in his jacket pocket.

The sleeping pill she put in his food should make it so that he doesn’t wake up for another twelve hours, and she hopes there’s no side effects.

It feels wrong.

The black widow indeed.

At least she hadn’t killed him, only sent him into a deep sleep.

Natasha knows he won’t find her, not in Moscow.

She just needs to find Yelena.

If she pretends to be still operational for the KGB she may still have a chance.

The blonde assassin their mark had said, and she knew, it could only be her sister.

She kisses Clint’s temple, whispers she’s sorry, grabs her bag and leaves.

.

“Yelena,” Natasha shouts, gun drawn as her sister shoots at her.

There’s no reaction.

She whistles loud and the gunfire stops.

A ceasefire.

Wild eyes look over to her as she offers her arms in surrender.

“It’s me, little sister,” she says in Russian.

“Come with me.”

The first shot goes wide but the second hits her in the chest, the third glides by her side slicing across her clothing.

“TRAITOR,” the blonde, brainwashed spy yells, as she sprints towards Natasha.

“You betrayed all of us,” she hisses.

This is not her sister.

She can tell that she’s under some sort of control, her eyes don’t focus and her body moves predictably and mechanically.

A knife comes from nowhere, and Natasha feels it held to her throat, pushing in, pushing hard.

She can feel where the bullet is embedded in her vest, where it’s burrowed in and met resistance against her chest.

She can’t breathe.

Her side is dripping blood and the knife is all she can focus on.

“No,” comes a squeaking.

Yelena is fighting the programming.

The knife comes away, wild eyes meet hers.

“Run,” Yelena whispers.

“They’re coming. They’ll take you too.”

Fear pulses through Natasha as she sees the light fade from Yelena’s eyes.

She’s gone again, and the knife reappears.

This time, she’s ready.

She ignores the pain that pulsates, and disarms the knife from her, punching her twice and pushing her to the ground.

The sound of helicopters is more like vibrations in the air, and Natasha knows, Yelena wasn’t lying.

She’s failed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to the glass eyes that watch her.

And she runs.

.

Clint finds her in Beijing, blood clothes strewn on the floor, shivering on the bed.

“Nat.”

He calls her name, hoping for some sort of recognition.

“I failed.”

It’s only been two days.

He inches closer, finding her in her bra and shorts, deep bruising all over her body.

“You been fighting without me?”

“I failed,” she says again, this time it’s accompanied by tears.

This is new.

Natasha doesn’t cry. He’s scared now.

“What do you mean?”

He looks around for a towel, something, anything to help her, maybe bring her back to the present.

“Yelena, I found her, but they were there, they took her.”

Her words mean nothing to him, and he hopes that the coming reprimand from Fury is worth this venture.

“Who’s Yelena?” he asks softly, finally finding a towel, it already has blood on it.

“My sister,” she cries, “my sister.”

.

She tells a story of Ohio.

Of Alexei, and Melina.

And of her little sister.

Of innocence, and fear.

Clint thinks he needs a stiff drink as her trauma eats at his soul.

He makes her food that she doesn’t eat, and then keeps her talking.

She lays in his lap like a small child who’s sick.

She cries for her sister that can’t meet her where she is, that’s still under the control of a totalitarian government, that controls women.

She talks into the night, of their secret whistle, hiding spots when Alexei got angry and secret foods that the smuggled into their tree house.

Natasha talks, til she can’t cry or talk any more, and Clint feels his heart squeeze at the mention of protective siblings.

She hasn’t been part of shield for as long as he has.

But he knows with all his heart and soul that she is, was, worth saving.

As day breaks, she sleeps.

He lets her, booking flights home, letting Coulson and Fury know that they’re coming home.

Predictably, they both ask for a full debrief of why Strike Team are in China.

He ignores it.

“I’m sorry,” comes a quiet voice.

Her voice hiccups.

“Do you still trust me?” she whispers.

He smiles, moves closer to her as she cowers and wraps her arms around herself, expecting retribution.

“Only you,” he assures, “always you.”

.

She feels different when they arrive back to base.

Natasha is angry, at life, and the circumstances that have been served to both her and Yelena.

But it gives her some resolve.

This life, it’s not her own.

She owes her life to those that brought her up and kept her alive.

And that’s not the Red Room.

Natasha squeezes Clint’s hand before quickly letting go, takes a deep breath and walks into Fury’s office.

She’s going to get Yelena back.

She swears it on her life.

.

#black widow fic #natasha romanoff #black widow #yelena belova fic #natasha romanoff fic #nat and yelena #clintasha fic #clintasha #clint barton #hawkeye #my fic #clintasha fanfiction #bwf2022

[quietlyimplode]

Prompt: a sequel to BARF where Nat decides to use it.

(This gif is amazing and definitely not mine)

an: I fully intended to revisit this fic at some point but never did. This is a sequel to this fic - but you don’t need to have read it to read this one. Basically, Tony offers BARF to Natasha to find missing memories. This is fic about Natasha using it.

If you’ve read the Melina fic, you’ll notice parallels. There will be one more (?) fic in these parallel series around Natasha’s mother. (Title from the poem of the same name by Mary Oliver, 3k words, just warnings for angst(?) I guess.)

a voice from I don’t know where.

Clint knows that there’s something wrong by her message.

It’s short, there’s no emojis and she only gives a location. It’s a park, not far from the tower. It’s got swings. Given the time of the meeting, 5am, he assumes she just wants to swing on the swings without an audience of small children waiting their turn.

He runs and scopes the park first, but she is already there. Breathing heavily, he stops and slowly walks towards her.

She’s seen him, of course, and meets him with a smile. The smile he hates, because he knows it means bad news.

“Hey.”

Clint sits next to her on his swing, and they both just watch the darkness of the sky grow light.

“I’m going to do it.”

He knows she’s talking about BARF. It’s been an ongoing conversation for months. He should have known, but the last time they’d talked she’d seemed certain.

He wants to know what’s changed, maybe it was her nightmare two days ago, or their mission last week with the child and the balloon.

He looks over to her, not meeting her eyes but watching as her feet scuff of the floor.

“What made you change your mind?”

Natasha shrugs.

“I think I need one memory.”

Frowning, Clint cocks his head, questioning her in silence.

“I want to know about my mother,” she clarifies.

He knows it’s because of Pepper’s pregnancy, the thoughts it’s brought up, the wondering and pain. She’d never say it, but he can see it.

“Just one?” he asks, because if it’s just this, he can help, he can handle it, and the fallout that is inevitable.

Natasha looks over to him. She looks defensive.

“I’m telling you because I promised you,” she admits, swinging off the ground slightly.

He doesn’t want to fight. He wants to be supportive. He thinks this is a horrible idea.

“How will this work?” he decides on.

Clint copies her actions, pushing his feet off the ground and breathes the fresh air, fighting back dread.

“Tony has a place in Brooklyn, a lab…”

She stops, looking over to him.

“Is it safe?” he asks, making eye contact, unable to keep the worry out of his voice.

Natasha looks away and shrugs.

“It’s going to be you, me and Tony,” she clarifies.

“We’re going to watch him go first.”

He nods. “Then?”

The sigh is audible.

“Then, it’s my turn.”

For such a private person, she’s acting like someone seeing her innermost memories is no big deal. It’s a farce, he knows.

She’s terrified. So is he. He’s glad he’s not alone in this.

“What if?”

“I don’t know.”

She cuts him off straight away.

It’s clear she’s made the decision and doesn’t want to think of the repercussions.

He barely does too, this can only end in heartache.

He’s so selfish.

“How are you.. Are you scared?”

It’s the wrong question.

She ignores it.

“He said, he said, start with a strong memory.”

It’s clear she wants to talk, but perhaps not about feelings. It’s fine, he can be clinical. He pushes down the fear.

“What one are you thinking?”

Clint knows her. The pool of happy memories are limited. Even ones that are good are tainted.

“Maybe my first day at shield?” she offers.

He counts the swings as he goes back and forward.

“Yeah? Why?”

He hopes there’s a specific part of that day she’s thinking, because he does not remember that day being a good one. In fact, it’s one of the crappest days in Shield he’s had.

She shrugs.

“I feel like it’s got strong points of reference in it.”

It would be amiss if he didn’t try and change her mind.

“Nat,” he says softly.

“What?”

She’s all sharp edges.

“Maybe choose another?”

He wants to save her.

“Why?”

It’s a fair question. How does he tell her that for parts of that day, there were two people actively trying to kill her.

“I’m not sure you’re remembering that day correctly.”

It’s now clear that she does not remember the day, and probably brings further evidence that this is something she needs to do. But is perhaps, not something she should.

He has no idea what it’s like to lose time to depression, or dissociation or a shit childhood that literally wiped memories, and gave traumas so deep that her mind repressed them so she no longer has access to them.

Natasha stops her feet moving, bringing herself to a stop.

“What do you mean?”

There’s a weird tension now, and he tentatively looks up.

“Maybe pick a happy memory?”

Natasha frowns.

“It is a happy memory,” she defends.

It’s not the time for this argument. He doesn’t want to argue, he doesn’t want to get onto her bad side so she shuts him out of this.

“Okay. Okay,” he placates, and starts swinging again. It’s going to happen, whether he wants it to or not. He’ll deal with the fallout when it happens.

“Thanks for telling me.”

She nods.

“It’ll be okay, Clint. It’ll be okay.”

He knows she’s trying to convince herself too.

.

The day comes quickly. They haven’t talked much. Natasha’s hardly talked at all. Certainly not about this. She’d stayed away, and the two days since the swing, even Tony hadn’t wanted to talk to Clint. Clint thinks he would punch him if he did.

Natasha had climbed into his bed around 11pm and he’d hugged her, trying to convey everything. She’d stayed, and when he woken he’d found her sitting on the floor.

“Did you sleep?” he asks, rolling over.

The answer is obvious.

“No, not much,” she tries to smile.

The newness of the day means they both are still quiet and contemplative.

“What memory of Tony’s do you think he’ll choose?” Natasha asks, taking a sip of her coffee.

Clint ponders. He’s sure there are many.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully.

“Did he say anything?”

Natasha shakes her head.

“Only to get there at 10am.”

It’s not what he meant and they both know it.

They both lapse into silence. He's sure they’re thinking of the same thing.His alarm sounds and he sits up to turn it off.

Helping her up, he pulls her into a hug.

“I’m worried Nat,” he whispers into her ear.

“Me too,” she replies just as quietly, hugging him back.

He pulls away first, holding her and looking her over.

“But you’re still going ahead with it,” he searches.

“Yes.”

There’s no more hesitation now. She’s decided and he’s along for the ride, whatever this leads to.

Dread grows. He’s so scared, he can’t imagine how she feels.

“Will you go see Devon?”

The Irish therapist is likely the best they’ve had, and perhaps the only one equipped to deal with whatever happens from here.

“We have an appointment tomorrow at 1pm.”

Natasha’s self deprecating smile is exactly what he expects, but also pulls some hope through the dread that things after this may be okay.

He laughs, covering his fear.

“Good, that’s good,” he tells her.

She nods.

“Thanks for coming with me,” she tells him, pulling him into the bathroom, and stripping for the shower.

The dread dissipates a little more.

“Where else would I be?” he answers and follows her lead.

.

The lab is not what Clint expected. It’s a house in the middle of Hells Kitchen. There’s a large room, a couch and a recliner chair. Everything else is fake and blank, like a green screen.

Tony greets them at the door and says nothing as they enter. He’s usually one that’s full of words and quips, the silence is unnerving.

“What happens?” Clint asks defensively, unable to disguise his fear and nervousness.

“I’ll show you how it works, then…” he gestures to Natasha.

Clint can’t stop the huffing sigh that comes out of his mouth.

“What memory did you choose?” Natasha asks.

Tony points to the couch and both Clint and Natasha sit dutifully.

He fiddles with the machine, and Clint hears the soft whir of machinery.

He then injects himself with something that looks like an epipen and sits on the couch.

Parts of his iron man suit helmet seem to appear from nowhere and Clint instinctively knows it’s his nanotech.

He hates the way it seems to obscure his vision, and run down his neck, but the holograms start to illuminate the room, surrounding both Clint and Natasha on the couch.

It’s amazing. It’s terrifying.

There’s sand all around them. The couch and recliner remain but everything else is different.

Clint knows they’re in Afghanistan.

A rocket with Stark Industries lands to Clint’s left, and instinctively he covers Natasha, only, that’s not what happens, the other Tony who’s appeared to their right, starts to run but the rocket explodes. Clint watches as Tony is flown backwards.

It’s not real, he reminds himself, fists clenching and his heart rate spiking.

He’s seen this before, only as he watches Tony rip his shirt, his friends weren’t wearing state of the art bullet proof vests.

It’s clear that this is the memory Tony is working on because the next thing they see is nothing. A hessian bag.

Present Tony, lifts his hands and lets the memory rewind, replay, and Clint has to close his eyes as he watches the rocket explode again; watch as Tony bleeds on the ground, only this time there’s more.

Insurgents appear around them, and Clint grabs at Natasha’s hand.

Fear fills him, as their guns aim at Tony who seems to be in and out of consciousness, the red that covers the top of their heads protecting them from the sun and the cloth over their mouths protecting from the wind swept sand.

The memory falters.

He’s squeezing Natasha’s hand hard now, he knows this, he hates this.

He’s never put the timelines together but he thinks this must be around the time he was also in Afghanistan.

Maybe around the time that Benny… he takes a breath.

Not here. Not real.

This is Tony’s memory.

They identify him in Afghani, Clint doing the rough interpreting in his head.

The insurgents knew exactly who he was, exactly who they were aiming for.

Another panics at the blood he is losing and wraps thick gauze and bandages around the wound.

The memory jumps again to the hessian bag and then… nothing.

It’s over.

The whole process, reliving traumas took maybe fifteen minutes. The pseudo VR system disappears and Tony emerges, looking no worse for wear.

Clint thinks maybe he feels worse, as his heart rate lowers slowly and his palms sweaty in Natasha’s as he removes them to wipe them on his pants.

“I want to remember more of that day, since it was so formative to this..”

He gestures around him.

“So Red, what memory did you choose?”

.

Natasha has always been a show, don’t tell person. With her feelings, he often guesses by her behaviour rather than anything she says.

It’s more reliable.

He can feel her apprehension as she stands, leaden legs carrying her to the chair.

“I guess we’ll all soon see.”

He knows in that moment that she’s not going into the Shield memory.

She’s going to go straight for her mother.

Tony guides her, and Clint sits paralysed in apprehension, as he tells her to sit.

“It’s not configured for you yet, so I have to attach these to your head.”

Natasha nods, accepting the electrodes before the nanotech masks her face.

Clint slows his breath. It’s just like a mission. She’s going to be fine. Just like watching her do something dangerous.

“If you want out, want it to stop, you need to clench your fist twice, okay?” Tony tells her.

Clint wants this to stop. His heart is beating loud. Hands clenched.

He finds his voice and reiterates what Tony just said, wanting to make sure she’s not gone somewhere else. He can’t see her.

“Nat, tell me again what you need to do to make it stop,” he asks, loudly.

“Clench my fist twice,” comes a steady voice.

He thinks it’s good that she’s so determined. It’ll hold off everything.

“Are you ready?” Tony asks.

No, Clint thinks.

“We can stop?”

Tony is clearly protective of Natasha, Clint thinks that he wouldn’t have offered BARF to her if he wasn’t. If he didn’t know the value of memories.

“No,” comes Natashas clear answer.

There’s a kind of hope attached to it and Clint feels dread at the apprehension.

“You’ll feel pulsing across your body, and tapping on either shoulder okay?”

It takes a second, maybe that’s what she’s feeling.

“Okay,” Natasha confirms.

“Tell me about the memory,” Tony asks.

Gates appear around them. A woman with auburn hair, holding an infant is crying.

“I think this is my mother,” She says, voice shaking.

“Nat,” Clint says in warning, marveling at the way the woman looks simultaneously like Natasha and nothing like her in the same image.

The memory stops and the machine slows to a stop. He can hear her guiding and slowing her own breath.

“Again,” Natasha commands, after a minute.

Tony looks to Clint who shrugs. He sets it up again.

“You’ll feel the tapping,” he tells her.

The gate appears. The woman’s voice is distorted as another woman stands next to her.

“Melina,” Natasha breathes.

The image clears and the woman is revealed, all in black, the red room insignia emblazoned on her coat.

The memory shorts and is lost again, as a desperate “no” erupts from Natasha’s lips.

Tony looks again to Clint.

“Again,” Natasha commands again.

Both men are at a crossroads, the wrath of Natasha or let her find her memory at great cost it seems.

“You’ll feel a tapping,” Tony says quietly.

The gate appears and the stone floor appear quickly now, Natasha seems to have got a handle on the control as she looks around. The static image shows the woman and the infant.

Russian voices fill the room.

“She will be safe?” The woman asks, desperate, angry at her choices in life.

Clint translates in his head.

The other woman, the one that Natasha called Melina, nods. Clint knows of course, of Ohio. Of Alexei, Yelena and Melina, and the home they created for Natasha.

He’s never seen her though. She looks so young, maybe just older than the woman holding the infant.

“The Red Room will be her home,” Melina says.

Clint expects it to stop. But it doesn’t. He looks over to Natasha who has tears on her cheeks, her body held tight.

The woman talks again.

“I’ll come for you,” she promises, kissing her baby’s nose, her face, nuzzling in, appearing to memorise every inch.

“Stay alive,” Clint hears the woman say, “and I will too.”

The woman hugs the child, Natasha, tightly. “I’ll come for you,” she promises. “This is not forever.”

The memory cuts out and disappears.

“No!” Natasha cries, anguished.

But it’s gone.

“Again,” she shouts, but this time, Clint shakes his head when Tony turns to him.

“Sorry Nat, that’s it, the machine needs to charge,” he lies.

The helmet pulls back and reveals her face, tear stained and stoic.

“How long?” she asks, voice schooled and steady now.

Tony shrugs, “twenty four hours maybe?”

She stands. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Shaky legs propel her out of the house, as Clint chases to follow.

“Nat, wait up, wait,” he calls.

He catches her at the car.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says immediately.

He nods.

“We’ll have to tomorrow,” he tells her, thinking of Devon and thanking whatever deity that the appointment is already booked.

“That’s a problem for me tomorrow then isn’t it?” She snaps, getting in the car.

He moves to the other side and gets in, knowing it’s a bad idea she drives but not wanting to get left behind. The drive is silent.

He doesn’t want to talk til she does. But as always, she wins. She’s heading for their safe house in Brooklyn. He knows by the traffic.

“Nat.”

“What?”

“You’re speaking in Russian,” he realises.

“What?”

The harshness of her words and even the fact that she hasn’t noticed that she’s been speaking in Russian since the first memory played makes him more worried. No wonder Tony had been looking to him.

“Never mind,” he mumbles.

The drive is slow but she seems aware of her surroundings, seems to know where she’s going; and as she pulls into the parking garage, he settles on the enormity of being able to keep herself together.

Natasha takes a moment and then gets out of the car, and he dutifully follows up the stairs and to the small apartment on the right. The key lives in the false bottom of the seventh stair and he picks it up and unlocks the door letting her go in first.

They move around each other with practiced ease, Clint cooking and Natasha cleaning, each grounding themselves in their own way after the traumatic morning. He pushes her to eat dinner, and motions to the bedroom.

“Will you be able to sleep tonight?” he asks.

“I guess we’ll see.”

She stares at her uneaten food.

“Do you want to sleep alone?” He asks, knowing the answer already.

“Yeah,” she sighs.

“I’ll take the couch,” he offers.

Natasha doesn’t even object. He tries once more, needing to tell her something before she leaves him.

“Nat?”

She looks up and meets his eyes, finding nothing but love there.

“You were really brave today.”

There’s a slight dip of her head as she tries to smile.

“Thanks.”

Clint knows this is not okay, will not be okay for a while, but he has faith that she’ll tell him when it’s not. They’ve navigated worse, and maybe this can be healing.

He grips her hand and squeezes three times. I love you.

.

#bwf2022 #clintasha fanfic #natasha romanoff #clint barton #black widow #clintasha #natasha romanov & tony stark #natasha romanoff fic #clintasha fanfiction #my fic #background clintasha #tony stark fic #BARF #Tony and Nat #natasha romanoff/clint barton #natashas mother

[quietlyimplode]

Black Widow Fest 2022

Okay! So I wanted to start this on the week leading up to the 9th to mark the one year anniversary of the movie, but real life made this impossible, so will be starting on the 9th - 16th.

As a bit of a plan.

9th - Kiss the Dread - Chapter 1 (Third part of Travel through the Shadows Series - last part!! And yes, this includes what happened in the vents)

10th - First sentence fic - send in a sentence and I’ll write the next three.

11th - Ask Box Fic - fics using ask box fics (if you have a prompt feel free to send it in so I have some time to work on it)

- how to be kind (the avengers 5 + 1)

- Run Boy Run (Yelena & Nat)

12th - Melina and Natasha Fic (4+1)

13th - Black Widow Scene Insert - After the Bridge

14th - Ask Box Fic - as above

- A voice from I don’t know where (Clint/Nat & Tony)

- The world I live in (Tony & Nat)

15th - Free Day - either filling any prompts I haven’t, finishing a WIP or writing something new

- call us what you carry. youre always with me (5 times Natasha thought about her mother)

16th - Kiss the Dread - Chapter 2

Feel free to send in anything on the way. Please feel free to join in - tag bwf2022 or just let me know. <3

Here is last years Black Widow Fest

It’s definitely missing Natasha hours over here.

Happy one year anniversary!

#bwf2022 #black widow #natasha romanoff #bwfilm #my fic #black widow fest #black widow movie #clintasha fic #inevitably #this will be reblogged a few times

[quietlyimplode]

Fic prompt because you’d write this so well 🥺 Whatever comes to you from that line in BW where Nat says about her mom ‘I thought about her every day of my life’

Hello Anon; thanks for the prompt. This turned out a little less melancholy than I had planned but still - warnings for the red room abuse, child abuse, parental loss, death, injury and nightmares. Thank you for the prompt and your trust that I’d do this justice. (Gif not mine, 3k, bwf2022)

call us what we carry. you’re always with me.

5 times Natasha thought of her mother (no plus one)

1/

He finds her sitting next to the window staring. The despondency lately is just oozing from her but he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Pepper is pregnant.

He thinks that’s what it is. She says that it’s nothing but he can tell it’s got her thinking; about parents and mothers, childhoods, fathers.

He knows because he’s been thinking about it too. There were parts of his childhood that were happy, having a brother and a mother that loved him unconditionally; a tough way to live but a childhood none the less.

He looks at her sometimes and wonders how she is so normal. Or at least holds all her darkness and trauma inside herself.

It stands to reason that changes like these she needs time to tuck the grief and sadness for things that can’t be or never was back inside.

“Hey,” she says, as he enters the dark room, storm clouds hovering, the sky ready to open.

“It’s going to rain,” he states.

“Yeah.” She resumes her staring.

“Bed?” he asks. She doesn’t reply but removes herself from her position and follows him to the bedroom.

“I’m sorry I can’t be that for you,” she murmurs when they’re laying next to each other, not touching.

He doesn’t want to look at her. Knows that it’s likely they’ll both shed a tear. He finds her hand under the covers and squeezes it as tight as he can.

“I don’t care.” He says vehemently. “I have you.”

She pulls her hand from his and rolls to her side.

.

Natasha falls asleep to the sounds of Clint’s soft snoring and is immediately drawn into dreams. Natasha is terrified.

Her mother is in the Red Room watching as Natasha is stripped and whipped by Madam for sharing food.

Madam is yelling and her mother is standing there with tears in her eyes. Natasha feels shame and embarrassment as she feels the pain of the whip digging into her.

She wants her mother to turn away. She watches as tears run down her mothers face and invisible ropes pull Natasha’s arms away from her body.

She hears her mother wail and she cries with her at indignity she’s suffering, then watches in horror as her position is mirrored by her mother and this time is her being stripped, held by invisible forces and whipped into submission.

She cries out and hears her name being called, desperately and loudly.

The transition to real life and out of the dreamscape is like a blow to the head, and dizziness is the only way she can describe it.

The nightmare isn’t real, she tells herself, the time running slowly as she pushes herself into grounding.

Grabbing her phone, she opens the weather app. Rain, she thinks, it’s raining.

She listens to the patter, as she separates it from the thoughts in her head laying as still as she can, legs straight; body taut.

The movement to her left makes her more aware, as Clint rises, cocking his head at her.

“You okay?” he asks sleepily.

“Yeah,” she whispers, brought deeper now into the real world.

“You?” she questions, hoping it wasn’t her fault he’s awake.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, moving around the bed, “gotta go.” He motions go the bathroom and leaves the room, leaving her to scroll through her phone, distracting her brain away from the nightmare.

The risidual pain of the whipping dissipates and she sighs. Time for bed she thinks, as Clint returns.

“Bad dream?” He asks, climbing in, moving close enough to her that gives her the option for to moves closer if she wants touch.

She does. His warmth seeps into her bones.

“Yeah,” she tells him.

“Want to talk about it?” He offers.

It’s not fair.

Natasha shakes her head and sighs.

“Tell me,” he pushes, “what’s on your mind?”

It comes out as a rush.

“Pepper said she’s going to be a mother. She’s going to have a baby and going to be a mother.”

The words even feel like a shock to her. She wasn’t aware that was what was plaguing her. Pausing, she turns to him, wanting him to know what her thoughts have lead to her melancholy.

“Let me be clear, that’s not what I want. That not something I want for myself. But. What happened to my mother, Clint?”

She thinks about it most days, what happened, how it came to be, if she was abandoned, if she was loved.

Natasha knows she loves Pepper and Tony’s child already, she knows she’d protect it with her life. Did her mother have friends? Others who supported her? What about her father?

What was she the product of?

She has so many questions that sometimes she feels lost in them.

“I don’t know Nat,” Clint says softly, tracing patterns on her hand.

“Do you want to find out more?”

It’s a question that he’s asked before, but not one she’s ever wanted to pursue. Is she better off not knowing?

If she’s the product of abandonment; would she be better not knowing?

“I don’t know,” she whispers.

She feels his hand in hers.

“We can talk in the morning,” he yawns.

“There’s time, okay?”

He’s right of course. The night always brings demons but sometimes softness too,

“Okay,” she tells him, kissing him goodnight.

“Love you,” he tells her.

She rolls over and closes her eyes, picturing her mother from the one memory she has.

“Love you,” she says, letting the image go.

2/

Time is a thief, Natasha thinks.

The rooftop is warm underneath her as the day turns to night.

Alone, she revels in the peace of this moment.

She’s not sure how long she sits for, only changing positions when she needs to to stop her limbs cramping or the inevitable buzz that pains them when she holds them in the one position for too long.

She thinks of the day. The plane ride and cramped spaces where her body was held in economy for the last ten hours.

The week, that had involved cold weather and harsh winds as she’d trekked to a weigh station to pick up a dead drop.

The month that’s stretched so long already, even though it’s only halfway through.

She thinks of Clint in Nadi and Maria in Alaska, and how her friends feel so far away, but it’s not as uncomfortable as it maybe once was.

That at one point in her life she didn’t have any friends. She’d killed them all; or been instrumental in their death.

She thinks idly of family, of her mother, of Yelena, and Melina and Alexei.

Natasha knows she has things to do, needs to unpack, do her laundry, probably restock her fridge, but the moon hangs low; she just wants this right now.

The rare moments where she has no competing priorities and her mind is her own.

3/

The knife penetrates and the woman laughs.

“Black Widow,” she sneers as she pulls it out.

The blood that comes with it is surely too much, Natasha thinks, as instinctively her left hand comes up to put pressure on the wound.

“I thought you’d be tougher to kill than this,” she laughs, her dark hair obscuring her face.

It doesn’t hurt, the wound; and even she knows that can’t be good. She rolls to her back, covering herself to pick up her gun as the knife comes down again. Two quick shots leaves the woman dead, surprise on her face as she drops onto Natasha.

Hot blood leaks from the corpse, spreading onto her shirt, she’s unsure where her blood starts and the woman’s stops.

It’s how Clint finds her, pinned underneath, unable to move.

“Shit,” he says moving the body, taking in Natasha who’s covered in blood.

“Is any of this yours?” He asks, helping her up. Her left hand comes away, and his face looks comical as it moves to one of panic.

“Fuck,” he exclaims.

“Language,” she laughs.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Natasha tells him, taking two steps, then feeling her legs falter underneath her, as she drops into Clint.

“Shit,” he says again, as he helps her to the floor.

“Language,” she repeats, and feels her vision blur.

“Natasha?”

She sees him, more than feels him over body, as she tries to pay attention to him.

“Eyes on me, okay?” He tells her, and she tries, she really does, but she just can’t seem to hold a thought in her head or even…

Pain rushes through, as she feels pressure on her abdomen.

“Ow,” she complains, eyes on him, as he looks at her ruefully, calling for an ambulance as he says her name again.

It’s muted, her ears are piercing with a sound like feedback.

“Imsorry,” she tells him, as her vision goes black.

.

The beeping on her left is loud as she brings her hand up, to stop her alarm.

She can’t. It seems like she’s attached.

The only thing she can think of is that the handcuffs are back, she’s in the Red Room and this bed…

Eyes wide open, she sees the cuffs on the left that changes to an IV. She shakes her head.

The past and present merge and she feels unwell, nauseousness permeating her senses.

A woman dressed in scrubs appears, face covered by a mask, and she mistakes her for one of the Red Room nurses. The ones that looked at the girls with pity.

“Are you okay, hun?” the nurse asks.

Natasha stares.

“Your husband’s just gone down to the cafeteria, I think he was hungry.”

She potters around Natasha, checking the lines, the IV and then pulls down the blanket covering her.

Natasha’s mind can’t hold onto the present.

All she can think, all she can remember is the aftermath of the ceremony. The pain and nauseousness that came with it.

This feels the same. The pain is in the same area, she’s stuck in the bed, it’s a hospital and she’s alone.

“Do you have any pain?” the nurse asks, but she’s not here.

She attempts to move, but her limbs don’t obey, panic pulls at her chest, breathing becomes harder.

The breath gets caught in her chest, and she forgets how to breathe out.

It’s terrifying, she can’t.. there’s no air in the room.

Gasping, she tries again.

The nurse appears in her vision, placing a mask over her face.

“Breathe, sweetheart, breathe,” she prompts.

“I want…” she huffs, the mask pumping oxygen into her face.

The woman looks kind, she doesn’t look like the Russian nurses.

“What do you want hun? Do you want your husband? Your mother?”

The thought makes Natasha’s eyes go wide.

It’s a flippant comment, but for Natasha it goes deeper.

It hits her like a sledgehammer.

Panic claws and tears leak out of her eyes.

“I want my mother,” she repeats.

It’s not what she was going to say but now it’s all she can think of. The way she’s seen on the television, when they draw you into their arms, the way they kiss you on your forehead and the tell you that everything is going to be okay. She imagines they’d be always warm, always comforting and know what to say.

Natasha thinks her mother would be the best hugger, know just how to squeeze her in a way that is comforting.

More tears come at the pain and grief.

“It’s just the drugs, okay sweetheart? They’ll kick in soon,” she assures.

The pain leaves like a drawn out sigh, and she feels the sadness deeper, as her body succumbs to the pull of drugs.

.

She wakes to find Clint reading next to her.

The mask is still on her face, the IV still in her hand, but she feels more together this time as she wakes. At least she knows where she is.

“Hey,” she says aloud, her voice cracking from disuse.

Clint puts down the book and looks to her, smiling kindly. He pushes her gently across, and climbs in with her. They’ve done this many times, and he must see something in her eyes that tells him she needs it.

“How do you feel?”

He’s close enough that his voice can be low, speaking in the dark. Even the hospital lights seem dimmer.

“Sore,” she whispers back. It’s the truth, even if it’s not the whole truth.

He gently holds her hand that has the cannula, touching the plastic that sits over the top of it.

“You were calling out for your mother?” he asks, keeping the movement light.

She doesn’t really remember.

“The nurse said,” he starts, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Natasha turns into him, and he pulls his arms around her, kissing the top of her head.

“You’re not alone, you’re not there,” he assures.

“I’m your family.”

The old lines they used to say to each other, help her to stay present as she nods with him.

“You’re my family,” she repeats, the words grounding, and familiar.

.

4/

“Excuse me,” a small girl appears in front of Natasha.

Lucky is taking his time relieving himself and she’d just ended up sitting on the nearest bench.

Natasha smiles at the childish way the girl just stares expectantly at her.

“I can’t do up my laces,” she states.

Natasha looks around for the girls parents, but upon seeing no one, she nods.

“I can do your laces,” she tells her.

“Thank you,” the girl says.

Natasha remembers learning to tie her laces. One of the older girls had sat with her and made her practice until she’d got it. She finishes the girl’s laces and nods.

“Do you want to learn how to do your laces up?” She asks.

The girl sits next to Natasha, swinging her legs.

“Okay!”

Taking off her own shoes, Natasha shows her how the laces intertwine, the way they can loop and tie together.

“You try,” she offers.

The girl does, and succeeds in making a knot.

Natasha unties it, and offers it to her again.

“Try again.”

The girl tries, and fails, and they repeat the process, even when Lucky returns to her.

“Is that your dog?” The girl asks, patting him as he rolls onto his side requesting belly pats.

“Isabella?”

The girl turns to the voice, and grins.

“That’s my mum,” she tells Natasha.

“Is your mum coming to get you too?”

She laughs, and for once, the mention of Natasha’s mother doesn’t feel like a stab in the heart.

“No,” she tells her, “just Lucky.”

“Thanks for teaching me about the shoes!” The girl exclaims, waving and smiling, as she runs off.

Natasha smiles and waves back, to both the girl and her mother.

5/

Waverley, Iowa is a balmy 66, which Natasha immediately converts to Celsius. 22 degrees is warm enough that she only has a sweater and shorts on.

Clint looks nervous. She knows only she would notice.

The drive here was quiet, despite trying to make small talk, both of them had just given up.

The graveyard is bigger than she expected, the rows spanning as far as she can see.

Clint grabs at Natasha’s hand and leads her to a grave, under a large tree.

Edith Barton

Beloved mother to Clint and Barney

The dates that read below make Natasha’s heart pull when she thinks just how young he was when she died.

Squatting down, Clint clears the moss from the indentations, then some of the weeds and lastly, lays the wild flowers he bought with him.

He’s unusually quiet as he stands back, and stares at the grave.

She stands stoically next to him, feeling the heaviness of his breathing.

Taking a step back, she sits at the foot of the grave, pulling him down with her.

“Tell me about her,” she asks, not knowing if it’s the right thing to say.

He starts slowly, drawing breath and memory alike. He talks of horses and running in the fields. He asks her if she knows what a Grant Wood painting is and likens his growing up to the corn painting.

When he talks of his mother, he tells her how gentle she was, how much she loved to cook, that she would pick cooking music specific for the cuisine.

He tells her that she would tie her hair up when she collected eggs and would chase him when he stole them to throw at trees. He laughs when he remembers her laugh, and it makes Natasha smile too. This isn’t as somber as the drive.

“Do you wish you’d known her?” he asks, suddenly, looking at her intensely. “Your mother I mean?”

“Of course,” she says immediately, “I think about her most days…If she wanted me, if she loved me, why she gave me away.”

Clint nods.

“I think she did,” he says confidently. “She would be so proud of you.”

She nods.

She hopes that too. Despite all her flaws, she hopes that she would be the one to see her worth as well.

He stands and pulls her up.

“The dead never leave us, Nat,” he says, wiping at his face, “even when we think they’re gone, they find some way to remind us that they’re there.”

Natasha hugs him.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” she tells him.

He kisses his hand and pats the grave.

“Love you mum,” he says just loud enough for the world to hear.

She says her own private thanks, to Edith Barton, to her own mother for bringing her into the world, for the man standing next to her.

Memories are not always bad, and remembering those that have left us not always painful.

Taking his hand, they walk back to the car, both contemplative.

“Lunch?” she asks.

“Lunch,” he confirms.

.

<3

#bwf2022 #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #clintasha fanfic #hawkeye #natasha romanoff fic #black widow fic #my fic #blood tw #death tw #red room horribleness

[quietlyimplode]

kiss the dread

(And darling I hope you remember, to kiss the ghosts goodnight, they are old versions of you)

travel through the shadows with me - pt 1 // pt 2

(Warnings for implied csa (not discussed just alluded to as a throw away line), poor coping strategies including stress positions and dissociation; gif not mine)

Chapter One

Serbia

She’s found him in an apartment block in Serbia.

For a spy, he’s easy to surveil.

He doesn’t do much.

She sets up cameras in his apartment when he goes out, gently touching his belongings with gloved hands and then sets his most basic traps back to how they were.

She knows that the simplest of traps are often then most effective but these are the mark of someone who doesn’t value his life.

Natasha rents the apartment nearby, close enough to be piggybacking off his WiFi, which makes hacking into his computer and email easy.

It’s dangerous perhaps, but she doesn’t think she has anything to fear from him.

A week she watches.

She comes to know him, more than what his dossiers say. Abused as a child, lived in the circus, military man, and someone who uses arrows instead of guns.

And has a near perfect shot.

He’s strange.

He’s nothing like she’s ever experienced.

As she watches him she also realizes that Hawkeye, is measured, and consistent; he seems almost normal.

This is the man that saved her life.

He likes watching documentaries over sport, he knows how to cook and he just seems kind.

He feeds the pigeons on the balcony every morning and buys flowers in the market.

Natasha watches and contemplates life. He offered her a way out; employment, defection.

The daunting feeling of entropy is terrifying.

There are days that she feels like everything is too hard. It’s where she loses time in dissociation and panic.

The reason she gets out of bed, is to make sure he’s still there.

Those days, she comes away with scratches she doesn’t remember doing, a sore head and stiff body.

She tries to find ways of grounding herself.

There’s a candle she buys when she’s following him into the market; and when she feels herself spiraling, the scent helps.

When she lights it, she watches the match until it burns down to her fingers and she drops it down into the wax.

She likes the concept of fire, of rising from the ashes, and the theory of renewal.

She doesn’t know how long she watches it for but it reminds her breathe, the soft flicker of a flame burning bright, gives her a sort of hope.

Natasha passes the days deep diving into Shield. She looks for anything on the Red Room but there’s not much, if she goes further it will set off alarms; so she restrains herself and her curiosity.

But only just.

She wants to know if they know anything about the North Project, about Melina, Alexei, god especially Yelena.

There’s nothing she can see, but it’s not to say it’s not there.

There’s information on Hawkeye, on Nicolas Fury, the head of Shield. The man has one eye. A fact that she finds humorous.

How does he watch everything?

Everyone? She laughs to herself and leans back. There’s not much information she can find on him, or his second in command, Maria Hill.

But at least she has the names.

And names mean something.

.

She deliberately triggers herself watching Disney films.

It’s familiar, the feelings of panic and stress. She prefers it than the nothingness that she sometimes feels, the cold empty feeling that she’s not really even here.

Overloading her brain, bringing forth her memories gives her a power over herself and time away from dissociation.

It means that she can feel herself in her body, her heart rate increases and the hollow feeling recedes.

Natasha repeats the words, and is on auto pilot, word for word, and it’s comforting; until it’s not.

It helps her to pass the time especially at night, and sometimes she falls asleep reciting the words.

It’s not healthy, she knows, she has enough insight into herself that it’s self destructive, but there are times that she can’t sleep, can’t regulate down without something that matches how she’s feeling.

It turns into nightmares most nights. Natasha wakes up out of breath, panic clawing at her skin.

Other times she wakes up, overheated and sweating, no memories or reason why, but the overwhelming feeling that something is wrong.

The lack of sleep puts her on edge, and it’s the most frustrating feeling because when she isn’t doing anything, she feels like she should be.

Natasha resumes her exercise routines, the ones from before her capture.

It helps to bring normalcy to her day and she notices that he does it too.

The days that she can do it, she does, the days she can’t, the ones that she can’t get out of bed and intrusive thoughts beat her up, she makes herself sleep, grief and pain bearing down heavily.

His routines don’t seem so intense as hers, but as she watches him talk to his handlers, there seems to be more camaraderie in his interactions.

There’s give and take, and negotiation and as she listens in, there almost seems to be familiarity and friendship.

SHIELD does not seem like the worst option.

The day comes where she’s almost spotted, made, and Clint Barton realises that there’s someone following him.

She hopes he hasn’t realised it is her.

She’s not ready for it, not ready for the decision or to make contact; she’s happy in this weird holding pattern.

She runs home, and makes it through the threshold of the door, and promptly vomits in the toilet.

It’s not a failed mission.

It’s not.

She’s in charge.

No one is coming for her.

No one will torture her for fucking up.

Her panic bubbles and she stares at the cameras for any clue about what he noticed.

She doesn’t stop staring as he makes contact with his handler; as he gets told he’s being pulled from Serbia, and that if he thinks his mission is compromised then he needs to return home.

He negotiates a week extension, and she can’t help but wonder why.

She’s being pushed into decisions that she doesn’t want to make yet.

She has a week.

A week to decide whether she defects her country.

To go against everything she’s ever known.

To become someone else; and maybe not be her any more.

Not that she likes what they’ve made her.

It sends her into a spiral. It’s a panic deeper than anything she’s felt in a very long time. She can’t get her breathing under control.

The decent is terrifying.

She tries grounding herself.

She tries triggering herself.

She tries going to bed.

It doesn’t work.

The longer it goes on, the worse it is, her brain won’t even let her dissociate; the thoughts going round in her head give her a migraine and the only way she knows to cope is to sit on the bathroom floor.

The coolness seeps into her legs and it’s not enough. She lays down, and it’s still not enough. She has an option.

It’s a last resort.

Time honored punishment as a child in the red room.

She hates herself as she moves into her favourite stress position.

The one she found easiest, but never failed to clear her mind.

Kneeling on the tile, knees pulled apart, pain radiates up through her thighs and into her adductors, her back already painful as she laces her fingers together behind her head.

She starts counting doubles.

When the binary digits get large enough that she can’t hold onto them anymore she stops, her brain finally quiet.

She releases her position and sits against the wall, pain radiating but breath slow.

What is she going to do?

What was it she told him?

Trust takes time?

What is it that she wants most in life?

The answer comes to her as soon as she thinks it.

She wants Dreykov dead.

She doesn’t much care about herself and her future but if she accomplish that… it would be something.

If it ends in her defection then so be it.

If it ends in her death, then that’s ok too.

Decision made and propositions running around in her head, she devises a plan.

.

Natasha takes the day away from watching him. There are some things she needs to do for herself.

Getting her ears pierced and getting her hair colour back to her own is important to her. If she’s going to do this, she’s going to do it as herself.

They pierced her ears when she was 5, told her she needed to look pretty.

They didn’t say who for and when it came time for that mission, she wanted nothing more than to be the ugliest girl in the room.

The men that had stared, and told her she was a good girl, a pretty girl and she should come and sit on their laps.

She hadn’t understood then what she knows now.

Natasha heads to the beauty salon and asks them to pierce her ears and colour her hair. They invite her in, all smiles and kindness.

A woman approached Natasha and introduces herself as Milica.

Natasha nods, explaining what she wants. Two piercings in her left ear, just above her earlobe; one for leaving and one for the journey ahead.

Milica nods her assent and gets it done quickly, inserting the studs in, the quick shot painless, but it makes Natasha feel different somehow.

Body autonomy is so rare, that she feels emotional as the lady holds up a mirror to show her.

“Your neck looks sore.” The stranger remarks.

Natasha touches it self consciously. The mark is from before her capture, healed almost, the stitches falling out weeks ago.

“Sorry.” Milica says. ”I have a similar one.” She pulls her hair away from her neck to reveal a burn scar running from her ear to her neck.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha whispers, looking at it, mesmerized.

“It was a long time ago.” She says with a smile, and it’s true, the skin is mottled and still slightly discolored, but healed all the same.

“Yours looks slightly newer.” She remarks.

Milica starts on Natasha’s hair, talking as she brushes it, and begins to wash it.

“I only say something, because sometimes, no one has given the opportunity to do so. I am a stranger, to you, if it’s something you’d like to talk about, or anything really, it’s likely you’ll never meet me again.”

Natasha’s eyes well, her head tipped back, vulnerability at its peak.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” The lady asks, perceptively. “You speak Serbian well, but your accent. Maybe, not the same.”

Natasha pauses.

“Russia.” She admits.

Milica nods. “Russia.” She affirms. “Are you safe?”

The woman is oddly perceptive, as Natasha nods her head, wondering just how much to divulge.

She takes a deep breath.

“I’m leaving.” She’s deliberately vague, unsure of her words.

Milica nods.

“You are brave. I think.”

Natasha pauses.

No one has ever called her brave. Stupid. Lazy. But not brave.

“I’m not.” She refutes.

There’s a guffaw and she leans back to see the smile on her face.

“That’s a lie.” Milica tells her seriously as they make eye contact. “Leaving anywhere is hard. Being anywhere new, leaving what you know, in any sense of the word, is one of the more difficult things in life.”

They’re silent for a while, as Natasha ruminates on her words.

“Endings are hard. But beginnings can be good too.” Milica says serenely. “Even if they end up somewhere you don’t expect to go.”

Natasha is silent as the woman continues to blow dry her hair.

“What if don’t think you can do it?” She asks quietly. She’s not even sure that Milica hears her over the hair dryer.

She feels hands on her shoulders, and suppresses the shudder, the feeling of human contact foreign.

“You can do it. Even if no one else believes in you, I believe in you.”

Natasha bites down on her lip, emotions swelling and threatening to break through.

“Thanks.” She whispers.

Milica lets her up, and hands her back her hair ties. “Do you want me to braid it back?” She asks, referring to the way Natasha entered the store.

It’s one step too far, having someone braid her hair, too intimate, too close to familial emotions. She shakes her head and puts it into a low bun.

She turns and finds Milica looking at her up and down.

“Can I give you a hug?” Milica asks.

Natasha nods. And it’s the second time, in the past couple of months that’s she’s voluntarily taken on touch.

The hug is deep and quick with a whisper in her ear.

“Good luck. You can do this.”

Natasha heads to the front of the shop with one last look at perhaps her only supporter in life, pays with cash, and leaves.

.

Natasha stands outside of MTS, the electronic store is mostly white, and admires her hair, now almost back to it’s natural colour.

She spots one the archer had used and buys two outright to the woman’s surprise.

She gives over a fake ID and asks her to hook up two SIM cards to the service. The throw away ID is easily disposed of later, but, she honestly thinks it doesn’t matter.

She puts the numbers into each phone so there is only one number.

She sets the phones up to how she likes it, and then shuts them off, leaving the shop and thanking the lady.

Picking up a milkshake, from the ice creamery in the same bank of shops, she walks through the shopping centre, sipping on her drink taking the time for herself.

She stops in front of the jewelry shop, and stares. In the front, there is a necklace with an arrow.

She doesn’t know what overcomes her, her legs taking her inside, her mouth agape.

“Ma’am?” The sales lady approaches her, she thinks assuming she’s American.

She answers her in Serbian, asking how much the necklace is.

The woman smiles.

“For your partner?” She asks, with a smile.

Natasha fakes a smile back. “Something like that,” she answers, not elaborating.

She buys it.

Maybe as a thank you for saving me, maybe she keeps it for herself as a reminder of the arrow man that saved her life.

She’s not sure just yet.

As she walks away, and heads back to her apartment, she feels grounded for the first time in a long time.

.

Natasha waits until he goes to bed. She situates the phone and the necklace on his balcony, hoping that the morning glisten of the necklace will catch his eye.

If not, she’s going to have to call it; but she likes the idea of him making contact with her first.

She settles back in her apartment, laying down, knowing that if things go to plan, nothing will ever be the same again.

She wraps a handcuff around her wrist, the calm washing over her, as she situates the laptop to her right laying on her side to watch him too.

.

As day breaks, she watches with interest as he packs up everything.

He keeps turning on the kettle and not making tea, sidetracked and busy with other things it seems, she watches him carefully.

The third time, he clicks the button on the kettle, he walks off, finally moving to the balcony.

It takes a moment, but he spots her package, perhaps the glint of the necklace, he looks surprised and she can’t keep the smile off her face.

He unlocks it and presses the call button.

Once.

Twice, she lets it ring.

Then.

“Hello, Clint Barton.”

.

#natasha romanoff #black widow #black widow fic #clint barton #hawkeye #my fic #travel through the shadows #Natasha Romanoff fic #natasha romanov & clint barton #clintasha fanfic #clintasha fanfiction #Natasha Romanoff imagine #bwf2022 #implied csa #dead dove do not eat #implied dissociation #stress position

[quietlyimplode]

She rests her chin on where she has placed her hand on top of his, and closes her eyes to stop the tears.

(From the trailer for Avengers: Endgame)

She rests her chin on where she has placed her hand on top of his, and closes her eyes to stop the tears.

“We won, Nat,” Clint whispers, “and look, we all made it.”

He lifts her chin to look her in the eyes.

“Why are you crying?”

She sniffles, smiling softly at his reassurance. “I know. They’re all back.”

She hugs him then, a bone crushing hug of survival and hope.

(Heheh no other endg*me ending other than this in my head. Thank you for sending one in!)

Leave a sentence and I’ll finish the fic!

#bwf2022 #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #fic recs #hawkeye #short fic #ask games #ask away! #thanks friend!

[quietlyimplode]

kiss the dread

(Sometimes war is not the answer

After all, light needs darkness to glisten against)

travel through the shadows - pt1 // pt 2

chapter one (Ao3/tumblr)

chapter two (warnings for discussion of red room punishments)

Clint smiles.

The last time he heard from her she was telling him not to touch her and offering her name like a curse.

“Natasha Romanov.” He answers.

He imagines her close by and it’s oddly settling.

Clint looks at his bandaged arm, more of a reminder for himself at this point, to stabilize the joint.

“It was you wasn’t it?” He asks, wanting confirmation on what he already suspects.

Silence reigns.

“You got me out of there.” He presses.

He waits for a response.

“Were you coming after me?” She asks, the answer obvious.

He wonders how to tell her that he couldn’t just leave her. Even though he had lied to Coulson and Fury, saying that she had got away.

They’d sent her after him anyway.

He pauses. “I was following leads.”

“You let me go.” Natasha’s voice is accusing, like he hasn’t just spent the last 6 weeks looking for her and being stumped at every turn, even with the agencies backing.

He laughs out loud. “You stole my phone.”

She’s not as jovial. Perhaps it’s the memories of being captured or even having him take care of her. “I had to go.” She clarifies.

Clint huffs. “You made contact. What do you want?”

She’s quick on retort. “What do you want?”

He doesn’t have a response. He wants to know something first.

“Why did you save me?” He asks with some hope she’ll answer.

There’s a moment of silence before she speaks again.

“Why did you save me?”

They’re in a loop of asking questions with questions, and he honestly can’t be bothered with it.

“I told you.” There’s frustration in his tone.

“Tell me again.” She demands.

He pauses, trying to remember what he told her in Belgium.

“You’re not a weapon.” He says slowly.

She laughs, “What does that mean?”

He’s quicker this time. More confident in his answer. “It means you’re your own person.”

She outright laughs, mockingly but doesn’t say anything.

“You’ve been making noise in London.” He says spontaneously. The bodies and blown up places could only be traced to her.

“It was necessary.” She deadpans.

He doesn’t doubt it was.

He fingers the delicate chain, smiles at the arrow; knowing just how much she’s done her homework.

“I’m assuming you left this here for a reason.”

He imagines her nodding, though she’s probably doing nothing the sort.

“To say thank you.” Her voice is quiet.

“Thank you?” He’s confused.

“For saving me.”

Clint shakes his head. Hoping she’s watching him. “You don’t need to thank me for that.”

“I do.”

Natasha heaves a breath.

“Do you know what they would have done to me?”

He’s not sure what she means. He assumes she means the Red Room.

He doesn’t want to admit how little information they actually have on her and outfit she works for.

“Pardon?” He opts for.

She doesn’t disappoint.

“If they’d taken me back. If you hadn’t interfered?”

He’s about to say something indignant about interfering but she continues her train of thought.

“Do you know what they do to you when you fail a mission?”

Clint is quiet.

“They call it re-education.” He feels like she’s far away, that even if he said something, she needs to say it out loud, maybe admit it to herself.

“They use a mouth guard and shove it in your mouth. They place electrodes to your head, and run electric shocks through it. It’s.. Effective.”

He’s not sure what to say. Because he’s seen her tortured. He’s seen her in pain.

And it’s something he never wants to see again; or have her experience it. Her screams of pain, will forever be etched in his memory.

“I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to ever go back.” She clarifies.

“What do you want to do?” He’s slow to ask, and she’s slower to answer.

“Is your offer still valid?”

The question hangs.

Clint knows what she’s asking, but has to clarify. “You want to work for us?”

He paces back and forth waiting for her answers.

“Yes.”

“You want to defect?” He says it as delicate as he can but wants to make sure no wires are crossed.

There’s silence, like she’s trying to bring herself to say the words.

“Yes.” Comes her quiet voice.

“Okay.” He says simply.

“Okay.” She echos.

He can’t promise anything, he’s never done this before, he doesn’t know the protocol or the ins and outs.

“Any conditions?” He tries time think of that one training session on defection but his mind is coming up blank. It’s the only question he can think to ask.

“Dreykov, the head of the Red Room, has to die. If he’s dead, I’ll come with you.” She’s quick on the response.

He nods.

“I’ll be in touch.” His mind is spinning on the consequences of this phone call.

There’s a click and she hangs up, leaving him with a mountain of work to do.

.

Natasha breathes heavily.

The emotional toll of the phone call, admitting something that she wants, and beginning of something new has left her exhausted.

She was planning to leave. She wants to go to Norway, the caravan beckons but reasons with herself that she can’t travel safely like this.

Her chest hurts every time she takes a deep breath in, psychosomatic or not, the only thing she can think to do is go to bed.

.

Clint calls Coulson straight away, picking up his phone and looking at the other one she had dropped off.

The necklace glistens in his hand as he gently sets it on the table.

The gesture isn’t lost on him. The kindness and thoughtfulness has further cemented his position to save her, from whatever demons she’s carrying.

He can advocate for her, and be her partner, but he needs to go about this in the right way; present it in the right way to Fury and Coulson.

He’s almost tempted to make ultimatums, if they don’t agree; he’s prepared to walk. If they don’t see the value in her, then perhaps it’s time he walks too.

He likes Shield. But…

He shakes his head as Coulson answers.

“Barton.”

“She made contact.” He says as hello.

“Oh?” There’s shock on Coulson’s voice as he leaves it hanging.

“She wants to defect.”

Clint starts pacing.

“She wants to come work for us.”

The phone crackles and he can hear Coulson moving.

“Clint. Tell us exactly what she said.”

Fury clears his throat.

“Barton, what did she say, exactly.”

Clint feels butterflies in his stomach.

Talking it through with Coulson first is one thing, but now, talking it through with both of them feels like there’s more on the line.

He thinks. Keeps it as factual as possible.

“She left a phone for me. On the balcony.” He rubs his hand over his face. “She said she wanted to defect.”

Fury grumbles. “Why do I feel you're not telling me everything?”

Clint knows he’s going have to give them something.

“I got her out of a situation in Belgium. She trusts me. It was uhhh… not a great situation.”

Fury is quiet, and Clint hates it.

It’s like he’s running through all the scenarios and not coming to a conclusion that he likes.

“You have to come home.” Fury states.

Clint’s first reaction is to refute it. He wants to meet up with her, wants to see her and tell her that they have her back.

He knows it’s not that easy.

Fury isn’t finished.

“We gave you more time after the incident in London. Which I still haven’t received your report on. We gave you an extra week, and leeway on this.”

Anger stirs in his gut.

“What did you think you were leaving me to do? Why do you think I stayed?” he pauses.

“This is what we wanted. This is a good outcome.” He’s pissed at best. Probably not helpful with the director of Shield.

Coulson saves him, as always.

“Clint, this is bigger than you think. It’s not just bringing her in. It’s the repercussions of having a Russian agent, someone from the Red Room, defect. She would be an asset, we aren’t doubting you but we need to set up the papers, and think about the consequences. We can’t just go to war with Russia. We need some bureaucratic oversight. Do you understand?”

Clint rubs his hand through his hair, his jaw clenched.

“Ok.” He concedes.

“You’re booked on the commercial plane for 10pm tonight. We’ll see you in the office tomorrow.”

Clint nods, even though they can’t see him and hangs up.

It’s only afterwards, he realises it was probably rude.

.

Clint enters the Shield offices, chewing gum and hands in fists. He wants to be neutral, be prepared to walk away, but he’s heavily invested.

Coulson greets him with coffee and tells him to calm down.

“It will be fine.” He follows up.

Clint nods as they head to Fury’s office.

Coulson walks by him; tells him that the bureaucrats are working on the extraction and defection paperwork.

“I’m trying to help.” He tells Clint, as they round on the door.

“I know.” Clint mutters. “I know.”

Coulson catches his arm.

“She’s killed many people. Hell, she just left a trail of bodies in London and The Netherlands. What makes you think that there is anything of her that’s worth saving? That’s worth trusting?”

Clint stares him down, “I just do.”

Coulson’s demeanor turns hostile.

“Jesus Clint. Do you know what your asking? What the World Security Council will say?”

Clint matches his ire.

“You don’t think they’ll see the value in having a Russian spy? One that’s got probably so much intel that we can use?”

The door opens and Fury moves his head to look at both of them.

“We should probably be having this conversation on the inside of the door.” He admonishes. Clint ducks his head, the authority of Fury’s voice not lost on him.

Moving to the chairs, Coulson and Fury sit, Clint preferring to stand in the corner with his arms crossed, leaning on the bench.

“What were her conditions?” Fury opens.

Clint stares for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “She wants to take out Dreykov and needs backing to do so.”

Coulson turns his head to look at Clint.

“General Dreykov, head of the KGB, most likely the Red Room and the consult to the Russian President. That General Dreykov?”

Clint shrugs. “I guess?”

When he looks up, it’s the first time that he’s ever seen Fury worried. The emotion is fleeting but there.

“And she wants to kill him?” His low voice rumbles.

“With our help, sir, as part of her defection.”

There’s silence as Coulson and Fury have a non verbal conversation. Clint watches them closely and feels that things might actually turn out the way he wants them too.

Fury stands.

“I have to talk to the WSC about this.” He looks to Clint and points to the door, and then tells Coulson to stay.

As Clint heads for the door, he turns to look at them.

“For the record,” he says, “I think she would be an asset to shield.”

And with that he leaves.

.

Clint goes straight back to his apartment, thankful it’s above a Chinese food shop, because it means he doesn’t have to think about what he wants to eat.

They smile at him, make a comment about not seeing him in a while and hand over his usual.

He tips them heavily and heads up the stairs, the food heavy in his hand.

Unlocking his door, his phone buzzes with the instructions for his full debrief tomorrow and a message from Coulson that they expect him in at 10am.

He throws his phone on the table and sits on the couch unpacking the food.

He pulls out the phone she gave him and stares at it, almost willing it to ring again.

The necklace is in his pocket. He reaches in a touches it again, to make sure it’s still there. The point of the arrow pokes his finger and he smiles.

Eating slowly, he feels fatigue flow through him. Turning on the TV, he lays down, pulls a blanket over him and closes his eyes.

.

#bwf2022 #Natasha Romanoff fic #marvel fic #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #black widow fic #my fic #hawkeye #clintasha fanfiction #clintasha fanfic #kiss the dread

[quietlyimplode]

Hi! I love your writing. I'm not too familiar with Tumblr etiquette, so hopefully this is an appropriate message for your askbox fic. I know it may be a little late.

I'd love to see something relating to the lines in Black Widow when Melina said that she didn't raise her daughters to fall into traps/they didn't go soft under her watch. It's got interesting subtext/tone that I don't really see explored in fics of the quartet.

Hello! You are absolutely fine - thank you for sending in an ask, and definitely not too late.

Tonight’s fic is all about Natasha and Melina and I think you must have read my mind because it touches on those quotes in the third part. I should have it up in the next hour or so.

Thank you for your kind words <3 I hope you continue to enjoy the fics.

#lovely humans #ask away! #bwf2022 #prompts

[quietlyimplode]

Need another one-sentence?

The night’s young. And Russians are mad.

Sure!! (One sentence fic game)

The night’s young.

And the Russians are mad.

Yelena pulls herself up, wiping the blood from her mouth. The escape has failed. She knew they shouldn’t have left until dusk; they should have waited until the cover of night to scale the fence and make their way to the nearest town.

The older widows stand in front of them, young but still older than Yelena’s class. Each have a dog in hand. She hates the dogs. Wishes that it was corporal punishment, than the use of animals to punish them.

“You want to run away?”

Dreykov’s voice pierces the darkness.

“Then run,” he commands.

.

#bwf2022 #yelena belova #general dreykov #red room #tw child abuse #I guess? #ask games

[quietlyimplode]

Prompt: Tony realising that his technology was used on Natasha. (Thanks friend, this prompt matched with another one).

an: this has been taken from a WIP that I started ages ago and moulded into the prompt. Warnings for discussions of child experimentation (child abuse), red room, child illness and weapons. (Bwf2022, 1.7k)

the world I live in

Tony thinks he’s being sneaky. His suit is scratchy, and he can feel the bow tie knot on his neck as he ducks his head, avoiding eye contact.

Russia is cold, and he’s thankful for the coat that hangs over his shoulders, the banquet in its closing stages, he decided it’s time to move.

The real reason he’s here, undercover, is that he thinks someone is replicating his tech.

The warning had come from one of Obadiah’s subservients who had defected and since become a friend.

An informant at least. It’s not tech he ever wants to become public, or made ever again.

Sighing heavily, Tony feels the weight of all his wrongs on his shoulders and tighten the noose around his heart. He feels he’ll never be able to atone.

He hears Peppers words float in the back of his mind.

‘At least you’re trying.’

Tony’s glasses warn him of soldiers approaching, give him layout of the building and he hacks the door closest to him in seconds, letting himself in.

It’s an office if some sort, he realises as he hides himself against the back of the door, shutting it gently behind him.

Taking a deep breath, Tony schools himself, makes the layout appear as a hologram in front of him. He needs to get to the elevator at the end of the hallway. Down a level and the first door on the right seems to be the lab.

Rubbing his face, he curses Obadiah again.

Kids.

Who the fuck tests immunology nanotechnology on kids?

He hates his technology sometimes. The nanotech was supposed to be for children’s hospitals, to build the immunosuppressed back to normalcy, so they could do the things they want like go to playgrounds, be around their friends.

It was supposed to be a good thing. But like everything Tony seems to touch, it had become a weapon.

Testing on children so they never got sick. So they could be weapons.

His blood boils.

He exits the room and walks fast to the elevator, hacks it quickly and turns as it descends. He tries not to panic as his nerves rise his chest.

“Jarvis?” He questions. “How many people in the lab?”

There’s a pause.

“One sir.”

He’s confused, but pleased. One person is okay. He can handle that. Likely, he can even maybe just sedate them.

Entering the room, he sees the woman straight away, her blonde hair in contrast of the dark room.

“Hello?” He calls, not wanting to hurt her.

She turns and they both stare at each other.

His heart stops and his mouth hangs open.

“Romanoff?”

She seems as shocked as he is.

“Stark?”

She recovers quicker than he does.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

He points stupidly at the computer.

“It’s my old tech. I wanted to destroy it.”

A strange look passed across her face.

“What are you doing here?” He asks.

He steps over a body, closer to where her USB is plugged in. He types quickly, as she looks over his shoulder.

“Are you here with SHIELD?”

He continues to question her, but she doesn’t answer as she watches him carefully.

“You missed one,” she hisses.

He looks again and realises she’s right. He does it again and runs the termination program.

He holds up the usb for her and she takes it, tucking it into her breast pocket.

“It’s a muted version, if it’s for shield,” he tells her.

She shrugs.

“It’s not.”

He watches carefully as she places two clay disks on the servers with detonator switches.

“They don’t get this, again,” she says, more to herself.

He moves toward the door, and she follows linking her arm to his.

“You have an exit strategy?” She asks, ducking her body into his as they ride the elevator up.

“I have a very fast car?”

Natasha laughs.

“That’ll do.”

.

It wasn’t for shield, he realises, as Jarvis hacks the database of missions. Something he told Fury he wouldn’t do, but given the shock of seeing her as made him curious, and well. He doesn’t do well with curiosity.

He offers her a flight home and she takes it, perhaps preferring the comforts of a private jet than economy.

“Why?” He asks, three hours in.

She looks up like she knew the question was coming.

He stares at her and she looks like she’s going to lie.

“It’s important,” she shrugs, “for me.”

He doesn’t want to ask.

“Why?”

There’s an hour of silence as she doesn’t answer his question.

She hands him the USB.

“I didn’t realize, how far back your technology went. How much was tested,” she pauses.

“I was one of the ones they tested it on.”

The sentence drops and it’s like all the air is gone from the room.

He doesn’t know what to say, and she is clearly uncomfortable with the revelation. She excuses herself and sits in the unmanned cockpit, leaving him to his thoughts.

It takes him a while but he knows it’s now or never to continue to talk about it.

“How?” He asks, encroaching on her space. God she looks small, he things as she brings her knees to her chin, curling in a ball on the oversized chair.

“A series of unfortunate events,” she mutters.

But he pushes harder. If he can understand what, and why and how, maybe he can make sure it doesn’t happen again.

He opens his mouth but she silences him with a look.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He perhaps understands why, it’s not a natural thing to have your immunity played with and subjected to testing… the more he thinks of her words the more curious he is.

“I was the one they tested it on,” she’d said, but who was they? And how was it tested.

He looks over to her curiously, and there’s a faraway stare in her eyes. The dazed look is accompanied by a shallowness of breath and he throws a blanket over to her, concerned.

“Get some rest,” he decides to tell her, “we’ll land in an hour.”

.

Natasha knows it’s not the end of this; that like her, he’s going to keep pushing until he gets an answer. Get some rest, he said but all she can think is that he’s going to be digging.

She sighs, feeling guilty that said anything in the first place. Then he wouldn’t feel bad about the unknown uses of his technology.

Dragging herself up, she goes to sit next to him in the cockpit and sinks into the chair.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she opens.

In all reality it likely doesn’t matter if he does; and this might be an unfair thing to say, making him keep it to himself.

“Do you want to pinky swear on it?” He asks, and Natasha realizes she’s been quiet for a while.

She didn’t mean to lose her train of thought.

“Do you know about the Red Room?”

There’s a look of shock, then pity as dominos fall into place for Tony.

Natasha’s age, gender, bits of her upbringing she’s alluded to.

The last emotion she thinks is rage.

“You?” He asks.

“Me,” she nods to confirm.

“How did the Red Room use my technology on you?” He asks, his face careful now.

She thinks it’s curiosity that is his overriding feeling.

“They did experiments,” her words now are careful.

He lets her talk, or not talk, as the case may be as she looks into the darkening sky.

“When your nanotechnology was in it’s early stages, they would inject us, the nanoadjuvants would carry immunomodulatory properties used to deliver vaccine antigens for every disease they could think of,” she pauses.

“Sometimes, it made us sick.”

Tony looks murderous.

She ignores it.

It’s inert rage and there’s nothing he can do now.

“Some died?” he asks, voice low.

She thinks of Ruthie and Aaliyah, the disease that made them seize until they died, or Savannah as she was coughing in the bed, crying for her mother.

“Some died,” she confirms.

He doesn’t say anything. What can he say?

“It was a long time ago,” she clarifies.

It’s not his fault. He didn’t sell it to the Russians. She doubts that he even knew.

The plane lowers its descent, and Natasha is thankful that this flight is almost over.

The silence is heavy.

“You couldn’t have known.”

Tony stares straight ahead, shell shocked and sad.

“Even if you had of know,” she tries, “you couldn’t have done anything about it.”

He swallows hard, and she finds herself interested in his emotions. If anyone tries to tell her that Tony is an unfeeling automaton, she thinks she’d hit them.

He feels deeper than most, likely knows the power he holds with all his weaponry and money.

And he carries it all on his own shoulders.

The plane lowers again, the flight almost over; she plans to meet Clint and Maria later, wonders if she should invite him to come with them.

“What are you doing later?” she asks, feeling generous.

“You knew that it was my technology that killed your… you knew and you didn’t tell me? Didn’t want to get revenge?” He doesn’t look at her.

“You’re still my friend?”

Her heart stutters.

“Yeah Shell Head, I’m still your friend.”

He nods.

“Can I… what can I do?”

She shrugs.

“The Red Room is gone, Clint and I made sure of that. Hopefully it won’t ever be used again.”

The plane touches down.

Natasha gathers her things, and thanks him for the lift.

She feels like she’s leaving him in a depression, in trauma, and she doesn’t like it.

“Will you be okay?” she asks.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I won’t tell anyone.”

His head is bowed.

“It’s not your fault,” she emphasises.

“Still,” he says.

They stand at the door in a limbo of apologies.

“I’ll see you round Tony,” she tells him.

Parting ways, she leaves him, hoping he won’t dwell in the past.

.

#natasha romanoff #black widow #tony stark fic #natasha romanoff fic #Natasha Romanoff & Tony Stark #Natasha and Tony #black widow fic #Ironman fic #red room #child experimentation tw