#beyond the connection with the soviet arm of hydra | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rushmanatalie · 4 years

Text

falling like the stars || ch. 3

Rating: E

Summary: Natasha remains haunted by demons from her past, but Steve is there to remind her that she’s not alone.

Notes: So it’s been *checks watch* a LONG time since my last update, but hopefully the slight fluff, smut, and angst make up for it? Once again, thanks for reading. Feel free to leave comments on things you want to see in the future :)

Read on Ao3

Tchaikovsky plays softly through her headphones. A simple four four count, soft violins, and a touch of piano. Her feet sting with blisters underneath the satin shoes, her muscles aching with every leap and turn, but she loves every second of this.

If Natasha ever truly had a permanent home in her life, it would be here: somewhere between the music and the movement, where agony meets beauty and art is made in the blood shed when she steps over that edge.

The music ends as softly as it began and she chases her fatigue with a swig of rum, relishing the burn as she’s learned to accept all forms of pain.

She’s used to it by now: all the hurt in her life, and she has the Red Room to thank for that. They taught her to think that it was all she could ever have, that it was all she was worth. So when she had finally found her family, when she had found Steve, that warmth, acceptance, and dare she say, love, felt completely foreign.

Undeserved.

The road to redemption isn’t easy. Every time she takes a step forward, it’s as if there’s a force pushing her back, and rarely does she find herself winning the battle.

Natasha catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and takes another swift sip of alcohol before throwing the flask aside. Pulling the headphones that hung around her neck over her ears, she allows the music to swallow her thoughts, her eyes fluttering shut as she gets a little more lost in the melody of the strings. When she opens her eyes, her body follows in movement with a perfect, practiced fluidity.

“Again!” Madame B shouts from the corner of the room.

One of twenty-eight young ballerinas with the Bolshoi—

The memory comes so suddenly, Natasha falters on her turn.

“Again!” A gun goes off. The gun in her hand, smoking as she points it at a target.

The training is hard—

Head pounding, heart racing, her legs nearly give out beneath her.

“Again!” She holds a knife to the throat of the girl who sleeps beside her. She’ll make her death quick, but it wouldn’t be painless. The blade runs against her neck with an awfully guttural scream.

But the glory of the soviet culture—

Her fist smashes into the mirror. When her hand comes away from the glass, it’s slick with blood as broken shards cut into her skin. She pulls a piece of glass out from between her knuckles and watches the redness flow down her wrist.

The glory of the soviet supremacy—

The sound of her heart hammering behind her ribcage fills her ears until the thumping is so loud it hurts. She’s suddenly aware of the way she struggles for every breath, gasping for air. Everything blurs, and before she can catch herself, she’s falling to the floor. Natasha barely registers the front door opening before her vision goes black. The last thing she hears before she finally drifts is Rhodey shouting her name.

—————————

The drive home seemed longer than the forty minutes it took, but Steve manages to get back to the Avengers facility with his motorcycle in one piece.

Three years ago, Steve never called the place home. He still doesn’t, not the way Natasha does, and sometimes it pains him that this is it for her.

He finds her in her room, or what’s become their room. Rhodey stands by the door, his back against the wall as he rests a concerned glance at Natasha, who lies curled up on the bed, asleep. Steve quickly notices the bandages wrapped around her right hand, blood seeping through the gauze around her knuckles.

He turns to Rhodey, careful to keep his voice down. “What happened?”

Rhodey shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I was coming by to drop something off and I found her in the studio. She just...collapsed. Think she hit the mirror.” He sighs, crossing his arms and shifting his weight. “I’ve seen Tony go through similar episodes—PTSD, anxiety, addiction—I’m worried about her, Steve. Thanos hurt everyone, but Nat…”

“I know.” The words left unsaid hung heavily in the air.

Ever since the Battle of New York, the Avengers had become Natasha’s family. She never admitted it out loud, but Steve could see how content she was around them: the way her shoulders would soften, her walls seemingly down. And when the Sokovia accords had broken the team, she had watched it fall apart and tried desperately to put the pieces back together.

Until Thanos ripped away everything that remained.

Maybe that’s why even now she clings to the job, to the work. It’s all she has left.

“I can stay to keep an eye on her tonight.” Rhodey offers softly. The suggestion almost comes as a surprise to Steve, and he’s suddenly reminded of the fact that no one knows. No one knows about them.

Steve shakes his head. “It’s okay, I’ll stay. Thanks Rhodey.”

Rhodey shoots him a somewhat knowing look, a sad smile on his lips. Before he leaves, he puts a firm hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You take care, Steve.” Take care of her.

Rhodey’s footsteps are still echoing down the hall when Steve turns his attention to Natasha. Her fiery red hair is splayed over the white pillows in soft waves, a few tendrils falling over and framing her fame. His old, worn cotton tee almost swallows her small frame, but it’s one of his favorite looks on her. As he walks to her side, he can’t help but notice how peaceful she looks like this, caught in a dreamless sleep, her chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths. It’s almost out of a force of habit that he pulls the comforter over her shoulder, gently enough to not wake her, but her light hum of satisfaction lets him know she knows he’s there.

They’ve been like this for two years now. Whatever this is. For Steve, it’s hard not to want to define it. After all, he came from an age where people were quick to “go steady” and eager to settle down. And for a while, he had wanted that with Peggy.

But that was before.

Before the war.

Before what seemed like the end of the world.

Before Natasha.

With the ice, HYDRA, and Thanos, Steve hasn’t much luck with love, but he’s had enough experience to realize that whatever this is between himself and Natasha, it might be the closest thing to love he’s ever had. Their bond, connection, relationship? It goes beyond romantic love or lust. To him, she’s a partner: the one person whose loyalty never falters, who’s always there, and perhaps the only constant left in his life, and he clings onto it with all of his stubbornness, all of his hope. And despite everything they’ve been through, everything he’s been through, sometimes he catches himself wondering if it was all fate’s cruel way of bringing them together.

“Steve?” Natasha’s green eyes flutter open in a haze of sleep.

“Hey.” He kneels down next to the bed, pulls her bandaged hand to his lips, and presses a soft kiss to her knuckles. “I’m here.”

“Where’s Rhodey?”

Steve almost smiles because it’s so damn her to worry about other people first. “He went home.” There’s a small beat as they both avoid the topic of what happened before.

“What time is it?” Her brows furrow with the question.

“Six. You hungry?”

She shakes her head.

“Okay. I’ll spare you the tragedy of me cooking dinner, then.” He’s aware that it’s a half-assed remark on his own culinary skills, but it wins him a smile.

“Come to bed?” It isn’t so much of a question as it is a request, a plea, and he obliges, kicking his shoes off before climbing under the covers next to her.

Natasha tucks herself into Steve’s chest and he brushes his nose against the crown of her hair. The lavender scent of her shampoo has become unknowingly familiar over the years and he finds it somewhat soothing now. He traces a finger down a strand of hair, caressing her jawline. They lay in the peace and comfort of each other's breaths for a moment, relishing in the warmth until he breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

There’s a second of deliberation, but she responds nevertheless, a soft breath against his chest. “Me too.”

“Don’t be.” Steve tips her chin up to meet her eyes and it’s all there: years of pain and fear, hundreds of unanswered questions, a million unnecessary apologies, welling up in tears that threaten to fall. He knows she’s not ready to put it in words, not yet, but he knows he’ll be there to listen when she does.

For now, that’s enough.

And all he can do is kiss her. At first, it’s sweet, slow, delicate, his lips barely ghosting over hers. But the contact is apparently exactly what she needs because the next thing he knows, her lips are crashing into his and it’s messy, all teeth and tongue, but he lets her take and take and take.

With a single push on his shoulders, she flips them around so that he’s pinned to the bed while she straddles his growing hardness between her legs, not bothering to suppress a heady moan at the much needed friction. Her hands are deft, desperate, as she reaches down to undo his jeans, but before she can pull out his length, he grabs her by the wrist to stop her.

“Natasha.” They’re going too fast. He usually wants to take his time with her, only she has other plans in mind.

Gently peeling his hand from her wrist, she guides his fingers down to the ache between her thighs. His throat catches when he feels her wetness through the thin fabric of her underwear. “I just need you inside me.” She leans down to kiss his jawline. “Please.” Her voice is thick with wanting, so he lets her have him. All of him.

Her underwear comes off in a moment no longer than their lips leave eachothers’ for breath. This time he doesn’t stop her when she reaches for his length and slips it inside her heat with a lewd moan. She’s tighter than usual without the foreplay, but the way her face contorts in pleasure gives him confirmation that she enjoys the stretch. His hands move to her waist as she rides him, his hips rising to meet hers as she sets an unrelenting pace. It’s crude, the way their skin sounds against each other, the smell of sex in the room, but it just brings him closer and closer to the edge. He knows she’s nearly there too, so he drops a hand to her clit and watches as she comes apart seconds later, a string of Russian curses on her lips. His own release follows closely and she holds him tighter as he spills inside her.

They lay spent, still clothed, with her collapsed over him, face buried in the crook of his neck, for what seems like eternity. As their breaths even out, she rolls over to his side, pulling the blanket to her chest.

Just before Steve is about to drift off to sleep, he feels her lips murmur against his arm.

“Today was Lila’s birthday.”

He opens his eyes. She’s staring off into the corner of the room, sadness lurking through the greens of her irises.

“She would’ve been sixteen.” Natasha pauses at the thought, but he doesn’t speak. He just listens. “And I just can’t shake the thought of him being alone.”

A few months after Thanos took his family, Clint had gone off the map. No phone calls. No emails. Not a single word. They checked everything. Bank statements. Search histories. Print records. License numbers. But the only clues to his whereabouts were the brutally dismembered bodies he left in his trail.

Steve remembers the first time they found it: the connection between the massacres. All the victims had been gangs, mobs, and human trafficking organizations, the kind the Avengers would have taken down anyway, except the hooded katana-bearing vigilante didn’t seem to care about making a mess and showing no mercy.

Natasha drank herself to sleep that night.

It hurts him to see her like this, but he knows not to make promises. He can’t guarantee they’ll find Clint. Can’t guarantee if they’ll want to. So he says the one thing he knows is certain.

“He’s never really alone. Not while we’re still here.”

The words linger in the air, and he watches her take it in as the lines between her brows unfurl.

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I guess no one ever really is.”

#my writing #ficrec #romanogers #stevenat #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #fanfiction #romanogers fanfic #marvel

15 notes · View notes

afewmarvelousthoughts · 5 years

Text

Stay Ch. 18

Master: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Pairing: Natasha X Reader (Female)

Summary: You have a gift, the ability to see other people’s innermost secrets. For years you used it to gather intel for the highest bidder when you take on The Widow. After she becomes more than a mark the two of you spend years stealing moments. Post snap you wait in your designated meeting place, look back on the sordid past you share with the woman you love and hope against everything that she’s still alive.

Warnings: Violence, feels, uh... stuff...

A/N: Well... Just know I always knew this was coming and I think that once y’all read it you’ll realize why it took me so long to just sit down and do the fucking thing.

Tags are open!

Post-Snap

Your hand trembles as you dial the code for the voicemail. It takes several tries for it to go through. There’s nothing there… You knew but…

You slam the phone on the table so hard the woman at the table next to yours jumps. Swallowing hard you force yourself to give her an apologetic smile, though you suspect it comes across as more of a grimace.

The sounds of the bar begin to overwhelm your senses. Radio chatter and static, people talking, crying, glass clinking, it all rises in your ears until it practically hurts. Your chest tightens, heart thundering in your ears. In your desperation to escape you almost send the table toppling over as well as a few people in the lobby.

Outside the sounds don’t quiet. Thunder rolls, cars replace the clinking glass, somewhere a siren screams and you think you may join it.

You stumble down a nearby alleyway and press your back to the concrete, covering your ears, begging it to stop. The air seems too thick to breathe, even the sound of your own pulse seems too much.

Too much thinking… too many memories… you feel like your chest may split and that would be bad for so many reasons… The sky beats you to it.

Lightning cracks, rain begins to pelt your skin. You sit as the water and memories wash over you, unable to stop either.

June 2009

The budget motel room you’d been in for the past month looked like the den of a serial killer.

It didn’t matter to you. You needed to see it all laid out, needed to look at the pattern because something was unfolding for you…

Over the past year and a half since Budapest, you hadn’t taken any jobs, gone mostly off the grid hunting your white whale. Bit by painstaking bit you had pulled together pieces of a sinister puzzle that spanned from just before World War II to now. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you had everything you needed… it was just a matter of putting them all together into something that somehow made sense.

That was where the issue lay. You knew that this had something to do with the Nazi science unit called Hydra, you knew somehow that organization had influenced almost a century of clandestine activity since being disbanded, you knew they even had involvement in the Red Room… What wasn’t clear was who they were now… or better yet, where. Thin threads of connection, some so fine you almost doubted yourself, went to so many things. You just couldn’t make it all fit.

You think of calling Natasha. Sometimes it helped to just hear her voice even if you couldn’t bring yourself to talk to her about all this just yet. And you missed her. It had been a few months since you’d seen one another. Maybe tomorrow…

Drunk, frustrated, and utterly sick of staring at the documents, photos, and your own notes that scattered the walls of the room you collapse face first into the bed. Sleep. That would help. Maybe you’d wake up and it would all make sense.

Hours later your foggy disjointed mind registers that your phone is ringing… has been ringing. Your hand flops in the darkness for the screaming rectangle. It’s a number you don’t know but that’s not so unusual.

“Huh,” you groan in answer.

“Palais.” A woman’s voice manages, thick with emotion. But… it’s not Natasha.

“Who the fu-” The line goes dead.

A tremor shakes your whole body. Without a second thought, you flip the lights on and begin to tear the room apart, shoving all your research into your bag haphazardly. Sure, this could easily be a trap but you weren’t willing to risk it. Whatever was there you’d handle it.

With one last sweep of the room, you’re out the door and into the shitty car you’d purchased a few weeks prior in less than an hour. You’d been in Krakow, about four hours from Vienna. You screech to a stop in front of The Palais in just under three, every traffic law known to man broken in your haste.

You don’t even look at the valet when you hurl your keys to him and rush inside.

Desperate eyes scan the lobby for red hair and a heart-stopping smile, even Clint’s face would have been something but… nothing. Then you see someone you hadn’t even thought of in years.

“Hill?” You croak tapping her shoulder. That one moment of contact sends an image so vivid searing through you it’s a wonder you don’t combust. Natasha, pale, covered in blood. Hill’s fear, sadness, guilt… Oh god.

Words completely fail you. Hill turns and gets off her stool, approaching you speaking words you aren’t hearing. You just keep backing up, head shaking whispering, “No, no, no nonono,” over and over until it’s just a sound and not a word at all.

That now familiar feeling of your chest tearing at the seams begins and you know that it would be terrible for all these people to feel this but you can’t help it.

She grabs your shoulders and shakes you, “She’s not dead, Y/N!” Clarity begins to flood your system. “I need you to pull it together.”

You nod, blinking hard. “I’m sorry… I saw…”

“She’s hurt. But she’s gonna make it. I’m here to take you to her.” For a minute you stare at Hill, remembering your first exchange and how cold she’d been… “She’s my friend.” There’s nothing but truth in her words.

You grab your things from the car, leave the keys with the valet and climb into the front seat of Hill’s car. Anxiety curls like a snake in your belly, remembering the drive to the jet you’d taken all that time ago but before you’re even able to ask she tells you.

“We’ve got a small jet in a private airport here, we’ll be there in less than two hours.” The only response you can manage is a nod.

Once you’re on the jet and headed toward Odessa you’ve had time to roll the image you lifted from Hill over in your mind enough times for the rage to settle in. Natasha hadn’t told you she’d be anywhere near Odessa…

“Ask.” Hill’s tone is gravel.

“Why waste my precious breath?”

“What’s that mean?”

“Not like you’d tell me shit anyway.”

“Why would I offer if-”

“You didn’t offer. You said ‘Ask’ that’s a bait, not an offer. And trust me I’ve got half a fuckin’ mind to just take the information from you regardless of-”

“It was supposed to be an easy mission.” She cuts you off, voice steady. Her eyes meet yours and you’re hit with something you didn’t anticipate, remorse. “In and out in deep shadow. But somehow-”

“Whose orders?” You practically whisper.

“What?”

“Who’s. Fucking. Orders?”

“I… Fury… but…”

“Who gave him the intel?”

“I don’t know?”

“Hill… I swear to god I will-”

“I do not fucking know, Y/N.” Her eyes burn into yours. Truth, nothing but the truth, all of it. “Why?”

You stare at her, something churning inside of you, your brain still plucking at those threads, still trying to fit the pieces together… “Nothing.”

“You can tell me.” You don’t respond. “Like I said, Natasha is my friend I want to know who-”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Her eyes glue onto the open sky.

“But when I know,” you say after a few minutes of feeling her conviction roll off her in waves, “I’ll need your help bringin’ ‘em down.”

Hill’s brown eyes latch on to your own. The two of you share a moment beyond words and she nods. You know then that no matter where this leads she’ll have your back… and that maybe you’ve found a new friend too.

When you get off the jet you refuse to let your bags out of your sight. You weren’t about to let anyone from S.H.I.E.L.D. touch a damn thing you’d worked to gather, especially now.

You expect to see Fury when you walk in but it’s Clint, bleary-eyed and stoop-shouldered. His demeanor stops your heart.

He must read your face though because before you speak he tells you what you need to hear, “She’s ok, Y/N.”

Relief floods your system and you find yourself accepting his open arms without question. Tears burn hot in your eyes but you hold them back, not ready to let the flood gates open.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

“Why?”

“I should’ve been there, should’ve-”

“Don’t.” He pulls back and you study his face, his guilt like a cloud around him. “This isn’t on you, Clint.” But you were going to find out who was responsible.

“Any word on ballistics yet?” Hill asks from behind you.

“Mhm,” frustration creases his forehead. “Soviet slug. No rifling. It’s a dead end.”

It may be a dead end to them but you’d seen that signature pop up over and over in your research. The implications… your blood runs cold.

“She should be out soon,” Clint rests a warm hand on your shoulder. “It nicked an artery so it’s taking a little time to get her patched.”

“Where’s Fury…” Your tone drips with malice.

“This isn’t Fury’s fault, Y/N… Come on sit and-”

You pull away from him, “Where is he, Clint?”

Hill answers, looking at her phone. “He’s en route. Should be here in an hour or so.”

“Thank you.” Now you do sit next to Clint.

After a few minutes, Hill disappears to take a call. Leaving you two alone.

“Distract me with pictures of the only children I like.”

“Pretty sure they’re the only children you know," he laughs.

“True. Still.”

He doesn’t need convincing. Laura and the kids were a well-kept secret, but he loved talking about them. The distraction is sweet and needed until Hill returns.

The more time that passes the more your panic rises. Clint holds your shaking hand tight and you rest your head on his shoulder, so fucking thankful to have him here. Hill paces, chewing her nails. None of you speak.

After almost an hour that felt more like a decade, the surgeon finally comes out. You and Clint practically fall over yourselves scrambling to your feet.

The surgeon smiles, “She’ll be fine.”

“Can I… Can I see her?” The surgeon looks to Hill and she nods.

“As soon as she’s settled you can go in.”

The three of you embrace in relief. She was ok. You wouldn’t need to kill Fury. Things were looking up.

Natasha’s still out when you’re ushered into the small room they have her in. Her skin is so pale in the harsh lights, the skin under her eyes dark, her lips lacking their usual rosy tint. The image makes your breath catch.

You lean down and kiss her cool lips softly before you whisper in her ear, “I’m here, honey. I love you.”

You’re unsure how long you’ve been in the room, holding her hand, willing those emerald eyes to look at you when Hill knocks.

“Hey,” her voice is low, “sorry, Fury and…” she clears her throat, “Secretary Pierce want to see you.”

“That’s nice.” Nothing would remove you from this room. Not until she woke up.

“I can, stay here and-”

“Sorry, but you can let them know I’ll talk to them after she wakes up and not a goddamn second before.” Hill swallows hard, “Deliver that in whatever way won’t get you fired. But I don’t fucking work for them,” yet, “and I don’t come when they call.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just heads out.

Your hand still locked on Nat’s you lay your head on the narrow mattress and drift off for a bit. Fingers pushing your hair back wake you with a start.

“Natasha!” She gives you a weak smile.

“Hey, baby.”

“Hey,” your voice cracks as you gently cover her face with kisses. “Don’t scare me like that honey…”

“I’m sorry. I thought…”

“Shh. No, it’s ok… I… just can’t lose you.” You kiss her a touch harder this time.

“Y/N,” she takes hold of one of your hands so tight it almost hurts. “It was-”

“I know.”

Fear flashes in her eyes and your heart constricts, “They always said he’d come for me… and he did. Y/N if he, you…”

“Hush.” You kiss her trembling knuckles. “I won’t let that… thing… or anyone close enough to hurt you again, got it?” You swallow hard knowing what it would take for you to keep that promise.

“I love you, Natasha.” You focus on that warm, golden feeling, and open it to her. Instantly her features relax.

“I love you too.”

You kiss her lips, noting the color creeping back. “I’m gonna get Clint. Fury wants to chat but I’ll be back.”

“Ok.”

Reluctantly, you grab your bag and head out of the room. Hill is at the end of the hall.

“Assuming you’re here to be my escort to the big boss men?”

“Yup,” she smiles at you.

You give Clint a hug as he heads to Nat’s room and steel yourself for the conversation you’re about to have… and the commitment you’re willing to make.

Hill opens the door and you step in knowing full well that your life is about to change. But maybe… just maybe for the better.

You’d never met Alexander Pierce but you’d read plenty about him over the years. He’s almost a foil to Fury’s stoicism. When you enter Pierce smiles brightly at you, the man certainly doesn’t look his age.

“Miss Y/N, pleasure,” he extends a hand. You think it’s a bold move until you take it and get next to nothing. Much like Fury, this man is guarded.

“Secretary Pierce. Fury.” You nod at him, he remained seated, glowering.

“I expected you to come in here guns blazing.”

“If she had died I would have,” you sit across from them. “Since she’s very much alive I’m willing to talk.”

Fury holds your gaze. All you’d found for him since your last meeting were a few sloppy low-level agents lining their pockets with dirty money. That only came to light because they had a gossamer tie to one of the orgs that seemed to be linked to this Hydra thing… They were your focus, it didn’t leave much room for S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Well?” Fury breaks the silence.

“Well, what? I was told the two of you wanted to chat so here I am.”

Pierce smirks, “I like her.”

Fury rolls his eyes. “I thought you were keeping an eye out for-”

“I kept both eyes out for faults in your organization if they came up in my own research, that was our deal. I delivered you the faults I found. If I had anything else I would have handed it over.” Silence hangs again.

Your frustration snaps. “Is this all you wanted? Do you really think if I had a shred of intelligence that would imply she’d be in someone’s crosshairs that I’d let it slide?! Come on Fury.”

“That’s not why we wanted to speak with you,” Pierce’s tone is level. His cool eyes catch yours, giving away nothing. “We simply wanted to know if you had any theories as to where we could start finding holes in our intelligence system.” Your brows rise, “Obviously you’ll be compensated. But it’s clear that we have a bit of a problem here…”

“Well,” you sigh, “you can start by putting me on your intel team.”

“Are you shitting me?” Fury looks genuinely surprised. “Because if so, Y/N, I’ll have you know I am not in a joking mood.”

“No jokes. No small print.” Everything in your gut is telling you not to do this but you need to have Natasha’s back… This was too close, you won’t let it happen again. His look says he doesn’t believe you.

“Look… I coulda lost her and it would’ve been on me. Because had I taken your offer last time… well, let’s just say there’s no way in hell something like this would have gotten past me.”

“You seem very sure of yourself.” Pierce isn’t mocking just being matter of fact.

“I don’t have a big head or an ego about what it is I do, Secretary Pierce. I simply have certain abilities that allow me to be the best at what I do. That simple.” He nods, a soft smile on his lips.

“Ok,” Fury slides a file over to you. “Take a look and tell us if you have any thoughts on who our mystery assailant is.”

You slide the file back to him. “I don’t need to look. I know.”

“Oh?” There’s a slight change in Pierce’s demeanor. A tickle of something. Excitement maybe?

“I’m also fairly certain I have an idea of who’s behind the trigger man too. But… I’d rather not say.”

Fury sighs, “If you’re going to be a part of this, of my team, you’re going to have to get used to giving up your intel freely. ‘I’d rather not say,’ isn’t gonna fly.”

He’s right… but you refuse to lay all your cards on the table at once. “You’re gonna think I’m crazy but… The Winter Soldier put a bullet in Natasha-”

“And is Santa the one behind the trigger man?” Pierce has an eyebrow cocked high. “The Winter Soldier is a ghost story.”

“You don’t believe in ghosts, Secretary?”

“Of course not.”

You smirk, “How about telepaths? Or empaths? Hell, didn’t some giant green fucker wreck Harlem not too long ago?”

“Well… yes but-”

“The world is full of freaks, far as I can tell it always has been. We just got sick of bein’ burned at the stake so we got better at hidin’. I’d suggest you approach things like ghost stories with an open mind, Mr. Secretary.”

“Still like her?” Fury quips.

“Very much so,” Pierce gives you another broad smile.

A little over an hour later and you’ve effectively agreed to do the only thing you never thought you’d do… put yourself on a leash. True… it was a very long leash with some pretty sweet perks but still, something in you rankled at the thought.

The next day you’re on the jet, heading into truly unknown waters for the first time in a very long time… But the feeling of Natasha’s hand in your own, her sweet tired smile, these things remind you why you’re doing this. You’ll keep her safe… no matter what.

Your first few days in DC are a blur. Natasha is still being held in the hospital for safety, and though you have full access to her place you’re still by her side every free second you have. Those seconds are few and far between because you’re constantly needing to run to S.H.I.E.L.D. for something it seems.

Papers need signing, blood taken, quick physical endurance tests. You beg Hill to just try and put this shit off until Nat is out but no. S.H.I.E.L.D. had a certain way of doing things, there was no way around it.

When you enter Natasha’s room on the third night you swear she’s literally glowing. Her smile takes your breath away and all you want to do is kiss her lips raw.

“Still not sick of me?” You ask as you bend down to kiss her.

“Never.” She cups your face in her hands, “You look tired, baby.”

“Aww, thanks, hun.”

“Shut up,” she bats at you playfully. “Seriously though…”

You sit in the chair next to her, unable to meet her piercing stare that can always see through you. Instead, you study the way your hands connect, hope she’ll drop it. She, of course, doesn’t.

“Y/N, look at me,” her tone is so soft you can’t help but obey. “I’m getting out tomorrow.”

“Honey that’s amazing!” You jump up and wrap her in your arms, tears of joy stinging the back of your eyes.

She hugs you back as tight as she can before gripping your shoulders and holding you away at arm’s length, “I want you to do something for me before then.”

“Anything.”

“I want you to go home… er, to my place.” A slight blush hits her cheeks and your heart trips over itself. “I want you to order take out, take a long bath, sleep in a real bed, and come get me tomorrow.”

“Nat I-”

She holds her fingers against your lips to silence you, “You’re no good to me exhausted.” A smirk stretches across her lips and she winks. “Tomorrow… we get to really start our lives… together.”

You take her hand away from your mouth and kiss her knuckles.

Her tone shifts, “I know it’s a lot all at once… I’m still amazed you did this but… I’m thankful.”

“I’m thankful too, honey.” You mean it. Sure, you were still terrified of what it meant to be under someone but it meant you got her. The fear was worth it.

“Now,” she rips her hand from yours, “ get outta here.”

You laugh, “Yes ma’am!” Stiffly you stand and give a mock salute.

She giggles, “Kiss me.” You do. Thoroughly.

You’re both panting by the end, foreheads pressed together. “If I don’t see leftover Chinese or pizza there tomorrow I’m going to assume you didn’t properly binge.”

“I think I can manage, Nat.” You kiss her forehead.

“Menus are all in the drawer by the oven.”

“Got it.” Once more you press your lips to hers before staring deep into those spectacular eyes. “I love you, Natasha.”

“I love you, Y/N.”

As you settle onto the couch after a long soak to wait for your pizza and watch Steel Magnolias you have to admit that Natasha was very right. You needed this, badly. And tomorrow she’d be right here next to you, in your arms.

A life filled with a strange sort of domestic bliss peppered with plenty of espionage-related shenanigans plays in your imagination, louder than the movie. You could have real date nights, find favorite local spots to visit more than just a handful of times. Sure you’d have stretches apart to work different jobs, but nothing like it had been. And the best part was that Fury agreed to let you vet every single gig Natasha was assigned. So even if you weren’t with her you’d still be able to have her back in some way.

You don’t even realize you’re smiling until your cheeks start to ache. This would be fine. A sense of peace settles over you, nice, warm, and so foreign.

Finally, a knock at the door tells you the star of the evening has arrived.

“One second,” you fish some cash from your bag and open the door.

Your heart stops.

“Hey, Oracle.” A familiar sinister voice intones from a cocky smirk.

Too slow you try to slam the door but Rumlow’s booted foot stops it fast. Clumsily you stumble back.

Dodging his lunge you bolt for the kitchen and the gun you know is hidden under the island countertop. Your fingers fumble to release it and a knife lodges in your upper arm. You cry out but still manage to get the weapon, holding it up with one shaky hand.

He laughs, “Shoot.”

You do. But as soon as you squeeze the trigger a metal hand grabs your wrist from behind you causing the shot to miss.

Pure terror fills your chest as that hand breaks your wrist with one, effortless squeeze. You don’t even scream.

“Yeah didn’t come alone this time, bitch.” Rumlow saunters toward you. He grabs your chin, “I’m gonna have a good time with you.”

It doesn’t take thought or effort to force every single negative emotion you’re feeling toward Rumlow. He gasps, releasing you as he steps back.

Feeling the hand at your wrist loosen a touch you seize the moment of distraction. You slam your left elbow back into the chest of who or rather what you’re certain is The Winter Soldier. He hardly huffs at the contact. Instead, he spins you around pinning you to the wall, flesh hand on your neck.

Half of his face is covered in a mask so you can’t make contact there. But his arm would be enough. Your left-hand latches onto the exposed skin of his forearm and you pull anything you can hoping the blow is enough to throw him.

The flood of images though… A half-choked scream tears through your throat from under the steady pressure of his hand. Pain. Hot, electric, blinding. Fear, panic, desperation, words… German… no Russian. A flash of a man screaming from a train car… a word… a name…

“Bucky,” you gasp feeling your body begin to go slack.

You don’t know if it’s the name or the slap of your power to is brain but he releases you, stepping back, brows knitting, frozen in place. Desperately you draw in air. Where there had been nothing in his eyes before now something flickers in them. Not that it matters.

Rumlow is on his knees grasping his chest. The Soldier looks like… a broken doll. A shiver creeps up your back as you bolt, amazed that he doesn’t immediately pursue you.

Your feet are barely on the asphalt of the alley behind the building when you hear someone above you. Not daring to look up you run as fast as your legs can carry you toward the lit street…

Two sharp pains sear from each of your thighs and you tumble face first to the ground. Looking back you can see the hilt of a knife sticking out.

The Soldier slowly approaches you. This time you focus the pain and fear filling you at him the moment he’s close as you try to crawl away. He staggers but continues forward. You’re not shocked after what you felt when you pulled his memories…

Eyes cold as any you’ve ever seen, pin you as he kneels and rips the knife from your right thigh.

“Fuck!” You scream, a sob threatening, you won’t allow it. “Please, Bucky,” he pauses before tearing the other out. Still… he does it. You cry out and he lifts you by the neck of your tee.

The name… “That’s your name right?! Bucky.” Flicker of something behind the eyes. “Please, please don’t do this…”

Your left-hand shoots up and grazes his forehead before he catches your arm, pinning it against the wall. It was enough to pull more flashes of horror from him.

“What did they do to you?” Your voice cracks.

There’s a moment of hesitation before his metal hand cracks across your temple sending you plunging into darkness.

Ice cold water splashes across your naked body and you gasp as consciousness comes flooding back to you.

The taste of blood fills your mouth. Your head throbs. Your right wrist and both thighs scream with pain. And your freezing, tied to a metal chair.

“Sorry about the harsh wake-up.” After a moment your eyes focus on the source of the voice. Secretary Pierce… “You were taking a little too long to come to and we’re working on a tight schedule tonight.”

Silence hangs as you stare at him, the Soldier posted to his back left. All the pieces of the puzzle you’d been trying to put together for so long click horrifyingly into place. Bile rises in your throat.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was the front for your job on Natasha because Hydra was the one actually behind it… And that gig hadn’t just been about her… it had been about you too. Everything since had been linked in some way to Hydra, the children’s hospital, them bringing Nat into S.H.I.E.L.D., Budapest… Odessa…

That same broad smile he wore in Odessa fills his face, “You’ve been stumbling around us for some time now, Y/N.” He stands, rolling up his sleeves, “Honestly, it’s been impressive. You’ve exceeded expectations in every situation we’ve orchestrated.”

He holds his hand out to the Soldier who hands him a phone. Your phone.

“And then, Budapest! I mean, when we heard from that grunt what you’d done to him and his men. I couldn’t believe how lucky we were. You even shook this one,” he motions a thumb to the Soldier. “Extraordinary.”

He stands a couple of feet from you, flipping your phone in his hands. “Nothing?”

“You seemed to enjoy monologuing.”

He laughs, “I really do like you.” Pierce sighs, “If only we weren’t so short on time. I’d love to be the one to break that smart mouth. But there’s business to get to.”

“I’m not doin’ shit for you, you fuckin’ Nazi prick.” Your voice is a low rumble.

“Nazi is such a tired term and really inaccurate.” He signals to some unseen person and an image flicks up on the white wall behind him.

Natasha’s hospital room. She’s sound asleep. Your chest constricts.

“Like I said, business to get to.” The image disappears.

“If you take me she’s gonna come for you,” that terrifies you. It takes focused effort to hold it all inside… who knows what they’d do if you were perceived to attack this sack of shit.

“Oh, I know. She’d likely find a way to get Fury in on it too I have no doubt.” Fury knew nothing about this, you’d expected as much. “So we’re going to take care of that.” With a nod of his head, the Soldier approaches and stands ready beside him.

“Fury made your hesitation about joining S.H.I.E.L.D. clear to me on our way to Odessa. In fact, he was convinced that even after that incident you’d still refuse to join. So the thought that you’d run from all of this isn’t so far fetched.”

Carefully you coach your features. This man thought he knew so much…

“You’re going to call and leave a little goodbye message. She’ll still look for you and I will happily be providing her with some S.H.I.E.L.D. resources with which to do so.” Fuck. “After all,” his tone is sickening, “who doesn’t want to help true lovers reunite?”

He dials and gives the phone to the Soldier to hold to your ear. “I suggest you keep it short and sweet.”

The voicemail tone sounds, “I’m sorry honey… I just… I can’t do this,” your heart shatters with every syllable. “Being on someone’s leash… it’s just too much, Natasha. I-” You almost end with I love you but there’s another way you can tell her that and alert her to the danger all at once. “We’ll always have the… Palais.”

You nod and the Soldier crushes the phone in his metal fist. A part of you goes with it.

“I could shed a tear. Very Casablanca.” The Soldier retakes his place beside Pierce. “You remember Casablanca don’t you?” He directs it toward the Soldier, voice dripping with condescension before he pats the side of his face. “Of course you don’t.”

The question falls from your lips before you can stop it, “What did you do to him?”

“Me?” Pierce jesters to his chest. “I didn’t do this. He’s the product of a bygone era. But don’t you worry, your brain is far too precious for us to wipe clean.” The smile on his face this time is sinister, “We’ll have to get a little more creative with you.”

With that, he turns on his heels to leave.

“Oh!” He turns back. “And I’m sure you’ve figured this out but I want our terms to be clear. As long as you cooperate she doesn’t get another unwanted hole in her body. Understood.”

“Crystal,” you growl.

The moment the door closes the image of Natasha returns.

For hours you sit thinking they’re going to make you watch her die… It nearly drives you mad. But nothing happens. She sleeps soundly, wakes, and looks at her phone…

You watch as she gets the message, hurt and anger and pain flashing across her features until that last word. She listens again, and again, and again. One glittering tear slides down her cheek before the image disappears… And something in you goes dark.

@mywinterwolf @disagreetoagree @breezy1415 @peachthatdrinkslemonade @5aftermidnight @jeromethepsycho @marvel-randomness @daniellajocelyn @katecolleen @yanginginthere @wonderlandmind4 @piensa-bonito @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @lesbian-girls-wayhaught @siriuslycloudy2 @alphalesbianwolf @sxph-t @marvelb00kwolf @itsqueenofchains @demonlover87

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanoff #queer fiction

175 notes · View notes