chapter summary | the past, no matter how far buried, will always come back like a wild searching for its next meal. all that matters is whether you let yourself be the lion or the prey.
word count | 5,338
warnings | child abuse, murder, threats of murder, mentions of strip club, high speed pursuit, nightmares, ptsd, cursing, little fluff, violence, guns, knives, blood, explicit mentions of death, fire, hints at bombs, mentions of drug abuse, alcoholism, spying, i think that’s it but lmk if i missed a big one!!
chapter playlist | wish - nine inch nails. • the other side of the crash/over and over - thursday. • girl - tori amos. • cool out - L7. • reasons to be beautiful - hole. • brother’s blood - kevin devine. • big sky - orville peck.
notes | i’m sorry this took so long but i hope that the quality and length of the chapter makes up for it! <3 thank you for reading and bearing with me i love yallll
series masterlist
the tents crowding the sides of the roads- placed anywhere and everywhere possible- cause a permanent nauseated feeling to settle over your gut. each tent housing things as harmless as sparklers and black snakes to things that imitate mini pipe bombs. things that were bordering dangerous to the safety of the general public. things that forced you out of your sleep in the middle of the night, your body shaking, a thin layer of sweat on your skin.
for the first time in the last decade, you’re unable to scurry off to a secluded camp somewhere in the midwest. the reason? the young auburn haired boy that sprints toward you, arms as wide as his grin, “auntie!”
“my little shooting star!” you hmph softly at the impact to your lower half, your eyes flooding with salty bittersweet tears, “you’ve gotten so big, buddy, wow!”
your mind momentarily drifts to the day he was born, the small birthmark on his ribcage that resembled orion’s belt, therein donning him the name despite the countless hours of list making and research done by you and his mother. you pretend to ignore the way that the boy winces as your arms wrap loosely around his ribcage.
“i’m gonna go get his things from brock,” nat alerts with a soft, tired smile, her polaroid camera already having snapped a photo of the two of you. she takes a deep breath before moving toward the busted up pinto, the paint so far gone that it looks like it was created from the god of rust.
orion immediately starts catching you up on all the events you’ve missed, which mainly consist of little league wins and him passing the fourth grade with flying colors. he beams up at you, his head reaching the center of your chest already, having grown considerably since the last you saw him nearly two years ago.
“goddamn it!” you hear the half-whispered curse just before the pinto peels out of the driveway, a steady stream of rocks and a thick cloud of dirt following its tail.
“hey, buddy, go get settled in, i’m gonna help your momma get your bags,” you give the boy a soft smile, urging him toward the door of the trailer. just as he makes it inside, you approach the red head. “what the hell was that?”
“that was brock smelling like twice the legal blood alcohol concentration,” nat grits out, her lip trembling slightly, “he looked pretty fucked up, too.”
“he’s using again?” you question in a low tone, your chest burning in anger.
“yeah, i think so,” nat sighs, shaking her head as she picks up the baseball themed bag filled with her son’s clothes for the week. “i don’t know what to do here, y/n.”
“well, you already know my suggestion,” you give her a look that says more than words ever will.
“i appreciate it,” her lips twitch slightly, “but it won’t come to that.”
“if it ever does,” you remind, “you know who to call.”
“always,” nat kisses your cheek softly before heading up the wooden steps and through the front door.
dinner is eaten in silence, every word being said without any being truly spoken. secrets linger with each scrape of the cutlery against the ceramic plates. natasha finishes off her own meal before taking the three sets of dishes and bringing them to the sink.
“c’mon, buddy,” she mutters softly, placing her hand on the boy’s shoulder, “time for bed.”
orion nods wordlessly and stands before coming to you, “g’nite, auntie y/n.”
“goodnight, honey, i love you,” you give a loving smile, your eyes scanning his, picking out everything he’s dying to say but has no clue how to.
“i love you too,” he whispers tiredly, rubbing his eyes.
natasha follows behind him with his bag, dropping it next to the small chest of drawers in the room at the very end of the hall. “alright, let’s get you into some nighty clothes, yeah?”
orion nods and takes the pajamas from his mother before pulling his shirt off, too tired to think of what his father had told him earlier that morning.
nat’s airway locks up when her eyes land on the large blue and black bruises painting the boy’s ribs and stomach.
“w-what happened, baby?”
“i fall a lot during baseball,” he whispers, eyes trained on the floor as he hurriedly pulls the shirt over his head.
the damage is already done.
“do you need some medicine, does it hurt?” she comes toward him, pulling her arms back to her chest when he flinches.
“n-no, it’s okay,” he assures, tears flooding his eyes, “i’m really tired, momma.”
natasha hesitates before swallowing and nodding, “goodnight, sweetheart. i’ll see you in the morning, i love you.”
“i love you too, momma.”
she shuts the door softly behind her, her face frozen in an expression almost nearing grief.
“jesus, nat, what happened?” you question when she finally returns to the living room.
“do it.”
your eyes go wide at her words, brows furrowed deeply, “what? what changed?”
“he beat the shit out of him,” she chokes out, her hand coming up to clutch at her chest, her lungs constricting. “i want him dead, y/n,” she sobs out, collapsing once you get close enough to catch her, ushering her to the couch.
“okay,” you nod, “when?”
“the sooner the better,” nat sniffles against your chest, her shoulders bouncing with each gut wrenching sob that leaves her lips.
“i’ll do it tonight,” you breathe out, expression blank, “i’ll call you on the pre-pay when it’s done.”
“thank you,” she looks up at you, her cheeks stained with mascara, her eyes bloodshot and full of too many emotions to pick out just one.
you nod softly, pressing your lips to her forehead, “get some rest, nat. it’ll all be over soon.”
you hug her one last time before standing from the couch, her voice stopping you at the front door as you lift your jacket from the hook beside it, “and y/n?”
you turn back to look at her, brows raised, “yeah?”
“make it look like an accident.”
you nod before exiting, a soft breeze sweeping against your skin. you slip your arms through the sleeves of the worn leather before zipping it up, quickly making your way to your truck.
you pause before turning the ignition. the only way you can be sure this will be done seamlessly is if he’s there. no matter the promises you made all those years ago, you know you have to go to him, and you know that no matter his feelings about you personally -he’ll help.
you knock three times on the thin metal door, arms crossed over your chest as you wait patiently for it to open.
“what the hell are you doing here?”
you pause for a moment before sighing, eyes finally rising to meet his, “i need your help, barton.”
he purses his lips and steps out onto the wooden porch, shutting the door behind him, “what now?”
“we gotta get rid of somebody.”
“who? the guy you had me tail? i already gave you everything i-”
“rumlow.”
you watch as his body tenses at the mere mention of the man, almost as if a switch flipped inside of him.
“give me two minutes to get dressed,” is all he can force out before he slams the door in your face.
you huff softly before heading back to your truck, a cigarette between your lips, a pair of leather gloves taken from the hidden compartment under your backseat covering your hands.
the ride itself is plagued with a silence, though not loving like the one that laid upon your family dinner just a few hours prior, despite the number of secrets that lingered.
“don’t you wanna know what he did?” you glance over, the dim yellow street lamps illuminating the cab of your truck.
“don’t care,” clint grumbles, gaze trained out of the open passenger window, “we should’ve done this back when we were in high school.”
“yeah,” you huff, “we probably could’ve saved her the heartache.” you pause, grip tightening slightly around the wheel, “that’s on me, i botched that whole thi-”
“there were two parts to that equation, y/n,” clint shakes his head, “we’re not making that mistake ever again. it’s time to fix what was broken twenty years ago.”
you hum in agreement before clearing your throat, “i know that what i did is unforgivable, and i’ll never ask for that forgiveness -for that trust back- but thank you for everything you do for her.”
“i loved her,” he admits softly, huffing as he wipes a hand over his face, “i think i always will.”
“clint, she loves you too-”
“-it’s not the same,” clint shakes his head, “and that’s okay, y'know? whether she loves me or not, i will always protect her. i owe him that much after everything that happened.”
your blood freezes in your veins at the brief mention of the man, one specific replay of a memory rolling through your mind like an old film, ticking through each piece of the movie until it reaches the end.
“oh, shit, i’m sorr-”
“-it’s fine,” you quickly cut him off, “it’s been nearly fifteen years.”
“that’s not something you just get over, y/n,” clint reminds, finally turning his gaze toward you. it’s the first time since you’ve been home that his eyes aren’t filled with subdued contempt, but with something you hadn’t seen from him in years.
“don’t look at me like that,” you grumble, rolling your eyes. it’s a piss-poor attempt at covering the taste of bile that rises to your tongue, “i‘m fine.”
“it’s not my place, but you should really talk to someone,” he sighs, “they have counsellors that deal specifically with that type of shit.”
“i can’t.”
“why not?” he presses, much more concerned than before.
“he’ll kill her.” the words are spoken in a whisper, as if you’re scared of anyone possibly overhearing, despite the fact that you’re in the middle of nowhere, it’s the middle of the night, and you’re driving eighty-five.
the silence returns just long enough for your ears to begin ringing, your eyes glossing slightly, the lights from the lamps growing less defined, your brain more foggy with each passing pole.
“you don’t-”
“he already tried, remember?” your voice shakes, and if your hands weren’t clad in black leather gloves, you’re sure you’d see blood staining them permanently, like some bad tattoo you got in a drunken night-out with a friend.
“no one’s ever been able to find proof that it was-”
“-i don’t need any goddamn proof, barton,” you choke out, “i know it was him.”
“how?” clint presses desperately.
“it doesn’t matter anymore.” it’s with those words that your shoulders finally slump with the defeat that’s been festering in the deepest part of you for years. “they’ll never charge him, he’ll never be put away.”
“if it was him, then why the hell would he make me swear-”
“i don’t know, alright?!” you slam a hand onto the thin steering wheel, your gaze snapping toward him, “i don’t wanna think about it anymore, i already think about it enough.”
“alright,” clint nods, “i’m sorry.”
“yeah,” you huff, “let’s just get tonight over with, okay? for natty.”
he hesitates for a split second before nodding, “yeah, for nat.”
the brakes squeal fiercely as the truck pulls into the gravel lot, rocks crunching loudly under the rubber tires.
“rumlow usually stops here before he heads to happy’s, so i figure we start here,” you inform, pushing your door open.
“hold on,” clint grabs your bicep gently as you swing your leg out of the truck, “what’s our plan here?”
“brock’s gonna have an unfortunate accident tonight,” your brow twitches slightly, your eyes mostly blank, “i owe fury some money, so i’m gonna go scope it out, use that as my cover and make sure his bitch isn't here.”
clint laughs softly, “shit, i forgot about that old beef. thought you two settled that?”
“we didn’t,” you grumble before hopping out of the truck, “stay here.”
“yeah,” he nods, reclining back against the seat.
“and get your damn boots off my dash,” your fist slams against the hood of the truck, causing clint to roll his eyes.
the bar is nearly empty aside from the small collection of drunken regulars, sleeping off the night’s sorrows at various tables around the room.
“another late one tonight?” fury quirks a brow at you, arms folded loosely over his chest.
“nah,” you shake your head, pulling the small wad of cash from the inside of your jacket, “was out ridin’ around, figured i’d come clear my debts.”
“hm,” he hums, placing the cash into the register, “you should get home. ‘fore the big poppin’ starts.”
you shift slightly, hands tucked into the front pockets of your jeans, “yeah, i guess you’re right. you have a good night, fury.”
his eyes narrow slightly before he nods, a soft smile on his lips, “you too, kid. get home safe, yeah?”
“you got it, boss,” you call over your shoulder, the feeling of fury’s gaze burning two holes into your back. the feeling doesn’t dissolve until you reach your truck.
“so?” clint raises his brows expectantly.
“rumlow ain’t in there,” you inform, “that carter bitch isn’t either.”
“think he’s with her?”
“nah,” you turn the ignition, “he’s about as faithful to her as i am to god.”
clint snorts, shaking his head at your choice of an analogy, “she’s one of happy’s girls, though, isn’t she?”
“his best girl,” you grimace, “if she’s there, he is for sure. and everybody knows friday nights are when the high rollers show up.”
“you’re right about that,” he hums in agreement, watching with a curious expression as you shift uncomfortably, shaking the aforementioned feeling from your body.
it’s about a ten minute drive to happy’s, though neither of you say a word on the way there apart from the quick rundown on the official plan. you know clint has far too many questions, questions that you can’t answer, questions that you don’t want to answer, questions that the only people who can answer are either dead or on the payroll of someone on the opposite team.
you park a ways away from the club itself, opting for a dark side road nearby, your gaze finally turning toward the man next to you.
“you good to do this?” clint questions as he watches you pull the switchblade from your boot.
“yeah,” you hum as you flip it open and closed, “are you?”
“oh, yeah,” he pulls his own set of gloves from the back pocket of his jeans.
“good,” is the only response you give as you hop out of the truck, adjusting the pistol in the back of your waistband — only there for emergencies according to what you told natasha. “you coming? we’re gonna be sittin’ a while, might be good to stretch your legs. plus i could use a lookout.”
clint nods before following suit, hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans as you walk toward the neon-lit parking lot.
he huffs softly, “smells like pussy and cocoa butter.”
you snort at that, shaking your head as you do so, “yeah, well, when you find a strip club that doesn’t smell like this, you be sure to let me know, yeah?”
he laughs, eyes crinkling around the edges, “yeah, you got it, boss.”
you snap the blade open with a soft smile once the two of you reach the rusted piece of scrap metal, “keep your eyes open.”
“yeah,” clint nods without hesitation as you crawl under the front of the car, knife held between your teeth.
you ignore the way the gravel digs into your body despite the thick leather adorning your figure, your eyes squinting as you feel for the correct line. you hold it in your left once you find it, the blade in your right, and knick it just enough to cause a semi-steady leak.
“hey,” clint hisses, his boot slamming against the tire closest to your head.
you curse and turn just in time to see brock sprinting after clint who hollered something about him being a lazy cunt.
once you’re sure you’re out of sight, you pull out from under the car and take off to your own truck, peeling down the street before you can bother to close the door.
“shit!” you holler, eyes scanning each and every one of the side alleyways.
then, the saran-wrapped prepay in your pocket starts ringing a shrill tune that makes your head throb as you lean and swerve to retrieve the device from your pants.
“yeah,” you grunt as you overcorrect back onto the correct side of the street, almost putting your truck through a neat row of trash cans. “not a good time.”
“it’s me,” clint grits.
“jesus- where the fuck are you, barton?!”
“on top of the old rite-aid,” he huffs, out of breath from the chase.
“where’s rumlow?” you question, already redirecting your route to him.
“going back for his car so he can use me as a speedbump,” he laughs, “where are you?”
before you can respond, your truck squeals into the parking lot, “look down and get your ass here.”
by the time he gets to the truck, the mirrors of your vehicle start rattling from the extreme bass that approaches.
“go! what the hell are you doing?!” clint gapes at you with wide eyes when he realizes that you have no plan to move.
“i’m gonna test him,” you breathe, your engine idling in the middle of the deserted street.
“what?!”
you ignore the cluster of questions being spat at you in desperation, your mind only focused on the car that’s steadily getting closer.
“c’mon,” you mutter once you can see rumlow sitting in the driver’s seat, “c’mon!”
“you’re fucking crazy,” clint concludes, “you’re gonna get us killed!”
“hold on tight,” you insist and it takes no time flat before clint has himself white knuckling the seat, one hand flat on the ceiling.
there’s less than a truck’s length between the two vehicles before you knock the truck into reverse, one hand on the back of clint’s seat, your eyes pointed out of the small rearview window.
a brief tap against the front of your truck has you seeing red as you spin, throwing the truck into drive once it’s facing forward.
“you fucker!” you shriek, taking every back road necessary to get to your destination.
“you’re gonna send him over,” clint concludes softly.
you don’t respond, your gaze steadily flickering from the rearview mirrors to the view of the water in front of you.
“c’mon you piece of shit,” you mutter as you watch his car get closer and closer with no sign of halting, “c’mon.”
“he’s not gonna fall for it.”
it takes one short sequence of events for the man sitting next to you to retract his statement.
just before you reach the railing of the bridge, you turn harshly, your truck rolling solely on the passenger’s side wheels for a handful of seconds.
you don’t have to look to know that the loud crash was the indicator of a job well done, though clint can’t seem to take his eyes off of the car as it sinks into the river.
you slow just enough to avoid getting a ticket as you roll through the neighboring town. “hand me the prepay,” you mutter, pointing at the phone currently lying on the floor next to his boots.
you punch in the number you’ve had memorized for years and wait for the third ring, your fingers tapping softly against the steering wheel.
“hello?” judging by the soft sniffles and the scratchiness of her voice, she’s been crying.
“clear skies from here on out, red.”
you toss the prepay back at clint, who can only look at you for a moment, his thoughts failing to transform themselves into telligible words.
neither of you say a word until your truck pulls into his driveway, headlight -since rumlow knocked out one of them- lighting up the side of his trailer.
“so,” he starts, “wha-”
“go hug your kids,” you speak quietly, not looking at him, “tell your girl you love her and go play fetch with your dog. i’ll see you at the shop on monday.”
he hesitates, “what’re you gonna do?”
“i’m gonna go get drunk and sleep on my couch.”
clint huffs and nods slowly, “yeah, guess i should’ve known, huh?”
“yeah,” you laugh sadly, waiting until he’s far enough before you reverse out of the gravel drive.
by the time you get out of the shower, you can already hear the soft booms in the distance, even if the holiday isn't for another day. you know it’ll only be amplified tomorrow.
you sigh and pull the laptop out from under your bed, plugging in the short usb you’d received earlier that morning.
earlier that morning. july 3rd, 6:27 a.m.
the loud banging on the front door of your trailer has you rolling onto the floor to retrieve your gun. you silently shuffle down the hall and into the living room, quickly peeking through the curtain. you sigh heavily, placing the gun onto the counter before you open the door.
“we’re off today, remember?”
“sorry for the early morning house call,” clint pushes past you and sets his laptop onto the round dining table, “but you need to see this.”
“see what?” you walk over, arms folded across your chest.
“i had bishop tail your boy last night,” he begins, “told her it was for an old bounty, something i owed a friend.”
“can we trust her?” you quirk an anxious brow.
“i trust her with my life,” he assures as he plugs a usb drive into the side of the device and pulls up the only file embedded, clicking play.
the footage is clearly being shot from the inside of a nearby building due to the height difference. bucky waits for a sleek white cadillac to pull into the deserted lot before he pushes off of his bike, unfastening the duffel bag from behind him.
then she steps out and you feel your body burn with rage, “is that-”
“-keep watching.”
you begrudgingly return your gaze to the screen, eyes narrowed suspiciously.
bucky hands the duffel to the woman and watches nervously as she examines its contents. she drops it into the dust and asks him what seems to be an angry question, her head tilted toward the man before her.
he nods, quickly throwing his hands out in an attempt to explain himself, though it’s not good enough judging by the glock that’s pointed against his temple.
she hollers something and waits for his obedient nod before knocking the handle against his brow bone.
bucky holds a hand to his head and waits until the car is completely gone before pulling the bandana and a phone from his pocket. he dials a number, mutters what’s most likely it’s done, and leaves hurriedly.
“what does that look like to you?” clint hums once the clip ends.
“bucky boy’s got himself in bed with the devil,” you whisper half-solemnly.
“you think he’s the sergeant or the soldier?”
“he’s not doing this on his own accord, he was too afraid.”
“then who do you think’s behind it?”
“that’s what i gotta figure out,” you mutter, though you already have an idea. you head into the back bedroom, open the safe hidden in your closet and pull out a thick envelope.
you hand it to him, “thank you.”
he nods, “let me know if there’s anything else i can do.”
“definitely,” you assure, giving him a grateful smile.
once the door shuts behind him, you drop onto the couch, head in your hands, “what the hell have you gotten us into, barnes?”
july 4th, 5:50 p.m.
the bar is nearing legal capacity by the time you make it inside. relief floods your veins when you see that your usual seat is completely empty.
you sit, sending fury a grateful smile when he hands you a freshly opened beer. “thanks, old man.”
“you’re in a good mood,” he points out curiously.
“i finally got over somethin’ that’s been eating at me for a while,” you inform, “got a good night’s sleep for once.”
“hm,” fury hums. “you see the news?”
“no, why? what happened?”
he wordlessly clicks on the small tv, turning the volume up a few notches.
“up first a six, the driver of the car retrieved from the east river has now been identified as army veteran brock rumlow. no foul play is suspected, there will be no further investigation.”
“that’s a shame,” you feign sadness, “orion’s gonna be heartbroken.”
“yeah,” fury huffs softly, “luckily his boy wasn’t with him.
“yeah, luckily,” you hum, taking a sip of your beer.
the doors to the bar clang open, catching yours and everyone else's attention. your brows furrow when the room bursts into loud cheers.
you shrug, too tired to worry about it as you turn back to your drink.
“this seat taken?”
you look up at the sound of the familiar voice, a smile gracing your lips.
“yeah, by you,” you motion for him to have a seat. “what’s with everyone clapping like the president rolled in?”
he laughs softly, “it’s my birthday.”
“no shit?” your jaw slackens a bit, “well, happy birthday stevie.”
“thank you sweetheart,” he pauses for a moment before standing, “can i show you something?”
“uh, sure,” you finish off your beer before standing and following steve through the bar.
he leads you into the storage room in the very back of the building.
“you’re not taking me back here to kill me, are you?” you joke, watching as he pulls a nearly-hidden lever, dropping the patch of wood that covers the exit to the roof, “what the hell? when did that get there?”
“fury installed it after the brawls in ninety-eight,” steve informs softly, motioning for you to move up the ladder first.
once the two of you make it atop the building, he leads you to a corner near one of the vents, two lawn chairs tucked in, each with a perfect view of the night sky.
“wow,” you breathe.
“i come up here to think,” he explains before correcting himself, “well, i did.”
“when you were a howling commando,” you conclude without looking, your gaze trained on the stars above you.
“when i was a king,” he laughs, “what do you know about the howling commandos?”
you snort, “what don’t i know? jesus, i almost was a damn howling commando.”
“no way,” steve’s eyes widen when it hits him, “holy shit.”
“what?” you furrow your brows in confusion.
“i remember you!” he exclaims, “you’re tank’s kid, maximoff’s old lady!”
“how the hell do you know all of that?”
“you were like two classes above me,” he begins, “i didn’t get my growth spurt until senior year, so i was yay-high, like a hundred pounds wet.”
you close your eyes as you try to remember your jaw dropping when it it comes back, “my hero.”
it’s whispered, just as it had been that night.
“you saved my damn life,” you huff incredulously.
“yeah, i got a broken arm and collarbone in the process.”
“why did you jump in? i mean, you never had a chance it was like four on one.”
“i had a raging crush on you,” he blushes, “i knew if i didn’t jump in, that it would’ve been much worse. so i took that risk.”
you sigh, your head dropping in shame, “i was supposed to come back and find you, but i shipped off that next week, i didn’t have time to tell you. shit, i’m sorry.”
“i always wondered what happened to the pretty girl in the prom dress,” steve jokes. “it’s fine, really.”
“thank you,” your gaze softens as you look at him, “for saving me that night.”
he stiffens in surprise at the feeling of your lips on his, his hand coming up to cup your jaw.
you smile into the kiss as you straddle his lap. steve’s ringed hands slide up your jean-clad thighs, your mind focused only on the warmth between the two of you.
that is, until the clap sounds above your head, sending you scrambling to the floor. your stomach lies flat against the concrete, your hands shielding your head from the incoming shrapnel. “get down!”
it takes steve a moment before the realization sets in.
“hey,” he starts quietly, refraining from touching you as best as he could, “hey, y/n. look at me, sweetheart, you’re home. it’s alright.”
you look up with glossy eyes, your hands trembling, “i-i gotta go.”
you scurry back toward the ladder, each boom causing you to flinch and duck. every other blink confuses you more, the setting constantly morphing around you. your head spins as you try to ground yourself to what must be the current reality.
“breathe, breathe,” you remind yourself, ignoring the half-concerned looks of the bar’s patrons, “not real. it’s not real.”
the drive home seems much longer than usual, your hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that you’re losing sensation in your fingertips.
once you make it to the semi-safe confines of your home, you drop to the floor, head between your legs as you try to slow your heart rate.
you’re unsure of when exactly you fall asleep, but you know that something’s off. the clock reads nearly 3 a.m, though there’s a dim umber light shining through the open curtains that you’re sure were shut when you got home.
“what the hell?” you mutter softly as you step outside, hairs raised on the back of your neck.
you know that scent. the distinct haze of a war zone, and blood. the more you take in your surroundings, the more you notice that everything’s simply wrong.
“nat?” you call after passing the first pile of bodies; blackened and charred and deformed by the roaring flames, just as the trailers are. you hold your shirt over your mouth and nose and attempt to swallow down the bile. you’ve seen worse, you remind yourself desperately. “orion?”
four more piles, each one more gruesome than the last, not one recognizable body in the stack. and still no sign of life.
you round a corner, the distinct sight of her auburn locks bringing an instant relief to your system. “nat, thank god you’re okay.”
it’s not until she turns around that you’re able to see the blood pooling from the cluster of gunshot wounds in her gut. you sprint over to her just as she collapses.
“nat? oh, god,” you sob, trying to stem the bleeding, “no, no, please. natty? can you hear me?”
she looks up at you with glazed over eyes, her nails digging into your arms painfully. you feel blood drip onto your jeans, maybe it’s hers, maybe it’s yours. there’s far too much of it for you to be sure.
she opens her mouth to speak, but blood comes instead of words.
“hey, shhh,” you shake as you pull the bandana from your pocket to cover some of her wounds, “it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.”
“you promised,” she chokes, body convulsing, “why didn’t you save me?”
natasha goes limp on your lap just as the sound of gravel crunching directly ahead of you draws your attention, only for you to be met with his smug expression. he’s still holding the gun, the barrel smoking.
“i told you, didn’t i, cupcake?”
you gasp as your head shoots upward in fright. you’re still on the floor of your living room, though drenched in sweat. your hands are clean from anything and everything.
“what the fuck was that?” you breathe out uneasily, the blood rushing through your ears.
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