An accident leaves Natasha without her memories, without anyone to guide her, and the Red Room chasing after her, the odds are not in her favour… unless those that love her find her first.
Whumptober 2025: Day 17 - tell me there’s hope for me
Warnings: nil
Word Count: 1.6k
Summary: Natasha is on the run.
Whumptober Masterlist/Masterlist of Fic / ao3
.
LONDON/ OCTOBER 04/ 12.47AM
Charing cross station is busy. She hasn’t quite got a plan and there seems to be police everywhere.
Natasha’s face hurts and her headache pulses as she looks around.
The backpack is heavy and she still hasn’t gone through it properly.
She needs to sleep.
She can feel her adrenaline fade and her hands won’t stop shaking.
“Excuse me,” she asks, one of the train attendants, “where is the closest hotel?”
The woman looks her up and down, her bruises on her face must be starting to show now.
“Um. There’s the Citadines Trafalgar Square, or the Clermont, but that’s ahhh a little more expensive. The Citadines… it’s just down the street, Craven street; I’m you can follow the signs that way. They should still have vacancies.”
Natasha nods.
“Thank you.”
The woman nods and continues to clean the floor.
.
The receptionist looks at Natasha as she rummages in the bag for cash.
The wad the appears in her hand makes her heart sink as she realizes how much money Diana had given her.
“Just one night,” she asks.
The receptionist nods.
“Check out is 11am. We need a £200 deposit but you’ll get it back at checkout.”
Natasha nods and hands the money over.
The woman gives her the card key and directs her to a room on the 3rd floor.
The backpack sits heavily on her shoulder as she gets onto the lift, hoping that no one has followed her.
She needs sleep.
She’s so tired, she feels sick, and the same images of Francesca dying with her hands over the wound she made, play on repeat.
The room is small but serviceable for what she needs.
She drops the bag on the bed, puts the chair against the door and the catch lock on.
Stripping, she looks at herself in the mirror, the intention to have a hot shower.
She looks like shit.
Swollen eye, bruises across the bridge of her nose, dried blood on her top lip and the oozing wound on her shoulder.
“Murderer,” she whispers to herself.
The image in the mirror smiles and Natasha turns away.
The shower heats the small bathroom quickly and she steps in, letting the heat envelop her, burning her skin.
She doesn’t let herself think.
One step in front of the other.
One moment to let the next slide past.
Mechanically she washes herself, peels off the dressing from her shoulder, and touches the scar that’s forming on her head. It seems to melt in the hot shower and she winces, wishing she hadn’t touched it at all.
Blood under her nails get washed as equally as the bruises that surround her abdomen. She doesn’t spare herself the pain in getting clean.
She washes again and again, until the shower becomes cold. Only then it seems to break her out of the cleaning routine.
Ignoring the now open wounds, and switching off the shower, she puts the towel around herself and sits on the bed.
She opens the backpack, wondering what other treasures it holds inside.
Like Diana said, a change of clothes and money.
She counts it to find it’s around £2000 left. The woman must have been saving for so long to get that money together. She’ll never know how to repay her, but even if it’s the last thing she does, she’ll find a way.
The clothing is neat and seemingly unrumpled for being in a bag.
Slowly, she dresses.
Good enough to sleep in.
She’s sure she’s done worse.
She glances at the top and clothing she was wearing, and salvages only the bra and underwear, washing them in the sink and squeezing them out before laying them onto a towel.
The other clothes she dumps into a bin.
She’ll get more tomorrow. They’re too blood stained and smell. She could wash them but time is not on her side.
She needs sleep.
Redress the wounds and bed, she tells herself, the opportunity for sleep may not come again for a little while whilst she figures out her next move.
All she has to go on is key words.
Black widow.
Red room.
Murderer.
.
The bag doesn’t have a passport or credit card, and probably above else she needs some ID.
Checked out and looking better, after finding make up in the bag; she finds the local pharmacy and buys numbing cream, more dressings and hair dye.
Brown hair was easier to blend in, together with the make up, she feels more human and somewhat incognito.
With the seven hours of forced sleep, only woken by disjointed nightmares, she watches herself in the mirror of the toilet.
Natasha chews on some jelly babies she’d bought on a whim and waits until the dye is ready to be washed.
It’s not easy in a public bathroom, but she makes it work.
The towel she stole from the hotel works to dry it, and she braids it tightly against her skull.
Her plan is Paris.
She needs to get out of London, and with any luck, do some research on the red room, whatever that was.
She knows, instinctively, that she can work her way around a computer.
She needs a Passport.
No better place to find one than in the train station.
St Pancras is busier than Charing Cross, and she steps out of the bathroom, looking for a seat to people watch.
It doesn’t take long for her to find her mark.
A woman of about her size and build, similar features and brown hair.
Her passport in her hand, clutched tightly.
She’s alone, just like Natasha is and looks lost.
If there’s anything she can do, it’s this.
She puts on the backpack and walks towards her, the deliberate bump makes Natasha fall and the woman catch her as they both share a look and in the aftermath, they both smile.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman apologizes.
“I’m so clumsy,” Natasha replies at the same time.
“Me too,” they say simultaneously.
Natasha stands up, taking and pocketing the passport, and the woman’s watch as she’s helped up.
“Thanks,” she tells her.
“Sorry again,” she replies.
Natasha give a little wave and walks hurriedly towards the ticket office.
.
Gare du Nord is so large.
Two hours later, and she’s in a new country. She’s unsure whether to keep the passport or discard it, given that likely it will be marked as stolen. But maybe she can modify it enough that it passes as adequate ID.
Food is the most pressing concern as she passes a bakery, and goes in on a whim.
“Yes?” the little French woman asks, not even looking up.
In fluent French, she requests two croissants and orders a latte.
The woman seems to do a double take as she looks up.
“Anything else?” she asks in English.
Natasha almost laughs.
Still not quiet passable French to be called out as non native. She’s not offended.
“Do you know where the closest hotel is? Maybe a smaller one? Maybe a library too?”
The woman looks at her strangely but directs her to a library that doesn’t seem too far away and the hotel she recommends is even closer.
Natasha wonders if she should go further afield but placates her anxiety by the reassurance she knows how to steal a car, move further south if needed. But for now, the train seems the easiest.
She isn’t sure why she knows what to do but her instincts have gotten her this far.
“Thank you,” she tells the old lady.
“Merci,” she replies with a wrinkly smile.
With food and directions, she makes the decision to go to the library first and then check in to the hotel. Likely she can book as she uses the library.
It’s not as grand as she thought it would be, more a small library that has two stories of books.
She approaches the librarian and asks to use a computer.
The woman also answers her in English, much to Natasha’s amusement.
“We, uh, it will cost you around €5 for the hour,” she tells her.
Natasha nods and smiles and hands over the money.
“Do you need any help?”
Natasha shakes her head and chooses a computer where she has full view of both doors and easy access to the toilet.
Her hands shake as she types into the search engine, ‘black widow’.
“Tell me there’s hope for me,” she whispers to the computer.
It filters results by most popular and a myriad of results populate.
“Avenger.”
“New York.”
“Shield.”
“Defector.”
The results make her more confused than anything, but there she is, standing amongst men and monsters.
Her head pounds in memory.
Kind words.
An arrow through her shoulder.
“Come with me,” he offers taking her hand.
“Clint Barton,” the caption reads.
She knows him. She doesn’t know how she knows but she does.
She clicks on articles and reads as much as she can, taking in the words and what they say, it’s often met with more flashbacks and a splitting headache as none of the memories merge, and everything’s feels so disjointed.
She knows him.
He has the answers, she’s sure of it.
There’s too much in her mind with him present near her.
What is she?
Francesca told her.
Her dying words.
“You’re one of us.”
Was she still?
The liar, defector, traitor and fiend.
Or, an avenger?
Maybe if she got back to America, more would be clear.
She sees all the information about London. About Hyde Park, 4 days ago.
The death, explosions and chaos.
Maybe going back to London would be more answers too.
