@videniye sent this meme: Send 🛡️ for your muse to take a bullet meant for mine. [x]
Both of them have aggressively left behind a life of pain. Natalia doesn’t talk about her past, but the Red Room’s training sometimes still lurks in her mind. She covers it up with laughter and sass, and in Bucky and Steve, she’s found genuine friends. They care about her, make her feel like she has a place to belong, and the flirting (and eye candy, let’s be honest) is a definitely perk. As for Bucky, Nat has found out about his wartime experiences in bits and pieces, but still doesn’t have a holistic picture of everything that happened out there. Bucky is extremely reticent on this front (as people usually are with trauma), and Nat knows better than to push. It’s not like she’s any better, right?
Still, as the months have gone on, they help heal each other. Sometimes, that comes under the guise of a new tattoo, sometimes it’s simply crashing on the floor together under a massive blanket to watch shitty movies. Steve is in the middle most of the time (because he gets cold most easily, and both Nat and Bucky know that he needs the most protecting), but the two of them also steal moments for themselves too.
Steve pouts at them, but he knows he gets his own time with each of them too, so it’s fine. They deserve to be happy together.
Nat has done a phenomenal job of covering her tracks. She and Ivan have purposely kept their operation local, off the radar from anyone who might be looking for them. They’re popular but niche, and don’t have so much as a website up in order to reduce their clientele. She respects Ivan immensely for that — after all, he neither had to take her in nor go on the run with her when things got bad. Besides all of that, his talents are enough to seriously make a name for himself if he wants, but he still settles for very nearly struggling by for the sake of his adopted daughter. It’s more than Natalia could have asked from anyone.
Unfortunately, even the best laid plans are waylaid
The Red Room comes back to claim their lost protégé, and Natasha is not prepared. It’s not that she can’t fight them off, as she does keep her training up secretly, but it’s the fact that she now has people to worry about, attachments that they can take advantage of.
Sentiment is not worthwhile for an assassin, they tell her. She should have left her heart on ice, and maybe she would not have failed.
She refuses to believe that it’s true. She has felt more alive in the last few years than she has in the rest of her life combined. She’s been able to experience joys and sorrows the way that all people should. She’s had leaps of hope, brushes of gentleness, and even managed to destroy the fear that she had no soul left to spare. She has been whole here, and she would not trade it for the world.
No. That is a lie. She would trade it in a heartbeat for the safety of the people she loves.
The first attack comes when she is alone. The Black Widow is easier to tackle without Ivan at her side. He is ex-military after all, and can put up a hell of a fight, has been proven to do so for the sake of his girl. If they can get in and kidnap or kill her first without him knowing, they’ll be better off.
It doesn’t go as they expect. She may have settled into a routine that doesn’t involve death on the daily, but she knows what signs to look for. Hyper-vigilance is an old friend, one she has yet to shake off. They not only fail to take her by surprise but also get three of their agents hurt in the process. That is a surprise to them. Natalia has aimed to maim and not to kill. Things have changed. Perhaps it’s complacency? Perhaps it’s a conscience?
Nat heads back using the most roundabout method she can, climbing up facades of buildings, ducking into abandoned homes, biding time in seedy bars and stealing a change of clothes. A beanie hides her bright hair, grime covers her face, and she looks like a homeless wanderer instead of the neat, clean, precise Natasha that people know here. She’s fired off a text to Ivan, letting him know that he needs to get away before people come to hunt him down too, but she doesn’t really have enough faith in his self-preservation where she’s involved.
He’ll probably be waiting for me with two shotguns and a hot-wired car, the madman, she thinks fondly. The KGB wouldn’t launch their attack on me without knowing my routine though. If they did, it would be highly unprofessional. So they’ll probably stay away from him as long as he keeps his head down and doesn’t do anything too terribly suspicious.
This is her hope as she ducks into the alley behind the shop. It’s closed today, and she goes through the hatch in it that leads up to the supply room, rather than having to use the front door. Quickly, she gathers long-disused supplies, a couple firearms, blades, a hat and coat with extra pockets. She’s glad that she stashed these here instead of at the apartment. Suddenly, there’s a lurch in her heart as she realizes that being on the run again means that she won’t get to say goodbye. Hell, fuck, and damn it all. At least Bucky and Steve deserve an explanation...
Survival comes first though, and she takes a moment to scrawl a note for them to leave in the shop. Inevitably, they’ll come around on Monday when she doesn’t show up for their lunch meeting, and they’ll find out at least a little about who she is, why she’s running. It’s an apology. An attempt at an explanation. An inadequate farewell. Natasha forces her hands not to shake as she rushes through the words, and it’s so very tempting to sign off with the three that she’s been wanting to say for the better part of a year. It’s not right though, to let them invest themselves when she’s only going to disappear, so she folds it and lays it on her desk with a sigh. Enough time has been wasted, she needs to go.
Scarf pulled up around her face, she rushes back to the apartment. There are raised voices inside, and her hackles go up so fast that they could have given her whiplash. One is the angry, low voice of Ivan, spitting his Russian in the way he does when he’s been backed into the corner about something. The other is a voice that sends chills down her back. She’d know that gravelly voice anywhere. The Headmistress herself has come to find her.
If she goes in, she may be dragged back to Russia and forced to resume a life of blood and bitterness. If she doesn’t go in, it’s entirely likely that Ivan will end up dead for arguing. She may still be able to ensure his safety, and so she takes a deep breath and opens the door.
The old woman sitting on Ivan’s chair (there’s a moment of colossally illogical rage at that) beckons Natalia in. They all know what her entering the apartment means. Almost immediately, Ivan sags in defeat. Once the redhead has made up her mind, there’s very little he can do to dissuade her. Still, his eyes plead for her to reconsider. She, in turn, carefully doesn’t meet his gaze.
“How kind of you to join us, little Spider,” the woman croaks, and the only sign of Nat’s displeasure is the hard set of her jaw. Her sidearm is within reach, but she’s not sure how many other assailants are currently hidden in nearby apartments, ready to blow them apart for making even the slightest wrong move. Ivan only got away with arguing for so long because it bought them time for her to arrive. “Your services are needed. I’m sure you understand.”
She does. The Black Widow was their top student, their little killing machine. If they want her back, it’s because there’s a high level assassination that needs to take place, and someone else has failed.
Her expression is one that cannot be classified. Perhaps there’s a hint of satisfaction, that she’s been able to outwit them for so long, perhaps resignation, pride and pain. There have been so many others after her, she knows, and none of them have lived up to her legacy. How they must be punished for that. She wishes she could save them. She wishes she wasn’t broken enough that she can’t scrounge up the appropriate amount of sympathy.
“I take it that the Recluse has been punished?”
It’s an ultimatum given. You show me that you will torture your own daughter to gain my loyalty or I won’t go. It’s no less cruel to herself though. Anya was her friend once, so many years ago.
“I’ll let you personally oversee it,” comes the reply. How utterly horrible.
“Then you know what I will ask for in turn. Ivan and the others here go untouched, or I burn your entire operation to the ground, your own withered husk included.”
The Headmistress scoffs, but nods. She has expected as much. Natalia’s current life reeks of domesticity, but her senses are sharp. She has already proven that she is more valuable alive than dead, and her skills will be useful to the agency. They are the Dark Room now, even more deadly, with more experiments underway to create Natalia’s successor. So far, though, none have been quite so perfect. They need her back, even if they have to dispose of her later.
The redhead nods as well. “Leave. I have packing to do.” The Headmistress, accustomed to the Widow’s rudeness, rises. Just as the old woman gets to her feet, though, there is a knock at the door. Everyone freezes.
“Natasha, you in?”
Nat fights not to let her expression crumble. It’s Bucky, darling, sweet, wonderful Bucky who has seen too much and been through too much and does not need to know that his tattoo artist fling is about to vanish off the face of the planet in order to kill people. Her heart breaks a little, and if she hadn’t been in the presence of her most hated enemy, she would be shaking.
“Let him in,” the Headmistress whispers, and the redhead tenses further.
This can’t be happening. No, no, Bucky, run! Run away from here! She yells it in her mind, as if she can get him to listen, but there’s nothing doing. She hears him call her name again and has no choice. The Headmistress will kill him even if he walks away if Natalia does not prove that she’s willing to take orders. Slowly, she moves to the door, unlocks it, and opens it a fraction.
“Hey,” she murmurs, soft and sad and wishing she could do anything but this. “Sorry, this isn’t the best time.”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
And gods, doesn’t that just make her eyes want to swim with tears. She closes them for a second, regaining control. There are others watching, even if the Headmistress is towards her back. She cannot afford to show weakness. “I’m fine, Bucky. It’s okay. Can I catch you back at your place in a little bit?”
“You may not,” the Headmistress interrupts, pulling the door wide. Her gnarled face sneers down at Bucky, then grabs Nat’s arm and drags her back in. “Why don’t you tell him why you’re leaving, hmm?”
“You’re leaving?” He sounds devastated, and the redhead wishes she could show any emotion at all here, that she could pretend that she didn’t have to be a weapon right now. Instead, she doesn’t even look at him anymore.
“You promised you wouldn’t touch them,” she says to the old woman instead. “He walks out of here and goes about his life without your interference. That’s part of the deal.”
“Oh he will, but I think he should know who you are first. I won’t hurt him, precious little Spider.” Her hands trail down Natalia’s jaw and she fights not to jerk away. The Headmistress’s touch has always been associated with painful stitches, whip marks, reminders of failure and that hasn’t faded even after all these years. When the woman pulls her hand back at last, it’s to motion to the weapons littering the apartment. “See these, Mr. Barnes?” (Oh god, she’s done her research she knows who they are, they’re not just casual acquaintances, I’m so screwed, Nat thinks.) “These are the tools of the trade for your precious friend here. Not a tattoo gun, but real ones. She’s made her life on taking the lives of others. Possibly even your own comrades — you were in the military too, weren’t you?”
Nat can see Bucky starting to shake a little. If she could just reach out her hand to take his, to reassure him that she got out as soon as she could, that she doesn’t hurt people anymore...! But she can’t because she’s just promised to go back into it, hasn’t she? For his good, even, but she is willing to kill again. She hates herself. The Headmistress keeps talking, and the buzz around her ears builds. She can practically feel the anxiety attack that he’s having manifesting within herself, and suddenly her self-control snaps.
“Enough.” She places herself in front of the old woman, glaring. “You would not say such things to someone you meant to have survive. Get out before I kill you myself.”
“Oh, Natalia,” comes the reply, hoarse and amused, “you would not survive killing me.”
She does leave though, at long last, and when it’s just the three of them in the room, the air whooshes out from Natasha’s throat, harsh and wet with emotion. “I’m sorry,” she whispers to Bucky, “I didn’t think she’d ever come back. I was naive, I’m sorry.” Bucky, for his part, remains silent, eyes glazed as he fights off the war in his head. Slowly, gently, Nat works her fingers into his tense ones, drags him close enough that he can feel her body heat, presses her forehead against his. “Please, Bucky, James, look at me darling. Breathe with me.”
It takes a long moment before his gaze shifts to hers almost mechanically, but her audible breaths seem to help. Ivan, blessed be, tucks all of the weapons out of sight. They’ll be bundled up into bags soon anyway, and gone with Natalia into the stark blankness of Russian winter. Nat tries to calculate how long she has like this, how she can maximize the good she can do for him before she has to disappear, and it just... doesn’t work. At any moment, KGB agents might break down her door and drag her out of here. Violence on their part will only cause Bucky more trauma. It’s time for her to ease him out of here.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I need you to go find Steve. He can help you, alright? But I can’t do that if you’re not somewhere safe. I need you safe, do you understand?”
This is not what she usually says. Normally, when his world is falling apart, she is the one telling him that he’s safe, that she’s there with him and not going anywhere, that everything will be fine as long as she’s there to protect him. It seems foolish to him that he has to take refuge in that, but he’s always believed it somehow, that she was capable of protecting him. He’d never questioned why. Now, with the image of guns laid out on her table and a knife strapped to her arm, he feels like it’s viscerally true.
It also feels like he’s letting her go to her death. He’s terrified.
“You have to come back,” he says at long last, and Natasha’s face twists in agony. Of course she wants to come back, she doesn’t even want to leave in the first place! She adores him, wants to keep him from harm, and here she is doing what she does best apparently — hurting the people around her. “Please promise me.” His voice is nearly a whisper.
Natalia cannot give false platitudes. She squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head, presses kisses to his face. “Go, Bucky. Be well. Take care of Stevie for me and he’ll take care of you.” She pulls him into a bone-crushing hug and then shoves him away. “Go. The Headmistress is not patient. She can still come back and kill you. Run, please!”
Ivan grabs her shoulder and hands her the duffel bag. They, too, are running out of time. He will come with her, against her wishes, because someone has to stay by her side. Better him, he supposes, who knows the workings of that world inside and out, than someone who will shake apart at the seams, no matter how much the young man may love Natalia. She needs someone who will not blink in the face of destruction, who will kill ruthlessly and precisely, just like she does. Bucky remains standing in the doorway as they leave, and Natalia can only hope he’ll get home safely.
Downstairs, a car waits. The Headmistress glares at Ivan, and shoos him away. He will get his own vehicle, only Natalia is allowed to ride with her. “I’ll go with him,” the redhead says, “to make sure you honor your word.” Without her in his company, she’s fairly sure that a bunch of the goons will immediately try to kill him. She’s not chancing it.
When she turns back for a last look at the building though, the vision of Bucky in the doorway chills her. She can see at least three people moving towards him, and all she knows is that he is not safe not safe not safe those words were meaningless he’s not —
“Bucky!”
She throws caution into the wind, races back to his side and it’s just barely in the nick of time because gunfire starts raining down on them. She grabs him and drags him into a neighboring building, knowing that this one has a hidden cellar where she can stash him until the firefight dies down, but he’s dragging her through it, into the back and out into the alley, his hold on her is too tight and if she weren’t in top shape she’d be dragged along and she wants to yell that Ivan is still back there but...
But Ivan is better at taking care of himself, and right now Bucky needs to be as far away from the action as possible. She throws a flashbang behind her to stun her pursuers (the best she can manage while fighting not to trip over her own feet), and pulls a knife loose from its strap across her chest. She’ll throw it when she gets the chance.
The world is a blur around her for a moment (because holy fuck Bucky is fast), and finally they gasp as they lean against the wall just inside the back door of a local restaurant. Bucky is shaking with the adrenaline, but seems present enough to talk to, and Natasha hugs him tight. “They’ll come after me again, but this was a good distraction for them. You keep running, I’ll pull them off the other way. I know you don’t want to use this again, but...” She presses one of her guns into his hands. If it’s kill or be killed, she’d rather he did the killing.
His breath hitches as his hand closes around the weapon. She’s really just —
His thoughts are cut off by a kiss, slow and gentle and oh so familiar. “I wish this could happen any other way. I don’t want you to get hurt,” she says, and he finds himself nodding, unfathomably sad. She’s had this on her shoulders for so many years, unable to say a word. If he has to deal with his own PTSD for the sake of her survival, he’ll do it. He’ll suffer afterwards in silence, but he’ll do what he must for now.
Natalia presses another chaste kiss to his cheek, and then disappears out the back again. There are the sounds of gunshots in the distance, fading, and he heads outside. He should go home, he knows, he should find Steve, keep them safe however he can, make sure none of the agents that were after Nat come after them. He does none of those things. Instead, he discreetly follows the sounds of fighting. Long-buried instincts come to the forefront even as he fights the bile down, and the first man falls by his hand. A second is not far behind. Natalia is up on the rooftop, fighting someone hand to hand, Ivan is shooting at a retreating car, and he climbs the brick with shaking hands, hoping that everyone that matters is still safe. Carefully, he levers himself up onto the roof, injured arm practically vibrating in pain. Natasha appears to have some bruises and scrapes, but little else.
The relief does not last long. The man that Nat had been sparring dives off the roof, and instinctively Natasha goes to follow, setting her up precisely in line of a waiting sniper. Bucky spots the assassin half a moment before Nat does, and yells.
The moment seems to happen in slow motion. There’s not enough time for her to get out of the way, given her momentum, so he jumps, slamming himself into her instead. They take a rough tumble on the gravel, and Bucky hits his head. When his eyes reopen, bleary, he can see Natasha’s face set in fury like he’s never seen before. She shoots wildly until a bullet finally hits its mark and takes the sniper down, and then returns to his side, hurriedly propping him on his side and pressing down on his stomach. Her other hand fiddles with her phone, calling 911 and relaying the details before hanging up.
Slowly, he looks down at her hand and... oh, that’s a lot of blood.
“You fool,” she whispers lovingly. “You absolute fool, why did you come back?”
“Because you were here.”
She cries, ugly and beautiful and absolutely devastated. The bullet has gone deep. She can’t tell if he’ll survive, and she can’t bear the thought of him dying for her. She’d been willing to leave it all behind, to go on living without him as long as he was safe, but this... this is not something she can cope with. She can’t lose him, not like this.
“So help me god, if you don’t survive this, I will bring you back to life for the express purpose of murdering you myself. And you know Steve will do the same. Please... you’ve got to survive for me, okay? Please.” She hangs her head, hoping against hope, and there’s nothing she can do to fix this. There’s nothing she can say except... “I love you.”
