Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at https://archiveofourown.org/works/1972356.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: F/M
Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Captain America (Movies), Marvel
Cinematic Universe
Relationship: Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov,
past Steve Rogers/Peggy Carter, past Natasha Romanov/Clint
Barton
Character: Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton, Brock Rumlow, Nick
Fury, Alexei Shostakov | Alexi Shostakov
Additional Tags: Drama, Romance, Angst, Protective Steve Rogers, Hurt Steve
Rogers, Natasha Romanov Feels, BAMF Steve Rogers, Friends to
Lovers
Series: Part 2 of Heart of the Storm
Stats: Published: 2014-07-17 Completed: 2014-08-01 Chapters: 15/15
Words: 108831

Red Rain
by thegraytigress

Summary

A mission into Crimea leads Natasha back somewhere she never wanted to go again: her
past. With Steve at her side, she must battle demons best left to darkness and resist
answering the call of those who made her who she was. The only way to protect
everything and everyone she loves is to stay the person she has become, no matter the
sacrifice.

Notes

DISCLAIMER: Captain America: The Winter Soldier and The Avengers are the
properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work
was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was
intended.

RATING: M (for language, violence, adult situations)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Welcome, one and all! This is the second story in my Heart of the
Storm series. There are no major spoilers for The Winter Soldier in this, though those of
you who have seen the movie will recognize a few familiar (and possibly unwelcome)
faces. Clint will also make an appearance (because seriously – what was he doing during
The Winter Soldier? I think I would have died of happiness (well, more happiness) if he
had made a cameo).

Warnings for the usual: injuries, angst, general darkness. :-) This is strong Steve/Natasha
(which is going to make this AU with respect to The Winter Soldier), with hints of past
Clint/Natasha and Steve/Peggy here and there. Parts of the plot are canon with the comics,
parts are canon with MCU, and parts I'm flat-out making up. Enough rambling. Enjoy!
 Chapter 1

Through the haze of sleep, Clint heard something buzzing. He tried to ignore it, but it was
annoyingly persistent. Groaning, his threw one arm over his eyes and the other toward the table
beside his bunk. “Damn it,” he grumbled. He glanced blearily at the clock, blinking when the
blue numbers refused to focus. 0400. He’d been back for a whopping two hours, and already the
brass was bothering him. He tried to go back to sleep; he was too bone-weary and bruised for this
crap. To hell with their debriefing. But he couldn’t ignore the irritating sound of his phone
rattling against the nightstand. He clumsily fumbled for it, muttering and cursing and wincing and
really not wanting to deal with Fury’s disappointment over his failed, wild goose chase of a
mission. Finally he got it and thumbed the screen and pulled it to his ear. “What?” he croaked.

It was Hill. “Barton, the STRIKE Team is coming in. They’re reporting heavy casualties.”

Her tense words sliced through the fog in his aching head like a sword, and he sat up quickly,
jolted by sharp worry. “What? When?”

“No details yet. ETA: three minutes.”

There were things she wasn’t telling him. He knew it immediately. “What happened?” The
worst case raced through his muddled mind, and his heart sped in sudden anxiety. “Is
Romanoff–”

“Just get to medical,” Hill coldly ordered, and the line went dead.

Clint slowly lowered his phone. The screen dimmed, and his world was plunged into shadow
again. But that didn’t stop him. He rolled out of his bunk, stuffing his feet into his combat boots
and lacing and tying them. Thankfully he hadn’t bothered undressing before collapsing in his
bed. He was up a breath later, grabbing his SHIELD issue jacket from the back of his chair and
his sidearm. He strapped the holster onto his thigh and ran out the door.

Despite the late hour, the helicarrier was alive. Obviously news of the STRIKE Team’s imminent
arrival had spread through it like wildfire, and the narrow corridors were filled with agents and
soldiers rushing to their stations. Over the PA system came orders from the bridge, summoning all
medical personnel from sleep to report to the infirmary. Clint’s boots thudded against the deck
plating loudly as he ran through the maze-like interior of the massive vessel, side-stepping people
in his way, not bothering to excuse himself when he couldn’t avoid them. He reached the lift.
“Medical bay,” he barked.

“Medical bay confirmed,” the soft, feminine voice of the computer responded. Clint could hardly
keep still as the lift began its ascent. His mind was racing. He hadn’t seen Natasha for nearly a
month since he’d been deployed to Europe on the trail of a pair of 084s. This wasn’t the first time
they’d been separated; in fact, since the Battle of New York they had rarely worked together.
Natasha had spent most of her time working with the STRIKE Team. She had effectively become
Fury’s go-to asset for missions of the utmost importance. On the other hand, Clint had been
saddled with missions that generally kept him out of action, menial and tedious tasks that were
well beneath his expertise as a spy and marksman. He was beginning to think he was being
punished for things that had been beyond his control, for being Loki’s puppet back during the
Chitauri incident, for having his mind enslaved and his will conquered. He didn’t like to consider
himself as a victim, but ever since New York, he got the impression that people pitied him. He
was beginning to suspect he’d been permanently compromised in the eyes of SHIELD’s high
level agents, never mind having long passed the psychological and medical assessments that got
him back on active duty. And he got the feeling that Director Fury and the World Security
Council didn’t trust him.

Hell, he knew for a fact that the World Security Council had written him off as too serious a
liability ever since he’d defied their orders and spared Natasha’s life when he’d been dispatched to
assassinate her. It didn’t matter that Black Widow had become an indispensable agent of
SHIELD, a tool capable of espionage, manipulation, and murder like nothing and no one else.
She was a risk, and so was he.

The lift deposited him on the second level below the flight deck where the medical bay was
located. It was housed here as a precaution; on the interior of the carrier, it was not easily
accessible to an attacking force or enemy fire yet it was still close to the deck itself where
wounded would be brought. He reached the glass doors, and the retinal scanner immediately
identified him and opened the way. Clint raced inside.

Barely controlled chaos dominated the scene before him. His eyes rapidly scanned the
pandemonium. The STRIKE Team was unmistakable, clad completely in black combat gear with
yellow patches emblazoned with the SHIELD logo on the shoulders of their uniforms. They were
the best soldiers SHIELD had to offer, the best in the world in fact, highly skilled professionals in
black and covert ops. They didn’t fail. They never fell short. This was SHIELD’s assault team,
the first responders against the deranged and violent, the force that was sent in to stop terrorists
and take down madmen and control the worst evil the world had to offer. When the Council
wanted something done quickly and efficiently, the STRIKE Team was what they sent to do it.
Clint had served with them multiple times in the past. They were no-nonsense and silent killers,
deadly in even the most difficult and dangerous situations, so the fact that quite a few of them
were laying on gurneys, broken and burned and bleeding, was pretty disturbing.

Not so disturbing as what he saw next, though.

The main doors of the medical bay slammed open, and a gurney burst through them. It was
flanked by a half a dozen doctors and nurses, and it seemed like they were all shouting. “Clear the
way! Clear the way!”

“How bad is it?”

“Really bad,” answered one of the doctors, a young guy with wire-rimmed glasses who looked
about ready to pass out. “BP’s in the tank. Hypovolemic shock. Multiple major wounds to the
chest. Rigid abdomen. Collapsed left lung and reduced breath sounds on the right. Blunt force
trauma to the head. Patient is unresponsive.”

“Somebody get better pressure on his leg!”

“He’s v-tach!”

“Damn it, he’s bleeding out! If we don’t get this under control…”

“Have them send up as much blood as they can!”

Another of the doctors shouted, “We need the OR now!”

Clint observed in horror as the gurney was rapidly pushed by him. “Jesus,” he whispered when
he caught sight of who lay on it. Steve Rogers was unconscious and covered in grime and blood
from head to toe. His blue uniform was stained a gruesome purple. Over his chest it had been cut
open and pulled aside, revealing lacerated flesh and deep contusions and red welts and an ocean
of crimson that was spilling down the planes of his stomach and flooding the stretcher. He wasn’t
breathing on his own, a tube shoved down his throat that was connected to a bag that a horrified
nurse was rhythmically squeezing. His face was a mess of bruises, blood weeping from a gash
along his forehead and temple and matting in his hair. A few other nurses were desperately trying
to get some pressure on what looked like a gunshot wound to his left thigh. His right hand was a
filthy mess of red. The worst of it, however, was a bullet hole in his chest right over his heart that
was letting blood loose in a torrent. It dripped to the floor like rain.

He looked dead.

That wasn’t possible. Something inside Clint throbbed in anguish at the horrific sight. Captain
America didn’t get hurt, at least not like this. Captain America was the best soldier there ever was,
a true leader and symbol of integrity and valor. Captain America was stronger and faster than
anyone. Captain America never fell.

“Oh, my God,” Hill whispered. Clint hadn’t noticed her approach, but now she stood beside him,
ashen and wide-eyed. Not much served to faze her; she was endlessly calm and endlessly stoic.
But she looked shocked and lost.

“Where were they?” Clint demanded. “What the hell were they–”

“They called in for support, but I had no idea…”

The doors were shoved roughly open again, and Brock Rumlow staggered through them.
Another of the STRIKE Team stumbled beside him, his arm draped over Rumlow’s shoulders.
Rumlow winced, limping himself, depositing his injured comrade on an empty hospital bed. The
man fell back, moaning. Rumlow was breathing heavily, holding an obvious gunshot wound in
his side. “We need help here!” he yelled, his tough face etched in pain and anger and glistening in
sweat.

A few nurses immediately moved to tend to the newly arriving wounded. Hill recovered from her
alarm quickly enough, stepping closer to Rumlow where he leaned tiredly against one of the
beds. His hand was covered in blood, but it was obvious that was wound wasn’t overly serious.
“Agent Rumlow, report,” she ordered.

Rumlow couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Clint didn’t know him very well. The man was
humorless and something of a prick, rough and harsh with everyone. Still, he was damn good at
his job and he knew it. Everyone knew it. “Everything went to hell,” he hoarsely answered.

“Besides the obvious,” Hill tersely said. “What happened to Rogers?”

Rumlow regarded Hill with irritated, angry eyes. His tone was laden with spite. “He took out the
Red Guardian. Mission accomplished, right, Hill? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Clint narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t sure what the mission had been – who the hell is the Red
Guardian? – but whatever had happened, it was blatantly obvious that wasn’t the whole story.
Hill looked as confused as he was, which was even more of an indication that whatever the
STRIKE Team had been sent to do hadn’t gone as planned. He didn’t have the patience for
Rumlow’s acidic and cryptic answers. A lot of the STRIKE Team was inside the medical bay
now, but Natasha was still nowhere in sight. If Rogers was here, she would be as well; Fury had
been partnering the two of them almost constantly in the last year or so. Clint’s heart thudded
rapidly in worry (and fear if he could admit that to himself, which he’d found a lot easier to do
since New York). “Where’s Romanoff?”

Rumlow flashed furious eyes at him. “That all you care about, Barton?” he seethed. “We got our
asses handed to us out there. Rogers nearly died on the way here. And that’s all you care about?”
Hill sensed the situation degrading. She darted icy eyes between the two men. “Easy, Rumlow.
We need level heads while we get a handle on the situation. Fury wants a debriefing
immediately.”

But Clint wouldn’t be dissuaded. Everything felt pulled tight within him, and the more Rumlow
glared at him, the more his impatient concern was amplified. He was so tired, and horrible images
flashed through his mind. Natasha dead. Natasha as badly hurt as Rogers. Behind them alarms
suddenly wailed. Clint turned, breaking his glare, and watched the hell unfolding. The doctors
were screaming orders, panicked and desperate, fumbling for bandages and syringes filled with
atropine and a goddamn defibrillator. Rogers’ heart wasn’t beating.

The rear doors of the bay swished open, and Nick Fury walked in, dark and intimidating. His
good eye was narrowed in barely controlled rage. When his sharp gaze fell upon the slew of
doctors fighting to save Rogers’ life, his face slackened in alarm. It was a momentary expression
of weakness. Clint could count the number of times on one hand he’d ever seen Fury afraid or
disturbed. That brief look was gone in a blink, replaced with a stony, stoic set of his jaw and a
narrowing of his eye.

A slew of frantic commands filled the bay from the corner where the doctors struggled. “No
pulse.”

The whine of a machine charging. “Hurry with the atropine!”

One of the doctors was compressing Rogers’ chest with all the force and calm she could muster.
“Come on, Captain Rogers, don’t do this…”

Fury looked to his agents, but his gaze kept drifting back to the horror playing out in front of
them. “What the hell happened?”

Rumlow’s confrontational expression loosened out of respect for his commanding officer and
maybe even concern that Rogers was dying right in front of them. One of the doctors was
crouched before the soldier with a pile of bandages and another nurse unzipped his combat vest
and helped him remove it. He winced when it came away from the wound. “We completed the
mission objectives, Director.”

“The mission objectives did not involve a military operation of this magnitude, especially not on
Russian soil!” Fury returned coldly. It was obvious he was less than pleased. “The Council did
not authorize action. You were supposed to offer support to Rogers and Romanoff and extraction
if necessary. You were supposed to wait for my go-ahead. Was anything about that unclear?”

Rumlow didn’t react to the insult. “No, sir.”

“I don’t recall giving an assault order!”

“You put Captain Rogers in charge,” Rumlow argued. He grunted as the doctor pressed a sterile
pad to the gunshot wound. “He authorized it. Said we couldn’t let those what those ships were
carrying reach Russian territory, so we stopped them. Seeing what those bastards were up to…
Sir, he was right.”

Fury looked to be at a loss. That was another thing that he rarely ever was. But before he could
say anything, the doors in the rear of the bay opened again. There was a glint of red. Clint’s eyes
shot to the figures stumbling inside. “Natasha,” he whispered.

She staggered inside. He knew immediately that something was seriously wrong. Her auburn
hair was mussed and tangled. Her face was bruised but extremely white around the marks. Her
lip was split. She wouldn’t look at anyone, watery, red eyes focused on the floor. Clint’s heart
thudded wildly in his chest. Her hands were bound, zip tied in front of her. And two members of
the STRIKE Team flanked her, their guns trained on her like she was a prisoner.

“What the hell…” he whispered. He was across the bay in a breath, running with long, fervent
strides. “Natasha? Natasha!”

Jack Rollins whipped his gun up and pointed it at Clint. “Back the fuck off, Barton!” he warned.
His eyes glinted dangerously, and his finger was poised on the trigger. Clint gritted his teeth, his
hand reaching for his own gun in its holster on his thigh. Rollins’ eyes flashed. “I said back off!”

The roar cut through the chaos of the infirmary. For a second, everything was completely still,
even the pulse of frantic action behind them. But it couldn’t last. “Clear! Damn it, move out the
way!” There was a heavy thud of a body being shocked and jolting upward unnaturally before
settling lifelessly down again. “Recharge higher!”

“Get your gun off of her,” Clint hissed. “Now.”

The other STRIKE agent shoved Natasha to the deck plating. She didn’t struggle, bowing her
head and closing her eyes as she struck the floor hard on her knees. Clint saw other things then.
Blood on her clothes. Blood in her hair. Blood on her hands. So much red.

The tension was palpable, the air electrified with terror. Rollins didn’t budge or blink. Neither did
Clint. “What’s matter with you? She’s a senior agent! Get your goddamn gun off of her!” he
yelled.

“Stand down!” Fury bellowed. He was there, pushing his way between the two of them. His
glare was cutting, promising swift wrath and retribution if either of them caused the situation to
escalate any further. “Both of you!”

Another long moment passed in which nobody moved or yielded. Clint glanced at Natasha, but
she remained utterly unmoving, her bloody hands lying uselessly and limply in her lap. She still
refused to meet his gaze. Confusion left Clint reeling, but it was becoming increasingly obvious
that fighting wasn’t the answer. Especially if Natasha wasn’t going to defend herself.

Something horrible had happened.

“Clear!” Another thud of discharging electricity against flesh. A second stretched into forever.

“We got a pulse!”

“Thank God,” someone breathed in weary relief. “Thank God. Okay, we need to move him.
Hurry.”

“The OR’s prepped, Doctor!”

“Move! Go!”

The yells from behind them and the flurry of frenzied motion to get Rogers out of triage and into
surgery served to diffuse the situation. But there was no relief. Clint dropped his hand from his
gun, glaring venomously at Rollins. The STRIKE agent finally lowered his weapon, but he didn’t
holster it. Fury turned back to Rollins, silently threatening, and then looked at Rumlow. “I want
an explanation as to why Captain America is bleeding out all over my medical bay and why
Romanoff looks like a zombie out of some goddamn horror movie. It had better be good.”

To hell with answers. “She needs medical attention,” Clint interrupted, itching to get closer to
Natasha to see how badly hurt she truly was. She was obviously disoriented, catatonic almost,
and the amount of blood covering her was staggering. He’d never seen her like this. All of her
poise, her infallible shields and indomitable control over her body and mind and emotions… It
was gone. “Right now! Get a doctor over here!”

“Agent Barton, you will keep your mouth shut until I tell you otherwise,” Fury seethed.

Clint nearly lost his composure. Tensing every muscle in his body was all he could do to not lash
out. “Sir, Agent Romanoff is bleeding badly. I don’t know what they think she did, but she
needs medical attention. We can sort the rest of this out–”

“What we think she did?” Rumlow said lowly. He was obviously disgusted with this entire
situation but even angrier at Clint’s reaction. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see it. That blood
you’re so concerned about? Not hers.”

Clint’s own blood turned to ice. “What?”

“Sir,” Hill interjected as she approached. She was a tad breathless and putting forth an admirable
effort at seeming stoic when it was very clear she was anything but. “They’re taking Captain
Rogers to surgery. They…” She uncharacteristically faltered. “There’s a bullet in his heart.
They don’t know if they can get it out.” Her pale face whitened even further, and her eyes
betrayed her dismay. “They don’t think he’s going to live.”

With that, the tense, miserable silence returned. Clint was shaken and reeling and so miserably
confused. His skin itched and tingled to do something, anything, but he wasn’t sure what. He
wasn’t sure of anything. His mind was racing, twisting and turning in a heated storm of
unanswered questions and emotions struggling to run rampant. What had happened? What the
hell had happened?

“She betrayed us, Director,” Rumlow said.

Fury saw the connection that Clint couldn’t make himself see. “Are you saying that she did this to
Rogers?” he asked softly and slowly. It wasn’t often Fury betrayed anything about what he was
thinking, but he looked utterly shocked and horrified. And it was horrifying. Black Widow had
gone straight. She was a deadly assassin and a ruthless killer, but she played for the right team
now. Underneath all of the lies and seduction and manipulation, she was a good person, loyal and
true to the cause. SHIELD’s cause. Building a better, safer world. Clint had saved her and set
her straight.

Rumlow’s face hardened into a scowl. “After Rogers took out the Guardian, she took out
Rogers.” His baleful eyes shifted to Natasha’s bound form at Rollins’ feet. She did nothing, said
nothing to dispute it or defend herself. She was shivering helplessly in shock. Rumlow’s eyes
glimmered in murderous rage. “Point blank.”

It couldn’t be possible. It wasn’t possible. The urge to fight, to deny these lies, ripped through
Clint’s veins with every strained beat of his agonized heart. Rumlow was a bastard in the strictest
sense; he was trying to take out an agent higher-up in the chain of command. He was trying to
destroy a threat to his career. He was trying to discredit someone he perceived as competition. He
was opportunistic and vindictive.

Clint looked at Natasha, praying for some confirmation of his desperate thoughts. She still stared
at the floor, bent and crushed and defeated. No, it wasn’t true. He knew it in his heart. It
couldn’t be true. “You’re a fucking liar,” Clint hissed at Rumlow. The tension returned,
crackling with the threat of violence as this unimaginable nightmare went on. Hands went to guns
again. Orders could be damned. He wasn’t going to let them hurt Romanoff. He wasn’t going to
stand there and let them accuse her of something she would never do. He wasn’t going to–

“No.” Natasha’s soft, broken voice seemed incredibly loud. She looked up finally. Her blue
eyes were dead. “No, he’s right.”

Clint shook his head. “Nat–”

“I did it,” she whispered. A tear slipped down her pale cheek, cutting through grime and blood.
“I shot Steve.”
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Herein we have a touch of current events (modified to fit the
story) and a touch of comic canon. All of my Russian facts and history and phrases
are from researching the internet, which, as we all know, is a good resource but not
necessarily always right. If you find mistakes, please tell me so I can correct them.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

One week prior

Natasha knocked on the door. There was no answer at first, but she was patient. She wouldn’t be
very good at her job otherwise. The apartment building was utterly silent this time of night. It was
that awkward time, too late to be yesterday but too early to be today, and long shadows swept
from walls painted golden by the dimmed sconces. It was really ridiculous (and probably
inappropriate) that she was here, but she didn’t think twice about it. She didn’t want to
acknowledge the whispering anticipation of her ulterior motive, but it was pretty hard not to,
especially when the door creaked open.

Steve stood there shirtless, his hair sticking up wildly, rubbing sleep from bleary blue eyes. Her
eyes flicked from his face and down his chest – no man should ever look so perfect – across
unblemished skin and rippling muscles and down further to where his pajama pants hung low on
his hips before darting back upward. Thankfully, he was too sleepy (or too naïve – it was always
hard to tell with him) to notice. “Nat? What are you doing here?”

“Get dressed,” she said. “Mission brief in an hour.”

“Huh?” He shook his head as if to jostle himself to awareness. “It’s three in the morning. Haven’t
you ever heard of a phone?”

“Funny coming from you.”

Steve’s eyes darkened ever so slightly. “We did have telephones back in the 40s,” he reminded.
“You could have called.”

She was far too much of a master of her own emotions to betray even the tiniest bit that she’d been
found out. “Would you have been in a better mood if I had? Pretty rude, Rogers, leaving a lady
standing out in the hallway.”

He flushed a little and his angry expression softened. She’d learned early on in their partnership
that the easiest way to manipulate him was to appeal to his morals. His sense of right and wrong
was iron-clad and naïvely unwavering and unendingly exploitable. He would without any
complaint do anything and everything to be a good gentleman. “Sorry.” He stepped to the left so
she could pass.

She stepped inside his apartment. Despite having been partners for almost a year, she’d never been
there before. It was spacious and very nicely furnished, though she was certain he hadn’t been the
one to decorate it. Everything was… simple. A wooden coffee table that was devoid of books or
papers or anything. A white couch that had no flourish or any aesthetic design behind it. Other
chairs and tables that were the same, not harsh but not entirely welcoming either. Shelves filled
with books, some of which looked read and some not. Polished hardwood floors shone in the dim
light, occasionally adorned with rugs and runners that had no pattern. Boring lamps and
uninteresting curtains. Everything was monotone tans and beiges and whites and grays. It was a
blank canvas, a home put together by someone who’d been handed a personnel file and told to
create something that that the man behind the file would like. It was designed by somebody who’d
grown up with plenty in the future for somebody who’d grown up with nothing in the past. It was
overly straightforward, overly bland, and overly practical. It wasn’t him.

On one of the bookshelves there was an array of framed pictures. They were all black and white,
obviously taken during World War II. A nice-looking young man stood next to Captain America
and both of them were smiling broadly. An eclectic team of soldiers wore bowlers and berets and
were armed to the teeth. And there was a beautiful woman wearing a military uniform. She had
striking dark eyes and dark hair and full lips that Natasha imagined were probably painted deep
red. This one shelf was the only sign of Steve in the room.

“Nice place,” she commented.

Steve closed the door. “Thanks,” he murmured.

“Could use a woman’s touch, though.” She coyly cocked an eyebrow.

Steve ran a hand through his hair. His face was a cross between mortified and ashamed. “Haven’t
exactly had the time to find myself a date between trying to figure out the world and trying to save
it. And I wouldn’t even begin to know where to look, honestly. This is all, uh… well…”

She smiled. “Rogers, this is the twenty-first century. When you can’t find something, you look on
the internet.”

He winced. “I’d rather not tie my chances of finding a dame – a girl…” He stammered and
paused, obviously struggling to find the words to kindly express what he wanted to say. “Just…
I’d rather not date with a computer, if it’s all the same.”

Sometimes she was downright disturbed about how incapable he was with women. He couldn’t
really be so blind as to not know how desirable he was, could he? She figured he must be. He was
nothing if not earnest and sincere. He was Captain America, for God’s sake. Women would line
up around the world for a chance at that. But, then, his obliviousness was part of his charm, she
supposed. So many men were so self-absorbed, or at the very least aware of how to manipulate
their good attributes to snag a girl. Steve seemed to be hopeless, too uncertain of himself in this
world of fast-paced hook-ups and break-ups. Either that or he didn’t want just anyone. She was
talking before she thought better of it, because the thought of him lonely or depressed or sad in this
new world upset her even if she didn’t want to admit it to herself. “I could set you up with
someone.”

He smiled but was obviously uncomfortable with the idea. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m alright.
Besides, I doubt women are climbing over themselves to date a ninety-five year old.” He had no
idea. It was sad, in a cute sort of way. And it was also a relief, but she wouldn’t say that.
Thankfully, he changed the subject. “Fury tell you anything about what this is about?”

“Nope.”

“We just got back. Why so soon?”

Natasha shrugged. “The world of international terrorism doesn’t run on a timetable with downtime
built in. You know that,” she dryly said, although truth be told, she was a little irritated that Hill
had contacted her forty-five minutes ago with strict orders from Fury to report to the Triskelion for
another mission brief. They had just returned from the last one (a simple deployment to Iran to
take down a sloppy mess of militants who’d gotten their hands on bioweapons from the black
market. They’d been downright stupid, having had no idea what they’d purchased let alone how
to use it, and the STRIKE Team had made short work of them. Hell, she hadn’t even fired her
gun.). It seemed that Fury had been calling upon Rogers and her more and more of late, ever since
he’d paired them off about a year ago. She didn’t mind working with Steve; in fact, she was
enjoying it immensely (if she was honest with herself, which she tried not to be). But she was
getting weary of the constant bombardment of work, of mission after mission after mission.

Steve didn’t look pleased. “Alright. Help yourself to anything you want. I’m just gonna get
dressed.” He padded on bare feet down the main hallway to the back of the apartment. She made
some pretense of looking around before following silently. Her curiosity was piqued. There was a
den to her left and a spacious bathroom to the right. At the end of the hallway she found another
living area equipped with a massive flat screen on the wall that looked like it was rarely if ever
used. There was a Blu-ray player and a pile of discs that sat atop it with a note. She recognized
Tony Stark’s sloppy scrawl. ”Cap – This is your initiation into modern science fiction. But you
need to watch them in this order – don’t deviate!” It was the Star Wars movies, and the rest of the
note had some complicated explanation of which movies to watch and which to ignore. The
corner her lips twisted in a bit of a smile.

There was another coffee table, and this one did have books and papers on it. History books.
Fiction. All the great works of literature since 1945. She wasn’t surprised that Steve was reading;
she knew SHIELD had assigned him a psychiatrist or two to help him adjust to the 21st century.
But she was surprised at what he was reading, everything from books on 9/11 and biographies of
George W. Bush and Bill Clinton and President Matthew Ellis to the Harry Potter series to
political analyses of Vietnam and the Gulf War to Kurt Vonnegut and Chuck Palahnuik. And he
was tearing through it all. She had witnessed firsthand what the super soldier serum could do, his
raw strength and speed and endurance. She supposed it only made sense that he could read and
learn better than anyone else, too.

There was a laptop computer, too, and a tablet. And a notebook that she opened. She grinned at
the list she found, notes he kept with things people had recommended he check out. And there
was a StarkPhone that looked untouched (undoubtedly a gift from Tony as well). Folders from
SHIELD. She lifted the flap of one and expected recent mission reports but saw a data file on a
man named Timothy Dugan. Immediately she recognized the face from one of the photos in the
front and realized this man was one of the Howling Commandos. Seventy years in the past Steve
and his team had saved the world from the Nazis and HYDRA, and this man was long dead.
Beside those she found a few papers that were old and yellowed, covered with pretty cursive
writing that could have only come from a woman. She peered closer. On top of the bundle there
was a note with that same, pristine cursive, if not a little more jagged as though the person’s hand
had been shaking while writing.

Dear Steve,

Read these and know that I never stopped thinking about you and what could have been.

All my love,
Peggy

Natasha thought for a moment she shouldn’t go any further. It wasn’t often that her conscience
impeded her, but now she felt decidedly dirty just staring what were obviously letters from an old
flame. That was most certainly not her business, and Steve was her partner, not her mark. A little
pang of something ached in her heart. ”I’m sorry I missed our date.” That was what he’d said on
their first mission together. They’d become trapped by some pirates in the ballast tank of ship.
When the tank began to flood, it had triggered a rather serious and devastating flashback on
Steve’s part to the moment when he’d crashed a Nazi plane into the Arctic to stop it from bombing
North America. Trapped in the past, he’d said that to her. ”I missed it. I’m so sorry.” Was this the
woman he’d been dating? She was ridiculously curious. Since that moment, he’d never had
another break down (at least, not that she’d seen), and he rarely ever talked about his personal life
before he’d been found in the ice by SHIELD. She couldn’t remember the last time she hesitated
about spying. But she did now.

“You think it’s at all strange that SHIELD is suddenly on the offensive?” Steve’s voice stayed her
hand as it reached toward the letters. She whirled away, flushing in shame as though she’d been
caught in the act, but Steve was still in his bedroom. She recovered her composure, the jolt of
adrenaline disappearing as quickly as it had come, and she walked silently down the adjacent
hallway.

From her vantage, she could see into his bedroom. He was emerging from the bathroom, clad only
in boxer shorts that left little to the imagination. She watched as he pawned through a drawer in
his dresser, his back to her. Muscles shifted and his skin glowed gold in the light. There was
something entrancing about the way he moved. She’d heard other agents, lower-level female
agents, gossip about him in the past. Male perfection, the other female agents called it, and they
were practically slavering over it. Even Hill, who had about as much personality as an icicle,
ogled him every so often when she thought no one was looking. That was part of the reason
Natasha had come when she could have called, part of the reason she felt a tad jealous seeing
those letters. She’d seen him like this before, of course, dreamed about it a lot (not that she was
even admitting that to herself) since their little escapade on that tropical island off the coast of
Africa last year. She’d been a bit intoxicated by the time they’d spent together; like so much else
with him, those long, sweltering hours being so close to him in the sand and jungle, running and
fighting beside so much raw, beautiful power, watching him sweat and struggle and work hard to
keep them alive wearing, well, hardly anything… Actually, a guilty pleasure didn’t really describe
it anymore. Her opinion of him had changed drastically after that. He was a veritable, real-life
Adonis, but more than that, he was something pure, something dangerous, something sweet and
strong and so enticing… She couldn’t even put words to it. Despite her training and reputation,
despite how much she knew to not become involved with people (not her marks and certainly not
her fellow agents), she was undeniably and deeply attracted to Steve Rogers.

She didn’t want to admit that to herself, but she was. She knew she shouldn’t be. It went against
everything she had been made to be. She knew it was dangerous. But she couldn’t stop herself.
With him, she wasn’t in control. Sex and love were means to an end: getting information, getting
her target to trust her, getting close enough to take him out without him ever seeing her coming.
Sex was about power, about domination, about pleasure and release. She was a master at using
and abusing love and lust and everything in between. She owned men with a glance, enslaved
them with a kiss and bound them to her will, made them hers so long as she needed them and then
cast them aside or killed them. Seduction and betrayal was a specialty of hers, and everyone knew
it. She was a predator, a femme fatale. Natalia Romanova. Black Widow.

But Steve called her Nat. And she liked that.

She liked that he was so innocent and so naïve and so oblivious. She liked that he still didn’t know
everything about this strange world in which he found himself because that empowered her but it
did so in a good way. She liked that she spent so much time with him, even if it was in foxholes
and safe houses and in danger, because that time that was hers and no one else’s. She liked how
his eyes shone in flustered desire when she flirted with him. Flirting with him was quickly
becoming another guilty pleasure. She liked that she felt good with him, like he treated her as an
equal and maybe even a friend. With him, she didn’t need to be anything or anyone else.
Still, he was nothing like her. He was all parts valor and integrity and nobility. He was upfront
about who he was and what he thought was right and how far he would go to protect that. He was
easy to read, easy to understand. Simple and serious and straightforward. She wasn’t. He was a
soldier, and she was a spy. He was built from greatness and truth, and she was made of so many
lies and covers that sometimes even she wasn’t sure who she was underneath it all. He killed to
protect the innocent, and she murdered because she didn’t know how to do anything else. They
were so different that sometimes she wondered if her heart wasn’t lying to her.

And it wasn’t just that he wasn’t like her. He wasn’t like any of them. Not the bad men she killed
or the stupid men she manipulated. Not Fury or Hill or Rumlow or any agent of SHIELD. Not
even like Stark or Banner. Steve was like this stubborn hold-out, blindly fighting for a better world
while simply refusing to accept what the world had become. She knew he wasn’t as innocent and
naïve as she liked to think he was or as most people assumed he was. He’d led the US and the
Allies and SSR through World War II, fighting the worst of Nazi Germany and HYDRA, facing
down all of their atrocities. And he was black ops now, and better at it than almost anyone she’d
known. He’d killed people, saved people from terrible fates, seen horrible things perpetrated by
evil men. He wielded his shield as a weapon as much as a means to defend. She was sure Rogers
had his demons, but they were demons of other people’s making, not his own. Bad things that had
been done to him, not bad things that he’d done. She didn’t think he was capable of ever doing
something to hurt someone else unless that someone else was well-defined and validated as evil.
Even Clint, who was the most decent man Natasha had ever known, still had his demons, the dark
places in his soul that she knew were there but he never showed, not even to her. They’d been on
and off again ever since Clint had rescued her from the KGB and brought her into SHIELD six
years ago. Friends with benefits and lovers. Clint was the closest thing to a confidant she’d ever
had. She trusted him when she didn’t trust anyone else because he knew her. He knew what she
had been, who she had killed and when and how and why. He knew her dark secrets without her
ever having to divulge them because they were the same as his. They were both damaged, both
broken from the terrible things they’d done and the dark people they’d allowed themselves to
become. Steve was unequivocally good, light and truth and the American way. Clint was familiar
and safe and he understood the world and what it really was.

Steve didn’t know her, not really. She was afraid that if he did, if he learned about her lies and
demons, he would disapprove of her. She’d never cared what someone else thought of her before,
but she did with him no matter how ardently she wanted to convince herself otherwise. He was
making her soft and weak and vulnerable. She’d realized that over the last year. Slowly but surely,
what had started on that island where he’d pried his way through her defenses had gotten worse.
He was stripping away all of her masks and cutting to her heart. The worst part was he didn’t even
realize he was doing it. She had contemplated asking Fury to reassign her once or twice, but she
knew she couldn’t manufacture a reason the Director would understand let alone accept, and deep
down inside she didn’t want to be away from Steve. They worked well together, extremely well in
fact, as well as she had ever worked with Barton. The minute they’d parted company last night
with a friendly smile and a murmur of congratulations for a mission accomplished, she’d felt
lonely and empty. She was attracted to him, and she couldn’t keep denying it. She wanted to
know all of him, the man behind the shield. She was starting to want him to know her, even if that
risked his disgust. And it really frightened her. It frightened her so much that she’d gone
weeks, months, growing closer and closer to him with this terrible secret growing stronger in the
back of her heart, and she’d never acted on it. She couldn’t. She didn’t know if she should. And
she didn’t know how. She’d wanted to be his friend. Now she wanted more, and this was one
thing she simply couldn’t take.

“Natasha?”

His concerned call pulled her from her thoughts. She rolled her eyes at herself, glad he couldn’t
see her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d lost track of a conversation. He appeared down
the hall, dressed in jeans and dark gray t-shirt and gray sneakers, hair brushed and all traces of
sleep gone from his bright eyes. He looked so damn normal that it was almost easy to forget the
man before her was Captain America, a living legend and war hero and leader of the Avengers.
Of course, the abs and pecs and biceps and everything else that showed through that shirt were
enough of a reminder. “You okay?”

His question irritated her. She thought of those letters and that pang of jealousy. It wasn’t rational.
It was pathetic. “Fine, Rogers.”

He looked a little off-put by her curt response. “Fury’s not telling us everything,” he said.

“That’s part of his job,” she coldly reminded him. He was so damn naïve. “If you wanted trust
you should’ve stayed in the army. Let’s go.”

She was angrier at herself than at him, but it was always easier to lie than to tell the truth.

SHIELD never slept. Always its watchful eye was vigilant, monitoring the world and all of the
monsters within it that stirred in the shadows. Its vast intelligence network was constantly
gathering data and analyzing trends and predicting outcomes. It was fostered by the best money
could buy: bleeding-edge military technology, state-of-the-art computer systems, top-of-the-line
research facilities. The World Security Council had huge coffers and even bigger ambitions.
Thousands of agents, technicians, doctors, researchers, administrators, and military personnel
worked for the organization. It interfaced with other allied agencies all over the globe, from the
United States to Great Britain to Japan to Australia. It had the power and reach to strike down
violent regimes in the Middle East, insurgents in South America, militant factions in the Balkans,
and terrorist groups just about anywhere in the world. It was not its policy, however, to involve
itself in political or territorial disputes. SHIELD was meant to protect world security, not mediate
conflicts between nations.

So Natasha was somewhat surprised to see a map of Crimea plastered all over the displays in one
of the Triskelion’s many situation rooms. Rumlow was already there, leaning against the gleaming
conference table with his muscular arms folded over his chest. He was dressed in black. Natasha
didn’t think she’d ever seen him wearing anything other than combat gear, like he was always
switched on and ready for a fight. “Romanoff,” he said in greeting, standing a bit straighter. He
nodded at Steve, who walked in behind Natasha. “Cap.”

“Rumlow,” Steve said. They had both changed into their customary uniforms, and Steve’s shield
was strapped to his back. “How’s Hughes?”

Rumlow grinned a little. “He’ll be fine. Flesh wound. He’s damn well embarrassed.” Hughes had
been stabbed in the hand during the skirmish in Iran, the one and only casualty of the entire
mission. Rumlow turned and lowered himself into one of the chairs that surrounded the
conference table. “I take it we need to brush up on our Russian. Shouldn’t be much of a problem
for you, though. Right, Romanoff? Back to the Motherland.” Natasha narrowed her eyes into an
icy glare. “How do you say ‘stand down’ in Russian, anyway?”

Natasha didn’t care much for Rumlow. He was a damn good soldier, but everything with him
seemed forced and less than sincere. And he pushed buttons. For being such a hard-ass, he sure
got a lot of joy out of watching people squirm. She never squirmed. “Putting down an uprising is a
little beneath us,” she commented, staring at the map. Something worried her about this.

“Which is exactly why we’re not getting involved.” Fury’s familiar voice drew their attention as
the Director strolled quickly into the situation room. Hill and Sitwell were with him, the latter
carrying a few tablets that he was furiously updating. “Agents. Captain.”
“Director,” Steve responded. He sat beside Natasha, propping his shield up against his chair.

Fury appraised his agents sternly. Another leader might have thanked them for coming in the
middle of night, particularly after returning from another mission mere hours before, but Fury was
Fury. Pleasantries were never necessary. He sat at the head of the table. Sitwell was next to him,
setting his tablet to the gleaming surface. Hill leaned over the controls near the head of the table
and the room lights dimmed slightly. A slew of videos and pictures suddenly covered the large
screens surrounding them. “The situation in Ukraine is degrading faster than anyone anticipated.
They’re on the verge of a full scale revolution.” Images of riots and violence splayed before them,
of police struggling to hold back furious citizens with shields and batons and tear gas. People were
shouting furiously. Buildings were burning. “Sources in the Ukranian government are expecting
that President Yurchenko will be ousted. Once that happens, it’ll be chaos.”

“NATO peacekeepers?” Steve asked. Of course he was concerned with the humanitarian side of
it.

“Their actions at this point would only escalate the situation,” Hill answered. “Ukraine is a
sovereign nation, and nobody seems certain of how to handle this without inciting further tensions
with Russia. President Ellis and Prime Minister Wallace from the UK are meeting this week with
other European nations to discuss the actions available to them to quell the violence, but from
what our sources are saying it doesn’t seem likely than any military or even diplomatic action will
be taken. The civil unrest in Kiev is escalating, but it could lead to a better democracy, which is of
course something the US and its allies are interested in. I don’t think people are going to quiet
down this time. The government is infirm and corrupt. It’s really only a matter of time.”

What she left unspoken was fairly obvious. The situation was intractable, and even if it could be
resolved peacefully, SHIELD wasn’t going to solve it. Steve leaned back in his chair, displeased if
the firm set of his jaw and the hard look in his eyes was any indication. Natasha spoke, trying to
change the subject before Captain America demanded they do something futile in order to save the
innocents that were beyond their aid. “If the Council is not going to mediate the situation, then
something else must interest them.”

Hill looked at her. She knew the other woman well enough to detect just the smallest hint of
gratitude in her blue eyes. “We received a communique last night from this man, Victor
Petrovich.” A banal, pudgy face appeared on the monitor. “He’s Russian but has served in the
Ukranian government as a minister of foreign affairs for the last decade or so. He suspects that the
civilian unrest is, in part, being instigated by the Russian government.”

“I thought Yurchenko was allied with the Russians,” Rumlow said. “Moscow’s denounced the
revolution. What reason do they have to help it?”

Sitwell cocked an eyebrow. “It gets more complicated the deeper you dig.” He dragged his
forefinger along his tablet, and with a flick of his wrist, he sent more data to the displays.
“Petrovich claims that this man, General Yuri Brushov, seems to be involved in funneling money
and weapons to the revolution. Significant support for the pro-Russian movement in Crimea is
also coming from Moscow itself on some unofficial lines.”

“The Russians would like nothing more than to take Crimea as a province,” Hill added.
“Annexing Crimea seems a logical step when Ukraine falls apart, which makes all the popularity
they’re drumming up among the locals make sense. It also makes sense that they are also shunting
money to the revolution. The Ukranian government collapsing creates an ideal situation to invade
Crimea, and if the population there is willing, it doesn’t look that violent or out of the ordinary.”

“So why would Petrovich contact us if SHIELD has no intention of involving itself in a regional
dispute?” Steve asked.

“Our thoughts exactly, Captain.” The screen switched to old pictures of Petrovich with another
man. They were grainy despite digital enhancement. “Petrovich was once a friend of Brushov;
they both served in the KGB together until the Soviet Union fell. According to Petrovich, he
worked under Brushov on numerous secret projects, including various unsuccessful efforts to
recreate the super soldier serum.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed at that and settled on Fury. He looked irritated, as if he’d suddenly realized
he’d been lied to yet again. “How many of these failed attempts to recreate the serum are there?”

It might have been a rhetorical question, but Natasha sincerely doubted it. Fury looked at him.
There was defeat in his face. And regret. “A lot.”

The scowl of frustration and displeasure grew tighter on Rogers’ normally calm face. “How do
you know they were unsuccessful?” he questioned.

“Petrovich claimed none of their subjects survived the procedures,” Sitwell answered. On the
monitors appeared numerous old files, likely scanned from papers that dated back to the late 1980s
and the early 1990s all the way up to 2000. They were originally typed in Russian, but the
computer was translating them. Phrases like “fatality” and “failure” marked the picture of every
Russian “volunteer” that flashed by. There were dozens and dozens of them. Sitwell folded his
hands before him on the table. “But, in answer to your question, we can’t verify that they failed
with any certainty. Petrovich fled the USSR when it fell apart and sought political asylum. He
claims Brushov lost funding and support from the government, but he was uncertain whether or
not he ever stopped his work or just found a different way of getting it done.”

“This the most recent picture of Brushov we have on file,” Hill said. It was a photo of an older
man with a coarse, salt-and-pepper beard covering a boxy chin. His hair was the same thick gray,
brushed back from a high, wide brow. A nasty looking scar ran down his face from his forehead
to his right cheek, and his eyes were black and beady. There was nothing comely or appealing or
friendly about him. He was the picture of cruelty and evil.

Natasha looked away. It wasn’t a voluntary movement; instead, a sort of primal

reaction forced her eyes off that forbidding picture. It happened so quickly that she hadn’t been
able to stifle it or control it. Her hands clenched ever so slightly against the shudder crawling up
her back, and her gooseflesh prickled. She felt cold. She felt frightened. She knew Rogers had
noticed, his concerned eyes darting in her direction, but she didn’t look at him, either. She
couldn’t.

Hill was still talking. “Unfortunately these files that Petrovich sent us aren’t proving as useful as
we’d hoped. A lot of the sensitive information was redacted by the Soviets.”

Rumlow was losing his patience with their story. “So this Brushov guy is trying to stage some sort
of coup in Ukraine so that Russia has a reason to take Crimea. For what? Money? Political favors
from the higher-ups in the Russian government?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” Hill answered.

“There are over a hundred subject files in the dossier Petrovich supplied,” Sitwell said. The
computer was still going through them, pictures of healthy young men flashing by in a line with
dates marked in red and the word “FATALITY” stamped across their faces. Natasha tried not to
watch too carefully, afraid of recognizing anyone. “Whatever they were trying was obviously
dangerous and faulty. Still, there’s been a lot of progress in biochemical engineering in the last
twenty years. Doctor Banner’s work. Extremis. The Centipede Program. If they are trying
something again–”

“The serum can’t be recreated,” Steve said.

“The serum they used on you can’t be recreated,” Fury corrected. “But I can think of plenty of
ways to make bad men worse.” Steve clenched his teeth, his jaw flexing, and shook his head
slightly in aggravation. Fury sighed and cut to the chase. “This is all conjecture, and it could be
nothing. But if it’s not, it needs to be stopped now. If they think they’re going to use this rebellion
in the Ukraine as a front to create their own army of super soldiers, they have another think
coming.”

Those images kept flying across the screen, and Brushov kept glaring. It was all Natasha could do
to stay still.

After a silent moment, Steve shifted slightly in his seat. He looked away from the monitors and
settled a level gaze on Fury. “What is it you want me to do?”

Hill took that as an affirmative that he was on board. Everything concerning Rogers was a bit
awkward. Captain America was not quite an agent of SHIELD, but he was their ally. He worked
with them but not necessarily for them. Nobody besides Fury, not even the Level 8 and Level 9
agents like Natasha and Hill, could truly give him orders. He didn’t have to accept the missions
they offered him; that was the deal he had struck with Fury when the Director had asked for his
help after the Battle of New York. If he was going to refuse a task, they didn’t have the means or
power to coerce or force him. However, he was nothing if not a good soldier. And it was pretty
damn obvious why Fury was coming to him. Just one enemy super soldier was a serious threat.
More than one? Only Captain America could stand toe to toe with something like that.

The disturbing train of the dead winked away on the monitors, and a new collection of data took
its place. Satellite images and copies of bank statements and shipping ledgers written in Cyrillic
were shown, the computer sorting and translating the documents as they appeared. “Petrovich
indicated that Brushov burned a lot of bridges in Moscow during his time with the KBG and the
Soviet Army. He doesn’t think he’d be able to garner enough support to recreate any of his
programs in Russia itself, hence the interest in Crimea. Loosely controlled by an inept
government. The cover of Russian support but the freedom of a sovereign country.”

“Anything involving a program with this number of subjects would carry a hefty price tag,” Steve
said.

Sitwell nodded and said, “We’ve had the analysts at the Hub picking apart the data the last few
hours. Money transfers. There were a few hits in Ukraine that they were able to trace back
through bogus banks and known money launderers to this man: Grigoriy Garanin.”

“Bankir,” Natasha breathed. All eyes in the room turned to her. Fury leaned back in his chair
slightly. Natasha gathered herself. “They call him ‘The Banker’. He’s ex-KGB, kicked out for
going rogue and freelancing KGB services while keeping the proceeds. He’s got deep pockets
and is tied to terrorist and hostile factions across the globe.” She knew him well. He’d financed
dozens of assassinations on behalf of his clients. She’d often received compensation from him.

Hill nodded. “Garanin and Brushov go way back, it seems. Like Agent Romanoff said, Garanin
has ties to some pretty nasty people.” The list showed itself in all of its ugliness. These were some
of the worst names in terrorism, in biochemical warfare and drug running and violent oppression.
Al Qaeda and Hezbollah and connections to North Korea. The Ten Rings. Colonel Ling, a
scientist who was known to experiment on prisoners. The remnants of Aldrich Killian’s empire.
Ian Quinn.
“The money trail leads to a half a dozen spots spread throughout Kiev. There is only one,
however, in Crimea. Whatever it is, it must be tied to whatever Brushov’s after.” Hill tapped a few
controls on the conference table. A red dot flashed on the map of Crimea, and the computer
zoomed in on Yalta where it sat on the north coast of the Black Sea. “This hospital outside of
Yalta has received a huge amount of money from ‘anonymous donors’ over the last year.
According to public records, these funds were allotted for some sort of massive improvement to
the hospital, but no permits have been acquired and no plans have been filed.” Hill coolly raised
an eyebrow. “My guess is there’s a lot more to this place than meets the eye.”

The hospital in question was located a little north of Yalta, at the foot of the nearby Crimean
Mountains. It did make some sense. Yalta was a busy tourist spot. Lots of faces. People coming
and going. Bustling activity could hide a multitude of sins.

Fury folded his hands together on the table. He glanced at Natasha for a brief moment, and she felt
every muscle in her body clench in apprehension. It seemed only logical to seek her input; after
all, she, too, had been borne from the Russian military and the KGB, and Fury knew that. Fury
knew more than that. But thankfully he said nothing to her, instead shifting his gaze to Steve.
“Rogers, you run point. I want you and Romanoff to sneak into this place and find out what it is
we’re dealing with. No exposure. We have no intel on what sort of security Brushov could have.
Just get in, ascertain the level of threat this poses, and get out.” Steve nodded, but it was more than
obvious that he hadn’t missed the Director’s fleeting appraisal of Natasha. He was clearly worried
and frustrated. “Rumlow, we’ve got local agents in the Balkans setting up a safe house and remote
command center. You’re to provide support and extraction and that’s it. I don’t need to remind
you that the situation in Ukraine is tenuous at best; the slightest hint of a military operation could
compromise it further and stir a damn hornet’s nest. Relations between the West and Russia
haven’t been exactly stellar lately; I don’t want to make that worse.

“If you find that these bastards are even thinking about restarting their work on the serum, I want
you to get the hell out, get to the safe house, and report back to me immediately. We wait for
approval from the Council on this one. I have no idea how deep the corruption runs into the
Russian government, and without more evidence, an unauthorized strike could start a hell of a lot
of trouble. Too much is at stake, and I don’t want to risk an international crisis without our asses
covered.”

Steve eyes were suspicious and worried. “How do we know Petrovich is trustworthy? If he was
working with Brushov before, there’s no reason not to suspect he’s doing it again.”

Unfortunately Fury only supplied the answer they were all suspecting. “We don’t,” he admitted
gravely, “which is why I’m sending in the best we have. If they’re trying to build super soldiers,
we will hit them hard and fast and make sure they never try again.” To have their leader admit the
possibility that this could be a ploy would normally be upsetting. But they were the best and had
faced long and dismal odds and difficult situations countless times before. They didn’t scare, and
they didn’t falter. And Fury knew it. “Clear? Then let’s get it done.”

The meeting broke up. Fury nodded once, pleased that his orders were being followed. But it was
obvious he was tense and concerned, and not just because this mission carried huge international
consequences should things go awry. Still, after a lingering glance to Hill and Rumlow and Steve
and finally Natasha, he left. Natasha sat still, even as Rumlow passed behind her to speak with
Agent Sitwell in a hushed tone. A sleek tablet was placed in front of her. “Mission intel and
objectives,” Hill supplied. “Flight in an hour.” Then she, too, was gone.

Natasha glanced at that tablet, feeling more uncertain of herself than she had in years. Not since
Loki had taken Clint. Eventually she grabbed the computer and pressed her thumb to the
fingerprint scanner. It came on in a wink.
 Brushov was glaring at her again.

It was ingrained in her not to, but she made herself look back.

“Nat?”

Steve stood beside her. She felt him more than saw him. She didn’t turn to him or even
acknowledge his presence. “You have anything to add to any of this?” he asked softly. He didn’t
even bother masking the concern coloring his tone. “Did you know Brushov?”

Damn him for being just about as perceptive as she was sometimes. But he wasn’t nearly as good
at lying. “No,” she smoothly answered. She didn’t elaborate with false information; that was
always a sign that what someone was saying wasn’t the truth.

She swiped that awful face away. There was an encrypted text message awaiting her. She knew it
was from Fury. Steve was still, unmoving to her left, large and imposing and worried. It radiated
off of him in huge, distressing waves. The awkward silence persisted until he had to ask. “Are you
okay?”

Second time that morning, and she didn’t have the patience to hide her ire. “Fine,” she snapped.
She was up and out of her chair in one smooth motion, grabbing that tablet.

She pretended not to see the hurt fracturing Steve’s expression. He wasn’t buying it. Frankly,
neither was she. “Look, if there’s something bothering you about this, now’s the time–”

“Save it, Rogers.” She was halfway to the door before she turned back to him. “I don’t need you
to take care of me.”

That hurt look was quickly replaced by an angry frown. “This isn’t about you. You heard Fury.
This mission could be a trap, and if it is, I don’t want to run into it blind. If you know something,
tell me now.”

“You’re my partner, not my commanding officer.” Steve opened his mouth to argue; Fury had put
him in charge, and they both knew it. But she didn’t give him the chance to say anything. “And
there’s nothing you need to know.” The words came out harsher than she intended, but he was
hurting her even if he didn’t know it, and she wanted to hurt him back. Any fledgling feeling of
friendship between them was dashed by the acid in her voice and the vicious, threatening glare she
sent his way. Then she turned on her heel and stalked away, trying not to think. Not about
Brushov and the dark things prodding insistently at her subconscious. Not about what
she knew this mission was all about.

And certainly not about him. To hell with him. She was Black Widow. She didn’t need anyone.

Chapter End Notes

Bankir – The Banker.

 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Steve was certain Natasha was lying to him. They’d been partners for a while, and given their
line of work, this was hardly the first time he’d suspected she wasn’t being honest with him. He
wasn’t stupid; he knew what she had been before she had come to SHIELD, and he knew what
she was now. There had been times in the past when he’d realized she hadn’t told him
everything, as if a lie of omission was somehow better than an outright lie, but he’d rationalized it.
They’d always gotten the job done without casualties, and if SHIELD had secret objectives for
saving these hostages or stopping those terrorists, he tried not to be bothered about it. He knew
that there were always multiple angles and tough choices and hidden agendas. He had fought in
the bloodiest and biggest war of the 20th century; people always seemed to forget that. For him, it
was always about protecting people and trying to do the right thing, but he accepted that others
saw different means to those ends. As long as those means didn’t hurt anyone or further evil
ambitions, he tried to let it go. He wasn’t this naïve kid from Brooklyn with a heart of gold and
morals that withstood even the slightest dirt. He knew how the world was. As different as things
were now, some things never changed.

All that aside, this time he knew something serious was bothering Natasha and it went far beyond
the obvious. He was aware that she’d been rescued by Hawkeye from the KGB, and obviously
this mission would take them back into that world. But there was more to it than that. The way
she had averted her eyes from the picture of Brushov, the way her face had paled so slightly at all
those images of Brushov’s test subjects, the way she’d snapped at him… And it wasn’t that she’d
never been cold or withdrawn in the past. But this was visceral, raw and impulsive, self-
defensive. Usually before missions she was relaxed, usually chatty, wearing an easy smile and
soft eyes. Not this time. He didn’t know anything of her past, but he considered her one of his
only friends in this time, and he thought he knew her well enough to see this was striking a nerve.
She wasn’t easy to read, and most of the time she was an enigma to him. She had been since the
first mission they’d run together. But it was obvious she was terrified.

That worried him more than he wanted to admit.

The flight from DC to Crimea had been tense and silent. She had said nothing, offering no input
and asking no questions, as Rumlow had gone over the mission details with the STRIKE Team.
In her defense there wasn’t much to discuss since so much of this mission depended on what they
found in Yalta. But it wasn’t for that reason that she was stiff and silent. It was hard for Steve to
stand beside her and not notice that she radiated something very tense and very dark. It was hard
to keep silent about it, though if he decided to confront her, it wouldn’t be in front of the others. If
he decided to confront her. When he did. His duties as the officer in charge required him to
confront her. Pathetic, Rogers. Truth be told, even though he had at least six inches and a
hundred pounds of muscle on her, he still found her icy wrath to be intimidating.

Rumlow worked through the maps on the tactical screen, and she watched with her fist to her chin
dispassionately and seemingly uninterested. The safe house would be set up in a warehouse in
Sevastopol on the southwest coast of Crimea. It was a little more than an hour’s drive to Yalta
from there and a matter of a few minutes via quinjet. From the safe house, Steve and Natasha
would take a bus to Yalta posing as tourists. And from there they would hopefully manage an
easy entrance into the hospital, assess the situation, and return. They would operate with strict
radio silence, though both Steve and Natasha would carry a transponder that could immediately
initiate a distress beacon if extraction became necessary.
It was simple enough. There were no publicly available floor plans for the hospital (which in and
of itself was a sign the place wasn’t entirely legitimate), and the computer folks at the Hub hadn’t
been able to find any through more unofficial channels. That left satellite imaging, which the
computers had analyzed and used to predict an internal layout. Steve had looked it over, quickly
committing it to memory. He didn’t see anything that obviously looked like a lab of the size
necessary to run such a complicated experiment on so many people, but without knowing the floor
plans more exactly, it was difficult to tell. Infrared scans weren’t providing the resolution for
which they’d hoped, but there was some sort of sizeable installation beneath the hospital. The
heat signature was large enough to suggest something under there was requiring a fair amount of
power. There was no more data available, but all of the evidence pointed to the basement as a
good place to start their search.

They landed in Sevastopol. Rumlow immediately coordinated with the SHIELD agents waiting,
directing the team to prepare the safe house with all the equipment they would need to be ready to
launch a rescue or an assault at a moment’s notice. Steve quickly changed into the civilian clothes
that were provided for him, a pair of khaki shorts and a short-sleeve blue shirt and sneakers and
sunglasses. He’d never really done anything like this before; he was used to fighting in a uniform,
to leading assault teams and planning battle strategies and charging into the fray. Sneaking around
wasn’t really his style. And he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of leaving his shield behind, but there
was absolutely no way of remaining inconspicuous carrying around a symbol so internationally
recognizable. Natasha emerged from the back room of the warehouse, dressed in shorts that cut
off high on her thighs and hung low on her hips. She wore a black tank top and a gray sweater
and had her hair pulled back. She looked disarming, like a beautiful young woman on vacation,
but he could only see the raw edges of fear in her eyes.

One of the SHIELD agents attached to their operation from the field office in Rome provided
them both with fake US passports, complete with fake names, and a few thousand dollars.
Rumlow handed them each a watch, seemingly simple and innocuous and expensive, but holding
down the tiny button on the side of the watch face would call for extraction. It was their only
means of communication with their support in Sevastopol. Steve wrapped the silver links around
his wrist and prayed they wouldn’t have to use it. Get in. Get the information. Get out. Report
to Fury. Simple enough.

Now they were riding a bus that was winding and meandering its way along the Crimean
coastline. The Black Sea was below and the Crimean Mountains rose on the other side, steep
cliffs and sharp, brown precipices. The afternoon was warm, the air heavy and humid and hazy.
The sky was bright and blue. It was the perfect day for a scenic drive as part of a relaxing
vacation in one of the most beautiful places in the world. That was their cover story, anyway, two
young Americans on a romantic getaway through Europe. Steve wasn’t sure about the “romantic”
part of it, as Natasha was making a rather pointed effort to not look at him as they sat stiffly beside
each other the bus. Warm air that smelled of the sea flowed through the open window to his left,
caressing her hair away from flawless skin. The bus hit another rut in the road, bouncing its
occupants roughly, and his hand brushed against her bare leg. She didn’t move, didn’t even
blink. “Sorry.”

She didn’t answer. He was trying not to, but he stared at her all the same, wondering what the
hell was going on with her. He knew he wasn’t the best with women; before he’d become
Captain America, he’d been so short and skinny and weak that most girls had completely ignored
him. His friend Bucky had always been the looker and charmer, and Steve had been his
incapable, clumsy, and awkward wingman. Bucky had tried to educate him in the finer points of
sweeping a girl off her feet, but he’d been downright hopeless and frankly uninterested. There
had been a war going on.

But then he’d met Peggy Carter, and everything had changed.
She’d seen past his small, sickly exterior. She’d been the first woman to ever look upon him with
anything other than pity or disgust. She’d seen him. And after Project: Rebirth, she’d seen him
still. He had been Steve Rogers to her, not Captain America, a hero but not because he was
stronger and faster and smarter than anyone. And he had stayed that way to her all through the
war. He’d been in love with her from the first moment he saw her at Camp Lehigh giving the
recruits for the super soldier program a good once-over and a proper dressing-down. He could
still feel the one sweet kiss they’d shared had been before he’d jumped onto the plane that would
later become his tomb, the heat of her lips against his a ghost that haunted and tormented his
dreams. Everything they could have had had been ripped from them both. He had been lost for
seventy years in an icy hell. She had grieved and moved on and lived her life without him.

Now he was back and she was an old woman. He’d gone to see her a few times, but her mind
and her memory weren’t as sharp as they used to be. Watching her wither before his eyes in the
twilight of her life was so damn painful, but it was something he needed to do, the least he could
do for her. Everything they should have been lingered between them, and that was a pain that
was unsatisfied and swollen with unshed tears. She’d given him a stack of letters she’d written to
him over the years a few months ago, dozens and dozens of them, but he really hadn’t been able
to make himself read them. He wasn’t afraid of much anymore, having faced the worst of the
Nazis and HYDRA, having slowly and painfully frozen to death, having fought off an invasion of
brutal aliens under the control of a deranged god. But he was terrified of the heartbreak reading
those letters would cause. Reading them meant it was over, and even though he knew it was, a
part of his heart just wasn’t ready to accept it. Peggy’s face, her dark hair and twinkling, brown
eyes and full, red lips… That was the only thing he saw when he closed his eyes. To him, their
date was only recently missed, not seven decades late. To him, she was still young and vibrant
and beautiful, ordering troops about like she’d been born to do it, managing SSR and leading the
Howling Commandos to victory. But that Peggy, the one he’d known and loved, was long gone.
The finality seemed too much to bear.

So he hadn’t moved on, hadn’t even tried to. He wasn’t interested in replacing her. He had a
hundred reasons not to. His heart was still so battered and tender. He was too busy. His life was
too dangerous. He was too shy and too awkward, even if he was Captain America. He didn’t
understand this new world and all of its convoluted technologies and pop culture references and
social networking machines. It was impossible to find someone with anything in common with
him. But when he made himself admit it, there was just one reason he hadn’t looked for anyone
else: he couldn’t let Peggy go.

Natasha, though… He hadn’t been looking for her. He’d simply found her, and they’d fallen into
this partnership they had. After the Battle of New York, the Avengers had gone their separate
ways. Fury had immediately come to him to ask if he’d join SHIELD. It was only because
Peggy had built SHIELD that he agreed to operate as one of their agents. Right away Fury had
assigned him to work with Romanoff. Their first mission had been nothing short of a complete
disaster, but they’d made it through, taken the early, tentative steps toward trust. That had only
gotten stronger since then, at least in the field. Steve knew she had his back. He had hers. Yet,
as close as they were on a professional level, the friendship they had was… strange. Steve was
used to easy camaraderie between men fighting beside each other, but what he had with her was
anything but well-defined. She flirted with him, teased him, but she was also there for him more
than anyone else had been, telling him what he needed to know without making him feel silly or
stupid for not knowing it, following him without doubt or hesitation, doing a million little, maybe
even unintentional things to try to help him adjust to this new world. She was kind,
compassionate when his days were dark and lonely, offering a cup of coffee or a spar in the
SHIELD’s huge training facilities to lighten his mood and ease his tension.

More than that, though, Natasha was somehow… familiar to him. He realized a few days into
their first mission together that it was because she reminded him of Peggy. Beautiful. Fiery.
Stubborn. Commanding and powerful and cunning. Still, there was more to Natasha, a hell of a
lot more, that he didn’t understand. She sometimes smiled at him in a way that cut right through to
his desires but then gave him the cold shoulder just as randomly. She invited him in with her soft
words and alluring eyes but then pushed him away when he got too close. She was damaged, and
he knew it. He’d heard the rumors. She was a liar and a murderer and a seductress. But even
that didn’t stop him from caring about her. A lot. Probably too much, because when it came
down to it, they were too fundamentally different. And he didn’t know how to help her or if she
even wanted his help.

This was a perfect case in point. “Stop staring at me,” she lowly warned, not moving or even
twitching.

Steve clenched his fists ever so slightly on his knees and flung his gaze angrily out the window.
A tense moment of silence escaped, and the walls between them felt impenetrable. He could do
without her attitude. “You know, we can’t make this work if you won’t even look at me. Who
the hell is gonna believe we’re having a good time together?”

She turned and smiled, the gesture dripping in false affection, and the next thing he knew she was
leaning over and slanting her mouth over his. Steve almost recoiled, taken completely by surprise,
as she deepened the kiss and leaned into his lap. His question was muffled by her lips as she
wove her hand into his hair and practically devoured him. Then she pulled away. Her eyes were
filled with icy condescension. “That convincing enough for you?”

He didn’t know what it was. Anger and hurt flashed through him, not quite enough to douse his
arousal. It never was with her. “What’s the matter with you?” he hissed.

She didn’t answer, but the tension left her on a long breath. She seemed bent and weary, worn
with worry. Scared again. Uncertain of herself. Maybe even ashamed of herself, but not enough
to apologize or admit it. He’d never seen her like this before. Her shoulders relaxed further,
though her face didn’t, and she leaned into him. He stiffened, not sure of what she wanted. “Just
put your arm around me,” she ordered quietly, “and pretend.”

He hesitated. If Brushov did have spies littered around Crimea reporting back to him, this display
of random moodiness was only going to confuse them. Probably about as much as it was
confusing him. But he did as he was told, and she sank into his side, laying a hand on his leg.
His anger faded as the bus bounced and jolted again. “Nat,” he said softly.

Her hand tightened on his leg. She spoke before he could say anything more. “Don’t worry
about me. I can do this,” she said against his shoulder. He wanted to look down at her because
he didn’t know what to think or if he could believe her and maybe her face would betray
something of the truth. He didn’t know if she was assuring him or herself. She’d never assured
anyone of anything before. “Let’s just get it done.”

Steve swallowed thickly and looked outside at the blur of rocks and trees. To anyone watching,
they appeared as two young lovers on vacation. But it was a cover. She was tense and uncertain,
and so was he. He wanted to ask her again to tell him the truth about what was bothering her. He
wanted to ask her to confide in him, both as her captain and as her friend. But he didn’t because
he knew she wouldn’t. She was rattled enough, and he wasn’t that brave. Her hand remained
tight on his leg, not moving, and the touch of her fingers to his skin was somehow both
comforting and electrifying. He held her close, his own fingers sliding up and down her back. He
did it nervously at first and almost froze when she shifted, but she only pillowed her head deeper
into his shoulder. He thought she’d pull away at the contact, but she didn’t, so he continued,
tracing his fingers lightly along her. He wasn’t certain if she honestly wanted his solace or if she
was acting for the sake of what they needed to do, for the sake of what she needed to be to get this
done.
Sadly, he still didn’t know her well enough to know the difference.

Whatever was waiting for them, he hoped they could get through it. Nothing of her normal poise
or confidence seemed intact. It was fleeting, wavering. He could only pray she would keep it
together, that whatever was bothering her wouldn’t endanger the success of the mission.

Or worse.

The bus deposited them at the end of a cobblestone street in the middle of a market area that
overlooked the bay. The sign for the hospital posted on the corner pointed north up the road
where it rose into the bluffs. The day was pristine and warm under a golden afternoon sun, and
the market was flooded with merchants and tourists. Down below the beaches were full, white
sand caressed by the gentle waves of a slate gray ocean. Steve looked around at the swanky
restaurants and palatial hotels. This was not the same Yalta that had been under German
occupation during the War. It was busy and lively.

Natasha stood next to him. She looked cool and confident. The return of her composure was a
welcome sight. “Nice and slow,” she said. She reached down and took his hand. “Like we have
all the time in the world.”

Steve drew a deep breath, summoning some measure of patience. He glanced around suspiciously
even though he knew he shouldn’t. He’d been tracked by his fair share of spies, snipers, and
enemy agents. The market was so crowded, however, that it was impossible to keep track of
everyone. Perhaps it was only paranoia, but the dark pinch of foreboding in his stomach grew
sharper. They couldn’t afford to draw attention to themselves, and at least the time they spent
wandering through the market would give them a chance to keep an eye on whoever was keeping
an eye on them.

He’d never been a good actor or a liar, so pretending to be someone else, a guy wasting time and
money with his girlfriend on a getaway, didn’t come naturally to him. But he followed Natasha’s
lead as she pulled him through the marketplace, a dazzling smile on her lips and her eyes alight
with happiness. He was downright shocked at how easily she faked it, and in comparison his
awkward grins and mumbled responses were tragically out of place. She humored a few
merchants trying to sell her jewelry, browsing their wares and laughing when they flattered her,
responding with sloppy, broken Russian so convincingly that even he forgot she was fluent. She
smiled sweetly and laughed at their jokes and excitedly showed him what she found as they
slowly made their way through the bustling square. Steve tried to play his part of the uninterested
boyfriend; the impatience was at least not far from the truth.

It seemed to take forever, but they worked their way through the street vendors and up the hill.
Ahead there were fountains, beautiful parks, and statues that other tourists were admiring. She
took his hand again and clung to his arm. Steve released a slow breath as they ambled toward the
hospital. The sun was beginning to set, thankfully easing the heat of the day, spreading gold and
yellow and red in the western sky. “No obvious eyes in the crowd,” she softly declared.

She still impressed him sometimes, even after all these months. She’d flawlessly worked the
crowd over while fluidly gliding through it, keeping up their ruse without so much as a hint of
subterfuge. “No,” he agreed. She was smiling, looking tired and happy and in love. “I don’t
know how you do this all the time.”

He felt more than saw her smile against his bicep where she had laid her head. “Some people are
born liars.” He fought the urge to look down on her. He didn’t know if she was being facetious,
but even if she was, what she said didn’t sit well with him.
The hospital was ahead. It was flanked by restaurants and chic shops and tourist attractions, so at
least it wasn’t terribly strange for them to be slowly making their way toward it. It was a fairly
tall, white building, rectangular with a nicely landscaped park filled with pruned trees and bushes
and flowers in front of it. Compared to many of the hospitals he’d seen and been in stateside, it
was small and almost quaint. Another long building was at the tower’s base, and a red sign
proclaimed “medical center” across its front. Taxis and other cars rolled by on the street. Behind
it, the mountains rose and the city ended. The whole place looked simple enough, a small
establishment for the locals and tourists unfortunate enough to get sick or injured on vacation. It
was non-threatening and pristine.

Steve averted his eyes at the risk of someone thinking he was staring again. “What’s the plan?”

Natasha darted her eyes to him. “The direct route,” she answered nonchalantly.

“Meaning?”

She seemed irritated with him and his lack of finesse with these sorts of things. “Meaning I am
going to act like I am deathly ill and in excruciating, hysterical pain, and you are going to carry me
in there frantically demanding that we see a doctor.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Rogers. Sometimes the best way in is through the front door.” They were just
outside now, walking along the cul-de-sac, and Natasha glanced at him out of the corner of her
eye. She didn’t even give him a chance to prepare. She let out a hoarse cry and grabbed her
midsection and stumbled. The ragged scream startled Steve, even though he knew it wasn’t real,
and he watched in not quite fake horror as Natasha collapsed to the cobblestone walk.

Onlookers came over immediately. Steve knelt beside her, trying his best to seem panicked.
“What’s wrong? Look at me. What – I need some help here!”

“My stomach…” Natasha moaned, and then she cried out again, nearly rolling on her side and
curling into a fetal position.

Steve looped his arms under her knees and around her shoulders. He lifted her, remembering at
the last second to make it seem like it was struggle. “Help!” he cried, tucking Natasha to his chest
and running toward the hospital. “Help!”

He burst through the main doors and into a small waiting room. The people in the area regarded
him with alarmed expressions as he barged inside. He prayed he appeared more lost and helpless
and frantic than he felt. “My girlfriend… she’s sick! I need help! Oh, God…”

Behind a gleaming counter, a nurse looked up. Her face fractured in concern. She spoke in
Russian. “Chto sluchilos'? V chem problema?”

He had to remember that this person he was pretending to be didn’t speak fluent Russian. “I don’t
understand,” he gasped, shaking his head desperately. He looked down at Natasha’s limp body
clenched in his arms and tried to make his eyes water. “Please! She needs a doctor! I can pay
whatever you need – just help her!”

Natasha cried out again, breathing in rough, harsh pants and holding her abdomen protectively.
By now they were attracting the attention of every nurse around them and a few of the people
who had been milling about in the waiting room, and Steve was beginning to wonder if this hadn’t
been a really bad idea. “She just fell out there… Oh, my God… Her mom’s gonna kill me…”
One of other nurses, a man with a severe face, looked to the woman. “Ya dolzhen pozvonit'
bezopasnosti?”

Damn it. “I don’t know what you’re saying. I don’t know Russian. Just help her. Please!”

Thankfully, the nurse shook her head. She spoke to him in surprisingly good English. “Sir, calm
down. Tell us what happened.”

He forced an expression of utter relief to his face. “We were just walking and she collapsed!
Can’t you see she’s in pain? We need a doctor!”

One of the men behind them spat a particularly vile curse about Americans. Steve whirled on
him, wondering how far he should take his indignant rage without blowing their chances. “Look,
she’s dying! Back off!”

“I’m sure she’s not dying,” the female nurse said.

The male nurse watched him warily. Steve tried his damnedest to conjure forth some tears. He
was really bad at this. “What the hell’s the matter with you people? Help me! Please!” Natasha
cried and sobbed and made it look like she really was in agonizing pain. “Please! Poz –
pozhaluysta!” He made a point of stumbling over his begging; hopefully it was convincing.

The female nurse looked uncertain, but Natasha’s keening wail sealed the deal. “Pomestite ikh v
palate 3.”

As she reached for a few papers, two other nurses, including the male one, came around the
counter and gestured for Steve to follow. He gasped a relieved breath, readjusting Natasha in his
arms like her weight was bothering him. “Thank you! Oh, my God – I don’t know what
happened. We were walking and all of the sudden she just went down. She said her stomach hurt
earlier. Do you think she ate something bad?” He continued nervously rambling as they were
quickly led down a corridor.

They entered an exam room. “Lay her,” the nurse said.

Steve did as he was told, setting Natasha to the hospital bed. She rolled onto her side, her face
locked in a horrible wince, moaning and whimpering. “Don’t leave me, babe,” she whined,
reaching out a hand for Steve.

“I won’t. I’m right here…” What? Doll? Honey? Darling? He had no idea. “Sweetie.” He
took her hand and smoothed her hair away from her forehead. “Just rest. They’re gonna help
you, I promise. We’re getting you help.”

The nurses went about taking Natasha’s vital signs, measuring her blood pressure and asking
Steve some questions in broken English about what she ate and when. Steve was a little
concerned they’d be found out. It was one thing to act sick and another thing entirely to actually
make it look real. But Natasha was a master at deception; she was even sweating as she writhed
and shook and moaned. Steve offered up their passports when another nurse came with forms for
him to fill out. Once they were finished with the initial paperwork and assessment, they stepped
back outside the room. “Doctor comes soon,” the male nurse promised. “Wait here.” He looked
warily at Steve one more time before leaving them, shutting the door behind him.

Natasha wasted no time, sitting up on the hospital bed and settling Steve with a cool look.
“Sweetie?”

“What’s the matter with that?” he asked indignantly as he stood from the tiny plastic chair beside
the bed and set all the unfinished paperwork to the table next to him.
“Never again,” she warned, sliding down. She smoothed her attire and with a single blink the
suffering vacationer was gone and the SHIELD agent was back. “Come on.”

They paused at the door, glancing back toward the nurses’ desk. No one was watching them, so
they slipped out into the hallway. They walked briskly but not so fast as to seem like they were in
a hurry. A few nurses and doctors going about their business glanced their way, but nobody
stopped them. “Down?” he asked softly.

“Seems logical,” she answered just as quietly. “If you wanted to hide something, where would
you put it?”

He couldn’t argue with that. He had a photographic memory, so the few seconds he had spent
looking at the predicted layout of the hospital was enough to produce a vivid image. He led her
into the interior of the building, finding the computer model not that far from the truth. They
passed the elevators, Steve directing them instead to the stairs. The hospital staff around them
now seemed a little more perturbed by their presence, but Natasha lifted her chin and was
unbothered by their glances. They ignored patient rooms and doctors’ offices and labs filled with
techs. Eventually they reached the stairwell, and Steve pushed the heavy door open just wide
enough for Natasha before darting inside himself.

They bounded down the stairs silently. At the bottom there was a single solid door before them.
This had to be below ground. The walls and the floor were solid, smooth cement. There was not
a marking on them or a sign, and the door was painted green without any label or embellishment.
Steve paused in front of it, staring at it doubtfully. He didn’t like this. It seemed too obvious and
too easy. “Open Sesame?” Natasha joked mirthlessly. She was on edge as well.

“I’d expect a door to a secret lab to… well, be more secret. And more secure.”

“Maybe this isn’t it,” she surmised. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

Somehow he doubted that. He grabbed the handle of the door, but it wouldn’t turn. One little
twist was all it took to break the lock. “Subtle,” she commented. He pushed open the door to
reveal a short gray corridor. A single light recessed into the ceiling provided all illumination there
was. It was tight and claustrophobic. At the other end there was another door, and this one was
secured by a keypad. Natasha fished her cell phone out of the pocket of her sweater. She
scanned the keypad with it, the sensors built into the computer quickly detecting which buttons
had been pressed. She punched in the combination, and the locks released. They stepped
through.

“Well, that was a lot of anticipation for nothing,” Steve muttered disdainfully. They were standing
in a storeroom, one that was loaded with cleaning supplies. Metal racks lined the walls, filled with
jugs of disinfectants and detergents.

Natasha walked further inside, her shoes clanking against the metal grating of the floor. About
three feet in, the tone changed. She looked down. “Steve.” She gestured him closer, and he
crouched at her feet. “I think this might be your secret door.” She stepped back, allowing him
access to the grate. He felt along the edges, searching for a latch or something to release it.
Finally his fingers brushed against a lever, and the grate came loose from the locks that secured it
to the floor. He grabbed it and lifted and pushed it open.

It was silent. They both stared at the dark hole at their feet. There were steps that descended into
shadows. Steve didn’t scare often or easily; he’d seen much worse during the war in terms of
creepy hide-outs and foreboding imagery. But the niggling voice of worry and doubt was getting
louder by the second. “Ladies first?” he joked softly, trying to alleviate the heavy silence.
“Your mission,” Natasha evenly responded. Her eyes never left the dark pit that had been
unveiled.

Steve released the grate and sighed softly, planting his feet on the first step before dropping to a
low crouch and peering into the shadows. It was another hallway entirely composed of cement
with recessed lights dotting the way every five feet or so. It went down quite some distance with
numerous of doors on either side and one door at the end. He glanced the other way and saw it
went far back before turning to the left. It was empty and completely silent. He looked back up at
Natasha and nodded. Then he silently walked down the steps and stood in the hall below.

It was cold and dank and the air smelled stale and musty. Natasha was beside him a moment
later. She had her phone out. “This is where the heat signature is coming from,” she whispered.
She pointed ahead. Together they walked quietly toward the door. The silence was deep and
unyielding. Steve kept a close eye on the hallway, but there was no sign of surveillance
equipment. There was no sign of anything, in fact, just monotonous gray and locked doors. If
anyone was there, or had been there recently, it wasn’t obvious.

They reached the end of the hallway. Steve gripped the doorknob and gave it a turn. He opened
the door only wide enough to glance inside. There was no indication of immediate danger, so he
nodded to Natasha and let her walk through.

They stood in a lab of some sort. It wasn’t very big and was sparsely lit. There was a bench
along one wall filled with chemicals and vials and tools. A few computer monitors were mounted
to the walls, dark and idle. Rolling chairs were pushed under the work area. There was a
concentric glass barricade between this part of the room and the center, where a metal chair was
reclined. An assortment of vicious looking tools hung over it, suspended from a main apparatus
above. Lights shone down from there, and the steel seat was shining silver and gray against the
shadows sweeping down from the walls. Another barricade blocked entrance to the other side of
the room, where a second empty lab bench loaded with tools and computers ran the length of the
wall. Everything looked abandoned, though recently so, and the atmosphere was tense and laden
with something dark.

“Well, you wanted to know if they were building soldiers,” Natasha said softly. He looked to her
and found her expression unreadable. “I’d say this means ‘yes’.”

Steve didn’t answer, stepping deeper inside the room toward that horrible looking seat. He stared
at the glimmering steel, things that seemed a lifetime ago prodding at him. Walking into the lab
where Project: Rebirth was about to commence. The eyes of everyone, soldiers and doctors and
SSR agents and Doctor Erskine and Howard Stark and Peggy, settling on him. The bed on which
he would lay, gleaming a sleek gray in the bright lights. “It’s a little big.”

“Bring back memories?” she asked.

He turned to look at her but found no anger on her face. “No,” he said. “This is…”

“Sick? Deranged? Depraved?”

He looked over this steel contraption. There were restraints on the arms of the chair and at the
feet. He narrowed his eyes, spying dried red coating the metal cuffs. “Evil.”

The silence returned, thick and vacuous. Steve rounded the hellish chair, noticing more old blood
on the implements over the chair. What the hell sort of monsters were they dealing with? Natasha
walked along the lab bench, peering at the discarded tools and vials. “Hey, look at this.” Steve
finally tore his eyes away from the nightmare in front of him and joined Natasha on the other side
of the glass barrier. She had a few print-outs in her hand. She handed them to Steve.
“Project: Red Guardian,” he read from the top of the file. It was written in Russian, some sort of
list of chemicals and procedures. Dates and times were in one column with an outcome written at
the side. Most said “FAILURE”. One didn’t. It corresponded to a row that was labeled only
with a series of numbers and letters. “Looks like they got something to work.”

Natasha was already booting up one of the computers. She leaned over the lab bench, working
feverishly at the keyboard in an attempt to infiltrate the system. Steve watched the images shift on
the monitor as she searched through files. Eventually she got into a database of some sort. She
entered in the alphanumeric label on the manifest. The computer worked for a second, scrolling
through a huge manifest filled with similar codes before locating one. A row in the table was
highlighted and blinking. “There isn’t much information, just a location.” She worked a moment
more before another document appeared on the screen. It had an address and coordinates in
longitude and latitude. “It’s a warehouse north of Sokolyne. At least it’s not far.”

Steve heard something. It was distant and muffled. He stood very still, straining to listen. It
sounded like barking. “I think we should get out of here,” he said.

“I’m going to try and crack into this. Hold on.”

“Nat…” He turned, looking around the room worriedly. They were as alone as they had been
since they’d come in, but the shadows looked menacing. His heart sped and every muscle of his
body turned taut. Something wasn’t right.

“Patience, Rogers,” Natasha chided. Her fingers were moving furiously, flying over the
keyboard. “I think I can outsmart whoever wrote this. I just need a minute.”

“I don’t think we have a minute,” he shortly retorted. That sound was growing louder and
louder. Definitely dogs, and a lot of them. They sounded riled and angry. What the hell were
dogs doing down here? Steve ran to the door where they had come in and peered down into the
shadows. There was nothing. Still, the room seemed to close in around him, suffocating and
crushing. The warning that had been whispering in his head was shrilly screaming that they get
the hell of out there. “Natasha!”

“Got it,” she said. “It’s something called–”

Suddenly the door was flung open on the other side of the room. A half of dozen men dressed in
combat gear charged inside. They raised their rifles. The glass barricade shook as bullets rammed
into it. Steve was across the floor in two huge steps, grabbing Natasha from where she stood and
yanking her down with him under the lab bench. The bench exploded as round after round tore
into it, sending chemicals and papers and the remains of tools flying haphazardly. Steve held
Natasha tighter, his arms wrapped protectively around her head, as he scooted both of them as
close to the wall and the other door as possible. Whoever was attacking was intent on ripping the
lab apart. The glass barricade had probably been built to withstand a large force battering it but
not a veritable rain of automatic gunfire. It shattered.

Glass flew everywhere. Thankfully they were shielded from the worst of it. Their assailants
paused a moment, likely trying to determine if their targets were still alive among all the
wreckage. Steve reached out from under the bench and grabbed a particularly large, jagged piece
of debris before flinging it toward one of the men. The man went down, gurgling and bleeding
from his neck. “Go!” Steve yelled.

Natasha was on her feet before he even gave the order, sprinting across the room to the door
through which they had come. Steve followed, pushing her along, as the men resumed firing.
Bullets slammed into the floor behind them. They reached the door and thundered down the
hallway. Ahead was the stairwell, but over the pounding of his heart and the roar of gunfire,
Steve heard the whine of metal hinges rotating. Damn it. The shadows over the stairwell shifted.
They had closed the grate in the storeroom above. “Keep going!”

Natasha ran down the corridor past the stairs in the other direction. Men were shouting roughly in
Russian behind them, relaying orders, and the barking was getting louder and louder. An alarm
wailed. This wasn’t good. At the other end of the blackened hallway shadows shifted. Natasha
skidded to a stop, Steve nearly plowing into her. He squinted, winded, and watched as the sable
forms grew more distinct. More men, armed to the teeth with Kalashnikovs. Steve glanced wildly
about, his mind racing, frantic to do something to get them out of this. There was a door to their
left. Of course he had no idea what was on the other side, but it had to be better than this. One
mighty kick knocked it clear off its hinges. He grabbed Natasha’s arm and yanked her inside.

Thank God this impulsive decision hadn’t led them into a dead end. It was another hallway, this
one better lit than the last. Natasha ran beside him, glancing back over her shoulder. The roar of
gunfire should have been enough of an alert that they were being followed. The corridor turned
left and then right and then forked at a T-intersection. Where the hell were they? This place was
a damn maze! Steve was only certain of one thing: unless they found a way up, they were going
to get caught.

They rounded another corner and Natasha pulled Steve flush along the cold concrete wall on the
other side. Thankfully they’d put enough distance between them and their pursuers to take a
moment to think. “Ideas?” he asked, slightly winded and more than slightly worried.

She shook her head, trying to catch her breath. “You’re the man with the plan,” she returned.
“We’re running in circles down here.” Steve looked down to the left, but it was more of the same:
a dark corridor filled with nondescript doors. The barking was much louder over here. “You
think those dogs are–”

“Hopefully.” He grabbed her arm and turned to the left, sprinting down the hallway and praying
that maybe the dogs were closer to the surface, wherever they were. He trusted his ears to lead the
way; his sense of hearing was much sharper than a normal man’s, so keeping track of the raucous,
feral noise wasn’t difficult. They were at another T-intersection, and they paused, spending a few
precious seconds listening.

“Right?” she asked.

“Yeah. Hurry.”

They turned in that direction and started to run, but Steve stopped short, flinging his arm out
across Natasha to hold her back. Ahead a young man stood. He was tall, as tall as Steve, and
about as muscular. He had shortly cropped brown hair and a chiseled face that was locked in a
wrathful expression. His eyes were dark brown and tinged with malice. The Russian star was
blazoned across his chest, shining gold and red on a sea of black.

Beside Steve, Natasha stiffened. Her eyes immediately widened, her face draining of color. She
was terrified, a haunted, hurt expression of shock claiming her pale face. She shook her head, her
mouth hanging limply open. She looked like she wanted to speak, but no words came. Steve felt
his blood turn to ice as he watched her flounder, shifting his eyes from his partner to this man
standing before them.

“Alexei?” Natasha whispered.

The man’s taut frown shattered into a murderous scowl, and he screamed in rage and balled his
fist and swung powerfully at Natasha. She ducked, but her reflexes were sluggish. Steve moved
faster, grabbing her arm and pulling her aside. The man’s hand slammed into the wall, pounding
through the cement and pulverizing it into a spray of gray dust. Steve watched, wide-eyed, as the
man recovered much faster than he anticipated. The air rushed miserably out of his lungs when
the man landed a powerful kick into his midriff. He flew back, the world of blur of shadows, and
landed roughly far down the hall.

Steve gasped, dizzy and disoriented, before getting his lungs to breathe again. He brushed aside
the pain and quickly leaned up. The man was glaring threateningly at Natasha, those dark eyes
wild with rage, but she just stood there. She was lost. Vulnerable. “Natasha!” Steve cried.
“Natasha!”

The man grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off the ground. She struggled desperately,
clawing at his huge hand wrapped around her neck. The man slammed her into the wall, and her
head snapped back. He choked her mercilessly. Steve gritted his teeth and swiftly got to his feet,
charging back down the hallway in a blind panic to help her. He balled his hand into a fist and
leapt and slammed it down into the other man’s face. He staggered, but Steve didn’t let up,
sinking his other fist into the man’s exposed abdomen and forcing him to drop Natasha. She
collapsed to the floor, gasping and wheezing and coughing and scrambling away.

Steve blocked a return, sidestepping a flying fist and grabbing it. He trapped the arm against his
chest, trying to leverage all his considerable strength into breaking it, but he couldn’t. Sensing a
losing effort, he rammed his elbow up into their attacker’s jaw. The man’s head snapped back,
but only for a moment. Then he was right back to staring at them with that murderous glower.

Steve stepped back, stunned. Apparently this was what Brushov had been building. “Get up!” he
ordered Natasha, who was still suffering on the floor from being so nearly strangled. “Get out of
here!” The man sneered, reaching for Steve, but he ducked. Pivoting on the ball of his left foot,
he slammed his right into the other’s chest, but the man caught his ankle and twisted. Pain shot up
his foot to his knee and he spun in the air before falling to the floor. His own elbow was jabbed
into his chest by the impact, driving the air from his lungs once more. Steve rolled, frantically
twisting to his side as the blur of black and red above him descended. The man’s knee drove into
the floor where Steve’s head had been, cracking the concrete like it was nothing.

Fear pulsed through him. They needed to get away. Now.

Steve got his feet beneath him and sprung up with as much power and speed as he could, driving
himself into the other man’s midsection. He dug his feet into the floor, pushing back and back
with everything he had. The man was just surprised enough to not be ready for his attack, and he
lost his balance. Steve kept going until he hit the wall behind them both at the end of the hallway.
The man’s head collided with a crack against the unforgiving concrete behind them. Steve leaned
up and punched him once. Twice. It was enough to daze him, and he slumped for a second.

Steve turned and ran, barely avoiding the hand reaching for his foot. He grabbed Natasha by the
arm. The dogs were still barking as they thundered away. His grip on her wrist was painfully
tight, but he didn’t loosen it for a second or even look behind him. His feet carried him because
he couldn’t think with the rush of adrenaline and terror. A few sharp turns led them finally to the
source of all the barking. A huge room lay ahead. They staggered inside, gasping for breath.

“Steve…” Natasha whispered.

“Damn it,” Steve hissed softly. This had been an extremely bad idea.

There were two rows of cages, six per side, and each had a huge, black dog inside literally
foaming at the mouth. Their fur was ratty, their eyes black and threatening. White teeth as sharp
as razors were bared in snaps and growls and barks. They had been loud before, but now with the
 scent of prey right before them, they were deafening. They attacked their cages with abandon,
slavering with the idea of a kill.

Steve glanced around, wondering what to do. They couldn’t go back. There was a door on the
other end of the kennel, a door that led to steps. Suddenly there was no choice. “Stay close to
me,” he quietly ordered. Natasha was dazed and hurt enough to actually acquiesce to that,
nodding fearfully and tucking herself close to Steve’s back. He tentatively took a step inside,
darting his eyes between each row of cages, praying those doors could withstand the dogs’
powerful assaults. He kept to the middle of the room as much as possible, walking on light feet.
The dogs snarled. Their eyes had that same deranged look that that man’s had. They had made it
about halfway, and Steve momentarily entertained the thought that they could get out.

The door through which they had come slammed shut. A bell rang. Something buzzed. And the
cage doors unlocked.

Steve pushed Natasha in front of him, running as fast as he could toward the steps. He wasn’t fast
enough. Once of the dogs leapt at him, snapping, and got its mouth around his forearm. He
yelped, swinging his arm around and dislodging the dog and sending it flying. Another was quick
to take its place, jumping onto his back. It bit at his neck, and the teeth tore flesh and sent sharp
pain spiraling down his back and shoulder. He reached behind him, grabbing it by its own neck
and flinging it away from him. Two more were on him almost instantly. Mouths opened and
closed and claws scratched and eyes flashed with maniacal hunger. He didn’t fall, shrugging them
off. Natasha cried out as another tackled her, biting and driving her down. Steve kicked it in the
chest with a sickening crunch and it fell to the side, whimpering. He batted one that jumped at
them away, and it collided with another before falling dead to the floor.

He pulled Natasha to her feet and they ran to the stairs as fast possible, drawing every bit of speed
and strength left in them. They bounded upward, taking the steps two at a time, the dogs barking
and slavering behind them. Steve smelled fresh air before he saw light. There was another door
before them. He charged in front of Natasha, driving his shoulder forward, praying to God that it
opened. Hurt lanceted down his side as he rammed it, but it thankfully gave way.

They ran out into the fresh evening air, the pack of beasts still following them. Steve didn’t know
exactly where they were. It was some place lower than the hospital had been, maybe down the
sloping mountainside that led to the beach. He sprinted over rocks and ruts in the ground, hearing
the pack barking and panting behind them closer and closer with every second. Natasha gasped,
stumbling, but kept her feet beneath her as they ran across the rocky ground. The rocky ground
that abruptly disappeared in front of them.

A good fifty feet below them the Black Sea churned. But they didn’t hesitate.

Steve grabbed Natasha’s hand and held it as tightly as he could as they jumped.

Chapter End Notes

Chto sluchilos'? V chem problema? – What's wrong? What's the problem?

Ya dolzhen pozvonit' bezopasnosti? – Should I call security?
Pozhaluysta – Please.
Pomestite ikh v palate 3. – Take them to exam room 3.
 Chapter 4

They looked for a place to hide in the darker, slummier parts of Yalta. They moved along the
streets quickly and quietly, trying not to draw attention to themselves, which wasn’t easy given the
fact they were both sopping wet. Climbing out of the ocean hadn’t been a simple matter either
since the beach had been loaded with people enjoying the sunset. The swimmers and sun-bathers
and party-goers had watched, wide-eyed and slack-jawed and stupefied, as the two of them had
emerged and staggered from the surf, gasping for breath. But they’d eluded capture, so that was
enough of a victory considering how close they’d come to being caught or worse in that
underground lab.

They walked side by side deeper into the city, making their way up the hills and away from the
coast and the hospital as fast as possible. Steve was tense beside her, his eyes scanning everything
around them, searching for any sign of danger. That was just as well because she felt so
completely out of it, so fundamentally shaken, that she couldn’t keep her wits about her. His
stride was purposeful, powerful, driven to keep them safe. She was having a hard time keeping
up. If she hadn’t been so distraught, she might have chastised him for running when they should
have been walking; anyone watching them would surely have been alerted by his determined,
quick pace and darting glances. But she said nothing, and as she lagged, he reached behind and
grabbed her wrist tight enough to hurt her and pulled her along.

A bus came rolling down the street ahead, its headlights cutting through the gray shadows of
twilight that draped the buildings around them. The road was narrow, and they needed to get off
it. Steve pulled her to the side near a tiny alley so they were well out of the way of the rumbling
vehicle. He eyed the street suspiciously, monitoring each car and pedestrian that passed. It was
improbable that they weren’t being followed. Maybe they had been the entire time they’d been in
Crimea, though she hadn’t spotted any tails or lingering eyes. Still, this whole damn thing reeked
of a setup. The thought was disturbing to say the least. She didn’t know what was more
upsetting: the fact that they had blundered dumbly into a trap, or the fact that she hadn’t detected
it.

No. The most disturbing thing was Alexei’s face when he’d choked the life out of her.

Steve sighed in frustration. It wasn’t easy to see, but she could tell he was shaken, too. “Let’s call
for extraction and get the hell out of here,” he declared firmly.

She couldn’t do that. “Not yet.” Steve looked at her like she’d sprouted an additional head.
Everything was so screwed up. She couldn’t stop shaking. She needed to convince him not to
leave. She needed time, time to think. Time to get herself under control. Time to sort this out and
figure out how to proceed.

He didn’t seem inclined to give it to her. She’d learned quickly during the missions they’d
worked together that he was a soldier, through and through. He followed orders. He had the
capacity to think outside the box, and he was damn brilliant when it came to planning and
strategy, but he would always defer to authority unless there was a compelling reason not to. And
authority had already dictated the mission objectives were complete.

At least his were. “We’re here to get intel, which we got. You saw that guy.” Natasha
swallowed through a tight throat and looked away. “They’re building soldiers, clear as day. Now
we need to call for extraction and report to Fury.”

She had to be firm. He was in charge, but she knew she could manipulate him if she needed to.
She could ignore him, too, or leave him behind. She didn’t want to (she knew she needed him)
but she would. The sad thing was she knew the string she was about to pull would untie more
than just their friendship. It would unravel things she hadn’t thought about in years, parts of her
heart that she’d thought long dead. It was frightening. It was even more frightening how simple it
would be because what she wanted, what she needed to be for him, wasn’t too far from the truth.
Lying was always easiest when the truth was mixed in. “We need a place to crash,” she softly
insisted.

“Natasha, what–”

“Steve, please. I…” She moved closer to him, desperate for just a bit of comfort. She looked up
into his eyes. So much of her was hurting. Everything was hurting. “Let’s just rest for a minute.
Please.”

A long moment of silence passed between them. The sounds of cars driving down the road, of
distant conversations, filled the evening. She held his gaze, trying to keep her body still, trying to
seem far more certain of what she was suggesting than she truly felt. Eventually the tense set of
his jaw and shoulders eased, and he sagged a little against the building behind them in
submission. He sighed slowly. “Stay here.”

He walked across the street, heading towards a dark and grungy-looking hotel on the other side.
She watched him disappear inside before collapsing into the shadows of the alley, leaning against
the rough bricks of the building beside her. Her head was pounding, her throat was throbbing
incessantly, and she felt dizzy and weak. She closed her eyes, despite the fact that they could be
in danger and she should really keep watch. It simply happened, an impulsive reaction to stress
and trauma that was beyond her control. All of this felt beyond her control. As she stood there,
things came out of the darkness. Brown eyes, deep and open and teeming with love. Hands
running through her hair. Lips pressed to the side of her neck, teasing and tender. A soft voice
against her ear. “You’re so beautiful. I love you. Please say you love me. Please…”

“You belong to me, Natalia. Kill him and come home.”

Brown eyes, violent and deranged and so familiar yet not. Gleeful and sadistic and murderous.
Lips twisted in a cruel smile of anticipation. Hands tight around her throat. Squeezing the life out
of her. Killing her.

“Nat?” Her eyes snapped open and she jolted off of the wall in shock, immediately falling into a
defensive fighting stance. But it was only Steve. He caught the hand she was instinctively
swinging toward him, his fingers tight and prohibitive but not painful as they grasped her wrist
and stopped her. His brow creased in concern and confusion.

She floundered in embarrassment, furious at herself. God, her head was pounding. “Sorry,” she
quietly said. He let her go. His eyes settled on the bruises across her neck. It wasn’t often that
she felt exposed, but she did before him. She grabbed her sweater and pulled it tighter around her
body, obscuring the black and blue marks and angry red welts.

Steve’s tense, doubtful expression softened as he looked her over. “Come on,” he said. “I got us
a place.”

They walked quickly across the street to the tiny hotel nestled between two buildings, one of
which looked suspiciously like some sort of brothel. This area wasn’t often frequented by the
wealthy travelers and tourists, so she hoped the prospect of business would entice the innkeeper to
keep his head down and his mouth shut. Steve said nothing about whether or not he was
questioned or harassed, silently and firmly leading her down the sidewalk on the other side of the
street a few steps before taking her inside the building. He bounded quietly up the steps two at a
time, vigilant and wary. She followed on light feet. He found their room, producing a key from
his pocket that he jabbed into the lock on the knob. One twist had the door open and them inside.
Steve closed it and locked it behind him.

The room was nothing more than a tiny, ugly box. A solitary bed hardly big enough for one
person, let alone two, was pushed against the wall and dressed in ratty, unappealing bedding.
There was an old, nicked armoire and an equally battered and brutalized desk. It was clean
enough, though the carpet was torn and stained. A solitary, brown lamp beside the bed on a
flimsy nightstand wearily shed light. There was one window that was dirty but did have a fairly
decent view of the street below. No bathroom. All things considered, it wasn’t so bad. She’d
definitely been in worse.

She hardly had a moment to look around further, though, before Steve grabbed her arm and turned
her to face him. “You need to talk to me,” he said. His eyes were intense and demanding, his
stature firm and unyielding. She knew that tone, had heard it many times in the past. This was an
order from her captain, from her commanding officer. There was no mistaking it. He towered
over her. “Now.”

Natasha clenched her jaw obstinately. Nobody demanded that of her. And if it were anyone else,
she would have taught him a lesson he would not soon forget. But it was Steve, and the way he
was staring at her cooled her fury. Her face must have betrayed her turmoil because his own taut
expression softened and his fingers loosened. He released a slow breath. “I can’t lead this
mission effectively if you keep things from me. I need to know what we’re up against. Whoever
that was back there…” He sighed, frowning and holding her gaze even as she tried to look away.
“You knew him.”

She stood stock still. The flood of memories inside banged against the cage she’d erected around
them years ago, battering it with ferocity she hadn’t experienced in what seemed to be forever.
She could let go. She could sink back into the past and let herself know these things again, but
that was a terrifying prospect. She was afraid her restraint would fail her. She was afraid, and he
knew it. He was more perceptive than people gave him credit for. “Natasha.” His tone was
softer. He was making no effort to hide his concern, but his worry wasn’t placating or pitying or
disparaging. Normally she would have despised that and resented him for caring so openly, but
she was so radically unsettled that she could only be grateful. “I’m your friend. At least, I’d like
to think I am. You can talk to me.” His hand slid up her arm to her shoulder, and he reached up
with his other hand to touch her second shoulder as well. His hands seemed so large and capable
and warm. So strong. She was safe with him, wasn’t she? You are. “You knew Brushov. And
you knew that soldier.”

She suddenly couldn’t stand the sight of him, so warm and earnest and sincere. She couldn’t
stand for him to look at her like that, open and imploring and compassionate. He was naïve,
trusting to a fault, so stupidly moral and loyal that he actually thought airing out demons would aid
in healing. He thought faith in others had a place in this world of spies and murder and
espionage. He believed there was actually good in her. He was a fool.

But as she gazed in his eyes, the promise of relief was so strong and palpable that she could almost
make herself believe it, too. She’d never spoken of the memories pounding and beating on her
heart. She’d never told anyone the truth, not any of it, not even the parts she was certain were
real. No one knew, not even Clint. Seeing Brushov and Alexei had stirred the shadows within
her, and now they were swirling like the dark, ominous clouds of an impending storm that would
drown her in rain. She wasn’t certain she had the courage to face that. Yet for the first time in a
long time, she thought she wanted to. “I knew him,” she admitted.

Just that simple utterance, that one statement, felt to be too much. Too much exposure. Too much
of the truth. His touch became uncomfortable, and she pulled away. She turned to face the
armoire, rubbing her arms against a sudden chill. Her sodden clothes felt cold and heavy, and
every bruise and scratch throbbed and stung. She lost her nerve, her eyes burning as she blankly
stared at the nicked and scratched lines and edges and contours of the furniture. Steve was silent
and unmoving behind her, patiently waiting for her to continue. He wasn’t going to demand or
pressure her, and when she realized that, it comforted her enough to face the onslaught of
memories. “Back when I was a girl, Brushov… recruited me for a top secret program funded by
the last remnants of the KGB. The Red Room.” She saw the hints of recognition in his eyes.
She knew there would be. He’d had questions about this, had had them since they’d been
partnered. And she’d never told him anything about it until now. “Brushov took me off the
streets in Volgograd. I was a pick-pocket, stealing what I needed to survive, and I was good at it.
One day I made the mistake of stealing from him. He could have killed me; people around there
disappeared all the time, powerful and influential people, so a homeless orphan girl would have
never been missed. But he was impressed by me and what I could do. He brought me into his
home. He fed me, clothed me, taught me to read and write. Taught me how to fight and kill.”

“I can make you into something far more than you thought possible. More powerful than
anyone. More dangerous. Faster. Stronger. Smarter. No longer just a street rat scrounging for
food. Men all across the world will quiver before you.” She sighed, fighting to keep going. “I
was one of many girls, but he took a special interest in me. I had a natural aptitude, a talent that
couldn’t be taught. He liked that. Only a select few of us made it past the initial lessons. The
lessons that came after that…” Things came from the shadows. Screaming and pain and men
slipping their dirty, hungry fingers into her mind. Confusion and terror. Violation. She closed
herself to it and pushed it back. “They made us into tools for the Foreign Intelligence Service. I
was particularly proficient at doing what they wanted.”

“Assassinations,” Steve clarified softly.

Natasha gave a short, irritated breath. “Brushov wanted an army of us, the best and deadliest spies
in the world. He wanted to eliminate threats swiftly and completely. He wanted assassins that
never tired, never fell, never missed. Never gave up until their targets were eliminated.”

Brushov wanted killers that never felt, at least not anything beyond an insatiable hunger for power
and domination and death. That voice slashed through her thoughts again. “Never feel. You are
Black Widow. Black Widow does not feel.”

“He came close but never close enough to what he wanted. In the end, I was the only one he
had.” Faces faded into the mist. Other girls. Dead. Long gone. “When the USSR collapsed, it
was complete chaos, generals and KGB agents falling left and right, regimes and factions toppling
as soon as they formed. Brushov saw the writing on the wall over the next few years, and then he
took everything that remained of the Red Room to keep it to himself. He took me.”

Steve was silent for a moment. She felt him breathing behind her. “What did he make you do?”
His tone was tentative like he was afraid of the answer.

“Everything. Anything. I was sixteen years old.” It was silent, but his sympathy was loud and
unnerving. She didn’t want it. She couldn’t see him, but she pictured the pain in his eyes as plain
as day. She could hear the pathetic condolences he wanted to offer before he even spoke.
“Don’t,” she warned. She turned and settled him with a harsh glower. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asked. He folded his muscular arms over his chest. His wet shirt clung to every
muscle like a second skin. “Don’t care? Or don’t think it sounds like you didn’t have a choice?
Don’t think it sounds like he forced you?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say. There was no heat in his eyes, no judgment in
his voice. No pity. She thought back to those hazy moments in her past, but she couldn’t
remember clearly. There were missions, guns smooth and powerful in her hands, the cold Russian
winter biting her skin as she sighted down the scopes of sniper rifles, shadows that hid her lithe
body and the threat she posed to her marks. But the emotions surrounding it all were gone,
scraped away. Did she have a choice? She couldn’t remember. There was only a voice.
Brushov. “You are beautiful, Natalia. Stunning. A rare flower. Men will forget themselves to
have but a taste of you. Wrap them about your fingers. Squeeze them until they cry for mercy.
They will beg you to seduce them, beg you to strangle them, beg you to destroy them. Kill them
all.”

She wasn’t sure anyone had forced her. “Brushov was my handler, and he sold my services to
whoever would pay. Money. Weapons. Political favors. In the underworld the struggle for
power was brutal, and he wanted nothing more than power. He was continually trying to revive
the Red Room any way he could. He was willing to kill anyone to get it, and he did. Garanin
financed his rise. I was their asset, a weapon they deployed against their enemies. I didn’t care
who I was sent to kill. I was the best at what I did, and I followed orders.”

The silence that came was rife with shame. She looked away again, that awful chill climbing up
from the small of her back. She folded her arms protectively over herself. A few years ago
confessing that she’d been a hired gun, a murderer whose services came to the highest bidder,
wouldn’t have bothered her. Now saying it aloud, the words out there and undeniable and
inerasable, hurt in a way she’d never anticipated. Saying it to him was even worse. Every ounce
of self-preservation demanded she not continue in this tale because she didn’t think she could
stand his hate. But she went on. She had to. The cage door was open, and her demons were
escaping. “I even learned to enjoy it.”

Lust. Domination and control. Power. “You desire power, Natalia. I can give you that and so
much more.” She’d been built, trained, programmed to lie and tempt and tease and kill. She’d
never even considered that those things were wrong. In fact, she’d thrived on them. They were
symbols of honor and accomplishment. A dead mark. A man she’d twisted to her own ends. A
woman she’d bested at her own game. A terminated target. These were the things by which she
and everyone else had measured her success.

“What changed you?” Steve asked. His tone was unreadable.

“When I was eighteen, Brushov was having a… quarrel with a man named Andrei Shostakov.
He was a higher cabinet member whose own ambitions conflicted with Brushov’s and whose
meddling was becoming too much of a hindrance. And his son was of particular interest to
Brushov. Alexei was his son.”

Just speaking his name was painful. A thousand more memories rushed through her mind. She
tried not to experience them again, but it was difficult. She winced and looked down to the floor.
“Shostakov was very wealthy and influential, a lover of arts and music and fine things. He had a
significant stake in the Mariinsky Ballet Company in St. Petersberg. My mission was two-fold: I
was to pose as a dancer in Shostakov’s company, gain his trust, and put an end to him. I was also
to bring Alexei to Brushov.”

“You dance wonderfully. I am entranced by you, Natalia. Come, my sweet. Come and meet my
son.”

She heard Steve shift his weight, the old floor creaking under his feet. A second later he was
stepping to the bed. He sat on it, and it creaked so loudly that she grimaced again. “I take it you
succeeded,” he surmised.

“No.” Her eyes burned. Now it came to the truth, the things she’d buried deep so that she’d
never think of them again. Through the cracks in her mind they seeped to the surface. “I… I fell
in love with him. I didn’t think I could feel that sort of thing. I didn’t think I could, but I did. It
came on so fast and unexpectedly that I… I abandoned my mission. Alexei took me away. He
tried to save me from myself. We ran away and…”

“Marry me. Please say ‘yes’. Natalia, please.” Firm lips and sweet pleasure and strong hands
holding her own. The wide Russian countryside. Freedom and peace.

She drew a short breath through her nose, blinking away the stinging in her eyes. “There was no
escape from this life. Brushov caught us.” Distant thunder. A summer storm. “Run! Get
away!”

“No! Stay with me! Don’t leave me! Alexei!”

The sky was crimson and pink and orange as the sun set behind the clouds. The acrid smell of
smoke scorched her lungs as the house in which they’d been hiding burned to the ground. Car
doors slammed. Brushov. How did he find us? How? There was terror and pain and panic and
blood like rain. “Alexei!”

Natasha dug her nails into her palms. “He’d found another way to kill Shostakov. And he took
Alexei away. I always thought…”

“That he was dead?”

Natasha bit lower lip hard enough to draw blood and nodded. Not that it mattered. If she’d
known he was alive, what would she have done differently? Nothing. “You failed me, Natalia.
Black Widow does not fail and Black Widow does not love. Perhaps you need a reminder. I’ll
teach you again.” Pain and fear and screams. Violation. “I went back to him. I kept doing his
dirty work. I had to. For years I didn’t do anything but follow his orders. I picked up the
attention of SHIELD towards the end. Six years ago, Barton was sent to terminate me. You
know the rest.”

He did. She could feel his eyes on her, observing her and analyzing her in the quiet minutes that
followed. She fought to remain still even as her flesh crawled and her heart pounded and the
room spun. She was naked, vulnerable. Exposed. Eventually he spoke. “You got out. That’s
the important thing.”

She couldn’t believe the naïve bullshit that came out of his mouth sometimes. “Spoken like
someone who’s never been anything less than a perfect soldier.” The spite in her voice was
venomous, but she did nothing to restrain it.

Steve looked hurt and angry. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to make mistakes? Mistakes
that hurt other people?” He shook his head and stood. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to
lose someone you care about?”

“I think your version of hurting other people and mine are light years apart from each other,” she
hissed. The guilt was like poison pounding through her veins. “And I highly doubt whoever you
lost ended up a twisted psychopath working for the enemy.”

Steve was taken aback by that. He didn’t argue with her, though she knew it wasn’t because he
didn’t want to. She was downplaying things that hurt him, casting them aside as irrelevant and
inconsequential when they obviously weren’t. But she couldn’t deal with what she felt for him
right now. And she couldn’t stand his perfection. “What did they do to him? He was…” Steve
trailed off, disturbed. He’s strong and fast and stood against Captain America like it was
nothing. Natasha winced against the pain in her chest and head and neck. “He looked… insane.”
Natasha closed her eyes against the image of Alexei’s handsome face twisted in murderous rage as
he’d strangled her. He’d never recognized her, or if he had, he hadn’t cared. Or he had cared,
and that was worse, because that meant he had intentionally tried to kill her. “I don’t know.”

If Steve didn’t believe her, he didn’t confront her about it. “What was it about him that made
Brushov so interested in him?”

In the years since she’d lost him, lost the man who’d been foolish enough to try and save her,
she’d never much thought about it. She’d forced herself not to. Even after Clint had brought her
out of that life, she’d never gone back to these places in her memories, too frightened of what
she’d find. “I don’t know,” she said again. “Brushov only told me what I needed to know to get
the job done. Who and what and where and when. Never why.”

Steve didn’t look pleased with that. “Well, there must have been something he wanted from
him.” He looked like he wanted to say something further, but his unhappy expression slid from
his face as he stared at her like he was suddenly seeing her. She wanted to shrivel and hide. “Are
you okay?” he softly asked. “He really did a number on you.” He was visibly ashamed for not
having cared to ask earlier. “You’re shivering.”

She was, and it wasn’t because it was cold. The room was downright oppressive, the air still and
stale. He walked over to the armoire, opening it with a creak of old hinges. He reached inside
and pulled out a few rough and well-used towels. He handed the towels to her. “Here.” He
offered her a bit of a comforting smile and then turned away and moved to the window. It took
her beleaguered mind a minute to realize he was giving her some privacy.

He stood beside the musty old curtains, closing them as much as possible and keeping an eye on
the street below. Natasha hesitated a moment more, watching as his eyes narrowed and looked
over their surroundings carefully. Then she took one of the towels and wiped her body dry. She
peeled her soaked sweatshirt off. She stopped then, staring at his back, abruptly embarrassed and
sheepish though she couldn’t for the life of her understand why. Her body was a weapon. She’d
undressed in front of countless men. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen her like this revealing state
before. But she was uncertain this time. Still, she pulled her sodden tank off. Her shorts
followed. Clad only in her bra and panties, she wrapped herself in the towel after taking quick
stock of her injuries. Aside from the pain in her throat, the bump on her head, and a plethora of
bruises and scrapes, she was alright. It was something of a miracle, considering how close they’d
come to disaster down in that lab.

She turned her gaze back to Steve. He had a smaller towel that he was trying to reach behind him
to press against the bites on the back of his left shoulder. “Come here,” she ordered softly.

“What?” He turned around and glanced at her. She caught him blushing as his eyes flicked up
and down her body. The towel barely covered her.

“I said come here. Let me.”

She moved to the bed. Now he hesitated for a tense moment. Eventually he turned from the
window and sat beside her. He pulled his shirt over his head and unveiled a slew of nasty bites
and deep scratches down his back. The worst were clustered about the nape of his neck and
shoulder. His right forearm also had a serious bite on it. They’d stopped bleeding already. She
knew he healed faster than anyone due to the super soldier serum. This wasn’t the first time she’d
patched him up after a fight, so she’d witnessed firsthand what the serum could do. It never failed
to amaze her. She’d seen him take serious hits during battle and get up and walk it off like they
were nothing. The next day it was like he’d never been hurt at all. Here and now, his torn skin
had already begun to heal. The angry lacerations would have warranted medical attention in
anyone else. Bites like this from feral, possibly rabid dogs should have been a serious matter. She
was thankful that for him they weren’t.

She moved behind him and gently pressed the towel he’d handed her to the bloody mess. He
sucked in a harsh breath and jerked beneath her fingers. “Sorry,” she whispered. She was more
careful as she wiped away the reddened water.

“It’s alright.” She worked silently for a moment. His skin was smooth and hot, his muscles
shifting and flexing under her light touch. She was entranced by it, by how warm and strong and
sturdy he was. “I’m sorry, too. About everything that happened to you.”

That doused her heart like ice water. “I don’t want your pity,” she snapped, pulling away.

He turned to look at her, his eyes flashing. “It’s not pity,” he said. His voice had a hard edge to
it. “Caring is not pity.”

“It is to me.”

“Damn it, Nat, listen to yourself! How much longer until you trust me? We’re partners, and you
don’t have an ounce of faith in me. What did you think, that I would throw you out or judge you
or hate you? I’m not this naïve paragon of virtue and innocence. That’s what people think I am,
just like how everyone thinks you’re this ruthless murderer. There’s more to both of us, and you
know it.”

“Steve, I–”

“We can’t work together if you don’t trust me. You should have told me all this before we left
DC. You should have told me.” His hurt and anger and disappointment were downright
crushing. She felt bad, truly and deeply, for not believing in someone else. For not speaking the
truth when she should have. All the times she should have. She’d never regretted so much since
she’d started working with him. He sighed. “I don’t care about who you were. I care about you.
And I want you to trust me. I need you to trust me.”

She didn’t know if she could, not with this. She wanted to. But it went against everything she
was, everything she’d been made to be. She wasn’t a soldier. She wasn’t a friend. No matter
how hard she tried, she couldn’t be. She was Black Widow. Black Widow does not feel. Black
Widow does not love.

They didn’t speak again for a long minute. She didn’t look at him, couldn’t make herself look at
him. Her eyes stung with a mixture of exhaustion and shameful tears she refused to cry. “Look, if
you want to try and save him… I can understand that. We can – let’s go to that warehouse
tomorrow. Maybe there are answers there, at least better answers than what we have.”

Stop, Steve. Don’t do this.

But he couldn’t hear her unspoken plea. And even if he could’ve, he wouldn’t have stopped.
“And if things get rough, we call for extraction and wait for Fury to give the go ahead. We’ll
make sure Brushov never hurts anyone else again. I promise you.”

She wanted to scream. She closed her eyes and moved away and tucked her knees to her chest
and squeezed them as hard as she could. Had she done this on purpose? Used his compassion for
her against him? She didn’t even know anymore. The spy was so engrained in her that she
couldn’t pull herself apart from it. She couldn’t filter her thoughts and emotions and desires from
those of Black Widow. His concern, his feelings for her… It was weakness. Exploit it. Turn it
to your own ends. She was evil, pure and simple. And she hated herself for it.

“Natasha?”
She sunk into defeat, apathetic and fatigued and numb. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,
Rogers.”

“Hey.” His voice was soft and unimposing. He angled around and took her shoulders in his
hands again. “Look at me.” It took all of her will to do that. His eyes were bright and open.
There was no doubt. No wariness or hesitation. Just his faith in her and in himself. “I keep my
promises, and I swear to you that we’ll stop him.”

He was deluding himself if he thought he could ever be anything other than a good man. He
couldn’t walk into this world of betrayal and murder and lies. This shadowy hell didn’t honor
good men. It maimed them, destroyed them. He was only going to get hurt. The last thing she
wanted was for him to get hurt. She wanted to warn him, to tell him to get out now and go back
to the safe house and leave her to complete her mission. She needed to warn him.

She didn’t. She wanted him too much, and she was too selfish.

He patted her shoulder with a soft, friendly smile on his lips. “You should sleep. I’ll keep
watch.”

He made to stand, his fingers sliding from her skin, and the thought of losing contact with him was
unbearable. She grabbed his hand and stopped him, unable to summon forth the courage to look
at his face. This exposure, this level of vulnerability, was novel and raw and frightening. So was
the sharp punishment of shame and regret. “Nat?”

Inexplicably her mind went back to those old letters she’d seen in his apartment. She felt so low
and lost that it hurt just to think of them. Her world was twisted and inverted and not right. “That
person you loved who you lost… What happened to her?”

He looked confused for a moment. His eyes gained a guarded look to them. “I’ve lost everyone I
loved.”

That was even more distressing, so much so that she made herself ignore it. Her aching heart gave
her no choice. She didn’t let him dismiss her or escape. She needed to know. “What happened
to her?”

Steve released a long breath he’d been holding. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. There was
something very painful there, something that was beyond closure or resolution. “I lost her a long
time ago.” He wasn’t going to say anything more. He shook his head. “Get some rest.”

He tried to move away again, but she wouldn’t let him. She couldn’t let him.

She was up and off the bed, holding tight to his hand as she wrapped her other arm around his
back. She kissed him forcefully, not giving him a chance to struggle or even protest. Her towel
fell away to the floor as she pressed herself to his chest, standing on her toes to keep her mouth on
his. He grunted and then groaned in surprise. “Natasha, what’re you…”

She didn’t let him finish, passionately devouring his mouth, sliding both her arms around his neck
and tangling her fingers in his hair. She felt more certain of herself now than she had in days.
This she knew. This she could control. She needed that as desperately as she needed him. This
kiss was what she’d imagined it would be, what she’d fantasized about, him stiff and unsure and
so inexperienced but curious. Wanting. He opened his mouth to her, inviting her deeper. Closer.
A giddy thought she’d long banished gleefully danced through her mind as she trailed her lips
down his throat and his heaving chest. I could teach him a thing or two. I could… I want to. He
gasped, breathing loudly and squirming with mounting desire. “Nat… I don’t think…” He
swallowed nervously, shifting his weight as she kissed the planes of his stomach, sliding her hands
over smooth skin and powerful muscles that rippled beneath her exploring fingers. “This – this
isn’t a good idea.” Her hands slipped down into his shorts. “Don’t do that… Natasha! God.”

They were back on the bed a breath later. She turned and pushed him onto it and climbed on top
of him, straddling his waist and pinning his hands in hers. She folded their fingers together,
planting a trail of hot kisses along his jaw and down his neck. All the pain and fear – all of the
memories – were gone in a rush of ecstasy. She’d wanted this for so long. Stripped and shaken,
she had to take it. She had to. She couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to stop. Every part of her
conscience screamed that she let him go and end this now and push him away, but she ignored it.
She was going to change everything. She was going to hurt him. She was going to hurt them
both.

But the moment, this moment, this culmination of everything since they’d nearly kissed on that
godawful island during their first mission together… It was worth it.

Teach him everything. Teach him who you are.

She paused in her teasing to look at him. Steve’s eyes were half-lidded and swimming in arousal.
He was watching her like none of this was quite real and he didn’t quite understand. She’d never
seen him so confused and torn and uncertain. It was empowering that she had this effect on him.
It was also a bit miserable in the dark places in her heart, because she was driving him into
something she wasn’t sure he wanted. She’d never cared about something like that before. But
she couldn’t stop. Not now. Everything was so twisted inside her, a tangled knot of wants and
reservations and feelings and fears. She was cold and calculating, but this was anything but. She
was composed and unfeeling, but this was wild and sensuous. She unbuttoned his shorts and
pushed them down, reveling in the look on his face and the hoarse moan that came from his lips.
“We shouldn’t…”

She crawled back over him and leaned down and kissed him again, smothering his words. He
didn’t fight, didn’t push her away. Instead he grabbed her face, weaving his hands through her
hair, and kissed her back. She tasted salt and heat and realized she was crying. She couldn’t hide
anything from him. He saw it all. He wiped the tears away with the pad of his thumb. “Nat?”
She leaned into his touch, pressing her lips to his palm and then sliding them along his fingers.
“What…”

She kissed him, silencing his questions. She didn’t want to hear his doubts. “I want to feel,” she
whispered desperately against his lips. “Steve, please… Please make me feel.” His hands
stroked down her back, and she trembled under his touch. She was lying to herself, deluding
herself. She wasn’t in control. She was wrong, and she’d never felt so frightened in her life.
She’d never wanted anything, anyone, so badly. Her fingers reached down between them and
took him and pushed him closer and closer to letting go. His resistance died a slow, aching death
in his eyes. “Please.”

If he wanted to stop her, he would stop her. He was much stronger than her. If he wanted to stop
her, he would stop her.

But he didn’t.
 Chapter 5

Steve didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t, and not just because they were in the middle of a
dangerous mission with enemy spies and soldiers likely tracking them and someone needed to
keep watch. He couldn’t slow the thunder of his heart, the racing storm of his thoughts. After
they’d made love, Natasha had fallen asleep almost instantly. He’d untangled himself from her to
get dressed, hastily tugging on his boxers and shorts as he glanced once or twice out the window
at the heavy night pressing down upon the dingy street beyond. He’d hesitated for a moment,
shaking in the silence, feeling so much and yet nothing at all, and then he’d looked back to her
form on the bed. Her skin glowed white in the moonlight, her radiant hair shining like blood on
the pillows. Something inside him hurt, and he couldn’t describe what it was or how to make it
stop. So he’d gone back to her, gathered her in his arms, and held her.

He sat with his back to the headboard, Natasha’s naked body tucked to his chest. He tenderly ran
his hand up and down the curve of her back, sliding his fingers across soft and smooth skin. She’d
thrown an arm around his stomach and clung to him, her head pillowed on his chest, breathing
softly and deeply. This was the most peaceful he’d ever seen her. The most at ease. The most
unguarded. She was beautiful and calm and serene. He could almost forget who she was and
everything she’d told him. Almost.

Black Widow. Knowing now how she’d been made into the world’s deadliest assassin made the
mask she always wore even more disturbing. It was more than obvious she’d been terrified of the
truth, and he knew there was much more to it that she wasn’t telling him. He wasn’t sure if she
was trying to protect him or herself, but more than likely it was for both their sakes’ that she’d kept
the worst of the horrors she’d lived and the atrocities she’d committed hidden. He suddenly
understood her in a way he hadn’t before, and not just because she’d revealed her secrets. He’d
always wondered how she could live the way she did, detached and closed off without
ever connecting with anyone on a truthful, meaningful level. He came from a world of trust, an
army where men depended on each other for their very lives, where demons and ghosts and hopes
and dreams were laid bare while he and his company had been trapped in foxholes and huddled
around campfires and sharing a rare drink. As a team they’d nursed wounds new and old, and as a
team they’d weathered and won the war. Togetherness and camaraderie and faith in even the
darkest of situations. That had gotten him through some tough times. She had nothing and no one.
He knew what that was like, too. But if she herself couldn’t stand to face the pain of her past, how
could she ask anyone else to?

Well, she’d asked him. Or involved him, at least, without even asking. He wasn’t bothered by
that, but he was afraid for her. She was unraveling before his very eyes, and he was damn helpless
to stop it. Whatever Brushov had done to her… He’d transformed an orphaned girl into a mass
murderer. Steve didn’t care what she thought; that sort of thing wasn’t enjoyable, as she put it.
And it wasn’t something someone could choose to have happen. She’d been a child. She’d been
forced, hurt and coerced and manipulated and twisted. Sold into slavery of the worst kind, even if
it was without chains and destitution. Natasha was proud, and she’d never allow anyone to label
her a victim. He realized he’d been a fool to suggest it, even if he thought it was true. In her eyes,
she was nobody’s victim.

Part of him wanted her to continue to think that. Part of him wanted her back as she was and
wanted to go back to how they had been before she’d shown up at his apartment two days ago in
the middle of the night. There’d been barriers between them, maybe not so well-defined or easy to
interpret, but boundaries nonetheless. Partners. Coworkers. Avengers. Agents of SHIELD. She’d
destroyed them all, torn them down and stripped them away with her hands and lips and hungers,
and he had let her. He didn’t know what the hell they were doing and what he was to her. That
hurt to admit. He didn’t know what she wanted of him. A friend? A lover? He had tried to be the
former and she’d thrown it back in his face, and he wasn’t sure he knew how to be the latter or if
he could or even wanted to. What they’d done wasn’t meaningless to him. Stark kept telling him
to “get with the future”, as he put it, and in the future people slept together with no strings
attached, no obligations. Love wasn’t a prerequisite. People seemed to forget that this stuff
happened all the time back in his day as well; it just wasn’t mentioned in decent conversation, let
alone spread all over the world via social networking. He didn’t know if that was what she
wanted, a fling, a one night-stand brought on by stress and fear. It wasn’t what he wanted. Truth
be told, he didn’t know what he wanted and he hadn’t since he’d woken up in New York more
than a year ago.

All he knew was for the first time in a long time he didn’t feel guilty. He held Natasha, listening to
her breathe, caressing her back and watching the night shift and twist around him, and he didn’t
think of Peggy’s face or her laugh or her smile. He’d always been afraid that if he let himself care
for anyone else, that if he let himself move on and accept his new life, it would be akin to betrayal.
It was stupid, dramatic nonsense, and he knew it. Peggy had even told him that on one of those
rare visits where her mind had been sharp and intact. She’d practically begged him to live his life
as if her own guilt at having lived hers had been unbearable. He’d never been able to shake his
fear before. This wasn’t what he’d imagined it would be like, but to say he hadn’t enjoyed it (or
even imagined it before) would be a blatant lie. And to say he regretted it would be an even bigger
one. Still, he felt more uncertain of himself than he had in a long time. And more alive. And more
worried. And more needed, and not just as a soldier or a hero to the nation and the world.

Natasha needed him.

So he stayed awake while she slept soundly and watched over her. He held her tight whenever a
shudder wracked her frame, hushed her whenever her breathing hitched even slightly. If bad
dreams threatened her, he’d do whatever he could to keep them at bay. Maybe his warm embrace
would be enough to provide one good night’s sleep. He had his fair share of nightmares; the
SHIELD psychiatrists had told him over and over again that he had a pretty strong case of PTSD
and survivor’s guilt, as if what he’d experienced could possibly be bundled up and neatly labeled
with a diagnosis. But what he’d suffered paled in comparison to the trauma she’d obviously
endured. And he’d promised her this, once back on their first mission together. Things
surrounding that were still hazy for him as he’d suffered a rather serious flashback when they’d
been trapped on a ship and nearly drowned. She’d pulled him through that, saved his life in fact,
and he clearly recalled how much that had changed his opinion of her. She’d brushed it off, made
it seem like simply what one person would do for another in trouble. It had been much more than
that to him. And he’d sworn to her right then and there that if she ever needed someone to stand
between her and her demons, he would.

He dropped a gentle kiss to her mussed hair and held her tighter. Maybe he couldn’t fight her
battles, but he was willing to try. He was willing to protect her, even if she didn’t want it or think
she needed it.

Eventually the shadows lightened to gray. The sun rose outside, spreading the golden light of
dawn through the little room. He tried to force himself to get going, to get them both moving
before they were discovered, but the street below was quiet and uninhabited and Natasha seemed
so content beside him. Against his better judgment, he let her sleep longer and watched the dawn
slip away and turn to morning. His mind finally emptied.

Steve opened eyes that had stubbornly slipped shut, bright light bleeding through his eyelids. He
groaned softly, not remembering having fallen asleep. It couldn’t have been for long. Something
soft and warm was cuddled against him. “Nat? We should get going.”
He felt Natasha stiffen before she moved, and that was probably the only thing that saved him
from having his neck snapped. She was up in a flash of red and pale flesh, her hand aiming for his
throat. He caught her wrist and slowed her strike but only just. Her knee was up into his stomach,
driving the air from his lungs, as she yanked him over and down off the bed. He hit the floor hard
on his back, his head smacking roughly against the carpet, and she was over him, straddling him
with her fist raised.

“Natasha!” he gasped. Her eyes were cold and narrowed and filled with murderous intent. Her
fingernails were gouging into the flesh of his throat. “Stop! It’s me! It’s Steve!”

Recognition glinted in her eyes. Immediately her face softened and filled with horror. The iron
grip around his neck loosened, and she leaned back. She whispered something softly in Russian
that he didn’t quite catch, clambering off of him. She sat, pulling her legs to her chest and crossing
her arms protectively over them. Steve winced as he gingerly leaned up; her attack hadn’t hurt as
much as it had surprised him. He grabbed the blanket off the bed as he righted himself and draped
it over Natasha’s nude body. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He sat beside her on the floor, patiently waiting until she collected herself. “Honestly, didn’t quite
picture that for the morning after,” he joked with a disarming smile, trying to pierce the tension
with some levity. It fell flat. He made himself stare ahead and keep his distance. He even
prevented their legs from brushing against each other. He wondered how deep the damage went
beneath all of her power and strength. He wondered how ugly the scars were under her fiery
beauty. He wondered if she really thought he would hurt her. And he wondered if she was going
to brush last night and everything they’d shared aside like it had never happened. He realized then
that that was what had hurt him when he’d sat alone last night. That miserable ache in his chest,
that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach… It had been the fear that she’d pretend they hadn’t
slept together, that he was just another man to her that she could use and abuse. That she couldn’t
tell his hands from the many hands that had harmed her in the past.

He knew this was neither the time nor the place. They were in the middle of a dangerous mission
that had far-reaching, frightening consequences. Any awkwardness over what they had done in a
heated moment of passion was better resolved when they weren’t being tracked and hunted by
their enemies while trying to stop Brushov and his henchmen from building biological weapons.
Right now they needed to focus on the task at hand and get it done.

“Steve.” Her soft call seemed permission enough for him to look at her. He found her staring
blankly at the stained carpet covering the floor in front on them. Her eyes were dead and vacant.
Suddenly she seemed small and worn and beaten down. As if the first time hadn’t been enough,
she apologized again. Now her voice was raw and pinched with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

Steve didn’t know what she was apologizing for. For mistaking him for a nightmare from her
past? For attacking him? For sleeping with him? For lying? Or something worse? It was too
disturbing to contemplate. What the hell was he doing, getting mixed up with a coworker? Getting
mixed up with her? “It’s alright,” he murmured. He slid his arm around her and gently tugged her
against him. “You didn’t hurt me.”

She watched him with those empty eyes. They were mired in guilt and shame and a dozen other
things he couldn’t discern. They were filled with tears. He watched her, too, uncertain of what to
do to comfort her. But maybe just being there, sitting beside her, was enough. She tenderly laid
her hand to his cheek and leaned toward him and kissed him softly. This had none of the urgency
and desperation of the night before. This was gentle, loving. She deepened it, leaning into his
chest, and any fear he’d had of her ignoring what they’d shared was dashed from his mind. She
pulled away finally, cupping his face in her hands and sweeping her thumb over his lips. Then the
distance between them turned too painful, so he kissed her, pulling her closer. He gazed into her
eyes with trust and understanding. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

She said nothing to that. There was no time for this, at any rate. They needed to get moving; if
their pursuers had stopped the hunt for the night, they would most assuredly resume it now with
daylight on their side. She stood, wrapping the blanket around herself again to hide her body. He
didn’t know why, but he respected her wishes and averted his eyes. He got to his feet and turned
away as she dressed, focusing on a quick search for his shirt. He pulled it over his head and then
watched out the window until she was ready.

When he looked back a moment later, Natasha was herself again. Her eyes were cool and
collected. Her tears had vanished. Her hand was steady. Any sign of the scared and desperate
woman from the night before was gone as though that woman had never existed at all. It was
remarkable and a tad unsettling, and he couldn’t help but stare as she nonchalantly stepped past
him toward to the door. “Let’s go.”

They split up with separate tasks. Steve went to find them a car. It was an old hunk of junk that
he’d “borrowed” from the side of a house that looked empty. He’d never felt entirely comfortable
stealing things, even when it had been absolutely necessary during the war. He didn’t know if
there was another way in this situation that could’ve avoided breaking the law, but taking public
transportation seemed like a huge risk. He was feeling increasingly uncertain about going to
Sokolyne without an okay from SHIELD and without some backup. Getting in, learning what
they could, and getting out as fast as possible dictated some sort of transportation. The car was in
disrepair; it didn’t look like anyone had used it (or cared about it) in a while. He hotwired it,
shocked and relieved that it started and drove well enough, and made his way to the rendezvous to
collect Natasha.

Only she wasn’t there. She’d gone off to acquire weapons, claiming that she had contacts around
this area that wouldn’t appreciate her approaching them with anyone in tow. He waited outside a
small shop at the end of the somewhat busy, unremarkable street that they’d chosen as a meeting
place. He sat inside the car, glancing impatiently at his watch even though his internal sense of
time was extremely accurate. Minutes were slipping away, and she wasn’t back. Five. Fifteen.
Thirty. Fifty. Eventually he got nervous just sitting there and waiting, so he left the car and
wandered around, keeping his keen senses attuned for any sign of trouble. His heart and mind
were completely lost in anger and anxiety and worry and hurt. Where the hell had she gone? She
hadn’t said a single thing about being away for this long. God, what if something had happened to
her and he hadn’t been there? What if she was hurt or worse? What if they had been followed and
their enemies had waited until they were separated to try and take one of them out? There was no
way for him to tell. The rational part of his mind ridiculed him for being so stupid and silly; they’d
been on plenty of missions before where she’d gone off on her own to complete her own tasks,
dangerous tasks, and been completely safe and successful. He always worried. Since she’d nearly
died on their first mission together, some small part of him prickled with anxiety every time she
went off on her own. It wasn’t logical. It was flat-out ridiculous, and if she ever found out, he’d
never hear the end of it.

But this… This was much worse, much more than it had been. His feelings for her were clouding
his judgment and he damn well knew it, but he couldn’t rein them in.

He went back to the car and tried not to drive himself crazy. It was well past noon when the
passenger door finally creaked opened. He nearly jumped in his seat, and that was saying
something about how out of sorts he felt because very few people could sneak up on him. Natasha
slid inside the passenger door and settled on the ripped front seat. “Go,” she said.

“Go? What the hell? You were gone for almost two hours!”
She glared at him icily. “Worried?”

Steve gritted his teeth. “You’re damn right I was.”

“You know, I have managed to do countless missions just like this without getting myself hurt or
killed before the great Captain America joined SHIELD. I was fine before you, and I’ll be just
fine after you.”

That was harsh. He didn’t know if he’d gotten too close and she was just lashing out in self-
defense or if she was deliberately trying to hurt him, and he wasn’t going to stand for it. He wasn’t
going to be brushed aside like that. It took all of his control to keep his emotions in check. “I know
you can take care of yourself, but that’s not the point,” he returned.

“That’s the only point.” She handed him a gun, which he stared at in disgust. Fighting to cool his
temper, he took the weapon and slid into his shorts. Two more were tucked into her sweatshirt that
he could see. “Now go.”

Steve could hardly believe how dismissive she was being.It’s not the time or the place. It’s not. So
he threw the car into drive and tried to pretend that what she had said and done didn’t feel like a
knife in his chest scraping at his heart.

They stuck to the less populated areas as much as possible. Natasha’s phone jacked into
SHIELD’s GPS system, and she directed him through the winding streets of Yalta to avoid the
busy markets, beach fronts, and touristy areas. Then they went back to the main coastline road.
Sokolyne was north of Yalta, but because of the terrain there wasn’t a direct way to get there.
They were going to have to backtrack a bit, driving west along the coast toward Sevastopol.
Heading back toward Rumlow and the STRIKE Team stoked to life Steve’s doubts again, but
Natasha softly reminded him that they had a far better chance of slipping in undetected, learning
what they could of Brushov’s operation, and escaping again as a team of two than did an entire
company of black ops soldiers. He knew she was right.

But that didn’t ease him much. He didn’t think it eased her either, although she was back to not
looking at him and not speaking to him. Her anger was gone, at least, her form relaxed, her eyes
returning to the empty daze of that morning. He didn’t know if he should say something. The
silence was heavy and perturbing. He decided to focus on the mission. “What are we looking
for?”

Natasha sighed softly. She lowered her gaze to her hands in her lap, deflated. “Whatever we can
find.”

“Obviously they succeeded with whatever they gave Alexei to turn him into this Red Guardian,”
he said, thinking back to the files they had found in the hospital lab. “I suppose that’s a good a
place to start as any. Maybe there’s information on how to undo it.”

She looked like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the courage or the words. “Steve…
I just–”

“What are we going to do if he’s there?” he interrupted. He glanced at her from the corner of his
eye. He didn’t want to think about the unspoken things between them. “We’ll need a plan to
handle that. You think there’s any chance you can get through to him?”

Natasha sat still beside him. Her face was quickly reclaimed by that stoic, unreadable expression.
It was obvious she was burying everything. That didn’t seem healthy, but right now maybe it was
for the best. “I don’t know,” she quietly admitted. “I’m not sure he recognized me, and if he
did…”
Steve released a slow breath. Shostakov had been out of his mind with rage. Obviously he hadn’t
always been that way, which logically meant that the insanity was a byproduct (or, as disturbing
as it was, the direct product) of whatever Brushov had done to him. If Natasha had run away with
him when she’d been eighteen, then Alexei had spent more than ten years in the hands of what
sounded like a sadistic sociopath. The sort of psychological damage that could come from
something like that… Steve had helped liberate Nazi concentration camps during the war. He’d
seen men twisted and tortured, Bucky included. He didn’t want to say anything to her, but there
was very distinct possibility that Alexei was too far gone to be saved. And if that was the case…

Natasha was too smart to have not realized the same things he had. He reached over and took her
hand where it rested on the seat between them. “Taking him out is the last resort,” he promised.

“What did I tell you before about making promises you can’t keep?” He expected her chilly wrath,
but there was just solemn acceptance. She managed half a weak smile for him and pulled her hand
away but not before sweeping her thumb over his knuckles in what he thought was appreciation.
The tension dissipated just a bit.

An hour and a half later they found themselves driving up through the steep, forested mountains.
The day was hot and bright. Natasha had entered the geographical coordinates of the warehouse
into the GPS and found it north of Sokolyne, which was little more than a small town. Stone
buildings and churches dotted the hills, old cobblestone roads leading them through a sparsely
populated village. It was remote, difficult to access, and therefore entirely suitable for a secret base
of operations. They left the car alongside an old, abandoned house and continued on foot. The
village was quiet, seemingly devoid of life. Steve didn’t get many pop culture references in this
new century, but as they walked through the silent, deserted place, all he could think about was
that ridiculously stupid line in Star Wars about having a bad feeling about this.

The coordinates led them away from the village and into the woods. The trees were thick and
verdant, and the air was uncomfortably hot and humid even in the shade. Rocky terrain slowed
their progress, a few steep, smooth outcroppings along the route difficult for her to climb unaided.
They silently picked their way through the forest, hiking for another couple of hours, Natasha
leading the way and Steve keeping his eyes and ears intently trained on everything around them.
As the sun was beginning to set, they reached a steep drop.

Steve fell to a crouch, Natasha lowering herself beside him. The warehouse was just before them,
maybe two hundred feet ahead and down the ravine, nestled in the trees. It was sizeable, and a
few smaller buildings were attached to the rectangular main one. The ground dropped off more on
the far side, dipping down into a valley that was heavily wooded. A road wound away through
the mountains. The warehouse was surrounded by a fence that was a good twenty feet high. A
gate in the fence was located on the road on the far side, and two trucks were parked around it.
Their vantage wasn’t great, but that side of the building looked like some sort of loading dock.

They stayed on the forest floor, watching below them for a few minutes. “I don’t see anyone,”
Natasha whispered.

“No,” Steve agreed. That didn’t seem right. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the complex again.
Movement caught his eye. “Two at the fence.”

Natasha followed his gaze. She looked a bit perplexed and more dismayed. “Not very well
guarded.”

“No. Too easy.” He glanced at her. “Do you still want to do this?” She nodded. “Nightfall?” She
nodded again.

So they waited. They stayed in the woods, silent and endlessly patient, as the last light of day
faded from the cerulean sky. They observed as men moved in and out of the building, pushing
carts full of gray metal crates and cases towards the trucks. The men wore black and gray and
brown and had rifles slung over their shoulders, but there didn’t seem to be that many of them.
Steve could hear just the hints of voices from this distance, watching as the men worked slowly
and lackadaisically and smoked and chatted in Russian. Obviously they were moving equipment,
but he was too far away to hear specifically what they were moving or to where, even if these
thugs had that information and were actually talking about it. He counted about twenty different
men, but there was no way to tell how many were inside the building.

As twilight descended, the men finished loading the second truck. Engines groaned and sputtered
to life, and a few of the soldiers hopped into the cabs. The gate was opened with a muffled buzz,
and the trucks rumbled down the dirt road away from the warehouse. The rest of the men
extinguished their cigarettes and went back inside, save for the same two that they had first
spotted. They stayed outside to guard the gate. None of the other entrances to the building were
visibly defended. It was difficult to tell at this range, but there didn’t seem to be any surveillance
equipment or security measures, either. That meant one of two things: they were sloppy (unlikely)
or they were sure they wouldn’t be bothered (more likely). Or they’re making it look like an easy
job to get in.

Finally it was night. Thick clouds had rolled in from the west while they’d waited, covering the
moon and providing a truly deep blanket of black to hide them. They stealthily slipped down the
mountainside, moving with deft, agile feet, avoiding ruts and pitfalls. They were silent, without the
rustle of leaves or the cracking of twigs underfoot. Eventually they emerged from the forest near
the fence, but they crouched behind a few larger bushes, gauging to see if their approach had been
noticed. It hadn’t been.

They formulated a plan with only glances and nods. Swiftly they crept along the fence, sticking to
the heavy shadows. They stopped at the corner of the warehouse where the fence turned sharply
to the left toward the yard and the gate. Steve crouched, cupping his hands together, and Natasha
firmly planted her right foot in them. He gave her a nod, which she returned, and then he threw
her clear over the barbed wire that crowned the fence.

She curled into a somersault and landed softly, throwing out one leg for balance. Again she
nodded at him before slipping away. He watched as she melted into the shadows; his vision was
enhanced enough that he could trace the lighter gray of her outline as she rounded the corner of
the building. He followed on the outside, glancing among her and the ground beneath his feet and
the men milling about outside the gate. They had no idea what was coming at them. A streak of
black shot forth from the side of the building faster than they could see, let alone prevent. Steve
watched as she yanked the knife from the belt of one of the men before snapping his unsuspecting
neck. She whirled and flung the blade toward the other soldier, and he went down with it
protruding from his eye.

With the two men dispatched, Steve quickly moved to the gate, waiting for her to open it for him.
She stood with her back turned, unmoving and rigid. “Natasha?” he whispered. Other people
wouldn’t have noticed, but he saw her stiffen ever so slightly. Right then and there he knew. He
knew. ”Natasha!”

She turned and looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were still so dead. Vacant, save for fear and
regret, like this had all been inevitable. “I’m sorry, Steve.” Again the apology, and this time she
said it so softly, so meaningfully, as if it had to power to make what she had done to him and was
doing to him right. It didn’t. Then she turned and disappeared back into the shadows and left him.

“Natasha! God damn it!” he hissed angrily. ”Romanoff!” He didn’t dare raise his voice any more,
and it didn’t matter at any rate. She was already gone inside the warehouse, and he was stuck
outside the fence. “God damn it,” he snarled again, breathing heavily in fury. She’d played him.
She’d played him from the very beginning. What the hell was she after? Did she think she could
face Shostakov and Brushov alone? Bitter anger and hurt and frustration coursed through him,
settling as a miserable ache in his thundering heart. He should have known better. He should have
known better! Panting tightly through clenched teeth was all he could do to quell his nearly
unrestrainable desire to hit something.

No. She wasn’t going to do this to him. She wasn’t betraying him like this. He wasn’t going to let
her waltz into that warehouse where who knew what monsters and ghosts from her past were
waiting for her. And he wasn’t going to let her use him. Not like this. Not anymore.

The fence was twenty feet high and covered in coiled razor wire at the top. He didn’t know if he
could jump it, but he was sure as hell that he could climb it. Barbed wire didn’t stop him; he’d
faced more than his fair share during the war. It was painful but more of a nuisance than anything
else. Of course, he’d always had the protection of his uniform, not a flimsy cotton shirt and shorts.
But there was no choice. He drew a quick breath to center himself and grabbed the metal links of
the fence. As rapidly and silently as he could, he climbed. There was a joint right at the gate where
the razor wire ended to allow for the major support poles. The space wasn’t very big, only maybe
six inches wide, but it would have to do. It took only a second for him to get to the top. He
climbed over, trying to keep his hands within that narrow gap and using his strength to lift the rest
of his body clear over the wire. He swung himself to the other side and made to turn and climb
down, only his wrist snagged on the razor wire. “Damn it.” The watch had gotten stuck. He never
wore them and had completely forgotten about it. The razors near his hand sliced into his skin as
he tried to wriggle and twist the watch free, but it wasn’t coming and his fingers quickly became
slick with blood.

There was shouting and muffled cries around the other side of the warehouse. Steve cursed again,
growing increasingly frustrated that he could not get his hand free. He had no time to mess with it
any further, giving the watch a yank that broke its links. He gracefully landed in the yard inside
the fence. The watch, however, tumbled down to the ground outside. He stared at it, irate and
hating his poor luck and this whole goddamn mess, before swiftly turning and running toward the
warehouse.

He pressed his back to the cool concrete exterior of the building, reaching behind and pulling the
gun Natasha had given him from his shorts. She hadn’t given him an extra clip meaning he only
had about fifteen rounds. He slid the magazine back into the gun and gritted his teeth. Normally
not having ammunition didn’t bother him; he rarely used guns anyway. But he didn’t have his
shield, and he hated going into combat situations without it. Steve silently sprinted down the
length of the building, bringing the aerial view he’d had before up in his head. The main loading
dock would be too dangerous to infiltrate. There were two side doors, one in the auxiliary building
on this side, and another on the opposite end of the building. That seemed a better option, one
Natasha had been more likely to use. She couldn’t be more than a few minutes ahead of him.

He rounded the smaller building and found the door. It was already open. He recognized her
handiwork (it was pretty obvious who’d killed the man lying on the floor). She hadn’t tried to
move the body, and that meant she didn’t intend on being here very long. Steve stepped inside and
found himself in some sort of office loaded with computer monitors that were displaying varying
angles and rooms inside the warehouse. Another man was slumped in a chair, his eyes glazed with
death, his neck broken. Steve stepped to the console and its array of computer screens, his quick
eyes devouring each one. He sighed tensely when he saw one that was displaying the rear of the
facility with the fence and the yard and the sealed loading dock. The two men Natasha had killed
were black blobs on the ground. The soldiers in this office had obviously seen their approach but
hadn’t raised an alarm. Steve shook his head, feeling increasingly certain that they needed to get
out of there. This was a trap.
He quickly looked over the other monitors, hoping to catch a glimpse of Natasha. The warehouse
was fairly sizeable and mostly empty, dark and idle. In fact, everything was dark and idle. The
entire complex seemed vacant and uninhabited, much like the lab under the hospital had been.
That didn’t bode well. There were other offices. One looked more like a lab. He spotted a flash of
black moving inside. Natasha. He needed to get her and get out. Further intel was irrelevant.
Whatever she hoped to accomplish with Shostakov was irrelevant. It was time to call into Fury
and get a strike authorized before these bastards did whatever they planned to do. Saving Alexei
was something on which they could focus later after the threat was neutralized.

He was moving, running through the corridors of the building, his memory of the adjacent rooms
and hallways from the monitors guiding him. It was a bit of guesswork, but he quickly found the
course he’d chosen to be correct. A slew of unconscious or dead soldiers made a rather gruesome
and unmistakable trail. Steve rushed past other rooms, checking inside each for the lab. It was so
quiet. They were in serious danger. They had been all along.

Finally he found it. He pushed open the door. The room was filled with lab benches, a mess of
papers and computers and tools. Natasha sat at one of the computers, her fingers flying over the
keyboard. She barely looked up at his entrance, not surprised to see him. “What are you doing?”
he snapped, trying to keep his voice quiet and his anger in check. “What the hell was that back
there?”

“Get out of here,” she answered lowly, her eyes focused on the computer screen. “I gave you an
out.”

He was losing his patience. For that to happen was saying something. “This is a trap. We need to
go.”

“You think?” she sarcastically returned.

Steve ground his teeth together in hardly controlled spite. “We’re done. Get up. We’re leaving.
Now.” She didn’t move. He stalked over to her and grabbed her arm and hauled her less than
gently from her seat. ”Now.”

“Not yet,” she returned hotly. She was losing her cool as well. He could see the cracks in her
eyes, the emotions dripping through them, the dam breaking. She was desperate. She
was terrified. “Not until I do what I need to.”

“We can save him later with backup!” he insisted. “This is more than you and I can handle.” She
didn’t argue, didn’t debate or insist they do everything they could to rescue the man she’d once
loved. She only returned to her work, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. He looked at
what she was doing. She was searching through manifests for that series of numbers and letters
that had designated the successful trial they’d found in the hospital lab. Then he glanced around.
There were cases on the walls, cabinets labeled and marked and categorized. Cabinets filled with
vials. Cold realization doused his anger for a moment. “You’re not here for him. You’re here for
the serum.” She said nothing, trying frantically to match the code with these different labels. Steve
shook his head, furious. “Stealing it wasn’t the mission objective!”

Her eyes flashed. “It wasn’t your mission objective.”

Steve could hardly believe what he was hearing. He felt fundamentally betrayed, even more than
he had before, hurt and fury pulsing through his body. He didn’t want to think that he’d been lied
to, that he’d been used from the get-go. That the only reason he was here was to act as a
damn bodyguard for her so she could steal what the Russians were building. It was one thing for
her to use her body and his emotions against him. It was another thing for SHIELD to manipulate
him into doing something they knew he’d never otherwise agree to. And it was another on top of
that for her to make him think she was crushed under guilt and fear for someone she’d loved and
lost when it had really just been a goddamn show for his benefit. Just a lie to coerce him into
helping her get this far. He knew she thought he was naïve and way too noble and caring; he was
ashamed to admit she was right.

He floundered in his own thoughts, a silent, stiff moment sneaking away as he reeled with the
truth. “You gave me an out.” He’d been so goddamn blind. She’d even decided for him how far
he could go. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m an agent of SHIELD, same as you,” she replied. She was trying to seem cold, but it was all a
front. She impatiently glanced between the monitor displaying her search results and the array of
hundreds of vials in the cabinets around them. Finally the computer located a match. It flashed,
and a name appeared next to the alphanumeric designation. Insanity serum. ”I follow Fury’s
orders. You should do the same. He sent you to assess the situation. It’s been assessed.”

She moved toward the cabinets. “You saw what this stuff can do. You saw how many people it
killed!” Steve snapped, grabbing her arm again and pulling her back and making her look at him.
That long line of dead test subjects, poor young men murdered for nothing. “It turned the man you
loved into a raging lunatic! It turned him against you! You said you loved him!” He balled his
hand into a fist as he realized how cruel she could be. It was so goddamn brutal that he
immediately wanted to dismiss the mere thought of it, but he couldn’t. “Unless all of that was a lie,
too.” She yanked her arm away, but he saw the pain in her eyes. It was nothing compared to the
pain tightening and tightening in his chest. “Was it?” he accused. ”Was it?”

“We’re wasting time arguing about this!” she snapped.

“You’re not taking that serum out of here. Not on my watch.”

“This is exactly why Fury didn’t tell you everything. You’re blinded by your own self-
righteousness. You always are.”

“I’m not so blind as to not see what it really is. It’s evil. And evil can’t be turned into good. Evil
needs to be destroyed, not studied. It’s too dangerous!”

“Really,” she gasped. She used her phone to break through the keypad lock on one of the cabinets
and pulled open the door. She rifled through the vials. “It’s a damn good thing that no one sat in
judgment when they strapped you to a table and made you.”

Steve gritted his teeth. “We were fighting a war.”

“So are we,” she returned, “only we don’t have the luxury of knowing you’re the world’s only
super soldier.” Steve stiffened. “If Brushov or anyone else builds an army, SHIELD needs to be
able to defeat it.” She found the vial in question and picked it up. It was small and thin, filled with
a red liquid that looked like blood. It looked menacing, so unlike the serum that they had used on
him to transform him from a sick, weak boy into Captain America. She spent only a second
analyzing it before sliding it inside her sweater. “You have a problem with it, fine. Take it up with
Fury.” Just like that, she’d done what she’d needed to, and the discussion was over.

Steve could barely keep himself still, rage blasting over him. He’d never felt so goddamn useless.
Worthless. Downright emasculated. He thought of all their recent missions, all the times it seemed
like SHIELD was striking harder and quicker and first. This sort of power… It didn’t belong with
any government or regime who had the influence, ambitions, and means to turn it into a weapon.
And SHIELD certainly had all of that in abundance. “I’m sure figuring out how to stop this serum
is the only reason Fury wants it.” He couldn’t keep the bitter doubt from his voice.
She stopped for a minute, her face averted like he’d caught her in her lie. Maybe he had. He
hoped he hadn’t. “I trust Fury,” she said, though her voice didn’t sound very strong.

Steve shook his head. “But you don’t trust me.”

She finally looked at him. Really looked at him. He could see things in her eyes, things that got to
his heart. But she blinked it all away. She wasn’t going to answer him. She glared at him as
though he’d betrayed her. “Next time just take the goddamn out, Rogers.”

This wasn’t over. He wasn’t going to let it be over. He was going to stop her from taking the
serum.

But he never got the chance to.

Steve heard the whine of a minigun powering up before the first of the bullets shot through the
lab. “Get down!” He grabbed Natasha and yanked her to the floor as gunfire ripped through the
room all around them. Things shattered, exploding into razor sharp shards of debris, as they
scrambled for cover. Steve tucked Natasha against him, covering her body with his own and
wincing as bullets slammed into the metal desk behind them. A round punched through the flimsy
material and went straight through his right arm. He grunted against the pain. They needed to get
out of there!

Natasha crawled away from him, pulling her gun and leaning up over the desk. She fired back,
nailing the man behind the gatling gun and sending it firing wildly. One of the stray bullets
ricocheted and clipped her leg, and she fell with a cry. Steve wasted no time, scooping her reeling
body up in his arms and jumping up from beneath the desk. One leap had him atop another desk,
and he bounded across the small room and plowed into the drywall on the opposite side, praying it
would give way. It did.

They were in another hallway. “You okay?” Steve gasped, setting Natasha to the floor. She
nodded, grimacing. “Come on!” He took her hand and ran. The spray from the minigun tore
through the wall, covering them with sheetrock, but they didn’t slow down. They sprinted through
the short hallways, hearts pounding and desperate and panicked, and then they burst into the
warehouse.

Dozens of men pointed rifles at them. Steve skidded to a stop, Natasha nearly falling beside him.
He glanced around frantically, but there was no escape.

They were surrounded.

 Chapter 6
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Opusti pistolet! Ruki!” one of the men shouted, waving his rifle threateningly. “Zhivo! Ruki
vverh, blyad’!” Natasha shared a quick glance with Steve. Call for extraction, he seemed to
silently implore, darting his eyes to the watch that was thankfully still around her left wrist. She
didn’t know what had happened to his; his left hand was a mess of blood and cuts. Call for
extraction.

This might be their only chance. If they were captured, they could discover the watch for what it
was, and if that happened, any possibility of reaching the STRIKE Team would be lost. But she
hesitated, keeping her weapon trained on the slew of armed soldiers surrounding them and
stepping closer to Steve so that her side was pressed to his. The idea of surrender went against
everything she’d been trained to be, everything she was. The first man who’d shouted at them lost
his temper. “Bros’ oruzhie! Zhivo!”

But she didn’t. Steve glanced in frustration among the dozens of soldiers encircling them, his own
gun trained on them. She’d seen him single-handedly take out squadrons of enemies in the past
without even breaking a sweat. Between his raw strength and stamina and her speed and agility,
the two of them together were nearly unstoppable. But those times they hadn’t been surrounded
and he’d had his shield and they’d had a plan of attack and the element of surprise on their side.
Any strike, no matter how fast or powerful, would get one or both of them shot, and while he
could walk off bullet wounds, she wasn’t so endowed. As much as she hated it, surrender was
really the only option. So she dropped her gun.

Steve was visibly grinding his teeth, probably hard enough to break his jaw. But he did the same,
crouching to set his gun to the floor. He met her gaze again as he slowly raised his empty
hands. Call for extraction. It was like he was screaming it to her, his eyes narrowed and full of
anger and confusion. It wasn’t a request. It was an order, and he didn’t understand why she wasn’t
following it. Call for extraction! She looked away and raised her own hands, the loose watch
sliding down her wrist to her forearm. This could be their only way out. This could be their only
chance, and she was wasting it. She was wasting it.

No matter how much her mind screamed that she should make a rash move and press the button
on the watch, even if it led to her getting shot or killed, she couldn’t do it. Even if it would save
them both, she couldn’t do it because she’d lied to Steve. She’d lied to herself. Deep down inside,
she knew she couldn’t leave without trying to stop this. Without learning the truth. Without trying
to save Alexei.

She wasn’t so strong or so heartless. She’d sacrificed too much for this, Steve’s trust in her not the
least of it.

Damn it, Steve. Why didn’t you just take the out?

It was too late now. Too late to regret her decisions, her lies. Too damn late. She wanted to cry,
but she couldn’t. She wanted to scream and fight and protect him, but she couldn’t. He was too
fundamentally good and decent to ever leave her, especially when she was in danger and
especially when she needed him. She tried to convince herself that this had all been inevitable, that
he’d become tied to her fate the minute Nick Fury had decided it was a good idea to partner
Captain America with Black Widow. That it hadn’t been her feelings for him, her feelings that she
now knew more than ever he shared, that had trapped him. That it wasn’t her fault for kissing him
and touching him and trusting him with her dark truths and loving him like she’d never really
loved anyone before. She’d always feared the day that her past would catch her. She was pulling
him down. She was dragging him into hell with her.

It’s too late.

The group of soldiers threatening them parted, and a tall, bearded, burly man wearing a green
military uniform and cap pushed his way through the crowd of soldiers. His beady eyes were
narrowed and malicious. Natasha felt her heart stop in her chest and the blood drain from her head
until she was cold and dizzy.

Brushov.

He was as she remembered him even though it had been years since she’d seen him last. He was
ugly and perpetually glowering and he exuded something very dark. He was hungry, but it was a
controlled hunger. It drove him but it rarely consumed him, and when it did, it was exceedingly
fast, efficient, and deadly. He wasn’t the sort to ask questions, to show mercy, to doubt or taunt or
garner sadistic enjoyment from his cruelty or even feel. He’d fashioned the Red Room after
himself, and it was his ideal world where the only emotions that mattered were anger and fear: his
anger and everyone else’s fear. He was ruthless, vindictive but without flourish, the worst sort of
coldly violent. That hadn’t changed, even if his face was more lined and his hair grayer. And he
still stood tall and coolly confident and entirely imposing.

His face was unreadable as he approached. Natasha forced her body to be still, though the instinct
to cower or run or shake in fear was almost insurmountable. A thousand memories she’d spent a
lifetime trying to forget were pushing and prodding and grabbing at her. His large hand on her
head. His voice, quiet in encouragement. He could seem so pleasant, so comforting,
so fatherly when the moment had suited him. Not loving, but demanding a twisted sort of affection
nonetheless. His hands, strong and powerful, teaching her how to be strong and powerful.
Needles in her skin and poison in her veins. His rage. She’d been terrified of failure. Terrified of
his disappointment, of his punishment. Of retribution. She was terrified now, and it took all of her
will to remind herself that she didn’t belong to him anymore.

He stared at her. He wasn’t surprised to see her. She wouldn’t look away. She wouldn’t look
away. “Natalia,” he eventually said in his deep baritone. “I knew if I called, you would come.”

He said this so smugly, so sure of himself and everything he had done to her as though more than
six years of working with SHIELD, of going straight and fighting on behalf of good, meant
nothing. In the face of his commanding stare, maybe that was true. Natasha remained frozen, her
hands raised in the air, exposed and vulnerable as Brushov reached toward her. Tensing every
muscle in her body was all she could do to stay still as he slipped his hands into her clothes. His
touch made her skin crawl and the room spin. She felt his fingers close around the vial of serum
tucked into her sweater.

“Get your damn hands off of her,” Steve snarled from her left. Natasha blanched and jabbed her
teeth into her lower lip as one of the soldiers rammed the butt of his gun into Steve’s lower back.
He grunted, but of course the blow hardly fazed him, and when the astounded man tried it again,
Steve whirled and grabbed the rifle right out of the thug’s hands. “Back off!”

Guns were cocked and lifted and the men pushed closer around them. Brushov pulled the vial
from Natasha’s shirt and then raised his hand to his soldiers. “Don’t,” he ordered calmly. He
stared at Natasha a moment more, tormenting her, holding the vial up before her eyes as though
daring her to snatch it from his thick fingers. She tried to slow her thundering heart, tried to stand
strong and tall before him, but it wasn’t easy. She hadn’t felt so disarmed, so naked and helpless,
in such a long time. “I knew you would come back to me.” He closed his hand around the vial
and turned to Steve. “And I knew you would bring me what I want.”

Natasha stiffened; the cold, arrogant expression of control on Brushov’s face as he looked at Steve
made her stomach roil. She knew that expression. She hated it. Almost as much as the look of
confused dismay that contorted Steve’s handsome features. “What?”

Something inside of her twisted and tightened until the pain in her chest was too terrible to
breathe. No. Please, no. “Captain America,” Brushov said. He didn’t smile. “Finally I can meet
the inspiration for my life’s work. Though you are something of an… early model, measuring up
to the world’s first super soldier is a true sign of success.”

Steve’s face fractured further. He held the rifle tightly in his hands as though that could save either
of them. He darted his eyes between Natasha and Brushov, a mounting glimmer of fear shining in
them. “What the hell are you talking about? How do you know who I am?”

“As SHIELD watches me, I watch SHIELD.” Brushov boldly stepped closer to Steve. They were
nearly the same height. The general reached and grabbed the gun in Steve’s hands. He yanked it
toward his own chest. “Surely your time as Black Widow’s partner has taught you about
ruthlessness.” Steve’s face hardened. “Pull the trigger, Captain. Murder an unarmed man. You
would be doing the world a favor, wouldn’t you?”

Steve’s finger tightened on the trigger of the rifle. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t think I’m not
considering it,” he responded coldly.

Brushov’s lips twisted in a hideous show of a smile. It was hardly anything, a small grin, but it
spoke of evil. “Surely your time as Black Widow’s partner has taught you about what she does.”
Natasha didn’t have the time to speak. She couldn’t keep the cry inside as one of the men kicked
her left knee. The cruel strike sent pain shooting up and down her leg. The gunshot wound in her
other leg burned as the limb buckled, and she went down hard, barely getting her hands in front of
her to stop her face from ramming into the cement floor. Steve’s reaction was immediate, and he
swung the gun at the men assaulting her. He stepped forward, but Brushov moved with him and
kept the muzzle of the rifle firmly pressed to his own sternum. And all of the other soldiers
surrounded Captain America, eagerly awaiting their general’s order to take him down. Brushov
eyed Steve like a man facing a challenge he desperately desired to best. “You could kill all of my
men and me,” he calmly said. “We would not be able to stop you.”

Natasha tried to curl in on herself, eyeing the watch and flailing to reach it with her other hand
because this situation was beyond salvaging. But before she could grab it and signal the STRIKE
Team, a boot slammed down on her wrist. She screamed in pain. Another two stomps shattered
the watch and broke her hand. She wanted to cry.

“Leave her alone!” Steve ordered. He tried to move closer again, his eyes wide in horror and fury
and worry, but he couldn’t without engaging the men. Maybe that was what Brushov wanted, and
even though Natasha’s arm throbbed and her head spun she realized beyond a doubt that Steve
would gladly fight them all, no matter the danger to himself, to save her. Part of her was somewhat
relieved that the choice was wrested from him by the man hauling her up by her hair and pressing
a gun to her forehead. But mostly she was furious that she was being used this way and terrified
for them both.

Steve didn’t even have to be asked. He looked into Natasha’s eyes – don’t do this, Steve. Don’t
submit to them! – and drew a deep breath and set the rifle to the ground. Brushov’s expression
was unchanging, but Natasha knew him well enough to see his satisfaction. “Bring them.”

They hauled her to her feet. Her bruised knee buckled instantly, but Steve pulled away from the
men trying to restrain him and got to her side. “You okay?” he breathlessly asked. She only had a
chance to nod, reaching in vain for his outstretched hand, before they yanked him back. He could
have fought them – he should have fought them – but he didn’t because Brushov had already
figured out how to control Captain America. Brushov had taught her everything she knew about
lying and manipulation. He was truly a master of reading other people. He’d deduced it in a matter
of moments something that Natasha had only recently discovered. Captain America’s weakness
was her.

He wouldn’t risk them hurting her.

They were manhandled further into the warehouse. Natasha was pushed along, limping beside
Steve, trying her damnedest to seem strong and composed. She’d been in situations like this
before, where her cover had been blown and she’d been found out and captured. There’d been
numerous times, in fact, when her kidnapping at been part of her plan. She’d been in the hands of
vile men, evil men, and played the victim, faked being helpless, manufactured tears and terror and
pleas. And then she’d shattered the illusion and killed them. This time her fear, the panic coiled so
tightly in her belly and the tears burning in her eyes… none of it was a façade. This time she was
acting like she could handle this instead of pretending to be helpless. Brushov knew it, of course.
She didn’t want Steve to know, though. The more either of them realized the extent of her fear,
the more of a liability she became.

Ahead there were more men, all armed with automatic weapons. They were mobbed around the
center of the warehouse. Whatever Brushov’s group had been moving looked to be already gone
as the huge room was practically empty. She had the sinking suspicion that they were already too
late to stop Brushov’s plans. The men smiled and leered and parted to make way for the two
prisoners as they were pushed and shoved forward. When they were finally stopped, Natasha felt
any hope that this had ever been anything other than a trap die inside her.

Petrovich knelt on the floor, Alexei standing beside him. The heavyset man was obviously scared
witless, his pudgy hands working together in his lap, his face red and scrunched and covered in
sweat and tears. Alexei loomed over him, a dark and violent threat, dressed entirely in black. He
was taller and more muscular and darker than Natasha had known him to be. She shared a quick
glance with Steve, who paled slightly at the disturbing image before them.

Brushov walked slowly toward Petrovich’s quivering form. There was no theatrics. No attempt to
mask what was coming or soften the blow. Brushov could be brutally frank. “You’ve served your
purpose, old friend.” In one swift motion, Alexei snapped Petrovich’s neck. He nearly tore his
head off.

Natasha held herself stiffly, fighting the urge to wince or shudder. The round body fell heavily to
the ground, his head completely twisted around. She saw those hollow eyes staring vacantly
upward before she could stop herself from looking. She’d killed men like Petrovich before, many
men like Petrovich in fact. Tools that had been easily bent to the whims of the more powerful.
This was the only time she was afraid to see one of them die, of what it meant. They’d been such
goddamn trusting fools. She’d been a fool. She knew Brushov’s tactics better than anyone. He
never let people walk away from him. Never.

Brushov watched as some of his men pulled the corpse out of the way. Alexei stepped closer to
Brushov, who continued to coolly appraise his captives. “And now, Captain, I ask you to serve
your purpose.”

Steve’s jaw was set stubbornly. “And what purpose is that?”

“A true test of what I have built. I have labored here in Crimea for years to construct the perfect
weapon. The perfect soldier. One that is not beset by morality or conscience.” His beady eyes
flicked to Natasha. “Compassion is a weakness.”
“You’re insane,” Steve declared. “I’ve seen this play out before. I’ve stopped men like you before.
Whatever you have planned, it will fail.”

Brushov wasn’t at all interested in Steve’s words. He stepped closer to Natasha. “Clearly you
have forgotten your lessons, Natalia. After so many years of running from me, your weakness for
your past has delivered you back to me. Your weakness for love.” Natasha couldn’t help but
glance at Alexei, but his face was stony, pinched in hardly controlled rage. In hunger to hurt.
Brushov reached forward, brushing his hand down her face. She felt more than saw Steve jerk
taut beside her, but she refused to do the same, fighting every urge to recoil or flinch or show any
fear. He would use her fear against her. “Ask it of me, and I’ll teach you again.”

“You failed me, Natalia. Black Widow does not fail and Black Widow does not love. Perhaps you
need a reminder. I’ll teach you again.”

The memory charged across her mind, bringing pain that slashed through her already wavering
equanimity. Her own anger broke free. “Never,” she hissed.

Brushov never tolerated her defiance in the past, and he still wouldn’t. He decked her roughly, her
face ripping to the side and the men behind her grabbing her to hold her still. Instincts engrained in
her youth, instincts that she thought long destroyed, kept her hands at her sides and her body pliant
and unresponsive. She couldn’t raise her eyes. She couldn’t breathe. Brushov raised his hand to
slap her again.

But the blow never came. She dared to look and found Brushov’s hand clenched in Steve’s
midstrike. Steve gave a twist; something cracked, and Brushov staggered. Steve bore down on
him, leveraging his crushing strength to push Brushov down. The man’s face registered no pain,
no fear, not even with Captain America glowering at him and standing over him and promising
hell should this man threaten her again. He didn’t know that Brushov could not be intimidated.
“Release me, Captain.”

Natasha swallowed the blood in her mouth, breathing quickly and once again fighting to hold still
as guns were pressed against her temple and the back of her head and the small of her back. She
summoned the bravery to look at Steve and found him torn and frustrated and increasingly
uncertain of how to escape this. But he submitted, his fingers unfurling from Brushov’s wrist
clumsily as though it was physically difficult for him to force himself to let go. “Tell me what you
want from me,” he ordered, as if he had any power to dictate this situation. “And leave her out of
this.”

“You are incredibly protective of Natalia,” Brushov commented. “You should not be.”

Steve ignored him and tried to turn the conversation away from Natasha. “Tell me what you
want,” he demanded again. It was the logical conclusion to this whole thing. Brushov had crafted
this plot and planted Petrovich to alert SHIELD knowing that Nick Fury would send Captain
America to stop him. All of this, the easy infiltration to the hospital, the trail to this place and the
almost inviting lack of security, had been a set-up. It had been the perfect lure: dangle the threat of
a new and powerful super soldier serum in front of SHIELD’s eager nose and wait for Fury to
bite. Wait for Fury to send in his best. And all of that implied that they wanted something from
Steve. “If it’s the serum you’re after, you’re out of luck. It’s–”

“I am not interested in the pitiful chemicals flowing through your veins,” Brushov said sharply.
“As I said, it is beset by morality. Weakness. What I have crafted knows only anger. I have bled
away infirmity and nobility. There is great power in rage, in insanity, more power than you have
ever imagined. The Red Guardian has no conscience to hamper him, no empathy to impede him.
Anger removes restraint and insanity frees the strength within all of us to do harm like never
before.” Steve looked disgusted. “My serum is already complete.”

Steve was confused and rattled. He shook his head. “If you don’t want the serum, then why am I
here?”

Brushov grunted in amusement, that vicious smirk coming back to his rough face. Suddenly he
turned to the dozens of armed soldiers surrounding them. “Captain America wants to know why
he’s here! What do you think, comrades?” The men cheered, the cacophony of rough calls so loud
that the words were indiscernible. Steve glanced about worriedly before settling his gaze on
Natasha. He looked pale and more and more bothered by the second. That awful sense of
foreboding torturing Natasha’s stomach grew fouler and more nauseating. What the hell had she
done? What the hell had she led them into?

“You tell him, Natalia,” Brushov ordered. He looked back to her, cruel anticipation painted all
over his face. “You know why. You have twice now delivered me what I have needed to see my
dreams come to life.”

Her blood turned to ice water. She didn’t know why. And she didn’t want Steve to think she did.
She’d had nothing to do with this. She’d had nothing to do with this! Brushov was trying to pit
them against each other. Her mouth hung limply open, Steve’s blue eyes broken in betrayal as he
turned to her. She could see him struggling to have faith, to not believe Brushov, but she’d already
hurt him enough. She’d already twisted the truth, lied about her secret mission objectives from
Fury, lied about knowing Brushov and her past. How could he trust her now? “Steve, it’s not true.
I don’t know what he wants!”

Alexei moved closer like a wraith sliding from the shadows. His eyes gleamed with lust. She saw
him for what he truly was. The Alexei of her memories wouldn’t hurt another soul unless he was
defending her. The Alexei of her dreams had been soft and sweet and innocent, a young man
who’d never known the power of love until he’d foolishly fallen for a dancer in his father’s
company. A young man who’d served his country as a test pilot, who enjoyed flying with a
passion because it separated him from the harshness of Russian reality down on earth. A young
man who’d had no idea the sort of nightmare into which he’d been thrust when he’d awakened
Natasha’s heart. He’d paid the price for loving her.

Now Steve would, too.

And then she realized. A true test. Her heart stopped. Her lips hardly moved as she whispered,
“He wants you to fight him.”

“What?”

“Speak up, Natalia.”

The order was harsh and there was no room for disobedience. But she disobeyed anyway. Her
heart was booming in her ears, her throat tight with panic. “Run! Get out of here! Run!”

The Red Guardian was before her in one mighty step, and again his hand closed around her
throat. He lifted her from the ground like she was nothing, squeezing painfully at her neck.
Natasha kicked and struggled, but all she could think was she was deserved to die. Those brown
eyes devoured hers, cruel beyond compare.

Steve gave an angry shout as he rammed his fist into the Guardian’s side. The vise-like grip on her
throat was gone and she fell to the floor, the room spinning and her lungs burning. Immediately
men grabbed her arms and pulled her back, giving her no chance to escape, no chance to
do anything, as Steve ducked from a kick from his opponent. Brushov watched smugly as Steve
caught the Red Guardian’s next punch and threw him back with all his might. “No!” he yelled. He
backed away, but the men were surrounding them in a circle, forming some sort of hellish fighting
arena. He was trapped.

Brushov looked pleased. “Fight the Red Guardian. That is why I brought you here. Before I
unleash my soldier upon the world, I must properly break him in. I must test him on his only
worthy opponent. He is the answer to the United States’ arrogance. He is my response to you.”

Steve looked shocked and lost like that didn’t make sense. Like he couldn’t comprehend that this
had come down to something so simple. This was what Brushov had wanted all along. A contest
between his champion and SHIELD’s.

The Red Guardian growled and lunged back toward Steve. The crowd of men roared in
excitement. Natasha could only watch, horrified, as Steve tried not to fight. He dodged fast blows,
twisting and turning nimbly, deflecting strikes that would have killed an ordinary man. Their
moves were rapid, so fast they were difficult to trace, a dance of feints and blocks and punches
and kicks. They met each other, blow for blow. It was incredible. It was terrifying. Eventually
Steve grew more desperate, throwing all his strength behind a lucky punch that sent the Red
Guardian sprawling. “Enough!” Steve yelled, turning to Brushov. “I won’t!”

“Engage him, Captain,” Brushov serenely ordered. The general had his arms folded over his
barrel of a chest, watching the fight between him dispassionately. He looked disappointed. “Are
you nothing more than a coward?”

The men laughed. Steve was breathing heavily, his hands clenched to fists at his side. He watched
warily as the Red Guardian got to his feet. “No. You may control him but you don’t control me.
I’m not hurting an innocent man.”

Brushov had the gall to chuckle. There was no humor in the sound. “Innocent? You have a child’s
view of reality. I turn the darkest parts of the human heart into the only parts that survive. I only
remove restraint and allow the rage that was already there to run free. There is no innocence.” His
eyes turned to Natasha. “There never was.”

Steve was helpless, breathing heavily, his eyes wide and speaking volumes of how much he didn’t
want to believe what was before him. But he was stubborn. “I won’t fight him.”

The men screamed in anger, guns turning again toward Captain America, and the Red Guardian
stalked closer, his face twisted in ire that seemed to be growing irrationally and exponentially.
Brushov was unfazed by Steve’s refusal. He raised his hand to calm the situation. The Guardian
stopped before Steve, but only just. His muscles clenched and his breath was a harsh hiss between
teeth that were grinding themselves down. “Would it not be a better thing to destroy him now
before he unleashes the power of his rage upon the world?” Steve’s scowl hardened at that. Plying
the death and suffering of innocents against Captain America was only a logical course of
manipulation. But Brushov was never one to shy from excessive force. He pulled a handgun from
the holster on his hip and took a step closer to Natasha. Natasha winced, the grips on her arms
painfully tight, as she squirmed in helpless frustration. The tip of the gun came to rest at her
forehead. “And you have no choice.”

Steve looked to Natasha, a helpless frown of frustration and fear crossing his features. For a
seemingly endless moment he stared into her eyes. For once, she couldn’t read him. She couldn’t
see what he was thinking or what he was feeling. She wished more desperately than ever before to
erase her mistakes. But she couldn’t.

Steve sagged slightly in defeat. He balled his fists and dropped into a fighting stance and
succumbed. Brushov wanted a fight between Captain America and the Red Guardian, and he’d
made damn sure he was getting one. There was no negotiation of terms, no setting of limits and
boundaries, of victory or fairness. Steve had to fight or Natasha would die. Steve had to win.

The men chanted and roared and shouted in anticipation. The Red Guardian smiled a huge, cruel
smile, circling Captain America like a predator around its prey. Steve stayed light on his feet,
moving with the Guardian, keeping his distance from both his opponent and the men encircling
them. Natasha could only watch in fear for him. She knew Steve was strong and fast, probably the
best combatant and martial artist in the world. He didn’t tire. His tolerance for pain and damage to
his body was beyond measure. But the Red Guardian seemed every bit as strong and fast and
resilient. Steve didn’t have his shield, and this situation was entirely intractable and forced. And
Steve was not ruthless.

The Red Guardian’s insanity reared, ugly and ferocious, and he charged. Steve dug his sneakers
into the floor, ducking to avoid the blow and twisting around to deliver a powerful counter to the
other’s back. The Guardian screamed his rage, whirling and driving punch after punch toward
Steve. Steve blocked them all, knocking them aside with lightning quick reflexes, but he lost
ground, skittering back with the speed and force behind the strikes. He rolled at the last second to
avoid running into the crazed men surrounding them. The Red Guardian moved as well, grabbing
Steve’s ankle and preventing his escape. Steve slammed his foot into the other’s face in two fast
kicks. The Red Guardian howled, and Steve lithely got to his feet.

Retaliation came swiftly, however, and the Red Guardian was up and on him again in a breath.
He got close enough to land a punch to Steve’s jaw, which was enough to daze him. The
Guardian smiled maniacally as he wrapped his arms like iron around Steve’s chest, pinning
Steve’s own arms to his sides. Steve struggled mightily to free himself. The Guardian dug his
fingers into the gunshot wound on Steve’s arm, ripping skin and tearing muscle and spilling fresh
blood, but Steve only winced, flushed, his lips pulled back from his teeth in effort as he tried to
prevent his torso from being crushed. Finally he snapped back his head into the Guardian’s face
and then threw his weight behind him, pushing up with his legs and using his opponent’s chest as
leverage to spring himself forward. He flung the Guardian over his shoulder, but the man landed
on his feet and whirled, not even slowed. The next kick he launched Steve caught against his
chest in cupped hands and shoved back. The Red Guardian stumbled. Steve leapt forward, driving
down his fist across the other man’s face. The Guardian staggered and nearly fell. The following
strike resulted in an irate howl of pain as the Guardian went down to the floor, bruised and
battered and bleeding, but he was up again in a blink.

They traded blows, fast and furious. No weapons. Brute strength against brute strength, muscles
bulging and twisting and flexing, bodies moving faster than seemed possible. Endurance against
endurance. Will against will. Neither of them appeared to have an advantage at first. However, as
the fight wore on for a few torturous minutes, it became obvious Steve was purposefully holding
back and staying on the defensive. The Red Guardian was wild and furious, punching and kicking
with all his strength every time. Steve blocked and deflected the blows, occasionally returning a
few of his own, but mostly he was biding his time. The Guardian was violent, impatient, and
impulsive. His rage afforded him no control. Steve, on the other hand, was calm and patient. He
was waiting for the other’s aggravation and thirst for blood to lead to a mistake, and it did.

The Red Guardian snapped, his face covered in sweat and his eyes wild, as he swung hard and
fast. Steve avoided it, grabbed the wrist as it flew past him, and twisted. He pulled the Guardian’s
arm around, the Guardian letting loose a howl of pain and frustration, and drove his knee into the
other man’s back. The Guardian’s bloodied face snarled in absolute fury as he was forced to the
floor, Steve yanking harder and harder up on his arm but pushing the rest of him down. The
sickening snap of bones breaking resounded through the warehouse. The spectators screamed
their dismay, fingers poised on triggers. Natasha could hardly breathe as she watched Steve
restrain the Red Guardian who had been reduced to nothing more than a bucking, rabid animal.
He wouldn’t stop fighting, enraged beyond any semblance of cognizance. But Steve held fast,
dragging the struggling form upward to wrap an arm around his neck and hopefully render him
unconscious from asphyxiation. The Red Guardian’s eyes fluttered and he gagged, spittle and
blood dripping onto Steve’s forearm as he choked him.

Go down, Natasha thought fearfully, watching the tense scene. Go down!

If Brushov was at all upset at his champion’s apparent loss, it wasn’t obvious. “Kill him, Captain,”
he ordered. Steve looked up sharply, his bruised face covered in sweat, shaking with the
incredible exertion required to keep the Guardian down. Brushov’s eyes were even and
emotionless. His asset seemed to mean nothing. His life’s work reduced to a moment of leverage.
“It is a fight to the death. He will not surrender and he will not stop. To win, you must kill him.”

The Guardian gasped and coughed and finally got enough air into his lungs to scream. Steve held
tight, eyes widening in dismay. He looked to Natasha for only a second, but that was all she
needed to know he wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. And it was because of her. It was because
he cared about her, and she cared about Alexei.

Natasha swallowed a dry sob building in her throat, shaking her head and wishing with every
ounce of her soul that it had never come to this. That she had never told him about her lost love or
tortured past. That she had never slept with him, never let him into her heart. Never let him love
her. Oh, God…

Steve’s grip must have slackened just enough for the Red Guardian to finally squirm his way free
because the next thing she saw the monster was back on his feet, choking and laughing and
sobbing at once and knocking Steve down with a powerful blow across the face. Steve spun as he
was flung back a good ten feet across the hellish little arena, landing roughly on his left shoulder
and sliding into the soldiers surrounding him. The men laughed and raved. She couldn’t see
through the legs and bodies and guns, but there was the sound of flesh striking flesh over and over
again. “No!” Natasha screamed, struggling against the men holding her, but she was helpless.
“No! That’s not fair! This isn’t a fair fight!” Like that mattered. Like anything she said or did
mattered.

Brushov’s low voice cut through the blood pounding in her ears. “Be still, Natalia,” he ordered.
He glanced at her only once before returning his vacant stare to the violent sight of his men
beating Captain America. Some were flung aside, bones broken and bodies bent, but there were
so many and they were all deranged. Brushov shook his head as though in remorse. “Watch. You
need a reminder of why compassion is weakness.”

Then Steve was thrown forcefully back toward the Guardian. He stumbled as he tried to get his
feet under him, but the Guardian was faster than his recovery. He slammed his palm into Steve’s
face and then followed with a quick series of strikes to Steve’s chest, dropping him again.

The tables turned and they turned quickly. Steve had been shaken, and now he was the one at a
disadvantage. It was difficult to fathom the Red Guardian becoming faster or stronger or more
violent, but it was as if sensing his opponent’s weakness stoked the fires of his rage and thus the
basis of his power. His injuries didn’t matter. He was a machine, violent and purposeful. He
rounded on Steve, fighting without repose, without mercy. Steve struggled to catch up, but he was
hurt now, and he was showing it. His blocks were sluggish. His footwork was heavier. His
reflexes were retarded. He was bleeding. The sight of blood and pain drove the Guardian more
and more, a frenzy of blow after blow after blow, pummeling Steve until he could barely defend
against all the hits. He countered, but he was weakening, and what should have been a devastating
hit was hardly enough to slow the Guardian down.

Steve staggered, his right knee kicked out from under him. Bloody, curled fingers that would tear
out his throat shot toward him, but he stopped them just in time, and it became a contest of
strengths as the Red Guardian pushed down on him and he pushed back. Natasha could hardly
stand to watch, her eyes burning with tears, increasingly fearful that this had become a fight Steve
could not win. They were locked against each other for a seeming eternity, the Guardian’s face
hideous with blood and rage, Steve’s clenched in pain and fear as he trembled in effort. Steve
eventually managed to draw strength from somewhere and gain the upper hand, shoving both his
hands and the Guardian’s back into the other soldier’s chest. The punch to the gut toppled the
Guardian but only for a moment. A foot slammed down into Steve’s shin, breaking his leg with a
sickening crack.

For the first time since the fight began, Steve screamed. Natasha screamed as well, shaking her
head. Guns pointed at her, warning her to stay back, and a hand wove its way into her hair to keep
her stationary. A hateful roar rose over the din, and the Guardian slammed his fist to the floor
where Steve had been a breath earlier, shattering concrete and pulverizing it into dust. Steve
scrambled away, unable to stand, and a blow to his back knocked him down again. Fast kicks to
his midsection left him gasping and prone on the floor. He coughed and blood splattered from his
torn lips.

Natasha shook her head in denial, watching with wide eyes as Steve weakly rolled over and tried
to get his shaking arms beneath him to push himself to his feet. Blood covered the front of his torn
shirt, slipping from his mouth as he fought for breath. And the Red Guardian, a nightmare covered
in crimson and black, a hellish monster borne of an honorable man, loomed over him. He stalked
closer, grabbed Steve by the hair, and lifted him to his knees so that he presented a better target.
So that his shattered chest was exposed and vulnerable. Steve struggled, but his movements were
sloppy and uncoordinated and futile. The Guardian smiled widely in repulsive glee and stood back
before ramming his boot into Steve’s sternum.

Steve fell limply to his back. He didn’t move.

“No,” Natasha whispered. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t happening. No! “Steve, get
up!” she screamed. The bent body sprawled in a pool of blood didn’t respond. She couldn’t even
see if his chest was rising and falling, if he was still breathing. If he was still alive. “Get up! Get
up! Steve!”

He didn’t get up.

The soldiers cheered, rifles raised in triumph and biting exultation. Natasha couldn’t stand it
anymore, closing her eyes and bowing her head and weeping silently. “Natalia.” A hand grabbed
her chin, and her eyes snapped open in terror. The fingers were tight and cruelly squeezing. She
breathed sharply through her nose, refusing to meet Brushov’s gave even as he lifted her face and
forced her gaze upward. “I told you to watch.”

Please don’t make me… But her fear permitted no defiance. He permitted her no defiance. He
knelt beside her, those cold fingers on her jaw and the hand in her hair holding her face forward.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The Red Guardian grabbed Steve by his shirt and his shorts
and lifted him, nearly ripping his clothes of his body, and roughly flipped him to lay prostrate.
“No,” Natasha whispered, knowing what was coming. Knowing it and fearing it but she couldn’t
stop it – stop it stop it do something! “No! Alexei!”

The Red Guardian never heard her. He raised his leg and slammed his boot down over and over
until he broke Steve’s back.

Steve screamed again. His cry was ragged and halting when his lungs failed him. He choked and
sputtered, seizing against the floor. And then he was still.
“No!” Natasha wailed. “No!”

Brushov grunted. “How the mighty have fallen in a new age.”

The Red Guardian lifted his arms, screaming and proclaiming his victory like a mad man, and the
soldiers responded with an ear-splitting roar of their own. Natasha couldn’t bear this any longer.
She didn’t care if they hurt her anymore, and in the men’s distracted moment of elation over
Captain America’s defeat, she yanked herself away from their holds. She scrambled across the
floor, her own damaged leg refusing to support her weight, and collapsed to her knees at Steve’s
side. “Steve?” she whispered. He didn’t answer. He was shuddering, not quite conscious,
suffering and barely breathing. Through the remains of his shirt she saw horrors, dark red and blue
bruises and torn skin and his back, bones shattered and out of place. There was so much blood. So
much damage. “Please… Wake up!”

She reached out her hand to touch his face, but she was yanked back. “No! No! Let go of me!
Steve!” They didn’t let her go, dragging her roughly across the floor even as she clawed and
kicked and tried to dig her shoes into the smooth concrete. She was powerless. “No!”

Brushov was there, waiting for her. “Tiho, Nataliya. Privedite yeye.” Natasha gasped a defeated
sob. She’d never felt so lost, so helpless, so tortured in her life by something she couldn’t change.
They were leaving. Without a thought or word or care, they were taking her and leaving him to
die.

They hauled her to her feet. The men marched away, pride and arrogance in their eyes, stepping
around the bloody mess in the center of the warehouse floor like it wasn’t there. Like it didn’t
matter. The Red Guardian left his victim, limping after the soldiers as they headed to the loading
docks. The rage was gone. The insanity was gone. His face was calm beneath the blood and
bruises, calm and cold and detached. A tool without a conscience. A weapon without compassion.

The heavy doors of the loading dock were opened. Outside more trucks were waiting, their
engines already on and humming. Natasha struggled uselessly even though it was a lost cause,
desperately trying to look over her shoulder at Steve as two men held her hands behind her back
and led her away. He wasn’t moving now, the mindless shivering of his broken body ceasing as
the soldiers walked around him. Her face crumpled in agony and guilt and she looked away,
fighting to hold herself together, to cling to the last shred of her own sanity.

Outside it was dark save for the flood lights shooting beams of harsh illumination over the yard.
The men moved quickly, boarding the trucks, bound for the next stage of their general’s plan
whatever it was. Natasha didn’t care. She bowed her eyes and silently wept as they roughly
escorted her down the loading dock, across the yard, and through the gate.

Then she saw a glimmer of silver among the grass. She moved without thinking, stumbling with
an unhinged show of grief and pain and falling to the ground on top of it. “Get up!” snarled one of
the men irately. “Vstat! Poshla!” They snatched her upward roughly and shoved her toward one
of the trucks.

Up the ramp they went, and Natasha felt her world close in about her, shadows and sickness and
pain. She was forced to sit on a long slab that passed for a bench beside Brushov, guns pointed at
her. Her eyes filled with hot tears, tears that escaped and burned their way down her face. He
looked at her in disapproval, his own eyes glimmering in barely restrained wrath that she had
turned into someone so weak. “Enough. Black Widow does not cry.”

The trucks rumbled away down the mountainside. When the echo of their engines faded, the
silence of the night descended. Peaceful. Still. Serene. In the quiet, a small red light blinked and
beeped among the blades of grass, softly calling for help.
Chapter End Notes

Opusti pistolet! Ruki! – Put the gun down! Get your hands up!
Zhivo! Ruki vverh, blyad' – Right now! Hands up, bitch!
Bros' oruzhie! Zhivo! – Drop the gun! Now!
Tiho, Nataliya. Privedite yeye. – Silence, Natalia. Bring her.
Vstat! Poshla! – Get up! Walk!
 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to everyone reading and commenting! So now we get

a glimpse into Natasha's (messed up) head. She hasn't exactly been herself so far… A
tad irrational. A bit unhinged. And that's quickly going to become an understatement.
Thanks for reading!

Steve.

He was inside her. Deep in her heart. Engrained into every part of her. She could feel the
smoothness of his skin, the strength of his muscles, the power of his heartbeat. She could taste
him, the softness of his lips tracing over her skin, the insistence of his mouth as he kissed her. She
shared his breath, felt his desire. She swept her hands over broad shoulders, locking her legs
around his hips, keeping him close to her. She wouldn’t let him go. She couldn’t let him go.

But he was gone. Bones cracked and blood fell like rain, like red rain washing the Russian
countryside. Steve stood in it. He was bathed in it. He was drowning in it. He was screaming to
her, eyes wide in pain and terror, but his voice was lost in the storm. He was reaching for her, his
hand outstretched, straining to touch her. Fighting for her. She couldn’t reach him. Their
fingertips brushed for a moment before the shadows took him away. Brushov was there, his eyes
wild with his hunger for pain, unrestrained with a longing for her anguish. It wasn’t Alexei he
was dragging away from her now. They were taking Steve away. They were taking him away to
hurt him. No! Stay with me! Don’t leave me! Steve!

Natasha gasped as she opened her eyes. Terrified, she tried to lean up before her memories
chased away the remnants of the nightmare and reminded her that she couldn’t. Her arms were
manacled behind her back and her ankles were bound tightly as well. The floor beneath her was
metal and cement, hard and unforgiving to her aching body. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the
darkness around her, and other things came out of the haze of pain in her head. Brushov’s men
had tossed her in this small closet of an office after the convoy had reached Kerch. Natasha had
gotten only a quick glance as they’d pulled and dragged her struggling form out of the back of one
of the trucks and toward the rusty, metal buildings that served as the headquarters of a shipping
company. Two older Russian battle ships were moored, and Brushov’s men had been busily
loading crates aboard them. They were the same metal cases and cartons they had been
transporting from the warehouse. Weapons were moved as well, trucks full of guns and RPG
launchers and high-powered assault rifles. There were also computers and boxes brimming with
files. A helicopter sat atop the deck of one of the vessels, and men were working to secure it.
Clearly Brushov was packing up his entire operation and moving out of Crimea. Kerch was a
large shipping area, and the docks had been thriving and busy. Many Russian ships, military and
commercial, were docked. SHIELD had been wrong; this had never been about Brushov getting
into Crimea to get something he wanted. It had all been about getting out. The unrest in Ukraine
and Crimea was providing ample cover for Brushov to transport his serum out of the country.

Now that it had been tested and validated, there was no longer any reason to wait.

Natasha’s charged breath was so loud in the silence that she could hardly stand it. She curled in
on herself, her injured hand and leg throbbing in renewed pain as she brought her knees toward
her forehead. It was difficult to tell how many hours had passed in this tiny, dark hell, but she
knew it had been at least a day since the fight at the warehouse. If Rumlow had received the
extraction signal, the STRIKE team would have rescued Steve hours ago. If he was still alive. If
he had survived the brutal beating the Red Guardian had unleashed upon him. She didn’t want to
think about that. She didn’t want to think about how he had looked, covered in blood and bruises,
limp and lifeless on the floor, when she’d been taken prisoner. She didn’t want to think about his
strong, proud form destroyed like that. It had been some stroke of twisted luck that she had
spotted Steve’s watch outside the warehouse. He’d probably lost it while climbing the fence. She
could only pray that he’d be found, that Rumlow would get him out of this nightmare and to the
medical care he so desperately needed. She could only pray that they would save him and take
him home. She could only pray, so she did, deeply and frantically and for the first time in a great
many years. And she shook and shivered, despite the fact it was uncomfortably warm inside the
office in which they’d locked her. She trembled in fear because she was Brushov’s captive and he
would surely pull her back into the hell from which she’d escaped. She shivered in misery
because she was as helpless to save herself as she had been to save Steve. What happened to her
didn’t matter now; none of it mattered so long as Steve was safe. She kept trying to tell herself
that. It was the noble thing to think. It was the selfless thing to think.

But she wasn’t selfless. Not in the least. She didn’t think she ever had been. She’d had plenty of
time to think, bound and alone as she was. She realized right away that she had made one mistake
after another, blindly and foolishly and stupidly. From the moment she’d seen Brushov’s face
during the mission briefing, she’d been out of control. Those dark eyes had awakened things in
her, things that had terrified her, shaken her core, left her lost and reeling and confused. Fury’s
encoded message to her that she’d read before they’d left DC had done even more damage.
“Bring back the serum. Don’t let Rogers stop you.” The cold fear and angry pain she’d felt at
those words had struck her hard and deep. Fury was pitting her against her partner because he
knew as well as she did that Steve would never agree to take the serum on behalf of SHIELD.
She’d spent the entire flight from DC to Crimea wondering how to face this because the things
she’d normally do (lie and manipulate or flat-out leave and attempt the mission on her own)
weren’t an option with Steve. Fury probably hadn’t known how deep and muddled her feelings
for Steve truly ran, and she hoped he wouldn’t have asked her to do this unless he himself had
been forced by those higher in the chain of command. But she couldn’t be sure, and she was
furious that she’d been put in that position.

Everything was a mess. Everything was knocked loose and useless. Everything. She didn’t
know who she was anymore or what she wanted. The lines between good and bad, between right
and wrong, between loyalty and lust, between Black Widow and Natasha were blurring so badly
that she couldn’t see straight. All her covers and lies and bad memories and wants were at war
with each other, and in this bloody battle there were so many casualties. So many goddamn
mistakes. She could have told Steve the truth about Brushov and why Fury had really sent them
into Crimea, but she hadn’t. It wasn’t in her nature to trust, to let anyone inside her heart. She
could have left Steve behind in Yalta, but she hadn’t. She’d needed him too much, both for
protection against the Red Guardian and because of how she felt for him. She could have called
for extraction – all the times she should have called for extraction – but she hadn’t. She’d been
afraid of Brushov, but more than that, she’d been afraid of what SHIELD would do to Alexei.
Finding an enemy super soldier would have guaranteed military action of some sort, and knowing
Fury and the World Security Council as she did, they would have left nothing to chance. Alexei
would be killed, of that she was certain. The guilt was so strong she could hardly stand it. This
was her fault, what had happened to him, and she needed to fix it somehow. Leaving him behind
again in the hands of her trainer and tormentor hadn’t been an option. Steve expected better of
her. She expected better of herself.

She was lost. There was no escape. All of these mistakes had compounded upon themselves,
leaving a horrid trail of terror and pain and blood. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.
She choked on a dry sob.

The worst thing was she’d slept with Steve to make herself feel better. She’d slept with him
because she’d wanted him, wanted to make him hers. She was lying to herself about when her
emotions had started to get the best of her. It had been back in his apartment when she’d seen
those letters and felt the uncomfortable and bitter hurt of jealousy. Maybe it had been just a touch
of irrational envy, but that had grown, too. The thought that another woman had loved him, and
that he loved her, was more painful than it should have been and she hated him and herself for it.
But she knew how to get what she wanted. And after she’d taken him, she’d used him, twisting
the worry and compassion she’d seen in his eyes to get him to help her. She’d done the easy
thing, the familiar thing, what she had been built to do. She’d made him love her and then used
him. Betrayed him. It didn’t get more despicable than that. She wanted to cry but the tears
wouldn’t come. She was so damaged, so fundamentally screwed up, that even a normal human
reaction to the guilt creeping about her heart was impossible. And it got even worse, these things
she’d done. She’d slept with him and then let him sacrifice himself for her. She’d slept with him
and then hurt him.

This felt like the most terrible thing she had ever done, and she had done many, many terrible
things.

And now she was afraid. Afraid for Steve. Afraid for what Brushov planned to do with his
newly tested super soldier and the serum he’d used to create him. Afraid for herself. She hadn’t
been afraid for herself in years. The last time had been in the face of the Hulk’s rage in the bowels
of the helicarrier during the war with Loki. That had been a sudden, panicked terror, raw and
visceral but thankfully short-lived. She’d overcome it easily enough. This, however, was an
entirely different monster. It had come to life the moment she’d seen Brushov’s face as a small
blast of dread, and it had done nothing but grow since then, gaining size and momentum and
power with every shallow beat of her heart. She knew better than anyone the miseries of which
Brushov was capable. For so long she’d kept it all inside, the trauma and the abuse and the
degradation, the things he’d done to her to turn her into his weapon. She had never admitted it,
not even to Clint and certainly not to Steve, but she wasn’t even certain how much of it was real,
what was truth and nightmare and lie and the gray areas between. When Clint had pulled her out
of that life, she’d buried it all down so deep to keep herself sane and free. He’d shown her how.
He’d saved her in every way she needed to be saved, and he hadn’t had to. He’d been sent to
terminate her. He’d stopped her, fought her, and disarmed her. He’d had his gun on her, ready to
make the killing shot. She’d spat at him and demanded he do it. Had their roles been reversed,
she knew she would have.

But he’d seen beneath Black Widow and found something salvageable, something worth giving
another chance. Something beyond the seductress and assassin. A spark of life, of loyalty, of
honesty and integrity and everything necessary to fight for good and justice. Alexei had seen it.
And Steve had seen it, too.

However, if Brushov saw it, he would destroy it. She knew it. A part of her wanted to destroy it
herself out of fear of the pain she knew she would face. She tried to think of Clint, of the things
he’d taught her to stay strong in the face of her demons. Ways to stay pure, to stay on the right
path and not deviate back into darkness because it was easy or more familiar or more alluring. All
of her training, the treatments Brushov had tried, the mental manipulation he’d used, the men with
whom she’d slept and then killed to learn how to seduce and murder better, was begging her to
acknowledge to whom she belonged. Natasha drew a deep breath, battling against that monster
clawing within her at her heart. She could feel it gaining ground. It already had gained ground.
With every single mistake she’d made, it had grown stronger. Maybe she hadn’t meant for any of
this to happen, but it had all the same, like it had all been fate. Inevitable. Cause and effect. Her
fear of Brushov alone was potent enough to wear down the defenses she’d spent so many years
building up. She was losing control, her breaths coming faster and faster and more and more
ragged, anxiety and panic making her pulse race. She needed to focus on something, on anything
other than the murderer she knew to be lurking in the shadows.

Steve.

Her heart slowed in its agonized pounding. Her breathing calmed. She let the memory of their
night together rush over her, warm and more precious than anything she’d ever known. It was a
soothing balm, and suddenly the panic and terror was more manageable. Maybe it had been just
one night, unexpected and fast, but she realized that it went beyond that. It went back months,
nearly a year, back before their first mission together to when she’d been called into Nick Fury’s
office in the Triskelion to learn that she was being reassigned to work with Captain America. And
Steve had arrived, decked out in a new blue uniform with a new purpose in his eyes and excited to
meet his new partner. It was the culmination of all this time spent working with him, fighting
alongside him on countless missions and special ops, respecting his orders and trusting his
choices. It was all the small moments she’d flirted with him and teased him and caught him
watching her and taught him about the future. It hadn’t just been release. It was everything.
Underneath it all, that hadn’t been a lie. What she felt for him wasn’t a lie, even if only she knew
it. At that moment, it was the only thing she was certain she knew. At that moment, it was the
only thing tethering her to what she’d become in the face of everything she had done. It felt
disingenuous to let herself have these thoughts and memories and wishes in the face of everything
she’d done to him. But she did.

Selfish.

If they both came out of this alive, she wondered if he would ever trust her again. It was probably
not worth worrying about. Brushov would never let her go back to him.

The door opened. The Red Guardian stared down at her. Terror and hatred flooded through her,
washing away the fleeting touch of peace she had found. She expected cruelty. She expected
rage and violence and that wrathful glare that perpetually twisted his face. However, his
expression was completely calm, and his dark eyes were empty. He almost looked like Alexei,
but Alexei had never been so emotionless. Was this what he was? A monster made of extremes?
Violent and cruel in one moment and dead on the inside in another? He still didn’t seem to
recognize her. A decade spent in Brushov’s hands could redefine one’s perception of reality,
one’s sense of self. Maybe he couldn’t remember her or what they’d shared. “Up,” he barked
roughly. It was the first word he’d truly said. She couldn’t recall what his voice had sounded
like, but it hadn’t been like this. Not rough and uncaring. She didn’t move, couldn’t move, and
he lost his patience. He stalked inside the room and grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.
“Up.”

She stood stiffly, fighting not to be afraid, to keep her breathing under control and her posture as
straight and tall as she could manage. He crouched and unlocked the cuffs around her ankles.
The second her legs were free, she yanked up her knee into his face, but he was much faster. He
grabbed her calf hard. The press of his fingers was painful, like bolts of metal driving through her
skin and muscle to bend her bones. “Don’t,” he warned. He kept his grip tight for a second
longer, watching uncaringly as she winced, before releasing her and rising smoothly to his
impressive height again. Then he took her arm roughly and pulled her out into the hallway.

He forced her to match his long and purposeful strides even though she limped. She fought to
stay in control of her emotions, but a storm of so many things spun inside her. That Russian
countryside. The months of peace they’d had together. She’d never known such contentment
before, freedom from the life she’d led. It was the first time she’d realized things could be
different, better, softer and sweeter and full of emotion. Her body had been hers to give to
whomever she chose. Her mind had been free. Her heart had been his. Lazy mornings in bed,
Alexei beside her, drawing circles on her bare back with his finger, teasing her and laughing. The
small town in which they’d chosen to hide, full of simple folk with simple dreams. The old car
she’d stolen. Driving. Swimming in a lake warmed by summer. Making love and dreaming of
the future. She’d never had a future before. She’d never been anyone worthy of love. These
things came over her from the shadows, bright and sunny and true. But then she opened eyes that
had slipped shut and looked to him.

There was nothing left. That shame came back, the same shame and fear that had kept her from
calling for help. She needed to understand him. She needed to reach him, to get through to him.
She needed to save him. “Do you remember me?” she asked softly in Russian. He didn’t
acknowledge her, didn’t even look at her, but the hand on her arm tightened even more to the
point where it was bruising. She faltered, afraid of his retaliation, but she went on after gathering
her battered courage. “I’m Natalia. Natalia Romanova. I was…” Your lover. Your friend. Your
wife. Her voice cracked in barely restrained emotion. “You called me your ballerina.”

He said nothing. They reached the door of the building. Men with guns waited for them. Their
wild eyes were hungrily appraising her. Natasha pulled herself taut, desperation driving icy stakes
into her heart. “Alexei, don’t you remember me?”

He turned finally. His eyes were filled with that anger again, that rage that had murdered his soft
and beautiful spirit, but it somehow different. Muted. Mixed with grief and hurt. Betrayal. She
saw torture and pain and things that should never come forward from the blackness. She saw him,
but he was maimed nearly beyond recognition. “I remember you,” he answered.

At first something inside Natasha burst with hope. But when he said nothing more, nothing to
reach out to her, it died painfully. She wanted to cry, but again the tears wouldn’t come. “You
don’t have to do this,” she said with as much strength and confidence as she could muster. “There
are ways out. You don’t have to listen to him anymore. Whatever he’s done to you, we can fix
it. I know SHIELD can. They fixed me.” Her voice softened. “I promise you.”

Alexei’s eyes were fiery. There might have been a spark of something. But it was quickly
suffocated. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Natasha shook her head. “You loved me,” she whispered. “Don’t you remember?”

An iron hand shot out and grabbed her by the neck again, trapping her words in her throat. The
flash of fury in his eyes wasn’t the wild and deranged glint she’d seen before when he’d attacked
her in the hospital lab or when he’d murdered Petrovich or when he’d fought Steve. This was
cognizant. Directed. Directed at her. He did remember. And he blamed her. “I don’t love,” he
snarled. “And neither do you.”

He dragged her outside into a warm night and then tossed her to the ground. Natasha winced as
her hip slammed into the dock. Alexei allowed her no repose, yanking her up by her hair until she
got her feet beneath her. Then he hauled her forward, across the dock toward one of the two
ships. The other was pulling away, the men and dock workers releasing the huge mooring lines.
Natasha closed her eyes in defeat. Part of her, the part not buried in guilt and still tied to duty, had
been holding out that Rumlow and the STRIKE team would somehow discover Brushov’s plots
and stop them. Once those ships got out to sea, it would be more difficult to trace them, let alone
catch them.

But she couldn’t spare much time worrying about that. Flanked by the armed men, Alexei hauled
her near the loading ramp of the second ship. Brushov was there as well as a wiry man dressed in
an expensive suit. Garanin. They were speaking quietly to each other, congratulatory even.
Where Brushov was cold and unyielding, Garanin was soft-spoken and seemingly gentile. But
they both shared a love of power. Garanin eyed her as they approached. He looked pleased, like
a man who’d lost something valuable a long time ago and had now found it again much to his
amazement. He said nothing as Alexei dragged her up the ramp to the ship. “The customers will
be waiting in Volgograd.”

“And the money?”

“Already in the account.”

Natasha was more surprised than she should have been. Brushov was selling the serum. He was
selling it to the evil of the world. That explained why Garanin had been involved. That explained
why he wanted it out of Crimea. “Good. Very good. I will see you in a week.” Garanin nodded
and joined a group of other men in suits. Brushov spoke lowly to the few of his thugs that
remained but then followed Alexei and Natasha.

Natasha glared at him and dug her shoes into the ramp, not caring if Alexei ripped her arm out. It
was too much. This wasn’t right. Brushov was, if nothing else, a man chained to his own
principles. It had never been about acquiring something so petty as wealth. He had done
everything he ever had for power. Money was an important part of that, but money was not
power. Nor was land or weapons or authority over governments. Fear was power. The
capability to take out anyone anywhere was power. This serum was power. Selling it seemed
wrong and uncharacteristic. Greedy.

Brushov’s thick lips turned in amusement under his mustache. It was like she could read her
mind. It always had been like that. “I thought better of you, Natalia.”

“So it’s all about money,” she said lowly. She felt more emboldened than she had in days, than
she ever had in front of him. It was obvious why, even in the twisted mess of emotions crippling
her. She felt betrayed. All of the things he’d forced into her head… Lies to cover lies. And what
had happened to Steve was goddamn quality assurance on a brand new product.

Brushov grabbed her arm and her legs buckled at the contact. He pulled her the rest of the way up
the ramp and onto the deck of the ship. It was an older vessel, some sort of modified battle cruiser
that was coated in chipped and rusty dark grays and greens. It was sizeable but well-used and
weather-worn. The ship was equipped with numerous gun turrets that had been updated to new
technology. There was a cargo hold that the tall bridge overlooked. Atop one set of sealed doors
the black helicopter was secured to the deck. And through the others she could see into the hold
below.

There were rows and rows and rows of those cases. Hundreds of them, far more than what could
have been transported by the convoy from the warehouse. Natasha felt her breath lock in her
throat. The thud of something to the deck drew her attention, and she turned to see a few of the
soldiers drop one of the cases. The latches were undone. Inside there were dozens of vials, each
containing the serum. The bright flood lights upon the ship’s deck caught the ruby liquid inside.
Natasha turned her alarmed gaze back to the cargo hold. There was enough serum aboard this
ship to create an army ten thousand strong. And this was one ship of two.

“This is not about money,” Brushov corrected. He reached behind her; Natasha jerked in surprise,
stiffening involuntarily, but he only slipped the key into the handcuffs around her wrists and
unlocked them. She pulled her newly freed hands to her chest. The wrist that had been damaged
was red and swollen and throbbing with renewed circulation. Brushov’s hands fell to her
shoulders, firm and rough, curling over her blood-stained sweatshirt possessively. “It is about
legacy. It is about the years I spent, molding you and training you. Teaching you how to find that
place inside of you. Do you remember, Natalia?” His breath was a warm caress to the nape of
her neck as he swept her tangled hair away. “That place where you cannot feel.”
“I won’t go back there,” she swore.

He grunted a chuckle. “No, you won’t. All those long years I spent teaching you to find the
darkness in your heart… The Red Room. Those years were wasted. You alone survived my
program, and in the end, you failed.” She winced as those fingers dug into her shoulders. Black
Widow does not fail. “But I learned from my mistakes. Killing the spirit is not possible. I tried
and tried with you, believed I had succeeded with you, and it took only a single glance from a silly
boy to fill your heart with love.” Natasha closed her eyes. “I realized the spirit must be refined,
purged of anything save the driving inclination to cause pain. Ruthlessness cannot come from
apathy, from nothingness. It must come from rage. That is what my serum does. It creates
insanity. And that is all it does.”

Natasha turned, her brow furrowed in confusion, her heart aching in her chest. She glanced from
Brushov to Alexei, Alexei who was as strong and tall and muscular as Captain America. Alexei
who’d been injured badly in his fight with Steve but was healing only a day later, the wounds
now faded bruises and scabbed-over cuts. Alexei hadn’t been like this before. He’d only been a
man before. She didn’t understand. If this insanity serum wasn’t a super soldier serum, then
how…

“I have developed a poison that can rid the mind of restraint. It drives logic and morality and
compassion away, leaving only the basest of emotions. Jealousy. Grief. Envy and anger. It
amplifies these things, the bad memories, the painful parts of us all, until our demons are all that
remains. And then the psychosis becomes consuming.” Brushov watched as his soldiers pulled a
few of the vials free. Another man approached with a smaller case. Inside that was a set of
hypodermic needles. “Unfortunately, the effects are transient.”

One of the men screwed a thin, lengthy needle on top of one of the syringes. Then he took a vial
and jabbed the needle through the top, drawing the serum inside. “Over time the serum’s
influence becomes more long-lasting and the soldier becomes more controllable, but it still is not
permanent. Regular injections are required. The withdrawal process can be deadly. My
customers will undoubtedly learn of this the hard way, and then they will realize how dependent
upon me they truly are. I will control them. And once my serum floods the world, there will be
armies of violent men, desperate to ease their madness. Desperate to quench their thirst with
blood.”

The breadth of what Brushov intended was becoming clear. He wasn’t selling super soldiers. He
was selling mad men addicted to his drug. Natasha wasn’t sure which was worse. All she knew
for certain was that he needed to be stopped. SHIELD needed to stop him. But one of
SHIELD’s best assets was gravely wounded, maybe even dead, and miles and miles away, and
the other had no way to call for help.

The man with the needle approached Alexei and then jabbed it into his forearm. He depressed the
plunger. Natasha observed the horrid scene before her in fear, waiting, unable to breathe. In a
matter of seconds, that calm emptiness in Alexei’s eyes was gone. That slightest hint of him was
lost. In a matter of seconds, the monster was back.

“As for the Red Guardian…” Brushov’s voice was a low rumble against her ear. “He is a
weapon for Russia. A weapon that beat Captain America. He is priceless. And he is mine.”

The Red Guardian ground his teeth hard enough that she could hear his jaw crack. His muscles
twisted and contorted under his black shirt as his hands balled into crushing fists at his side. He
was shaking. That wild, hungry gleam returned to his eyes. He was lusting for pain and
suffering. Lusting for blood. No! Please, don’t do this to him… The effects grew stronger over
time, more permanent. More devastating. Withdrawal was deadly. The pain in her heart was
punishing. She watched the Red Guardian rage like a beast with that poison surging through his
veins and realized that hope was futile. Alexei was gone. Alexei was dead. She could never
bring the man out of the monster. The man was the monster.

And compassion was a weakness. It had cost them everything.

Brushov was nothing if not perceptive. “You realize the truth now,” he said. “He is beyond
redemption. Beyond escape. Even if he could leave me, he would die.”

Natasha could hardly contain her own fury. “You vindictive bastard,” she hissed. Her eyes stung
as she stared at Alexei, his face twisted and tortured and covered in sweat. “Why did you do this
to him? Why him?”

“I didn’t do this to him,” Brushov calmly stated. “You did.” His face was stern, but she
recognized the glint of sadistic anticipation in his eyes. “I should have killed you when you
betrayed me. I would have had it not been for him. He offered me the one thing I needed in
return for sparing your life. Himself.”

Things came from the red haze in her mind. Things she had made herself forget. Things she
could never remember. They were dragging her away from Alexei. Their life together was
burning, all her ridiculously impossible hopes and fantasies destroyed in a single, fiery moment.
Brushov would kill her. She had left him, run away, failed in her mission and betrayed her
training. His punishment would be fast and cruel. Tears had blurred the world, tears and smoke
and flames and then rain, and she’d watched Alexei come forward, his hands up, all the fight gone
from his eyes. “If it’s me you want, I’ll come without a fight. Just don’t kill her. I love her.
Please.”

“No,” she whispered. “That’s not…”

“Not what? Not true? You delude yourself with your own fantasies. You have grown soft and
weak. Your time with SHIELD has damaged you, but I can bring you back. I can restore you.”

“No!”

Brushov’s lips twisted in an unamused grin. “When have you ever been able to stop me? Such
insolence. You need to remember your place. You need to remember to whom you belong.”

In her distraction, she hadn’t noticed the man with the syringes prepare another one. He stepped
forward, the needle grasped between his fore and middle fingers, his thumb poised on the
plunger. Her heart stopped in her chest, her eyes widening in dawning realization and then
miserable panic. The serum fell in ruby droplets to the ship’s deck from the needle’s tip. “No,”
she whispered. She whirled and made to fight. Tried to run. “No! No!”

But the Red Guardian was behind her. His hands grabbed her arms and pinned them to her sides.
Natasha struggled with every ounce of strength she had, but he was too strong, too capable. In
one large hand he held both hers behind her back. His other snaked around her chest, huge and
unmovable, and moved up to wrap around her neck, enough to restrict her airway but not kill her.
She lifted her chin and pushed her teary eyes skyward. The night was so thick and black above,
an infinite sable sea without the light of the stars or the moon. Natasha winced and tried not to
cry. She was helpless. She was helpless.

“You are mine, Natalia. You always have been and you always will be.” The Guardian gripped
tighter. He wanted to crush her. Maybe he would. “Not SHIELD’s. And not Captain
America’s. He saw you for what you really are, the way I have always seen you.”
“No,” she moaned, trembling. Blue eyes, broken in betrayal. “You lied to him! I didn’t bring
him to you! You lied to him!”

“Not as much as you lied to him. And not as much as you have lied to yourself. I know your
work, Natalia. Did you think you could hide your sins from me? I could see what you did to
him. I taught you how. Surely you remember.” She did, and thousand horrible things surged
against her heart. “You sell your body to the men who love you, and they sell themselves to me to
save you. That is who you are. Who I made you to be.”

“No!” That needle came closer and closer. Natasha choked on her breath. “Please… Don’t!
Don’t do this to me! I won’t go back to you! I won’t! Stop!”

Brushov hissed, “No one can make me stop. You remember what I told you the day I took you
from the street. Nothing has changed.”

She felt the needle stab into her arm. The Red Guardian held her so tightly that there was
absolutely no hope of moving. Her skin stung as the serum was injected. As she was violated
again.

At first, there was nothing. Alexei, firm and unyielding behind her. Brushov, cruel and proud
before her. The sky, black and vast above.

But it worked fast. Her heart started to pound so loudly and so quickly that it was all she could
hear, all she could feel. Her skin crawled, itchy and electrified with uncomfortable phantom
sensations. Hands that weren’t there. Ghosts. She couldn’t breathe fast enough. The serum
burned its way through her, agony and fire and hatred, boiling her blood and searing her flesh.
She wanted to scream. She didn’t know if she did. Her racing heart beat and beat and beat,
pumping the poison all around her body, until it reached her brain. And then the things that had
been seeping from the shadows, that had been dripping through the cracks in her psyche, that had
been escaping the cage of her control, exploded.

Violation. Rage. Madness. Violence and chaos. People screaming. Screaming and crying and
burning alive. Fire ripping through the hospital. She didn’t care. Dreykov’s daughter, no more
than a child walking at her father’s side. She didn’t care. Her finger was taut on the trigger of the
sniper rifle. Men using her, abusing her body and her mind. Rough kisses and rougher terror.
Men laughing. She would destroy them. Money. Sao Paolo, a marketplace teeming with
innocent people, and her gun cutting through them and bringing them down like they were
nothing. So much red. Blood. Knives in her hands and then buried in flesh. Bullets ripping
through her body. Fighting. Destruction. Pain. Murder. Slaughter.

Kill them all.

Like a fire, the serum spread through her mind. It burned everything it touched, devouring the
good and strengthening the bad. Destroying who she was, who she had so desperately tried to be,
and leaving only who she had been. Nobody could save her now. The trauma fed the monster
growing in her mind. The terrible things fueled it, emboldening it, powering it. And there were
so many terrible things. The things she’d done. The things that had been done to her. So much
red. She was drowning in it. She couldn’t breathe. She was drowning.

Steve.

He was inside her, the only good left inside her. He was so strong, so beautiful and pure, that the
fire couldn’t take him. It wouldn’t take him. She wouldn’t let it take him! He was reaching
toward her, his eyes wide in terror and pain. He was trying to get to her, trying to protect her.
Trying to save her. She needed him to save her. Stay with me! Don’t let me go! Please don’t
leave me!

Their fingertips brushed, but the red grabbed him, coiling and curling around his body and
dragging him away. He screamed. She did, too.

Steve!

He was gone. Taken. Burned alive. And the insanity was all that remained.

“Welcome back, Black Widow.”

 Chapter 8

Steve’s climb to consciousness was long and unpleasant. His heart was demanding that he wake
up and go back to the world, but his mind and body weren’t ready or willing. Down in the
darkness, things didn’t hurt so much. Down in the darkness, he couldn’t feel the pain, the pain
that went deeper than broken bones and lacerated flesh and all the damage that had been done to
him. He was shielded, protected, safe from the things he’d left behind that he knew were
excruciating. Safe from her. Eventually, though, light pierced the shadows, light that he couldn’t
ignore, and with the light fragments of memories poured into his empty sanctuary. He couldn’t
stay down.

“Get up. Get up! Steve, get up!”

He groaned, a low, hoarse, alien sound to his ears. His eyes fluttered open, and the first hints of
light were too bright and too much and the dizziness nearly drove him back to the blackness. But
he was stronger than this and more stubborn, so he tried again. This time he managed to keep his
eyes open long enough to realize he was some place other than the warehouse. He wasn’t lying
on unforgiving and uncomfortable concrete. And the pain wasn’t as horrendous as he’d been
anticipating. That was a small comfort, at least. A very small one.

Steve released a slow, shaking breath, blinking away tears that had been trapped beneath his
eyelids. Above him was a light gray ceiling made of textured tiles. He was lying on a cot of some
sort that was a little too small and thus a bit uncomfortable for his large frame, and he was covered
in a light blanket. Something was stuck to his wrist, and he wearily lifted his arm to find an IV
taped to his skin. The line was connected to a pole stationed beside the cot. Fading daylight
streamed through a window on the other side of the small room. Against the wall there was an
array of idle medical equipment. He smelled warm, humid air that had that tang of the sea and
realized he was still somewhere in Crimea. He grimaced, summoning some measure of bravery
and composure, and tried to lean up. His chest and abdomen and arms and head (hell, pretty
much every part of his body) throbbed in fiery misery, but he gasped and moaned his way through
it, gripping the metal sides of the cot until the support bars bent. Still, he succeeded in getting
himself upright. More or less.

The room was spinning. He swallowed the uncomfortable nausea that clenched his throat and
panted and stayed absolutely still until the vertigo abated. When he felt sure he wasn’t going to be
sick, he chanced opening his eyes again. He recognized this place. Outside the window the
SHIELD quinjet was sitting in the warehouse lot, bathed in the light of the setting sun. He heard
familiar voices. This was one of the rooms attached to the safe house in Sevastopol. This was
where he had changed from out of his uniform and into the attire of a young man on an exciting
European vacation with his girlfriend. If he was back here, that could only mean the STRIKE
Team had rescued him.

Relief rushed over him. He sagged, the strain of sitting upright becoming too much for his
damaged middle, but he refused to let himself lie back down. He felt miserably sore, a sharp ache
radiating from his chest all through his abdomen and down his legs. Layers and layers of
protective bandages and supportive wrappings encircled his torso. His left leg from his knee
downward was splinted. His skin was black and blue everywhere he looked, deep bruises and
healing scrapes covering his body. And the worst of his pain was shooting along his back, bolts
of lightning that raced along his tortured nerves all the way up to the base of his throbbing skull
and all the way down to his hips. With each moment he stayed upright, it grew and augmented
and exploded into a hellish torture that gained ground on his endurance until he could barely stand
to suffer through it. He summoned some measure of strength and tried to turn around to look at
what had happened to him and was more than a little terrified to realize that he couldn’t.

Memories slashed through the fog in his head. The Red Guardian. Fists ramming into his chest.
Falling. Something slamming into his back over and over again. And then agony.

Steve swallowed through a dry throat, tears bleeding through eyes he’d closed. But he raised a
trembling hand and wiped them away, forcing himself to breathe deeply until the pain was
tolerable. What had happened felt to be too enormous to face, let alone accept, like some sort of
twisted nightmare that couldn’t be real so long as he didn’t believe it was. Everything was a
jumbled mess in his head. And then he remembered. “Natasha,” he whispered.

The door to the room opened. Rumlow walked in carrying a tablet computer. He looked up from
his work and spotted Steve sitting in the cot. He shook his head in alarm and quickly made his
way across the room, setting the tablet atop of one of the carts near the wall. “You shouldn’t be
up, Cap. Lay back down.”

Steve drew a deep breath to calm the strained pace of his heart. He refused to oblige the other
man, overwhelmed with worry and fear and such a mess of emotions. Natasha… “Where’s
Romanoff?”

Rumlow didn’t look pleased with the question. “Lay down. The docs spent eight hours trying to
put you back together. You wanna mess that up? You need to rest.”

Steve flashed angry eyes at the STRIKE commander. “Where is she?” he demanded.

Rumlow shook his head, recognizing in frustration and concern that his requests weren’t going to
be met. He sighed shortly. “We were hoping you could tell us. We got the extraction signal, but
when we arrived all we found was you beat to all hell alone in a warehouse. There was no sign of
Romanoff.”

Steve closed his eyes at that, his fears confirmed. Frustration and worry burst through him,
leaving him trembling in a cold, miserable sweat. “They took her,” he muttered. He was furious
with himself, furious for having lost that fight. For having let her go. She was in the hands of evil
of the worst sort, a man who’d twisted her and tortured her and turned her into a murderer, and
he’d let that happen. “Brushov took her.”

Rumlow looked doubtfully at him, and a small voice of dissension asked the question he couldn’t
bear to be asked. You sure about that?

He wasn’t. Not anymore. Not since Natasha had lied to him over and over again. Lied about
Brushov and Shostakov. Lied about why Fury had sent her on this mission. Had she lied
about… No. She wouldn’t have betrayed him like that. She couldn’t be a double agent, still tied
to and loyal to Brushov and his Red Room despite the years she’d worked with SHIELD.
Despite being an Avenger and his partner. He knew her, and she wasn’t a traitor. She wouldn’t
have lured him to that warehouse just so Brushov could have his prize fight between Captain
America and the Red Guardian. She would never do something like that.

You sure about that?

Steve closed his eyes. His back was throbbing mercilessly from staying upright, driving spikes of
heated agony straight through his spine and rib cage and into his chest until he could barely
breathe. But as awful and crushing as that was, it was nothing compared to the pain squeezing his
heart. He’d been such a fool. An infatuated, pathetic fool. She was dangerous. He’d known it
for months, seen it in the way she walked and talked and teased him. He made himself look past
the obvious, look past all her faults. He’d made himself ignore the truth. She was different from
him. They all were, all of the agents and assassins and administrators who promised one thing
while doing the exact opposite behind his back. SHIELD wasn’t trustworthy. They covered
themselves in the best intentions, in the guise of doing the right thing at all times and at all costs,
but there was always something off, something impure, something disingenuous. Lies, so many
goddamn lies.

And he’d believed them all, even though he’d known they were lies, because he wanted to think
the best of her. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to love her.

Who the hell was he kidding? He did love her.

Damn it. He drew himself together, gathering the shattered remains of his composure. “Any idea
where they went?”

Rumlow wasn’t going to answer that without having his own questions answered. “You wanna
tell me what the hell happened first?”

Steve grimaced. “It’s worse than we feared. They already have a super soldier. They call him
Red Guardian. Petrovich was a plant to get SHIELD involved. Brushov orchestrated this whole
thing just so he could test the Guardian out on me.” Rumlow looked incredulous. Steve had to
admit it sounded far-fetched. And he was ashamed for falling for it even though he knew he had
no reason to be.

Rumlow was silent for a moment. “Please tell me you hurt him as bad as he hurt you.”

Steve sighed, memories from the furious fight assaulting him anew. “I don’t know,” he admitted.
“He was strong and fast and out of his mind with rage. He didn’t seem to feel pain, and even if he
did, it wasn’t enough to slow him down. Brushov made him this way.”

“A super soldier or insane?”

“Both.” He closed his eyes again. “I had a chance to kill him. Damn it.” I should have killed
him.

The other man didn’t say anything to that. They were both soldiers so they knew the weight of
taking another man’s life. Steve had killed many times before in the defense of the innocent, to
stop the criminally insane and the villainous and the tyrannical from oppressing or threatening the
world. He found no joy in it, and he tried his hardest to keep it as a last resort. No one was
beyond redemption, beyond another chance. Beyond compassion. He wouldn’t punish a man,
murder him, simply because he was a threat. Perhaps that was naïve and silly in this era of
insights and advantages made through tactical preemptive strikes. That certainly seemed to be
SHIELD’s modus operandi of late. But Steve couldn’t think like that. Steve used his honor and
integrity as a shield to protect himself and the things and people he held dear. Brushov had turned
his compassion into a weapon. From the moment he’d walked into that warehouse, he’d been at a
disadvantage because he’d been a good man among monsters. Morality was easy to manipulate
by the ruthless, and Brushov had expertly controlled him, what Natasha had done
notwithstanding. He’d made a mistake when he’d faltered, when he’d cared. He’d tied his own
hands.

Maybe SHIELD was right. Stealing this insanity serum, destroying the Red Guardian before he
could be unleashed upon the world… Maybe it was better to strike first and win than believe in
the benefit of the doubt and lose.

Natasha loved him, Steve thought. It grieved him to accept that, more than he thought it would,
but accept it he did. He didn’t think he could hurt someone Natasha loved. “We have to get
Natasha back.” His lips were moving, his voice weak and wavering with the weight of too much
emotion. He hadn’t thought to say it. Hell, he hadn’t even thought to do it. He looked to
Rumlow and found the other man doubtful. “Brushov wanted her. He’ll hurt her. We have to
rescue her.”

“They’re long gone.”

“How long?”

“You’ve been out for five days.” Steve winced at that and he watched to his bruised hands that
trembled uselessly in his lap. Five days. Five days he’d spent recovering. And five days
Brushov had spent moving out of Crimea. Five days Natasha had spent at the sadistic whims of
the man who’d tortured and tormented her.

Suddenly he couldn’t stand to sit still. He worked the tape from his wrist and pulled the IV free,
immediately covering the bleeding hole in his skin with his hand. He tried to swing his legs from
the cot. Commands left his brain but didn’t seem to quite reach their destination, and his muscles
stubbornly refused to cooperate. He worked harder, pushing himself, and with a raspy cry he
managed to turn his stiff body and get his feet to the floor. “Whoa. Whoa!” Rumlow shouted,
grabbing his shoulder to steady and stop him. “I wasn’t kidding. You were mostly dead when we
found you. The docs almost couldn’t stop the internal bleeding. Cap, your back is fractured.”
Steve grimaced. Hearing the bleak truth making it downright overwhelming. The injuries he’d
sustained were substantial. He knew it, even if his mind was racing to try and find ways to deny
it. Faint sensations ghosted across his thoughts. Hands holding him, digging inside his body,
trying to save him. Agony as faces loomed over him, snapping bones back into place. The taste
of blood and air that wouldn’t come. Pressure on his back. So much excruciating pressure. Even
now… things felt out of place, tender and not quite right and not functioning correctly. “They
fixed it, and I know you heal fast, but you need to stay down. You need to take it easy and rest.
You’re in no shape to go anywhere right now. You need another week, maybe two, to get back
on your feet. The doctors wanted you airlifted out of here.”

Steve gasped, squeezing his knees until his hands shook to get through the pain. “Why didn’t
you?” he asked in an angry, ragged tone. It was only logical. The mission had gone to hell.
Captain America had been seriously wounded. Black Widow was gone. Calling for extraction
should have ended this nightmare. And SHIELD should have swooped in from above to take
over.

Rumlow’s expression hardened. “I guess you don’t remember telling me not to,” he responded,
perhaps a little hurt and affronted. Steve watched the other man, feeling ashamed that he really
didn’t recall that. He fought to catch his breath, struggling to listen as Rumlow explained. “Fury
put you in charge. I figured I’d at least let you tell me your reasons before I decide to disobey
you.”

“Fury doesn’t know?”

“No. No one does outside of the safe house.” Rumlow narrowed his eyes. “Your orders.”

That left him reeling and uncertain, even more than he had been before. A wisp of memory
flashed through his head. Rumlow’s face above his, shouting for help. A frantic thought to keep
this contained, to keep SHIELD out. He knew why he had wanted that. He didn’t trust Fury.
Not completely. Not anymore. And Fury obviously didn’t trust him to follow orders he found
disagreeable, which was why he’d sent Natasha in with her own secret mission in the first place.
Steve didn’t care what SHIELD wanted with the serum. It needed to be destroyed. It was a tool
for evil and evil alone. It couldn’t be made into anything else.
A tool for evil. The serum. The Red Guardian. Black Widow. Instruments to torture and
threaten the innocent. Weapons wielded by the deranged and violent and ambitious. Weapons of
the Red Room. Weapons of Russia. Weapons of SHIELD. Where was the line? What needed
to be saved versus destroyed? What the hell was right? God, he was so naïve sometimes. He
was only beginning to realize that. Who was he to pick and choose which weapons were
redeemable, fixable, and which weren’t? Was there any light in all of these shadows? Was there
any truth?

There had to be. And until Steve knew what it was, he didn’t want Fury involved. If Natasha
was in Brushov’s hands… Brushov had wanted her back. He was her handler, her tormentor.
She had no capacity to fight him; clearly her terror of him was deep set, born and bred in her
youth and fine-tuned into an incredible weapon against her over the course of her life. A collar
and chains constructed of fear and violence. She had no choice and no free will. At least, Steve
wanted to believe that she had no choice. And he didn’t have faith that Fury would believe that as
well and make the right call. SHIELD would see her as another enemy beyond aid and order her
killed. Another threat that needed to be immediately eliminated. They had before.

There was no benefit of the doubt.

“She’s been compromised,” Rumlow said. It was like the STRIKE agent could read his thoughts,
and he cut through foolish hopes right to the core of the matter. “She was before we left DC. I
wasn’t kidding with that Motherland comment. This is where she came from, where she
belongs.”

“No, it’s not,” Steve refuted. He dug his hands into the cot and pushed and pushed and pushed
until he was standing. Sweat bathed his trembling body. He couldn’t stifle his groan. The pain
was unbearable, nearly bending him in half, and breathing slowly and evenly through his nose
was all he could do to stay conscious and strong against the onslaught. His back was locked in a
cruel and vicious spasm, muscles contracting and relaxing and twisting in an uncoordinated mess
that almost toppled him. Almost. Rumlow was there to get an arm around his waist and steady
him. “She’s a SHIELD agent. And she’s their prisoner. I’m not turning my back on her.”

“Poor choice of words, Cap,” Rumlow said.

Steve gritted his teeth. “We have a duty to rescue her.” How in the world was he going to do
that? Just standing was agonizing.

“You think you know her well enough to trust her?” Rumlow let him go and stepped away. It
was like he knew everything, saw through the strong face Steve was trying to keep, saw the
mistakes he’d made and the lies he’d told himself. “You don’t. She gets in your head and gets in
your heart and twists you around until you’re hers. She takes you and makes you feel like you’d
sell the world for her. You and all of the men before you.” Hearing that goddamn hurt. “That’s
what she does. Nobody trusts her. She’s–”

“An agent of SHIELD,” Steve repeated lowly. He’d say it as many times as he needed to. It was
true. It had to be true. “We’re going after her.” Suddenly the pain was so sharp and cutting that
he couldn’t keep its poison inside anymore. “And you don’t know a damn thing about what I
feel.”

Those harsh words echoed for a tense moment. Steve looked at Rumlow. He didn’t really know
the other man. He was a colleague, a soldier who fought beside him against common enemies,
but all the camaraderie he’d shared with the Howling Commandos during the war he didn’t have
with Rumlow or any of the others of the STRIKE Team. He didn’t know if Rumlow had been
aware of their true purpose in Crimea. He didn’t know if everyone had known of it save him.
The thought stirred paranoia within him, and he didn’t like it one bit. But Rumlow’s face was
earnest enough. The sorrowful, sincere look in the other man’s eyes was sufficient to temper his
anger. “Sorry,” Steve murmured, averting his gaze in genuine shame. “That was out of line.”

“No, Cap. It’s none of my business.” Rumlow sighed. “Look, you’ve been through hell. And
whatever went on between you and Romanoff… It’s not my place to judge.”

Steve brushed his words aside. He stared blankly at the floor for a long moment, trying to catch
his wind and get himself above the hurt claiming his body and the grief squeezing his heart. He
didn’t want to hear anything more because he was afraid of how correct it could be. But he had to
concede. “You’re right. I don’t know her well enough to trust her.” Admitting that hurt the
most. He wracked his brain, trying so hard to remember what had happened after he’d lost the
fight. But it was all just pain and fear. Had she gone with them, or had they dragged her away?
Had she sold him to Brushov, or had she been as tricked as he had been? She’d double-crossed
him before, used him to get what she’d wanted, so why not then as well?

No. He thought he heard Natasha screaming to him. He thought he felt her cool hands on his
face. And for a blissful moment he was lost in the fleeting sensations of her lips on his and her
hands in his hair and her eyes, open and beautiful and brimming with so much more than
pleasure… He shook it away. He wanted to believe, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t afford to be
played for a fool again. “But until we know for sure one way or the other, we have to assume that
she’s a hostage.” And he had to assume if Brushov had Natasha, he was going to draw Black
Widow back into his service.

Whether Natasha went willingly or not was the question he couldn’t answer.

Rumlow sighed in acquiescence. “If you want us to get her out, fine. I’ll get the Tact team ready,
and the minute we get their scent, we’ll be on it.” Rumlow looked at his swaying, shaking form in
concern. “But you need to sit this out.”

“I can’t do that,” Steve said. “There’s too much at stake.” He straightened his posture as much as
his damaged spine would allow him. He tried to seem composed and confident and capable. He
knew he wasn’t.

Rumlow didn’t look pleased or at all convinced. “Come on, Cap. You almost died.”

“I didn’t.”

Rumlow shook his head, but he seemed to know a losing battle when he saw one. He sighed.
“You’re the captain.” Steve closed his eyes and winced and tried not to think or read into those
uncaring words. “But if you’re intent on doing this, there’s some stuff you should probably take a
look at.” He nodded toward the small bathroom in the corner of the room. It was the same one
Steve had used to change out of his uniform when they’d arrived in Crimea. It seemed like a
lifetime ago. “Suit up. We’ll be waiting for you outside.”

Rumlow left the room. Steve heard him issuing orders in the safe house beyond, pressing the
analysts for information on Brushov’s trail. He waited until Rumlow was well out of earshot
before releasing a gasping, weeping breath, sagging and squeezing his eyes shut in misery. He
knew his own limits better than anyone. They far exceeded a normal person’s, far exceeded what
most people thought even. Five days was enough time to ward away death. Five days was
enough time to begin his convalescence, to set his body on the road to recovery. Wounds that
would have killed an ordinary man were healing. Broken bones were mending on their own.
Bruises were starting to lose their tenderness. His strength was returning, and his stamina would
soon follow. But full recovery from the beating he’d taken… That was going to require more
time than five days. And he’d need every ounce of his strength and stamina if he was going to
face the Red Guardian again.
He knew his limits and he was seriously, dangerously pushing them. What the hell are you doing,
Rogers? Can’t even stand… How the hell are you going to fight?

He would because he had to.

Steve Rogers walked into the bathroom, hobbled and battered and defeated.

Captain America walked out, cool and confident and strong.

The STRIKE Team knew better than anyone at SHIELD what Steve was capable of doing.
They’d witnessed it firsthand time and time again, watching awestruck as Captain America
jumped from planes without parachutes and fought with speed and strength unparalleled and took
hits that would knock anyone else down like they were nothing. Still they appeared positively
shocked at the transformation as Steve made his way into the safe house’s mobile command
center.

But there were some things he couldn’t hide. He was limping badly. He couldn’t stand to remove
the splint from his left leg; it was the only thing providing enough support to the damaged bone to
keep him walking. And even if he had wanted to remove it, he literally didn’t think he could.
He’d realized right away as he’d dressed in his comfortable, familiar uniform that his range of
motion was severely limited. Bending over was damn near impossible. Rotating his torso at his
hips was about equally as difficult and unpleasant. He’d stood in the small washroom, staring at
his beaten reflection in the mirror with some measure of detachment because the mottled mess of
bruises and welts that ran up and down his torso before wrapping around to his back in a cruel
blue and purple embrace… Well, it was just easier not to see it. It was easier to ignore how deep
and damning his injuries were, injuries that heralded damage that went way beyond what he could
just overcome through sheer will. He was so pale underneath the fading marks and cuts on his
face, white and drawn and ill. He looked like the walking dead, and he felt even worse.

The Red Guardian had nearly killed him. Everyone in the room knew it, and he knew it, too.
There wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t hurt. He was pretending to be hale and steadfast and
invincible, but not even the image of Captain America, with the star blazing on his chest and his
shield upon his back, was convincing. But nobody called him on this remarkable show of
stupidity and denial he was putting on for them. He couldn’t even call himself on it. This was
dangerous, both for him and for the men around him. If he faltered in combat, he could get
someone killed. He wasn’t blind to that. His driving need to see Brushov stopped was stronger
than the pain or fear, stronger than reason. This wasn’t the first time he’d gone into battle
wounded. But it was the first time he’d ever been hurt this badly. Some nagging voice of doubt
reminded him that he was in command so it was his responsibility to take himself out of the game
if he wasn’t capable of fighting. It was also his responsibility to call into SHIELD for
reinforcements, to make sure the mission succeeded within the parameters set forth by Fury and
the World Security Council. No overt military action. Gather information and wait for
authorization for a strike. Those were his orders. He was about to directly violate them. He
didn’t feel nearly as bad about that as he probably should have. “What’s the story?”

Rumlow stood before a long table filled with laptops and computer monitors. His muscular arms
were folded across his chest as he looked down on a few SHIELD agents analyzing data that was
flying across the screens. “Brushov and his men destroyed most of what was left in the
warehouse. We managed to pull a couple of hard drives from the remains of some computers.
They’re looking through them now.”

Beside Rumlow stood Rollins, a hefty guy who was far more brawn than brain. He was a wall of
humorless muscle. “Any idea about the number of men they have, sir?” he asked.
Steve shifted his weight to keep the strain off his left leg. “At least fifty that I saw, but probably
more.”

Rollins shared a glance with Rumlow. “So we’d be outnumbered,” he declared. “And probably
outgunned.”

“It’s worse than that,” Steve added. The others watched him expectantly. “Brushov’s serum… I
don’t think it makes super soldiers. I think it makes men enraged. Violent.” The dogs snapping
at the hospital, deranged and ferocious. The Red Guardian, driven by his fury beyond the
restraints of pain or endurance. Brushov’s soldiers, hitting him and kicking him with wild
abandon, their eyes devoid of anything besides hate and a hunger for pain. Not one of them had
held back. Not one of them had even hesitated. Insanity. “Like there was nothing left of being
human. Just madness. Just following orders and killing people.”

“That’s great,” Rumlow uttered disdainfully. Steve glanced at him out the corner of his eye,
trying the gauge whether or not Rumlow knew any of the things he’d just told him. But the
STRIKE agent’s face was stony. “The techs found some files. They’re trying to reconstruct more
of the data, but this is what they’ve got so far.”

One of the men at the computer brought a picture up on the monitor with a few taps of the
keyboard. Steve released a slow breath, straightening as much as possible. Shostakov’s face
stared back at him. It was an older picture of a nice-looking young man. He had brown eyes, a
comely face, and brown hair cropped short. He wore a pilot’s flight suit. This guy looked
innocent and bright, with a bit of a smile curling his lips and eyes that were soft and friendly.
“That’s him,” Steve said. The features were the same, but the expression was horribly different.
The monster he’d fought was a twisted, distorted aberration. “The Red Guardian.”

“Alexei Shostakov,” Rumlow read from the files appearing on the screen. There were in Russian,
but the computer was translating them nearly as fast as it loaded them. They were personnel files
from the Russian Air Force. “Born March 19th , 1982 in Moscow. Excelled in his studies,
particularly in math and physics. Enrolled in Gagarin Air Force Academy in 2000. Son of
Andrei Shostakov, who was apparently some sort of decorated war hero. That ring any bells?”

“Yeah, Romanoff mentioned something about him,” Steve said.

Rumlow narrowed his eyes as he read more. “Can you decrypt the rest of these files?” he asked
the computer tech.

“It’s running the algorithm now,” the young man answered, pushing his glasses up his nose as he
monitored the task’s progress. “Whoever worked on this was using outdated technology.
SHIELD cracked these codes decades ago. It took a while to find the decryption key because it
was so old.”

The computer chirped, and suddenly the screen was flooded with pictures of young men. They
were all in their late teens to mid-twenties and obviously recruited from the various branches of the
Russian military. Fighter pilots and soldiers and naval officers and submariners. Steve recognized
the pictures as those he’d seen back during the briefing at the Triskelion. These were the files that
Petrovich had supplied, only now they had the information in them that had been redacted from
the versions they’d seen in DC. “Subject convulsed at 1923 hours and suffered massive cardiac
arrest. June 6th , 1999. Fatality,” the computer tech read. “Subject developed respiratory arrest
and became comatose. June 18th , 1999. Fatality. Subject suffered an aortic aneurysm. August
2nd , 2000. Fatality. Stroke, December 1st, 2000.” This went on and on. “It’s all under
something called Project: Red Guardian.”
“Jesus,” Rumlow breathed. “This is how all these guys died. As damn lab rats.”

Steve thought back to those ledgers in the basement of the hospital. All the failed attempts to
create a super soldier serum. One of them had obviously worked. But Natasha had said Brushov
had sent her to kill Andrei Shostakov and bring Alexei to him… Why else, if not for this?
“Something about Shostakov made the serum work on him,” Steve surmised. “Romanoff said
Brushov was after him specifically.”

“She knew him?”

Steve didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to betray Natasha’s confidence. He wasn’t sure
how much of what she’d told him was real or true. Not anymore. But even still it didn’t feel right
to tell anyone else. He decided to keep his answer simple. “Yeah.”

Rumlow looked displeased. “You still think she’s on our side, Cap?” Steve didn’t rise to
Rumlow’s bait, wondering momentarily why he seemed so intent on discrediting Natasha. Maybe
he honestly thought Romanoff was a traitor. Maybe he knew something Steve didn’t. Or maybe
he was just trying to push Steve’s buttons, testing him for weaknesses and trying to rile him.
Steve returned his angry gaze to the computer. “Wait,” he said to the tech. “Go back.”

It was a digital reproduction of a really old file. Steve read it over much faster than the computer
translated it. It was a letter internal to the Soviet Union during the height of the Cold War. “For
the betterment of our glorious nation, I suggest we enact Project: Red Guardian. Captain
America may be dead, but he proved to the world that super soldiers will bring war to the next
stage of its evolution. We should not make the same mistake the Germans did. The United States
cannot be allowed to hold the secrets to the super soldier program. It is with the solidarity of our
Union in mind that I propose our response to Captain America and all those that may follow
him. Our own super soldiers, strong in our convictions and powered by our own might, will
carry our flag into a glorious new era of Soviet superiority.” Brushov had written this to the
Soviet government, requesting funds and resources to allow the KGB to pursue his project. Steve
looked further among the files and saw Brushov’s first and only test subject had been Andrei
Shostakov, the best and brightest young officer in the Soviet military at the time.

“It only worked on him,” Steve murmured in surprise. The computer was catching up in the
translation now, and pages and pages of data, analyses, and notes were appearing on the
monitors. There was information from the serum infusion and subsequent strength, endurance,
and laboratory tests. Reports and results were appended to the end of the file. The consensus of
the scientists, doctors, and Brushov himself was that the serum had been successful. It had been
successful on a single subject. “Alexei’s father was the first Red Guardian.”

“What?” Rumlow asked incredulously. “They had a super soldier back then? Back during the
Cold War?” He shook his head and glanced between Rollins and Steve. “That’s not possible.
SHIELD would’ve known about it.”

“Maybe not if it only worked on him,” Steve said. “The project failed. Moscow wanted an army,
but all they got was one soldier.” That sounded painfully, uncomfortably familiar. Apparently the
US and Soviet governments were alike in this one regard: they hadn’t thought one man could
make much of a difference in a war. Unlike Shostakov, however, Steve had proven them wrong.
He continued reading through the files. “And apparently the serum didn’t last. It required
continual infusions. Infusions that cost a lot of money.” There was a lab report detailing
something about “inadequate genetic absorption” and “failure to reach self-sustaining
production”. Brushov’s serum succeeded in creating enhanced strength and speed and
constitution, but the effects were transient. And a procedure that ended up with one soldier who
required an expensive maintenance program was destined for defunding. “They never deployed
the Red Guardian, and they shut Brushov down.”
“But he never gave up,” Rumlow said.

“No. He’s been trying to recreate his super soldier program ever since. He kept looking for
candidates who could survive his procedure, but no one could. No one except Shostakov’s son.”
Suddenly this whole thing was starting to make sense. The Red Room. The Red Guardian
program. Brushov had only one super soldier, the son of the only man on whom his procedure
had ever worked. There was probably something in Shostakov’s genes that allowed him to
survive. And this insanity serum… That was perhaps a byproduct of the whole process.
Something Brushov had discovered while trying to develop a super soldier serum that wouldn’t
fail. Something he’d developed for his Red Room. Something he’d happened upon while
torturing and murdering all those innocent young men who’d been forced into (or who had
unwittingly volunteered for) his program. Like he’d said, this was his life’s work, a dream he’d
been pursuing for years and years since he’d been a young agent of the KGB. A dream to make
soldiers and spies and assassins who were infallible, who didn’t feel, who’d didn’t love or know
compassion, who never stopped no matter how much pain they suffered or how damaged they
were. Machines. Weapons.

Victims.

“We have a hit,” Perry, another of the STRIKE agents, called from across the room. She stood
next to another desk full of computers. Rumlow and Steve walked over to the area, watching as
the techs sent pictures to the large displays they had positioned above the table. It was satellite
imaging that focused on Volga-Don canal. “Two ships. Retired battle cruisers. Russian. We’ve
been monitoring all traffic on the Black Sea, and these two left Kerch a day apart from each other.
Their manifests are unavailable.”

“Armaments?” Rumlow inquired.

Perry shook her head. “I can’t get infrared imaging on the ships, and we have no intel. The ships
themselves are outdated, but who knows if they’ve been refitted.” The images zoomed in on a
map of known vessels trying to pass into Russia. The number of ships was significant as the
Volga-Don canal was a major route from the Sea of Azov and the Black and Caspian Seas to the
Russian interior. Cargo ships. Commercial ships. Cruise ships. If Brushov was trying to escape
Crimea and take his program back to Russia, it made sense to go this way. He could pass through
the canal to reach the Volga River. From there, all of Russia was open to them. And SHIELD
would be helpless to stop him. An assault on foreign soil would be a serious matter that required
World Security Council approval, and that would not be easy in coming with the instability
between NATO and Russia.

Perry looked closer at the screen. “We’ve been able to track most of these ships through the
intelligence network and link them to ports of call and registry except for these five.” The screen
focused on an array of blinking red dots. They were scattered throughout the waterway, some not
yet inside the canal and others maybe a day ahead on the other side. “We’re lucky. With the mess
in Crimea and Ukraine, things are pretty much in disarray on the canal. There have been
significant delays, which means there’s a good chance Brushov’s boats are still there, either inside
or waiting to get through.”

This was as good a shot as any. “We have to take him out,” Steve declared.

Rumlow shook his head. “That wasn’t the mission objective,” he reminded. “I can bend the
directives for going after Agent Romanoff–”

“This is about more than Romanoff. The Red Guardian has to be stopped. Brushov needs to be
stopped.”
“Cap–”

Steve wouldn’t back down. “We need to sink those ships. That’s an order. There’s no time to
get approval from Fury, or I’d get it. If Brushov makes it deeper inside Russia, he will be out of
reach. We’ll have no way to track him. And with the mess going on in Ukraine, NATO’s hands
are tied. SHIELD’s hands are tied.” He released a slow breath, lifting his chin and standing as
tall and firm as he could. “We can’t let him get away. Not with Romanoff and not with the
serum.”

Rumlow glanced to Rollins and then stared at Steve. That comment he’d made earlier about
hearing Steve’s reasons before disobeying his orders rung in Steve’s mind, and for a moment he
wondered if the other man would argue or debate or flat-out ignore him. But he didn’t. “Damn
it,” Rumlow muttered after the long, tense moment. He looked away, staring at that mess of ships
with the five blinking dots beckoning them. Then he sighed and turned flashing eyes upon Perry
and the techs. “I want better intel than this. I don’t care what you have to do to get it. Let’s get
those ships ID’ed.”

“Yes, sir,” Perry answered.

“Listen up!” Rumlow yelled. The rest of the STRIKE Team came closer, faces stern and eyes
hard. “Gear up. Wheels up in fifteen.” The agents nodded and dispersed rapidly, reaching for
rifles and Kevlar vests and weapons and equipment. Rumlow watched as his team moved with
practiced precision, confident and composed as they prepared for an assault. He didn’t look as
confident or composed as they did. “I hope you’re right about this, Rogers,” he said quietly. He
turned doubtful eyes tinged in just a bit of suspicion toward Steve. “Fury will have our asses if
you’re not.”

“You didn’t see what the Red Guardian could do,” Steve coolly reminded.

“Yeah, I did,” Rumlow countered. “I saw what he did to you. And I don’t like rushing into
something that serious without approval from the higher-ups.” Rumlow shook his head. He
stepped closer to Steve and lowered his tone. “Just do me a favor. If it comes down to another
battle between you and the Red Guardian, make sure you win. I don’t want to be taking Captain
America home in a body bag.”

It took every ounce of Steve’s will to not stiffen as Rumlow walked away. He balled his bruised
fingers and split knuckles into fists at his sides and gritted his teeth. Anger surged through him,
anger and frustration, and with that the pain came back swiftly. But he held himself taut, refusing
to succumb even as his back throbbed and his leg nearly buckled and every inch of him screamed
that he rest. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let the pain stop him. He wouldn’t let his broken bones
and battered body stop him. He wouldn’t let anything stop him. He wouldn’t fail. There was
more to strength and stamina than rage and insanity. There was courage and determination and
valor. Brushov underestimated those things, and there was greater power in them than in anything
else. Steve would show him just how wrong he was. He would make damn sure that Brushov
never hurt anyone else. He had sworn that he would. And the next time he fought the Red
Guardian, he would win.

Natasha had told him to stop making promises he couldn’t keep. Well, he kept his promises. And
this one he was making to himself.
 Chapter 9
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The quinjet streaked across the night sky over the Sea the Azov. The night was clear, the moon
big and bright and the inky dome overhead dotted with thousands and thousands of twinkling
stars. The water was black and tranquil, the waves shining and gleaming like rippling, liquid
crystal. It was so dark that it was difficult to see anything. The two pilots of the jet were aided by
night vision goggles as they guided the aircraft low over the ocean. Steve grimaced when a bout
of turbulence rattled the jet and traded his weight to his right leg to steady himself. “Approaching
the canal, Cap,” one of the pilots called back. The jet cut through a few wisps off lower-lying
clouds, and when it broke through the lights of the Russian coast were ahead, sparkling gold and
yellow on a field of black.

Rumlow was standing further back from the cockpit, his rifle slung over his shoulder and his eyes
intense as he looked over the maps on the wide, glowing touch screen fastened to the bulkhead
before him. “We’ve ID’ed two more of the ships,” he declared as Steve turned to him. “But
there’s nothing on the other three so far.” Steve looked at the map of the harbor and the canal
where now only three dots were blinking red. Two were already deep into the canal, having
passed through numerous locks into the waterway. One was just outside, waiting in a long line
that was dozens of vessels long. The canal was extremely busy with a backlog of traffic due to
the unrest in Ukraine clogging the shipping route’s limited space. This was not the ideal location
to conduct a military assault. Steve prayed they could stop Brushov’s ships without threatening
innocent lives. The thought of putting people at risk to catch this man made him uneasy, but his
choices were running thin. He could only pray Brushov’s ships were those that were further in
the canal and away from its bustling entrance.

“Keep us low,” Rumlow ordered through the communications line to the pilots. “The best we are
going to do is a visual. Pray we get one before the Russians notice we’re violating their airspace.”

Rollins shook his head. “And what’s the plan if we find these ships?”

Steve returned his gaze to the wide windshield of the cockpit as the blurry golden lights of the
coastline grew sharper and more distinct. “Find Romanoff and get her out. Arrest Brushov.”

That sounded overly simplistic, and it was. There was no contingency for what to do if they met
resistance. They certainly had the firepower to take on Brushov’s soldiers, but they couldn’t face
much more than that. If the Russian military interceded, an international crisis would be the least
of their worries. “We’re coming up on the ships,” one of the pilots called.

The quinjet dipped down to maybe five hundred feet above the glassy surface of the water. The
world was flying past in a streak of black and pale light and gold, and it was difficult to discern the
dark hulls of ships from the waves. Steve narrowed his eyes, glancing from the map to the
opening of the canal and quickly matching the blinking red dot to the massive outline of a tanker.
“No,” he said.

“How can you be sure?” Rumlow said.

Steve’s sight was much more advanced than a normal man’s. In the brief second while the jet
flew over the ship, he could see sailors moving about the deck, older men calmly watching from
the rails, chatting and smoking and laughing. Young men excited about an adventure. Good-
natured ribbing and camaraderie. He could see the captain on the bridge drinking coffee from a
chipped cup, bearded and weathered but friendly. These weren’t Brushov’s men. He supposed
the soldiers could have been hidden below, but there was only time enough for a quick
determination, so he made it. “That’s not them.”

Rumlow didn’t question further. “Keep going,” he said to the pilots. The quinjet zoomed past the
first lock, and the lights started to fade away as they entered the Russia. Steve gritted his teeth as
the jet rocked again. Pain crawled up his back and he gripped the support bars overhead tighter,
fighting to keep himself upright even as his body ached to collapse. He tried to keep his weakness
hidden, schooling his face and breathing as slowly and levelly as he could. He needed to
concentrate now. He didn’t know what sort of nightmare they’d find aboard Brushov’s ship.
He’d been trying not to imagine, to keep Natasha and her lies out of his head, but she’d sunk
herself so deep into his heart that it was impossible. She was part of him now, no matter how
uncertain he was about whether or not he meant anything to her. She was in his thoughts and he
couldn’t get her out because she was too fiery and fierce and passionate. The closer he came to
this foolhardy and ill-advised attack, the more he knew that he couldn’t let her go. There was too
much truth in what she had done, in the pain and fear in her eyes as she’d told about her past, in
the way she’d clung to him, open and vulnerable and desperate.

He didn’t know if she would be there aboard this ship or what Brushov could have done to her…
And the thought of her assaulted or tortured or worse was almost unbearable. Find Natasha. Get
her out. He had to do this. No matter what she’d done or hadn’t done, no matter how she’d hurt
him, she didn’t deserve to suffer at the hands of her tormentor. That promise came back to him,
the one he’d made on their very first mission together. Maybe he should never have made it, but
he had. Maybe she wasn’t what he thought she was, what she seemed to be. But he owed her
this. “If it’s ever the other way around, and it’s down to me to stand between you and your past,
you can trust me to do it.”

He had to get to her, protect her. Save her.

“Second target,” called the pilot, and Steve opened eyes that had slipped shut and kicked himself
for his lapse and looked back out the cockpit. The canal was only about sixty miles long and the
quinjet would cover it in a matter of minutes. “Ten o’clock.”

Steve knew before anyone else that the second unknown ship was not one of Brushov’s either. It
was a small fishing vessel, rusty and decrepit. The boat was entirely unsuitable to transport
anything of the scale Brushov had been moving from that warehouse. Rumlow realized it was
wrong before Steve could alert them. “Shit,” he muttered. “It’s a goddamn fishing boat! What
the hell? How did this get on the list?”

The young computer tech looked embarrassed and irate and flustered. Techs didn’t normally
accompany the STRIKE Team on their missions since they weren’t cleared for combat, but these
circumstances were exigent and not well planned. They needed an analyst down to the last
minute to try and identify these ships. “With all due respect, sir, I’m doing the best I can here.
You try hacking the Russian intelligence network! The Russians aren’t exactly the most open and
outgoing of societies in the world, so information is a little hard to come by.”

“If this ship’s not one of Brushov’s, then at least one of them is through the canal,” Rumlow said,
staring sternly at Steve. Steve had come to the same conclusion. That would mean one of the
ships had escaped. They would have to find some other means to track it down. Worry twisted
his insides tighter and tighter. The more difficult and complicated this attack became, the more
likely it was that they would need to involve SHIELD.

One thing at a time. Rumlow’s glare hardened. “Keep looking,” he snapped at the tech. The kid
wisely kept his mouth shut and returned to his laptop.
Again Steve looked ahead through the cockpit as the next distant and faint blob of lights grew
more distinct. The shadowy lines of the ship hardened into a rusty gray and green hull, sharp and
angular. “That’s it,” he announced. “Guns fore and aft.”

“Move it!” Rumlow shouted to the STRIKE Team. They were a dozen in all, which would be
bleak odds for most other units, but not for these agents. The team quickly went through
collecting their gear, rifles and handguns and grenades. “Get us low enough for a drop.” The
pilots nodded, bringing the quinjet just fifty feet off the smooth and calm waters of the Don River.
Steve grabbed his helmet and slid it over his head before snapping it in place. Then he lifted his
shield and slid it on his back with as much poise and control as he could manage. The quinjet
suddenly swerved to the left. They grabbed for anything to steady themselves as an anti-aircraft
missile shot by them, just barely missing. Rumlow gritted his teeth, balling his fist in Steve’s
uniform to keep the soldier upright as his battered body nearly toppled him. “Guess that answers
the question of whether or not we can sneak up on them.”

The pilots banked sharply left again, avoiding another missile screaming toward them. The
distinctive whir of the jet’s minigun resounded as the copilot thumbed the trigger, the other pilot
frantically flipping switches and adjusting the flight controls to kill the main engines and switch to
the rotors for close combat. “Coming about!” the pilot shouted, and the quinjet turned abruptly.
The sound of rushing air and bullets slamming into metal was loud as the pilot positioned them
over the ship deck. The copilot laid down a heavy rain of suppressing fire as Rumlow moved to
the rear of the jet and slammed his fist to the controls by door. It came open with a hydraulic hiss,
the ramp extending downward. Lights flashed red. The deck was a mere ten feet below them
now, the rotors of the jet kicking up wind and water as it hovered. “Go! Go! Go!”

The STRIKE Team deployed, jumping down to the ship with guns held at the ready. Steve
swallowed thickly, prayed that he could actually do this, and hopped down as well. The minute
his boots hit the metal deck of the ship, agony shot up his left leg, newly healed bone bending and
grinding with the pressure. His back flared as well, and he nearly cried out, struggling with every
ounce of his will and sheer determination to stay standing and conscious. The STRIKE Team
surrounded him, protecting him behind of wall of black-clad soldiers and guns; he wasn’t sure if it
was purposeful or not, but he was damn glad for it nonetheless. One deep breath and one second
later, he found that calm place where he was strong and brave and sure of himself, where the pain
couldn’t – wouldn’t – reach him, and he was running.

The deck was full of enemy soldiers. They manned two gun turrets that had obviously been
installed recently, shooting at the quinjet that was still hovering at the fore deck of battle cruiser.
The quinjet shot back, and one of the turrets exploded. Steve pulled his shield and ducked behind
it as fiery wreckage descended upon him. His back locked into a vicious spasm again, and his
arm just wouldn’t extend the way he wanted to, so he twisted and turned more before throwing his
shield and hitting the soldier behind the other turret. Soldiers were pouring out of the tower at the
aft of the ship, guns blazing and eyes wild with violence. Steve’s shield was back in his hands,
and he slid under a pipe that stretched the width of the deck. He launched his shield again, and it
flew into the chest of one thug with enough force to send him spiraling back into his buddies.
Steve rose and landed a powerful kick into the midriff of another man, dropping him forcefully,
and whirled to deliver a punch at a third.

The STRIKE Team rushed the deck, expertly contending with the wave of men. There were
more turrets spitting bullets at the quinjet, but the aircraft was agile, dodging the spray while
returning fire. Something closer to the back of the ship exploded. The men operating the turrets
were shot dead. Steve sidestepped a thug, driving his boot down on his foot before grabbing him
by the vest and tossing him clear off the ship. The soldier screamed before tumbling to the inky
waters below.
Another group of soldiers emerged from the front of the ship. Steve brought his shield in front of
him to block a barrage of gunfire before rolling to take cover behind some equipment secured on
the deck. The clang of bullets slamming into metal was loud and thunderous. Steve waited until
the gunfire lulled before propelling himself over the metal canisters. He grabbed the wrist of the
closest man and twisted it, snapping bones and throwing him back. Another round of gunfire
forced him to kneel behind his shield, his left leg positively refusing to bend the way he needed it
to. A bullet clipped his arm because of it, and he grimaced. But Rumlow and Rollins were
behind him, unloading their rifles into the slew of soldiers. They all went down, dead or disabled.

Steve stood, unable to keep the wince from his face. “Thanks.”

Rumlow brushed it aside. “What are your orders?”

“Get down below and cut the engines. I’ll find Romanoff.” If she’s here.

Rumlow nodded. “Rollins. Perry. Sircio. Ramirez. With me.”

Bullets slammed into the deck at their feet. Steve charged forward, leaving the rest of the team.
Ahead there was a cargo area and a helicopter, which a few soldiers were rapidly attempting to
prep for take-off. The hold was open, and men were lifting cases from below and placing them in
the aircraft. Steve gritted his teeth and sent his shield sailing toward the men loading the chopper,
hitting two and dropping them to the deck. Steve leapt over the open hold in a smooth somersault,
catching his shield as he landed and making short work of the remaining men surrounding the
chopper. Behind him something exploded and he ripped around, finding a significant section of
the deck burning near the bow and the STRIKE Team heavily engaged with another company of
Brushov’s men. The quinjet was firing on the remaining gun turrets, shifting about the smoke
billowing into the sky like a bird of prey. Ahead a round of men was approaching, yelling in fury
and firing at him haphazardly even as their shots clanged and drove into their own helicopter.
Steve took cover behind the black fuselage. Standing as tall as he could while keeping his body
behind the safety of the chopper, he glanced up to the bridge. There were men there, garbed in
black with rifles held at the ready. He couldn’t see if any of them were Brushov or Natasha.
Regardless, going toward it across the deck didn’t seem to be an option. Steve drew a short breath
and jumped down into the hold.

It wasn’t much of a drop, and normally it wouldn’t have even begun to faze him. But he hit the
deck hard and his left knee gave out. Steve ground his teeth together as he staggered, trying his
damnedest not to fall even as agony licked up and down his body. And the second he spent trying
to gather his composure and get the pain under control proved costly.

He heard the sound of guns being cocked and lifted and aimed. In the dim light of the cargo hold
a dozen red targeting lasers were dancing on the silver star over his chest. He tensed in frustration,
looking around to find himself surrounded by tall rows of boxes and crates and Brushov’s men.
And Brushov himself was standing with them. If the Russian general was at all surprised to see
the man he’d left behind to die, it wasn’t obvious. His face was etched and calm, but his eyes
were filled with fury. “You are a difficult man to kill, Captain,” he said tersely.

“You don’t know the half of it. Where’s Natasha?” Steve demanded. Brushov remained calm,
uncaring. For someone who loved breeding chaos and insanity like a pyromaniac played with
fire, Brushov seemed to have an endless reserve of patience and composure. Steve’s frustration
and concern got the better of him. “Where is she?”

Brushov’s thick lips actually twisted into a bit of a smile. Steve’s heart nearly stopped in his chest
in dread. “So that is why you have come,” he said. His eyes twinkled in malicious pleasure. “I
can see you are in pain. You shake and your body is bent. My Red Guardian struck you down,
and yet here you are, again trying to protect Natalia. Do you care so much for her that you would
risk your life to save her?”

“She’s my friend,” Steve sharply answered. “Now let her go.”

“You are a fool,” Brushov taunted. “A fool who has blinded himself to the poison that lies in the
thorns of a pretty flower. You know the poison is there, yet you touch that flower all the same.”

Steve stiffened. “Where is she?”

“Natalia, idi syuda.” The shadows behind him shifted and parted as a figure moved among
them. She emerged from the blackness. She slid forward, walking with swaying hips and long
legs. She glided, every step languid and graceful and purposeful. Her eyes were teeming with
rage. There was no sign of Natasha in them. They were devoid of light, of compassion, of
recognition. There was nothing of her. Like the Red Guardian, there was only a hunger for pain.
For power and death.

Steve felt something inside him throb in merciless fear. He shook his head numbly. He had
worried that she would be turned to Brushov’s side, that he’d dig his claws into her heart and
force her back into his service. But he hadn’t expected this. He’d been a fool not to, but he
hadn’t. It was more than obvious what had happened.

Brushov had given her the serum.

Natasha was gone, burned away by the hellish fires of insanity, and only Black Widow remained.

“Nat,” he whispered in horror. He could hardly hear over the thunder of his pounding heart, over
the ringing in his ears. “Natasha!” She said nothing. Her eyes never left his, filled with
anticipation. With hunger. Steve could hardly contain his own rage. He turned his glare to
Brushov. “You son of a bitch!”

“You should have accepted defeat,” Brushov reprimanded emotionlessly. “And you should have
known better than to try and take her from me. It’s futile.” Steve bristled, fuming and fighting to
stay in control. Brushov smiled again in satisfaction. “But I suppose you can serve another
purpose. A proof of her loyalty.” He turned to Natasha, his large hand sweeping up the black
leather of her combat suit, caressing possessively before settling on her shoulder. He leaned close
to her ear, intimately, and softly ordered, “Kill him and come home.”

Natasha made no move and said nothing to acknowledge that she’d heard or understood. But her
lips turned in the smallest hint of a smile. Brushov shouted to his men, and they quickly left the
hold, disappearing into the shadows. Above them on the deck the battle raged, and the STRIKE
Team was shouting in his ear, but the world had closed in on Steve and Natasha and the few feet
between them and the darkness swirling around them. She stared at him, her stature loose, her
hands limply at her sides. Everything about her was twisted. Any hint of friendship, of affection,
was gone from her gaze. She was eyeing him like a predator did her prey. She was eyeing him
like he was her mark, her target. Her mission. Her victim.

Steve stepped back. “Natasha,” he said softly, trying to keep his voice level despite the turmoil
twisting his gut and pounding in his heart. Maybe his calm could become hers. Maybe his
strength would become hers. “Come on. Snap out of it.” She didn’t blink, didn’t respond,
glaring at him with those hard eyes and that sick little smile. Steve tried not to be daunted. He
had to get through to her. He had to reach her through the effects of the serum, through whatever
hell she was experiencing in her head. He had to get her back. “It’s Steve, Natasha. You know
me.”

In one smooth, quick motion, she pulled her handgun from the holster on her hip. She pointed it
at him without hesitation. “I know you,” she agreed. Her voice would be a low, seductive purr if
not for the hatred glimmering in her eyes. “You’re mine.”

Oh, no… “Natasha, please don’t do this,” he begged. “Please don’t fight me. I know you’re
stronger than him. You’re stronger than this. He doesn’t own you.” She didn’t move, didn’t
falter, staring at him. The gun was unwavering in her hand. “You know me,” Steve insisted.
“You know I wouldn’t hurt you. You know I would never lie to you. I’m your friend, your
partner, your…” His voice failed him, but he gathered up his strength. “I promised to help you
stop him, remember?” He held open a hand to her, his fingers extended in a show of trust.
“Please put the gun down. You don’t have to do this. Whatever he’s done to you, we can fix it. I
swear to you that we can fix it. Come with me. I’ll protect you.”

She snarled at that, her expression shattering from its placid state into an enraged glower as she
yanked on the trigger. Steve pulled his shield up rapidly, and the bullets slammed uselessly into
the vibranium. Still the impacts slowed him, and when he looked again, she was gone. Damn it.
“Natasha!” He whirled, falling into a defensive stance, his eyes frantically scanning the shadows
surrounding him. Tall columns of cases and crates that were swathed in blackness enclosed him
like a barricade. The ship rocked beneath his feet as something exploded on the deck above them,
and the lights went out. Emergency lights flickered, dousing the hold in ruby red that barely
combatted the utter pitch. Steve couldn’t quite believe it had come to this, his addled mind racing
in panic to try to come up with some way to avoid fighting Natasha. He was much stronger than
her, and he could endure much more, but she was a master assassin slipping among the shadows
around him, working efficiently and ruthlessly in an environment that suited the way she fought
and the way she killed. He was injured and they both knew it. He couldn’t hurt her and they both
knew it.

She had every advantage.

Steve gripped his shield tighter, breathing slowly and forcing himself to stay calm. He stepped on
light feet as he silently moved in the darkness. He gritted his teeth, scanning the heavy shadows
that blanketed everything. The red lights flashing created ghosts and phantoms that skulked
through the hold. More than once he thought he saw her, but he was too slow to be certain. He
turned and looked about him, at the stacks of crates that loomed over him like giants. He felt the
air shift behind him. He spun, ducking and avoiding the swipe of a knife. The blade glinted
wickedly in the flashing light, slashing toward his neck. Steve blocked the blow, batting aside the
hand that held the knife with his shield and grabbing for her, but she was already too far away.
They moved in a rapid and deadly dance, kicks deflected and punches side-stepped and the knife
swinging in a silver arc between them. Steve stayed defensive, struggling to keep up with
Natasha’s quick strikes while searching for a way to disarm her. She wasn’t pulling her punches.
She was wielding that knife at him with the intent to kill him, and one slip could mean his death.

Eventually he moved faster and snatched her wrist, squeezing hard enough to pain her. It hardly
slowed her and she didn’t drop the knife, but her eyes exploded in rage. She twisted into him,
landing her elbow in his midriff and knocking the air from his chest. She hit a particularly sore
spot, and he saw stars for a moment. He managed to keep his grip, trapping her against him and
sacrificing his shield to wrap his arm around her. Agile fingers twirled the knife, and the blade
dug into his shoulder.

Steve grunted, crushing her fingers in his hand. She tried to pull away, but he didn’t let her.
“Don’t do this,” he hissed in her ear. “Snap out of it!”

She screamed in frustration, trying with all her might to wriggle free of his iron grip. She bared
her teeth, red hair flying in his face, fighting and clawing and kicking with wild abandon. It was
completely purposeful that she slammed her boot into his left leg. Steve cried out, agony flaring
up and down the suddenly useless limb. She yanked the knife out of his shoulder and pivoted,
spinning it expertly and stabbing at him again. He deflected the blow and punched her, trying to
restrain his strength so as not to hurt her but his own control was wearing away. “Stop it!” he
ordered harshly. “Natasha, listen to me! Stop!”

She didn’t stop. She came at him again and again, merciless and deadly accurate. She charged
him, driving him back until he was cornered against one of the towers of crates. Steve winced,
whirling and delivering a return of his own, but she was too fast and his fist slammed into the crate
instead. The metal and plastic crumpled under the blow, and vials of red liquid fell out and
smashed to the floor. She used his momentum against him, pinning him to the wall of cargo and
trying to drive the knife up into his belly. He got both of his hands around hers, pushing back, but
he was weakening. Her knee wedged up between his legs, and he howled, squirming in pain but
refusing to let go. She’d gut him if he did. The knife shook as she dragged it up higher along his
abdomen. Steve swallowed against the blackness encroaching on his vision, his left leg buckling
and his back tightening so ferociously he could hardly make himself breathe. Even though he was
good six inches taller than her, she bore down on him, violent and vicious. And even though he
was so much stronger than her, the pain from his injuries was ripping the power away from his
muscles. His arms shook and slowly gave up ground. As he crumpled beneath her, she leaned
toward him and kissed him hard.

This was nothing like before, like the night they’d made love. This was violent and dominating,
cruel and lustful, fueled by rage and madness rather than passion. There was no respect, no love.
A mockery of who she was and what they’d shared and how much he cared for her. He groaned
into her hungry lips, feeling her tongue dive into his mouth and the knife bite into his stomach.
She roughly bit his lip as he tried to pull away and didn’t allow his escape, hotly claiming his
mouth again. He forced himself to remember that this wasn’t her, that she wasn’t this demon.
That everything inside her was scorched and tortured and confused, emotions and memories and
nightmares melting together. It was hard to still his disgust and fear, and it was even harder to stay
calm. “Stop,” he said against her. “This isn’t you. This isn’t you! Stop!”

She said nothing. This was nothing to her. Natasha was gone, strangled and suffocated by the
seductress and the murderer. She dragged her lips and teeth down the side of his face and throat,
and her knee pushed harder against him and that knife sliced deeper. He wasn’t going to let her
do this to him. He was stronger than her. He would stop her. “Get the hell off of me,” he coldly
demanded. “Get off!”

In a blink Natasha’s eyes filled with tears, and he saw her. He didn’t waste a moment in surprise.
He was finally able to force his muscles to goddamn work and pushed her back. She skittered
away, reeling now, and he came after her, landing a kick to her side that sent her sprawling across
the hold. Steve wiped the blood from his lip and stood to his full height. His chest was heaving.
“Look at me,” he ordered. She didn’t, quivering and fighting for air and sobbing on the floor.
Everything inside him throbbed in anguish to see her reduced to this. His fingers fumbled for the
clasp of his helmet and he took it off and tossed it aside. He forced his voice to soften and his
panic to dissipate. “Nat, please. Look at me.”

She did. The war in her eyes was brutal. Shame. Guilt. Fear. Fury and desire. So much
confusion. Steve’s eyes stung. His voice was rough with emotion. “Think. You know me. You
know me, Natasha.” His heart was pounding and he couldn’t quite catch his breath, but the words
were out of his mouth before he even realized it. “And you know I love you.”

He hadn’t meant to say that, but once he did, he knew it was true. And he prayed she would
know that as well. That hearing how much he cared about her would empower her, that it could
reach her under the serum and under all of the damage. “I love you, Nat. And I’m with you no
matter what. Please come back to me. Please.”
He thought for a foolish moment that she might. That he’d gotten through to her, rescued her
from the hellish prison inside her. But the insanity was too strong, sweeping up and consuming
her again. The rage came back in an instant, her pain fueling it, and she was on her feet with a
ragged cry. Her teary eyes were wild as she slashed and stabbed and kicked at him until he was
struggling to keep up. She threw all of her talent and training at him, and the fight resumed, brutal
and lightning-fast. Steve scrambled to defend himself. Quickly his counters became sluggish and
his steps were heavy and sloppy. He was already so injured that it didn’t take much more for her
to wear him down. And she was an expert at using his strength against him. He rolled away,
barely able to twist given the stiff and miserable state of his back, and grabbed his shield. She’d
drawn the gun again. The blam blam blam of the weapon firing echoed in the hold, louder than
his pounding heart and the battle on the deck above him, and the bullets drove into his shield and
knocked him back. Her roundhouse kick slammed into him next, forcing him to retreat even
further. And when she swept his legs out from under him, he tumbled down and landed heavily
on his back.

Steve howled in complete misery, the rough impact jostling newly healing bones and battered and
strained muscles. He choked on his breath, unable to make his lungs function for an endless
eternity of suffering. Instinctively he rolled as best he could to his side, vainly trying to protect
himself, but his body refused to cooperate. The pain effectively restrained him for her, and she
looked down, uncaring and cold, as he squirmed and battled to make himself move. He gasped,
shaking, tears filling his eyes. Helplessly he looked up at her. She loomed over him, pointing the
gun at his quivering body, those furious eyes boring into his. She kicked his shield from his arm
and drove her boot and her weight onto his throat. Steve grimaced, blood slipping down his chin
from his lip, getting his right hand under her heel and pushing up but it didn’t matter much. His
left hand she crushed under her other foot. And the gun came down, pointing at his forehead.

The instinct to keep struggling was almost overwhelming. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t win this
fight like this. He couldn’t seriously hurt her or kill her. He didn’t have it in himself. He
couldn’t. “You won’t!” he gasped. She retaliated in cruelty, stepping harder across his throat.
“Natasha…” His voice was a strangled whimper. “I know you won’t shoot me. I know you.”

That angered her, and she screamed in frustration. A second later she was straddling him, holding
him completely at her mercy, putting all her weight across his chest and thus his damaged back.
She kept the gun under his chin, her finger poised on the trigger. Her other held his left wrist
above his head. Steve fought to stay limp. This was his only chance to save them both. “You
won’t hurt me. You can’t.” He saw the insanity waver in its grip upon her, her eyes slightly
softening and filling again with tears. Hope soared within him, and he took a chance at raising his
free hand and pressing it tenderly to her bruised face. He swept his thumb over her cheek. He
held her gaze, firm and powerful and true. “I trust you.”

She let out a strangled sob, her face contorting in a grimace of grief and anger and frustration. The
gun shifted from his neck as she let go of his hand and grabbed both sides of his face and kissed
him again, frantic and fearful. The madness was pouring from her in desperate, wild waves. He
could feel the hot barrel of the gun digging into his cheek. She sobbed into his mouth, trembling
so much that she shook them both, and her free hand carded through his hair and then pulled
tight. She pushed his head into the muzzle of the gun and wept. And hesitated.

He balled his free hand into a fist and rammed it into her temple as fast and hard as he could.

Natasha yelped, thrown off of him by the force of the unexpected blow. The gun went off, the
bullet blowing into one of the crates behind them and covering them both in shards of plastic and
glass and the serum. Steve summoned the last bit of his strength and rolled, taking her with him
and pinning her to the floor. She bucked wildly, screaming hysterically, but he had the upper
hand now and he was too large and strong for her to escape. He slammed her hand down until the
gun was loosed from it, and then he winced. “Sorry,” he whispered. The next blow to her head
knocked her out cold.

Steve fought to catch his breath. He leaned back from Natasha’s unconscious form, pressing his
fingers to the pulse point under her jaw. Her heartbeat was fast and uneven. He watched her
worriedly for a second, struggling to gather his wits and honestly a tad fearful she was going to
abruptly awaken and launch herself at him again. But she didn’t. He struggled to get to his feet.

Suddenly the ship lurched beneath him, reminding him of where he was and what was going on,
and everything that had disappeared in the frenzy of their fight returned with a vengeance. The
STRIKE Team’s hurried conversation blared in his ear. He held his right glove to his face.
“Rumlow,” he gasped. “Rumlow! What’s your status?”

“Ship’s dead in the water,” came a harried answer. “Everything is secure, and the team is clear.”

“Brushov’s gone,” Steve returned, limping over to his discarded shield. He grabbed it and slid it
onto his back. The deck beneath him rattled and rumbled. He didn’t like the sound of it. “We
need to stop that chopper. Copy?” Rumlow’s response came back, but it was garbled. Steve
winced, hurrying back to Natasha. “I have Romanoff, but we are not clear. Do you copy?”
Nothing. “Rumlow!”

Suddenly something in the hold exploded – oh God, that’s not good – and water slammed into
him. Steve cried out, swept off his feet like a ragdoll and thrown into the crates. For a seeming
eternity he was trapped against them by the onslaught of the wave, the pain excruciating and
robbing him of any capacity to move. Memories came at him, and they were threatening to drown
him as much as the water was. But he rose above everything, yelling in frustration as he pushed
back. He saw Natasha, the water covering her completely, and fell to his knees beside her. He
scooped her limp body into his arms. His muscles vigorously protested any further movement,
and when he tried to push himself to his feet his back utterly refused and he could only lean up
about halfway. He gave a determined howl, jabbing his teeth into his lower lip until the warm
tang of blood filled his mouth and he made himself stand.

Water was rapidly spilling into the hold from somewhere; in the darkness, it was impossible to tell
where the damage was. Steve tucked Natasha to his chest tightly and ran. The floor was quickly
flooded, the water climbing to his knees and then to his thighs. He couldn’t go back up, not with
Natasha helpless and unconscious in his arms. He didn’t think he could possibly climb anyway
with his back the way it was. But he had to find a way. He had to get out. He had to get them
out now.

“Rumlow!” he cried. Another explosion boomed over the hold, and the rush of water nearly
swept him from his feet. He choked on a mouthful as he tripped, fighting to keep Natasha out of
the rising water. “Stop firing! Can anybody copy? We need help down here!” There was no
answer. Steve cursed, forcing his legs to push, to run, to move as fast as he could. The hold was
thankfully not very big, and he found his way through the blackness to the wall on one side. He
shifted Natasha to one arm, fumbling along the wall, squinting and trying to stay calm as he
searched for a door. Panic turned his insides into a tight, painful coil, so tight in fact that he could
barely breathe or think as he searched frantically. “Come on,” he gasped. “Come on!”

Finally his fingers brushed against the handle of a door. He grabbed it and hauled himself closer,
even as the flood rose to his waist and pulled him away. It was locked. “Damn it,” he hissed. He
didn’t think he could kick it, not with Natasha in his arms and his back so messed up. So he
ripped the handle right off the door and with a cry shouldered it open.

The hallway beyond was dimly lit and washed in red. Steve staggered through, banging his hurt
shin against the lip of the doorway and gasping in misery. He didn’t let that slow him, getting a
better grip on Natasha’s slight form as he charged onward. The water chased him, flooding
behind his feet. The ship screamed, an awful whine of twisting and bending metal, and
everything listed sharply to the right. Steve didn’t let that slow him, thundering down the narrow
corridor. He passed other doors, not pausing to check them. The floor tipped more, slanting at
nearly a forty-five degree angle, and it was becoming impossible to run. Still he did, dragging his
body through the water to the opposite end of the corridor. The Russian words in white text
alongside the heavy door at the end thankfully proclaimed what lay beyond to be a stairwell, and
he grabbed the handle of the hatch and shoved it open and barreled inside.

His momentum carried him too far, and his hip smashed painfully into the railing of the stairs. He
held tighter to Natasha, jolting with the impact, before twisting and struggling up the stairs. The
walls shuddered. Steve kept one hand on the railing, pulling himself up the tilted steps. The ship
was obviously listing to the right, the stairs tipping and tilting beneath his boots, and he could
barely keep his balance. Water was rushing up from below. “Oh, hell,” he moaned. When his
foot came down again, it was on the banisters of the railing. He didn’t know if they would hold
his weight as they creaked and whimpered under the strain. It was just a few more steps to the
door on the next level up, and he took them in gigantic strides, summoning strength and courage
and alacrity. The railing caved in, and he staggered but didn’t fall.

Steve pushed shoulder first through the door, and it burst open. He paused and stupidly looked
down. The water gurgled and bubbled and consumed everything behind him. Then he ran into
another corridor. He found himself standing on the goddamn bulkhead because the ship was
completely on its side, but he wasted not a moment digesting that horrifying fact before sprinting
as fast as he could. The water rose up through the wall under his feet, and he splashed loudly as it
climbed higher and higher. He jumped over the doorways, not trusting them to stay secure under
him. He chanced looking down at Natasha to find her unconscious still, her head tucked to his
shoulder. Even as his lungs burned and his muscles ached and his back protested every
movement, he knew he couldn’t stop. They would both drown if he did.

He reached the end of this corridor and found another stairway. How the hell could he get out of
here? The ship groaned around him and continued turning, continued listing. Capsizing. Steve
drew a deep breath and shook his head helplessly, terror twisting his heart. He couldn’t go back
down. And there was no way up with the stairs nearly inverted.

The water exploded on him. The pressure against his back numbed his limbs instantly, and he
nearly let go of Natasha as the river swirled inside the metal cage the ship had become and overran
them. He held Natasha tightly to him, tipping back her head and closing her nose. He sucked in a
huge breath, as deep as he could manage, and exhaled into her mouth, praying it would be enough
to last her. Then he drew another breath for himself that was mostly a mouthful of water. The
lights faded and winked as the blackness took him, and he kicked subconsciously, diving down
along the wall toward what had once been up. The waters quickly rose, and he was able to swim
underwater to the top of the stairwell. He thanked his lucky stars the door was already open. His
head nearly slammed into the platform that had been at the top of the stairs, but he wrenched his
arm down and stopped the collision and moved around it. He pushed himself and Natasha
through the doorway.

He kicked up and reached the surface.

It was the bridge.

The bridge that was flipped upside down.

And the bridge that was almost entirely under water.

Steve’s eyes widened as frantically looked around. The blackness of the river surrounded the
huge windows, held back by flimsy glass and some twist of good fortune. Water poured in
behind him and leaked through bolts in a spray. The controls hissed and spat and sparked as the
electrical systems failed. The few feet of air left in the room were rapidly disappearing. Steve
pulled Natasha against him and fearfully wondered what the hell he was supposed to do now.
Just as he was about to panic (panic more at any rate), the ship contorted again, an explosion from
somewhere battering it, and suddenly everything was rising. The water drained from the room as
fast as it had flooded it, and he found his feet on the ceiling. He stumbled as everything tilted
beneath him, losing his footing and sliding roughly to the front of the bridge. He rolled as much
as he could to protect Natasha, screaming as gravity shifted and his brutalized body crashed into
the wheel and navigational equipment before landing against the ceiling that was now the floor
and the windows that were barely still intact. Water rushed down, splashing into his mouth and
nose and eyes, and the glass under him cracked. He gathered Natasha in his arms, unsure if she
was breathing or even alive, as he lay terrified and still.

But then it stopped.

Steve was staring at the back of the bridge, droplets cascading languidly down on him, sodden
papers and books and equipment falling from the shelves on the other side of the room. Dizzy and
disoriented, he didn’t make sense of what was happening for what felt like an eternity. Then
everything moved as though pulled from the bow of the vessel. He rolled gingerly, looking
blearily down through the slowly breaking windows. The river was below them. The stern of the
ship was out of the river, bobbing upside down as the front flooded and started to sink.

The ship was sinking.

He was on his feet somehow, lifting Natasha into his shaking arms again and running. The glass
cracked more and broke beneath him. He didn’t dare stop; if they fell from here, they would be
trapped under the ship. He had to get to the side. He had to get away. He tripped and scrambled,
fighting for every inch, until he reached the left window. One punch shattered it.

Outside the river below was a swirling mess of debris and blackness. It was nearly fifty feet
down. But there was no time to fear or hesitate. He took a deep breath and jumped.

They seemed to fall forever. A second or two later he struck the river, and pain grabbed him in its
greedy, cruel hands and dragged him down and down and down into the black abyss. His chest
constricted, his lungs seizing and failing, his heart stopping in its frantic pulse. He was so tired.
Everything was falling away, noise and light and thought and life, and he almost let it go. Almost.

Some part of him didn’t give up, never gave up. He kicked and kicked until he broke the surface.
He gasped, drawing a precious, glorious breath into his body. Agony rushed over him, stealing
his strength, but he wouldn’t succumb. Not after all this. Not now.

The weight in his arms was reminding him to keep fighting.

Steve swam. It wasn’t very easy, trying to keep Natasha’s face above the water, trying to force
muscles that were damn well spent to keep going. His movements were choppy and weak and
uncoordinated, but it was the best he could manage. The water was warm, but he felt cold like
there was ice in his abused body again, weighing him down, taking him back. All he knew was
he needed to put some distance between them and the ship sinking behind them.

He didn’t think he could. At least not fast enough.

The ship rocked as something inside it detonated. Heat and light washed over him as the force of
the explosion blasted them, and a large, powerful wave nearly pushed him back under again.
Steve choked in surprise, treading as best he could, hooking a hand under Natasha’s chin and
 lifting her pale face out of the river even as water filled his mouth and lungs. He couldn’t keep
going. The pain finally paralyzed him.

He nearly died from relief when the communications link crackled in his ear. “Cap! Cap, can you
hear me?”

“I see them!”

“Swing us low!”

A huge, black shadow slid over him with the roar of rotors. The quinjet was there, hovering just
in front of them, the rear doors opened and the platform extended. The pilots brought the aircraft
right down the surface of the river. At the very edge of the platform Rumlow and Rollins were
there, flanked and steadied by the others of the STRIKE Team. “Cap!” Rumlow yelled. Bronzed
and bloodied fingers reached toward him. “Give me your hand!”

Steve summoned the last vestiges of his strength and pushed himself out of the water and grabbed
Rumlow’s hand. The other man secured his grip around Steve’s wrist and pulled. Rollins hooked
his arms under Steve’s, groaning in effort. Both Steve and Natasha were hauled from the river
and onto the hard, secure, wonderfully firm floor of the jet. “Go!” Rumlow roared hoarsely,
grabbing Steve and yanking him into his embrace and further inside to safety. “Get us the hell out
of here!”

The quinjet streaked into the night. The river swallowed the ship, dragging it down into its deep,
black embraces, and when it was over, everything was calm and beautiful and quiet again under
the peaceful moon and stars. It was almost like nothing had ever happened at all.

Chapter End Notes

Natalia, idi syuda. – Natalia, come here.

 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Steve coughed up a lungful of water before collapsing to the floor of the jet. Rumlow’s steady
hand was on his back. “You alright?”

Steve choked, spitting and heaving for breath. Each motion of the strained muscles of his chest
was agonizing, and the urge to rest, to succumb to the blackness pushing him down and give up,
was nearly overwhelming. But he shrugged off Rumlow’s arms, pushing himself up to his knees
and then to his feet. Everything was spinning and his head was pounding and his back throbbed
so viciously he almost couldn’t stand it. “What the hell?” he demanded, turning flashing eyes
upon the STRIKE commander. “What was that? I told you we weren’t clear!”

Rumlow’s face hardened but not with guilt or an apology. “I couldn’t get a good read on what
you said. There was too much interference. We had the shot so we took it. You’re the one who
told us to sink her.”

Steve could hardly contain his anger. Everything from the last few days was rubbing him raw,
yanking and pulling and gnawing at his restraint, and he felt incredibly worn thin. He staggered,
letting his fury overrule his pain, and grabbed Rumlow by his combat vest. “You almost got us
killed!”

Rumlow glared and clenched his jaw and pushed Steve back. Steve was too hurt and too fatigued
to keep his feet steady beneath him, so he nearly fell, coughing again and dripping water
everywhere. He managed to straighten his form and loom threateningly over the smaller man.
Water ran into his eyes as he stood his ground. “Easy! Rogers! Rumlow!” Ramirez was there,
trying to get between the two of them.

Some part of Steve knew this was childish and ridiculous; he’d seen egos get men into trouble
more times than he cared to count during the war, and they had no time for this nonsense. He was
too hurt, though, too riled and upset to maintain his normal composure. He was so angry. He was
tired of lies, tired of betrayal. So goddamn tired. He stepped once more into Rumlow’s personal
space. He was taller and stronger, even as sopping wet and pained as he was, and everyone
aboard the quinjet knew it. “Never again,” he coldly commanded. “You wait for my orders.”

“Just like you’re waiting for Fury’s?” Rumlow retorted. Steve wasn’t so conceited or sure of
himself not to feel shame at that, not to realize his own hypocrisy. Even if he knew his reasoning
was sound, even if he knew he couldn’t trust Fury when the Director wanted to get his hands on
that serum, he was still acutely aware that this wasn’t how soldiers were supposed to act. This
wasn’t the army, though. This was SHIELD. And he wasn’t a soldier. He was a SHIELD
agent. Nothing was black and white. Nothing was simple. He needed to remember that.

Rumlow looked a bit apologetic. “Come on, Cap. This mission has been FUBARed from the
minute we left DC. We need to call it in. Now.”

Steve felt cold, trapped, and if it wasn’t for the hoarse cough resounding from his left, Rumlow
might have noticed his uncertainty. But Natasha regaining consciousness pulled him to her. He
stumbled to where she was lying in a sopping mess on the floor. Perry and a few other agents
surrounded her as she squirmed and fought for breath. Steve shouldered his way through them
and dropped to a crouch beside her. “Natasha?” he asked, reaching a hand toward her. She had
her head on her arms, the dark red of her wet hair tangled and glistening and plastered to pale
skin. He couldn’t see her eyes. “Natasha?”

She batted his hand away and sprang lithely to her feet. A breath later she attacked Perry, landing
two quick punches in succession and then dropping her with a kick to the chest. The STRIKE
agent fell back against the bulkhead of the jet with a cry, her rifle clattering to the floor. Natasha
immediately grabbed it. She rolled between two of the agents and whirled, bringing the rifle to
bear and shooting at them. The clang of bullets against the metal fuselage around them was loud
and echoing.

“Jesus! Shit!” yelled one of the pilots as a wayward shot ricocheted into the cockpit. The quinjet
lurched sharply to the right, nearly tipping on its side before righting itself. The STRIKE agents
floundered, diving for cover. Alarms wailed. One of the agents went down, a bullet in his
shoulder. Another bounced in the narrow confines and hit Rumlow. Steve yanked the STRIKE
commander safely to the floor before reaching a hand towards Natasha and snatching the gun
from her. Rollins tackled her, roughly shoving her back into the opposite bulkhead and holding
her there.

Hearts raced. Breaths wouldn’t come. The echo of the gunfire lasted far too long. “Everybody
alright?” Steve yelled. A chorus of grunts and gasps of relief and affirmations responded.
Natasha’s pained cry drew Steve’s attention from the reeling agents, and he found Rollins
violently muscling her down to the flight deck. “Hey! Easy!” Steve scrambled to his feet,
rushing to pull the bigger man off of Natasha’s bucking form. She struggled wildly, frantically,
like a cornered animal desperate to free herself. Steve caught her eyes and found only that vicious
haze of insanity. Any hope that he’d had that she’d come out from under the influence of the
serum was quickly dashed.

“On your knees!” Rumlow ordered, but even with a half a dozen guns aimed at her, Natasha
refused to submit, kicking back and ramming Rollins into the wall behind them. She screamed
hoarsely as Rollins wrapped his beefy arm around her throat. She sunk her teeth into his flesh.
He winced but didn’t let go, squeezing tighter and not caring one bit if he choked her.

“Easy!” Steve yelled again, pushing his way closer and planting himself between the rifles and
Natasha’s squirming body. “Did you hear me? I said easy, Rollins! Rollins!”

“She’s out of her mind!” Perry said in disgust. She righted herself, one of the other agents helping
her, and wiped the blood from a split lip. The man who’d been shot was propped to the bulkhead
of the jet, two others stabilizing him. The wound didn’t look serious. It was luck, pure and
simple, and it could have just as easily gone the other way. Natasha could have shot the pilots or
killed one or more of the STRIKE Team when she’d lashed out. Perry drew her handgun from
her hip holster and pointed it at Natasha. “What the hell happened to her? Why is she acting like
this?”

“Brushov injected her with the serum,” Steve quickly supplied. He winced as the muscles of
Rollins’ arm flexed and squeezed and strangled. Natasha was gasping for air now, clawing at the
arm around her neck, her eyes wide and her face white. The bruise on her temple from where
Steve had struck her earlier was bright red and hideous against the pallor of her skin. “She doesn’t
know what she’s doing. Let her go. Let her go!”

“So she can kill us?” Rollins countered in exasperation and alarm. “You crazy, Cap? I don’t
think so. Obviously she’s one of them. She went back to her own.”

“She’s one of us! Brushov injected her!” Steve said again in frustration. “This is the serum, not
her! It’s not her fault! You’re choking her!” He grabbed Rollins’ arm and curled his hand
around it in warning. Natasha’s eyes were rolling back into her head, and her breath was hardly
coming, a wrangled, wheezing gasp through a constricted and crushed airway. Steve gritted his
teeth, panicked, prepared to fight them all if he needed to but desperately hoping it wouldn’t come
to that. In these close quarters with guns raised and poised to fire all around them, it would only
mean Natasha’s death and his own, too. He didn’t know if it was a miscommunication or a
mistake that had led to Rumlow shooting the ship while he and Natasha had still been aboard, but
paranoia and horror was making it increasingly difficult to manage trust and patience. “Let her go,
Rollins, or I’ll make you.”

With that soft threat, everything was still. The STRIKE agents were unfaltering, unmoving, even
as the tension escalated. Rumlow was gasping and panting beside Steve, one hand pressed to his
side where dark red seeped between his fingers. Sweat covered his unshaven face. He grimaced
but nodded to his agents. Rollins looked like it physically pained him to follow the order, but he
did, his arm loosening from around Natasha’s throat. Natasha immediately fell to the floor,
coughing deeply, struggling to get air into her body. Rollins grabbed her arms and pulled them
behind her back while she was dazed. “Tie her up,” Rumlow ordered. Then he staggered to the
front of the jet.

Steve followed, angry and terrified for her, watching for a second as the STRIKE agents swarmed
her with one zip tie for her hands and another for her ankles. He wanted to argue, but he wasn’t
sure about what. As much as it pained him to see them treat Natasha this way, he wasn’t sure it
was wrong. As long as that serum was coursing through her veins, she was a deadly and
dangerous threat. He’d barely escaped their fight with his life, and he knew it, made himself
accept that, even if he didn’t want to. Rumlow was leaning across an equipment locker, gasping
and grimacing, his brow creased in pain. Steve saw him pull his hand from his side and examine
the wound. He considered asking him if he was okay, but Rumlow wasn’t the type to tolerate
other people’s concern. And this wasn’t the time. So instead he focused. There was still a
mission to complete. “We need to go after Brushov.”

Rumlow looked at him like he was crazy. “He’s gone. He got away.”

Steve clenched his hand into a fist in frustration. He wasn’t sure how that had happened (had
anybody followed orders?), and there wasn’t time to figure it out now. “We can’t track the
chopper?”

“Cap, it’s over,” Rumlow said. “It’s time to haul it in.”

Steve jutted a hand to the side of the craft. “He’s still out there! The Red Guardian is still out
there. That ship was loaded with the serum. If the other one is as well, he’s got enough poison to
turn tens of thousands of people crazy.” Rumlow’s eyes flicked to Natasha, who was shrieking
and kicking and fighting his team as they tried to restrain her. “We have to find that second ship
and destroy it before he spreads the serum all over the world. Once it’s out, we can’t get it back.
Once it’s out, it’s too late.” Steve drew a deep breath, struggling to calm his pounding heart and
think past his throbbing head. “We have to stop this now or a lot of innocent people will die.”

Rumlow stared at him for another minute, judging him, deciding whether or not his reasons held
merit. Steve knew they did. He was certain what he said was true. If Brushov managed to
unload his serum onto the black market, it would be chaos. The evil regimes of the world could
buy it. Use it to oppress and turn anyone to their cause. Minds poisoned. Men turned into
animals and psychopaths. Soldiers twisted into monsters. Rage and homicide and destruction.
They couldn’t let that happen. Rumlow let loose a short breath. No matter their differing
opinions, they had a duty to stop this. “Fine. But we’re requesting backup. The helicarrier’s
thirty minutes of flight time away.”

Steve clenched his teeth. If this was what he had to concede to get this done, he’d do it. No
matter what Fury wanted with the serum, Steve would rather have it in his hands than Brushov’s.
With any luck, they could destroy that ship before anyone could take it. “Call it in. Backup and
medical.”

“You heard the Cap,” Rumlow called to the pilot, and a moment later the man’s calm voice
sounded through the cockpit as he contacted the helicarrier and gave them the quinjet’s
coordinates. Rumlow looked to the lab tech, who was as white as a ghost with what had
happened. The STRIKE commander scowled at the young man in irritation. “You got something
yet on that other ship?”

“I’m working on it, sir,” the technician stammered. His laptop had survived the skirmish intact,
and he was furiously typing on it. “If the other ship is configured the same as the last one, I’ve got
something to guide me now. I’m scanning through the satellite images on the Don and Volga
Rivers to find a match.”

Rumlow wasn’t satisfied with that. He limped back to the rear of the jet, where Natasha sat with
her hands bound behind her back and her ankles tied together in front of her. Her head was
bowed, her damp hair covering her face like a curtain, hiding her. She was trembling, though
whether from pain, fear, or anger, Steve couldn’t say. “Romanoff,” Rumlow said. Rollins had his
gun on her as well as most of the rest of the team. Steve bit the inside of his cheek until he drew
blood, but he kept silent. “General Brushov has another ship like the one you were on. Where is
it?”

Natasha said nothing. Steve glanced between Rumlow’s wrathful visage and her shrouded face,
praying that she came around, that she knew the answer and simply told them. Tension crackled
in the air. Rumlow shook his head, his jaw taut in frustration. “Romanoff! Answer me! You
were with him for days. He must have told you something. Where is the other ship headed?
Where is he headed?”

Silence. Natasha slowly looked up, blue eyes peering through the sodden red locks falling before
them. The whites of her eyes seemed very bright, and her pupils were constricted and narrowed.
She looked past Rumlow, looked past Perry and the other agents and the guns leveled on her, and
focused on Steve. Her hungry, violent gaze was unwavering. Her lips turned into that smile
again. Stunning. Thrilling. Deadly. “Ty moi,” she whispered. The insanity shone in her eyes.
“Ty moi.”

Rumlow shook his head and turned to Steve. “What did she say?”

Steve swallowed thickly. His blood ran cold. “Nothing. She’s too out of it.”

Rollins looked infuriated and frustrated, like he wanted to belt her. If he raised his hand against
her… “Got it,” the lab tech called, drawing the attention of the STRIKE agents. He was smiling,
evidently pretty proud of himself until the angry eyes of the STRIKE Team fell to him. Then he
swallowed nervously and turned back to his laptop. “It was actually pretty easy once I fed the
computer the right information.” Rumlow limped back to the display, which had a large crack that
jaggedly went through the once flawless screen. The maps zoomed into Volgograd and then
again to a dock on the Volga River. “Mansk Port at the end of the canal. We can be there in five
minutes. I’m sending the coordinates to the cockpit.”

“What about Brushov’s chopper?”

The tech worked a second more, shaking his head slowly. “If it’s there, I can’t see it.”

Damn it. That meant Brushov could already have escaped. But as dismaying as that was, it could
be worse, and Steve felt fear wash over him. The other ship had obviously been ahead of the one
they’d just destroyed. How far ahead was the issue. If it had been at the port for a while, all of
this could end up being for nothing. “Can you tell how long it’s been docked?”
“Hard to say. I don’t have enough consistent imaging.” The young man’s face was bathed in
flickering light as he rapidly scrolled through pictures of the docks, his eyes narrowed in
concentration. “Looks like about two hours. I’ve got them there at 0100 hours, but not before.”

“Then they might not have unloaded the serum yet,” Steve surmised in relief, glancing at
Rumlow, “at least not all of it.”

“Assuming this is the only place they’ve stopped,” Rumlow added worriedly. Steve inwardly
grimaced. Still, this was the best they could do, and there was no time for anything else. This was
their only chance to stop this before it spiraled out of control, before Brushov unleashed the serum
like wildfire.

Rumlow stood straighter. If his injury pained him, it wasn’t obvious as he donned the calm mask
of a leader and turned to the STRIKE Team. “Listen up! This is a tactical strike against a docked
vessel in Russian territory. We go in fast and destroy Brushov’s ship plus any vehicles he’s using
to transport the serum inland. Kill any resistance on sight, but arrest Brushov if possible. We shut
this down now. No mistakes.” He glanced to Natasha’s bound form. “Rollins, Perry, remain
with Romanoff. Make sure she stays put. Last thing we need is for her to run home to daddy and
make a hostage situation out of this.”

Rollins nodded and gruffly said, “Yes, sir.” He didn’t look pleased, his gun still directed at
Natasha and his face taut with ruthless anger. Steve wasn’t pleased either, but he had to let it go.

The STRIKE Team spent the next short minutes preparing again for battle. They were worn and
injured but ready for a fight. Grenades and explosives were stocked. Guns were reloaded.
Rumlow ordered the pilots to stay close and offer air support and coordinate offensive efforts with
SHIELD reinforcements when they arrived. Then he took a second to peel off his combat vest,
wrap a bandage around the gunshot in his side, and press the vest back to it as tightly as he dared.
“Let’s make it happen.”

“ETA: one minute!”

“Hit ’em hard and hit ’em fast.”

A round of agreement went through the group, and the rear to the quinjet opened again. Steve
dropped to his knees in front of Natasha, ignoring the pain stabbing through his back. He also
ignored Rollins glaring at him. He laid his hands on Natasha’s knees. “Nat,” he said. She was
shaking more than before, and he thought it was in fear now. He wondered if she was coming
back. He wondered if she was freeing herself, escaping the hell inside her mind and climbing out
of the pit to reach him. “Nat, listen.”

Outside the water was coming closer and closer to the jet as it descended rapidly and swooped
low for deployment. They were racing toward the dock. There was just a moment. Maybe two.
“Look at me,” Steve softly said. All the pain and fear and anguish he pushed down deep. He
only cared about her. Summoning his resolve, he cupped her face in his hands, trying to anchor
her and provide some small bit of comfort in a world of pain and fear. She stiffened and shivered
more and pulled away, drawing into herself. She was lost in what Brushov had done to her. The
damage went so deep that for the first time in his life he truly contemplated hurting someone else
to ease his own anger. That frightened him so he shoved that down even farther. He wasn’t
going to let her go. He would never let her go. “Natasha. Look at me. Please.”

Finally she did. He thought he saw her in the storm of emotions he found in her eyes. Tears and
rage and pain. So much pain. He tenderly swept his thumbs across her cheeks, brushing away
the wetness. He could get her back. He would get her back. He would save her. “I’m going to
stop him. I’m going to end this. And then I’m going to take you home.”
“Ty moi,” she whispered.

He smiled comfortingly. “Da. Ya tvoi.”

The STRIKE Team jumped out. This was it. He stood and pulled his shield from his back and
ran out to keep his promise.

The men aboard ship they’d destroyed had obviously warned their compatriots that SHIELD was
coming because the minute the agents stepped off the quinjet, they were under fire. A barrage of
bullets greeted them, clanking loudly against the metal and concrete of the dock. Brushov’s men
were all over: on the deck of the ship moored to their left, in the ugly buildings and towers in
front of them, on the road besides open trucks that they were in the process of loading. The
quinjet hovered at the end of the dock, and when the last of the team was clear it rotated, bullets
peppering its exterior as it swung around to bring its own weapons to bear. The miniguns whirred
as they spun, ejecting spent shell casings down onto the agents below like rain. And Brushov’s
men fell like flies.

Captain America charged onto the dock, his shield flashing in the lights. He stood in front of the
SHIELD agents for a moment, protecting them from the spray of gunfire as much as possible,
before running down the dock. The STRIKE Team followed him, guns pressed up to shoulders
and eyes narrowed down sights and through scopes. They moved like a well-oiled machine,
coordinated and deadly, trained specialists that these sloppy and unrestrained soldiers had no
chance of defeating. Rifles cracked as the team began to pick off their enemies, men struck in the
head and chest and legs, bodies tumbling from the dock into the water around them.

Steve moved like lightning. He was steadfast and determined, the pain from his injuries gone
from his mind as he kicked and punched and cut through the wave of attackers like a warm knife
went through butter. He threw his shield, knocking out an assassin from the ship’s deck who was
trying to fire down on them from above, and barreled into the man closest to him. The thug
yowled before falling into the narrow space between the hull of the ship and the dock. Steve
brought up his fist, smashing the face of another man attacking him from behind. He paused to
catch his shield as it returned and quickly slid it to his back, leaping mightily up and over a
collection of boxes to get at the men taking refuge behind them. He kicked one back with a
crunch, snatched the knife from another who was foolishly trying to stab him, and threw that at the
third before they even had a chance to run. “Move forward!” he called over the communications
link, pulling his shield again and using it to catch a slovenly blow from another assailant. He
rammed the shield into the thug’s face before knocking him into another wave of soldiers coming
down along one of the ramps from the ship.

“STRIKE, fan out,” Rumlow ordered, firing two shots in quick succession at a pair of snipers
stationed on the ship’s deck. He provided cover while more of the team sprinted forward. Steve
batted away a grenade that flew toward them, the metallic ball ringing against his shield before
soaring back toward the man who’d thrown it. It exploded a breath later, taking one of the small
buildings ahead of them with it in a ball of fire.

“RPG!”

The STRIKE Team scattered at the quick warning, seeking cover behind cargo where they could.
The missile was fired from the deck of the ship and hit the dock. Steve dove to the hard concrete,
pain rushing over him as he scrambled away a second before the blast. He pressed his back to a
pile of boxes. The ground exploded behind him, smashing cement and bending metal and
showering them with a rain of fiery shards. Another missile careened forth from the ship,
streaking through the humid night toward the quinjet. The pilots banked, barely avoiding it.
“Disengage!” Rumlow ordered. “Repeat: disengage!”

The quinjet maneuvered evasively, dodging another RPG, before pulling sharply upward into the
sky. Through the smoke, Steve looked to the ship and saw three men wielding the rocket
launchers. The dock shook again as another RPG struck it. He thought he heard someone scream
over the ringing in his ears. Panic pulsed through him, but it didn’t let that slow him as he
scrambled to his feet, leapt in one powerful motion onto the pile of smoldering crates behind him.
He jumped the rest of the distance upward to the deck of the ship.

He landed with a thud among the shooters. The men were alarmed at his appearance, shouting in
Russian with wide eyes and fumbling hands, but he was much faster than them. He jumped
again, taking out two at a time with each leg in a split kick before landing and rolling and
sweeping the feet out from the last man. The soldier scrambled back in terror, swinging around
the rocket launcher he’d been reloading and hastily pulling the trigger. Steve ducked as the rocket
streaked over his left shoulder, close enough to the blast to feel his skin along his shoulder burn
beneath his uniform. The RPG collided with the railing and deck behind them in an explosion
that flung them both back. Even slowed as he was by his injuries, Steve recovered much quicker
than his opponent. He stuck his hands in the other’s vest as he rolled to his feet. He tossed him
clear across the deck and out into the water.

The distinctive sound of bullets ramming into metal made him run, and he glanced over his
shoulder quickly to find a slew of soldiers shooting at him from the bridge. He scrambled to
protect himself, twisting and pulling his shield forward and balling himself behind it as the gunfire
rained upon him. Rotors cut through the air loudly overhead, and the quinjet pulled back into the
fray, leveling itself with the bridge and unloading round after round into the men there. Glass
shattered and people screamed.

Steve took their distraction to his advantage, standing to his full height. Something cracked in his
back at all this harsh treatment, dropping him to his knees and cruelly stealing his breath. Steve
blinked tears from his eyes, everything growing distant and hazy as though he was viewing the
world through a tunnel. He braced his knuckles to the metal beneath him and pushed upward,
trying to catch his wind and get above it and get to his feet – get up get up go!

He did. “Cap! Cap, are you okay?” Rumlow’s voice yelled in his ear.

Steve swallowed the burn of bile in the back of his throat and staggered down the deck. He
gathered his composure and sprinted more smoothly, knocking a man down as he did. Something
exploded behind him, shoving him forward, but he kept his balance and flung his shield with all of
his power at another set of snipers tormenting the STRIKE Team on the dock below. “Yeah!” he
called back, pausing a second to raise his glove to his mouth. His shield rang as it flew back to
him. “You?”

“Getting hammered down here!” Another ear-splitting bang resounded, and a significant portion
of the dock vanished in a plume of black, oily smoke. Steve snatched up a fallen AK-47, quickly
rushed to the railing, took aim, and shot at the men across the dock. They went down, their RPG
launchers falling from limp fingers. One ignited as it struck the ground, blowing up a portion of a
long building on the other side of the road. Steve ducked, tossing the spent gun, as a rain of
gunfire descended upon him again. He fled from the railing, nearly colliding with another wave
of soldiers as they ran onto the deck in a last attempt to protect their boss’ plans. Steve whirled,
grabbing the arm of one of the men and spinning him with him before kicking him squarely in the
back with enough power to topple his buddies. The super soldier was on the next guy
immediately, driving his shield down into the huge thug’s abdomen. He doubled over. Two
quick strikes of his knee into the other man’s stomach dropped him. Steve flipped over the
collapsing body, pulling his shield with him and tucking it against his chest to avoid getting hit by
the shotgun being emptied in his direction. One of the other men screamed as the deflected slugs
struck him. They were getting desperate, unable to contend with Captain America, and one of the
terrified soldiers ripped a grenade from his baldric that was full of explosives and flicked the pin
loose before tossing it at Steve. Steve had grabbed another man, choking him, when he spotting
the live grenade flying toward him. He downed the thug he held, leapt, caught it, and threw it
back.

The explosion was loud, but not as loud as the gunfire ratcheting across the deck. It hit hard and
fast, indiscriminately killing in a wild attempt to take down Captain America. Steve moved his
shield to his back to protect himself as much as possible and slid to the deck next to the smoldering
remains of the man with the grenades. He yanked the baldric from the burnt chest and ran aft,
devouring the distance to the open cargo hold. The gunfire followed him, but he didn’t look back,
didn’t slow. The smoke before him hung heavily in the humid night and he charged through it.
The hold was dead ahead. To the right the loading crane was working, the men scrambling faster
and in futility to raise the crates from below. Steve pulled the pins from every grenade hooked to
the baldric. His left leg nearly buckled with the effort of running, but it held fast, and so did he.
He took one huge leap.

Time seemed to slow as he flew across the wide and open hold. He landed on the flatbed of the
crane, rolled, and then jumped again. There were men below, men scrambling to move cargo,
men scrambling for their guns. The hold was still nearly full of the gray crates that contained the
serum. In a split second, he threw the baldric full of grenades down. And then he hit the deck on
the other side and staggered, pin-wheeling to keep his balance.

A bullet went straight through his right hand. Steve howled in pain, immediately drawing the
damaged limb to his chest and scrambling away for cover behind some of the crates that had
already been lifted to the deck. Only a breath passed before the grenades detonated in the hold,
and the deck shook violently as fire and smoke spewed up through the open doors. The ship
shuddered, a series of explosions rocking it in a quick, relentless procession, and Steve choked on
the acrid smoke that enveloped him. It took a long time for the noise to quiet to the point where he
could hear and think. He fought to catch his breath, fought the pain from a body too brutalized to
keep fighting, and cradled his bleeding hand to his chest. He summoned the strength to dart a
glance to it to see how bad the damage was. The shot had cut right through his palm and exited
out the back of his hand. He’d been lucky. A larger caliber bullet would have taken some fingers
or worse.

As it was, though, he couldn’t use the hand effectively and the pain was more than a nuisance.
“Cap!” Rumlow’s voice sounded raw and strained in his ear. “Status! We don’t have a visual on
you!”

Steve closed his eyes and tiredly pressed himself tighter to the crates. He couldn’t seem to catch
his breath, and his heart was weary and aching. He lifted his wrist. “Hold’s destroyed,” he
gasped into the communications link. “But they already moved some of the serum. Stop the
trucks.”

“We’re on it. Air support?”

“Roger,” answered one of the quinjet’s pilots, and the jet whooshed overhead, heading towards
the trucks trying to escape the firefight with their prize.

Rumlow tensely asked, “Any sign of Brushov?”

“None,” Steve said.

“No time to look for him. We’re taking heavy casualties.” Damn it. “There are two Harriers in
bound in five minutes. Can you get clear of the ship?”

Steve drew a deep breath. It was excruciating, but he managed to push his bloody hand through
the leather grips of his shield. It was even more painful and difficult to get his numb, slick fingers
to curl and stay tight around the second strap. He was more than capable of using his left hand;
the serum had made him ambidextrous. However, he still preferred to use and was more used to
fighting with his right hand. At least his shield would protect it this way. “Yeah, don’t worry
about me.”

“Copy that.”

Someone suddenly grabbed him by the shoulder. Fingers curled like iron into his flesh and hauled
him from behind the crates. Steve cried out as the world spun and the disoriented, nauseating
sense of flying weightlessly assailed him. Smoke and blackness twisted and blurred, and he hit
the deck hard on his right side, his head whacking painfully into the metal. He rolled and slid a
few feet, a mounting sense of panic reminding him harshly that the cargo hold was right there. He
twisted and just barely got his left hand around the edge of the deck, the rest of his body falling
down the hold. Steve couldn’t hold in his scream as all of his weight was thrown onto his
shoulder, his arm nearly yanked from his socket and his back sending shooting bolts of agony up
and down his body. But he didn’t fall.

Heat and smoke engulfed him as he dangled, battling unconsciousness. With a cry of effort, he
threw his right arm up onto the deck and pulled himself up. He panted, tears bleeding from his
eyes from the acrid stench of burning oil, and rolled onto the security of the ground. Then he
climbed to his feet.

Through the curtains of black and gray, the Red Guardian emerged. He stalked closer, wearing a
black uniform with a red star blazing upon his chest. Fire glowed in his eyes. His face was
contorted in a malicious scowl. Steve couldn’t catch his wind, could hardly bear to stand straight,
as Shostakov approached. “You don’t have to do this!” he shouted over the roar of the fire and
the battle raging all around them. He summoned courage and strength and finally made his body
taut and confident. He lowered his shield arm, revealing his own star shining silver upon his chest
and his calm face. “You don’t have to do this. He doesn’t own you.”

The Red Guardian snarled. His eyes were wild in anticipation. Steve drew as deep a breath as his
battered body would allow and lifted his chin. “You can walk away. You don’t have to fight.
Please. Walk away.” He didn’t think he could stop that now. He didn’t think there was anything
left of the man underneath everything Brushov had done to him. His perverse version of the super
soldier serum. The insanity serum. Years of mental manipulation and physical torture. Shostakov
was too far gone, too lost in the madness.

Beyond saving.

But not beyond stopping. Steve would stop him.

With an inhuman scream, the Red Guardian threw a fist at him. Steve brought his shield back up,
catching the blow but staggering under its force. He whirled, delivering a quick punch of his own
that the other man blocked against his forearm. He charged into the Guardian, driving him against
him to put some distance between them and the flaming pit behind them. The Red Guardian
pushed back, digging his boots into the deck, so Steve lowered himself to gain momentum. The
Guardian lost his footing and went down heavily, swinging his right arm in a huge arc that caught
Steve across the face. The blow was powerful enough to send Steve flying, twisting in the air
before hitting the side of the ship hard.

There was no time to be dazed. The Red Guardian sprang to his feet and ran at him, throwing
punches and kicks furiously. Every one of them Steve blocked. Every one of them had all of the
Guardian’s strength behind them, fueled by every bit of his rage. Steve ducked below a blow, the
Red Guardian’s hand flying sharply into the wall. The metal dented under the force, and his
fingers cracked. He screamed in pain and frustration. Steve stepped around him, wrapping his
left hand around Shostakov’s wrist as he flailed and twisted the limb behind the other man’s back.
Steve rammed him once, twice, three and four times into the unforgiving side of the ship. The
Guardian regained enough of his wits to catch himself with his free hand the last time. He
slammed his elbow into Steve’s midriff and then grabbed Steve’s left hand. A twist of his body
had him freed enough to smack his face into Steve’s. Steve grasped the other man around the
neck, lifting him a good foot off the deck and squeezing his throat before throwing him down.

The Red Guardian seemed to remember who he was fighting and how badly he’d hurt his
opponent before. He lashed out from the deck, kicking Steve in the left leg before he could attack
again. Steve screamed, falling to his right knee. The Guardian was on his feet in a flash, driving
Steve down further with a powerful punch upon his shield. Steve wrapped his other hand in the
straps, struggling to reinforce his grip against the blow. The Guardian wailed loudly, punching
down harder and harder and harder, relentless and punishing, trying to crush his adversary. It was
like a battering ram slamming against him. Steve gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as the
force of the impacts jostled his wounded hand. The deck of the ship rocked and vibrated again,
disrupting the Guardian’s balance for just a second but a second was all Steve needed. He rose,
forcing his damaged leg to hold his weight, and pummeled the Guardian fast with his shield.
Steve pressed his advantage, leveraging the moment and pushing the other soldier back.
Shostakov tried to counter, but Steve anticipated his moves and redirected, his mind and body
moving faster than he thought possible given his compromised state. He flung the Red Guardian
back, spinning and jumping and kicking hard into the chest of the other man. The Guardian
staggered, flushed and dizzied, treading too closely to the fire raging behind him. The flames
licked at him, reaching for him, and he yelled his rage and pain, rolling to the side to try and avoid
the burning wreckage.

“The Red Guardian is on the deck!” Rumlow shouted over the communications link. “He’s
fighting the Cap! Can anyone get a clear shot?”

“Negative! Cap’s in the way!”

“Damn it, we have to help! Somebody get up on the deck of the ship! Ramirez, where the
fuck are–” The deck vibrated again, the entirety of it dropping it seemed a good six inches under
their feet. It was burning below them. And the Red Guardian was falling into the fire.

Steve snatched him, hauling him back. The Red Guardian tried to round on him, but the punch he
threw was more power than purpose and Steve easily caught it against his shield. Shostakov’s fist
slid to the right. Steve grabbed him as he stumbled forward and flipped him over his shoulder.
He kept his hold on his arm and twisted fast and hard, dislocating the other man’s shoulder with a
sickeningly loud pop. He threw the limp arm down on the Red Guardian’s gasping body before
grabbing the man’s black shirt and hauling him up and driving a fist into his jaw. Then he knelt
over him, pressing the smooth edge of his shield to the Guardian’s heaving neck.

So now it came to it again. Steve panted, sweat burning his eyes and thick in his hair, the night
hot and alive with fear and fire. He could thrust his shield down and break Shostakov’s neck and
this would all be over. Brushov’s warning blared inside him, pounding in time with his laboring
heart. “Kill him. It is a fight to the death. He will not surrender and he will not stop. To win,
you must kill him.” His own rage never felt so strong, so empowering. Everything that had been
done to him. Everything that had been done to Natasha. The damage Brushov had caused and all
the suffering he could cause still. And Shostakov was beyond salvaging. His mind was gone, too
destroyed to bring back, to rehabilitate. If Steve didn’t end him now, he could again lose the
chance. And next time he might not be so fortunate to survive. The next fight he might not win.

Kill him.

“No,” he whispered. He was naïve and idealistic to a fault sometimes, but he was a good man.
He’d promised to be one no matter what. And good men didn’t kill innocents. Good men
believed in the benefit of the doubt, in hope, in second chances. He wouldn’t take someone’s life
just because there was no way to save it. He wouldn’t. “Yield,” he hoarsely ordered, his own
voice rough and alien to his throbbing ears. The Red Guardian’s eyes flared in rage, but with
Steve pinning him as he was, there was no way for him to fight. “Yield!”

“Cap, you got him?” Rumlow frantically buzzed in his ear. “Rogers! Do you have him down?
Is he dead?”

Steve drew as deep a breath as he could manage. The Red Guardian was in a great deal of pain,
and he wasn’t struggling anymore. He figured that was as close as he was going to get to an
admission of defeat. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, every ounce of skin and muscle and
bone and nerve protesting. He kept a foot on Shostakov’s chest as he pulled his shield arm
upward to bring the communicator closer, exposing his lower body. “ETA on the jets?”

“Less than two minutes.” Two minutes. How the hell was he going to get Shostakov out of here
in two minutes?

The sharp crack of a rifle resounded, and Steve felt something tear through his left leg. He
stumbled with a cry, falling back, and the Red Guardian was on his feet again in a roar. Pain
exploded along his thigh, electrocuting nerves that were already tortured to the brink, and wet
warmth spread along his flesh front and back. “Cap’s been hit!” Rumlow cried, but his voice was
getting more and more distant. “He needs some fucking help up there! Can anyone copy? Please
tell me someone has a shot…”

Another explosion drowned out the STRIKE Team’s frantic shouts. A flood of Brushov’s
soldiers ran along the deck. The ship creaked and moaned as a wayward RPG struck the side
further down, tipping it to the left and blowing away a significant portion of the deck and hull.
The men screamed. They were attempting to flee, shouting at the Red Guardian in Russian to
abandon the fight and retreat. They got in Shostakov’s way as he stalked toward Steve, and the
soldier grabbed one and snapped his neck like it was nothing before throwing his body into the
others. Steve pressed his left hand to the pulsing, gushing wound in his leg, trying to force himself
to get up. The Red Guardian stomped closer, the deck seemingly shaking under each heavy
footfall. He needed to get up. Get up! Get up!

He finally got his body to move, warding away the agony and panic, and it was just in time
because the Red Guardian was on him. He brought up his shield, blocking and standing his
ground. His leg was holding his weight for the moment but he knew that wouldn’t last if he
moved. The Guardian seemed shaken, wild and fazed and uncertain, sloppier and more violent in
his attacks. Steve punched him back, blocking and deflecting and countering, fighting the pain
and fatigue and blood loss as much as he was fighting Shostakov. He wasn’t going to fall. He
wasn’t going to fall. Not this time. “Cap, the airstrike will be here any second. Do you want me
to call it off?” Steve could hardly think with the pounding of his heart in his head and the roar of
fire all around him. The Red Guardian was burned and wild, covered in soot and blood. His
dislocated shoulder was slowing him, and Steve took the opportunity to drive his fist into the other
man’s chest. It sent him reeling. “Cap? Do you copy?”

He didn’t think he could run. He didn’t think he could get away. His back was stiff and slowing
him. His left leg was thrumming in time with his heart. He was spent in every way imaginable.
And the Guardian would never let him escape. “I copy,” he gasped, watching miserably as
Shostakov climbed back to his feet. The other soldier was about as lost and battered. This wasn’t
going to end with a winner and a loser. It was simply going to end. And they both were going to
die. “Don’t call it off.”

“But–”

There was no time to argue further. The Red Guardian launched himself at him with a scream of
absolute rage, and Steve went down under his weight. His back slammed into the deck, sending
hot blasts of pain shooting through every inch of him, and he lay helpless under the Guardian.
Something in his abdomen ripped, internal injuries reopening with the force. His ribs cracked.
The man straddled him, punching him in the jaw. The next blow Steve caught. The Guardian
hadn’t been prepared for that, and when Steve snapped his wrist, he howled in misery.

There was a distant roar. It was soft at first but it rapidly grew louder and louder, as loud as
thunder booming overhead. Suddenly there was light blasting across the sky. The SHIELD jets.
Missiles launched from above struck the ship, harsh and fast and accurate. The hull exploded.
The deck was incinerated. What was left of the serum burned. Men died. Brushov’s weapons
were destroyed.

Things shivered and shuddered and came apart all around them. Fire washed over them and
everything began to tip and the ship listed, falling slowly toward the dock beside it. But the
Guardian didn’t care. His eyes were teeming with rage, with insanity, with the driving need to
cause pain and death, and he balled his broken hand and rammed it into Steve’s temple. The ship
was collapsing under them, scorched and shattered metal bending and giving way with loud,
awful screeches. It didn’t matter. They were going to die, and this monster was still trying to kill
him.

The Guardian howled and sobbed at the same time, his bloodied face hideous with sweat and tears
and soot, as he slammed his fist into Steve’s face over and over and over again until Steve’s vision
blurred and things just stopped hurting. When that no longer sated him, he grabbed Steve’s throat
and squeezed. Steve choked; it was already difficult to breathe with his damaged back and the
weight of the other man crushing him, but now it was impossible. He got his left hand around the
thick fingers and pried and twisted and broke them, but it was not enough to free himself. He
kicked vainly and with every bit of his remaining strength, fueled now only by panic and a
desperate wish to live. The world was tilting. They were sliding haplessly down the deck,
flaming debris going with them, headed toward the remains of the railing. Everything was coming
down, knocked loose in a deadly cascade. The crane bent behind them, the flatbed too heavy for
the cables and snapping loose. It fell into the cargo hold. The top of the crane was wrenched and
it broke free. The mangled metal slammed and rolled down the deck. It collided against the
railing behind them, narrowly missing them. Now it was precariously balanced, the cables twisted
and coiled beside it.

Steve squirmed weakly. Everything slowed, reduced to a distant, hollow hum of noise. The
smoke swirled overhead, the night hot and vast and deeply dark. It took some measure of rational
thought for him to recognize it wasn’t the night that was so dark. His vision was blackening. He
blinked languidly. His heart was straining a last few panicked beats against his sternum. And the
eyes above him were red and violent and sadistically gleeful as life faded.

Something moved on the other side of the ship. He didn’t realize what it was at first. A dark blob
groaned and contorted and struggled. Then the crane snapped from its supports, falling and
careening toward them. It was coming so slowly it seemed, enveloped in fire, screaming and
cutting through the air. Somehow seeing that brought his body back to him. Somehow that
returned thought to his mind and power to his limbs. There was weight on his right arm,
wonderful, familiar weight. Strength surged through Steve, and he swung his shield up and
rammed it into the side of Shostakov’s head. The Red Guardian yelped and the pressure was
gone from his chest. Steve rolled, scrambled, crawled, fought for every inch between him and the
side of the ship. He grabbed the cables and threw himself over the edge.

The crane struck the Red Guardian. A horrific scream rent the air as Shostakov was crushed and
carried over the side. The mess of fiery metal slammed down onto the dock below with a bang.

Steve dangled from the side of the ship. The world spun and spun wildly, and he fought to stay
awake, clinging to consciousness as ardently as he was clinging to the cables. More fiery
wreckage spilled down, narrowly missing him. The ship tilted further, sliding to its side, wedging
itself against the dock. The motion jolted him lower toward the dock and the debris. Then the
cables snapped and he fell.

“Romanoff–”

“… lost… shot Perry… Repeat: she is armed.”

“Get her back!”

“… Find Rogers… He’s down. Find him!”

“Medics are in bound!”

“Need some help!”

“Shit… under control… Go, god damn it! We need to get her!”

Steve opened his eyes. He didn’t quite understand what he was seeing. He blinked, ash and
embers and fire drizzling slowly down on him. He had a fuzzy, indistinct impression that he
should be shocked that he was alive, but it was too difficult to manage a coherent thought. He
was in pain. He was in so much pain.

Voices were yelling in his ear. He didn’t quite remember who or why, but they were familiar.
Nothing made sense, not the hull of the ship looming over him or the rush of desperate words.
Tears that had been trapped in his eyes were freed and rolled down his temples and into his hair.
There was a loud, inhuman shriek, metal suffering and stretching, and everything glowed orange
and yellow and red. Fire and smoke.

A hoarse moan filled his ears, and he realized belatedly it had come from him. He tried to raise his
arm, his singed shield clattering uselessly to the filthy ground. Nothing seemed to work right, not
his lungs or his legs or his arms or his head. It was enough to simply lie as he was, watching
flames lick the night sky, watching the gray and green metal leaning over him like a canopy.
Listening to that rumble of random voices and the roar of things burning to death and the sound of
jet engines and guns. Shock grabbed him and hauled him back down toward the darkness and he
went without a fight.

But it was only a moment that he blacked out. There was another groan, louder and filled with
agony, and this time it wasn’t from him. That hoarse whimper was enough to pierce the veil of
confusion and delirium around his mind, and he opened his eyes and sat up before he realized
what a tremendously bad idea that was. The pain that had been dull and miserable was now
shooting, jolting through his hapless body until he could hardly stand it.

Steve rolled to his knees. He tasted blood in his mouth, his mouth that was dry with ash and
smoke, and he coughed and gagged. The world turned and tilted lazily around him. His left leg
refused to bend, refused to do anything other than throb in misery. He dragged himself along the
ground, following the moaning that was somehow louder than the fire and the voices and his own
heart thudding wearily in his chest. He didn’t have to go far before he found the Red Guardian
trapped beneath the wreckage of the crane. Trapped and pinned. Impaled by the rods and
supports that had once secured the crane to the deck of the ship. They had driven straight through
Shostakov’s chest and abdomen and into the cement below. It was gruesome.

The Red Guardian sobbed and gasped for breath, blood slipping down his chin as it flooded up
his throat. He had his hands wrapped around the metal that ran through his body, but he no longer
had the strength to pull it free. Steve looked down on him, alarmed and horrified. He thought he
should do something, but there was nothing to be done. Blood spread beneath the body in a
glistening, crimson lake rolling over the concrete. Shostakov was bleeding out quickly. In a
matter of seconds, he would be dead.

Steve scooted himself closer to the wreckage until he was sitting beside Shostakov’s head. The
man labored frantically for air that wouldn’t come in the metal cage that was about to become his
tomb. Steve was numb and brutalized to the point where he didn’t think he could feel anymore.
But he did feel. Regret. Pity. Sadness. “I’m sorry, Alexei.” I’m sorry it came to this.

The Red Guardian choked. At long last his brown eyes focused and Steve saw the young man
beneath the monster. The insanity was dying, too, escaping his body in the pulse of red, fading
away with each beat of a weakening heart. It was disappearing, leaving only the scars. Only the
fear. Only the pain. The world burned around them, scorched and washed in blood. With all that
remained of his strength, Alexei flung out his hand and roughly took Steve’s arm and pulled him
closer. He barely had the breath to speak, but he did so anyway in a raspy, desperate whisper.
“Pozabot'sya o ney. Pozhaluysta.”

Steve nodded. “Ya eto sdelayu. Ya obeshchayu.”

Alexei was satisfied with that. His broken chest exhaled one last time, and he was gone.

Steve swallowed, his throat so very dry and tight. A long, quivering breath fled him. He reached
through the twisted metal that surrounded the Red Guardian and carefully pulled the man’s eyes
shut. He closed his own, losing himself in the pain for a moment, before moving away and
getting his feet beneath him. Get up. He was trying. He tried to stand. He tried to turn around.

Hands grabbed him. Blue eyes met blue eyes. Lips crushed lips. A shared breath. A shared
heartbeat. And then a gun went off.

The echo of that bang was loud, louder and more violent than anything he’d ever heard. It shot
through to his core. Natasha backed away from him, her bruised mouth leaving his, her warmth
disappearing from his arms. The gun was covered in blood. It was unwavering, unfaltering,
steady and true. She held it at his chest, the barrel brushing over his uniform. She held it there.
She’d shot him.

It was nothing to her. He was nothing to her. Nothing. Her eyes were dead and empty. She was
gone. He couldn’t save her. He never had a chance.

“Romanoff, no! No!”

Those voices were screaming again. Dark figures came, running through the wreckage. Steve
looked down and saw blood spreading over his chest, consuming the bright star he always wore,
coating his shaking hands and covering his body. Spilling from a hole in his heart. Suddenly he
couldn’t breathe. His legs buckled. He collapsed down onto his knees. There were words
floating around his head. Thoughts. Fleeting sensations and emotions. Sweet lips and tender
touches and passion and pleasure. Hope. Love. It was all burning.
 There were arms around her, restraining her. There were arms around him, cradling him.
Desperate words imploring him to hang on, to stay awake, to keep fighting. He didn’t think he
could anymore.

She watched him die. She was beautiful. A flower filled with poison. A biting kiss. “You’re
mine,” she said.

He was. He’d forgotten what that meant.

She was Black Widow, and Black Widow killed the men who loved her.

Chapter End Notes

Ty moi. – You're mine.

Da. Ya tvoi. – Yes. I'm yours.
Pozabot'sya o ney. Pozhaluysta. – Take care of her. Please.
Ya eto sdelayu. Ya obeshchayu. – I will. I promise.

Look at this amazing gifset inspired by Chapter 10 that the wonderfully talented veji
made!
 Chapter 11

“Kill him.”

She had.

“Kill him and come home. You belong to me, Natalia.”

She did. And Steve belonged to her. Steve was hers. And she felt things for him that she’d never
felt before. Terrifying things. Complete abandon. Unhinged love. Cold possession. Jealousy.
Fearful aggression. Tentative hope. “You’re mine.”

“Yes, I’m yours.”

She had taken him. She’d used him. She’d abused him. She was cruel and selfish and not what
she seemed. She was shadow and passion and fire and sweetness. “You are beautiful, Natalia.
Men will forget themselves to have but a taste of you.” They did. Steve had. He’d forgotten who
she was, what she was. She’d made him forget. She had killed so many men, lesser men, a
lifetime filled with lust and murder. It was power, pure and simple. “You desire power, Natalia.
I can give you that and so much more.”

No! I don’t want it! I don’t want it!

She wanted Steve, but he was gone. They’d taken him from her.

No. She’d shot him.

“Steve!”

“Easy, Nat. Just take it easy.”

She hurt. She had for so long, long enough that the pain had grown quiet and subtle and a part of
her soul. It was never gone. It had never left, even if she’d convinced herself otherwise. Even
though she’d trapped it and smothered it until it was quiet, she was never entirely free of it. And
when the fire came, it burned away the cage and let the demons loose upon her. The pain had
roared and reared and had taken her like she had taken him: mind and body and soul. It was all
she knew. All she deserved to know. A storm of horror and hatred. Years of vicious tortures, of
wicked murders, of the innumerable terrible things that she’d done. These things blurred before
her eyes, consumed by heat and flames. What she had done to him, however, was far beyond
even a life full of crimes. This was the worse. This was the worst. She was irredeemable. She
was damaged. She was beyond salvation.

Steve was still going to try. “Come with me. I’ll protect you. You know me. This isn’t you. This
isn’t you! He doesn’t own you!”

Yes, he does. “You belong to me, Natalia. Kill him and come home.”

A thousand times this stampeded through her mind. A million times she suffered through it. It
was inescapable, inevitable. Fate. The fire forced this justification onto her until she had no
choice but to believe it. From the moment she’d kissed him, the moment he’d stood by her side
when he should have run, the moment he’d trusted her when he should have known better, it had
been unavoidable. He deserved what had happened to him. He deserved it. He was hers, and
she could do with him as she wanted. Sex. Love. Betrayal. And then murder.
No! Please! Please stop it! You’re hurting him! But she couldn’t stop herself. The need to obey,
to complete her mission, was driving, more powerful than doubt or fear or love. And it was fueled
by insanity so strong she could do nothing but cower before its might. Cower and submit.
Escape. She could get free, cut herself loose on the sharp glass on the floor of the jet… Get the
gun… It felt so good in her hands. Her fingers curled around the grip. The trigger. Find him.
Do what she had been trained to do, what she had been made to do. What she had been ordered
to do by her handler. “Kill him, Natalia. Kill him and come home.”

“You won’t hurt me. You can’t.”

She would. She had. And she did. And some part of her, the monster and the madness, had
enjoyed it. The power of taking his body, his lips, his breath. His life. Power and rage, so much
rage. This was the worst torture she had ever known, a prison of flame and fury in which she
heard and felt and saw and touched and tasted… And she couldn’t stop herself.

“Please, make it stop…”

“Hang on. It’ll all be over soon.”

But it wasn’t. It never would be. She couldn’t come back from this. Not from this.

“Please come back to me. Please. I’m with you no matter what.” But Steve wasn’t with her.
He wasn’t because she’d killed him. “I love you, Nat.”

Stop. Don’t do this. Don’t trust me. Don’t love me.

“You belong to me, Natalia. Black Widow does not feel. Black Widow does not love.”

Black Widow felt, sometimes in ways that terrified her. And Black Widow did love. More than
she could ever admit. But emotions were butchered, scattered by the fire, burned and scorched
until nothing good remained. She didn’t know herself.

“You know me. You know I love you.”

“Steve, please… Get away from me. Go. Run!”

“Black Widow does not love. Black Widow does not fail.”

That awful voice drowned out everything. The one that rid her of her strength, that fed her anger
and terror, that commanded her like nothing else ever would. It echoed in her mind, ripping her
memories apart, tearing through her soul and destroying everything. The shadows swallowed the
light. Her directive was all that survived. Her mission. Her target. She needed to finish it. She
needed to finish him. That was what she’d been made for. “Kill him and come home.”

She sobbed and screamed and struggled against the truth, against what she had done, watching
over and over again as she pulled that trigger. As Steve’s eyes widened in pain and shock. As he
raised his trembling fingers to vainly hold them over the pulsing hole in his chest. As she lowered
the gun and reminded him of the cost of loving her. She watched so many times, but it always
ended the same. She could never stop herself.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Furious hands shook her. She was belted across the face.
“What the hell’s the matter with you? Jesus!” Shouting. Chaos. Panic. Hands grabbed hers
and restrained them. The gun was wrenched from her fingers. A fist struck her jaw and a knee
drove into her back and they forced her down like an animal. “She shot him! She shot Rogers!
Is he alive?”
“I don’t know.” Blood. So much blood. Everything was soaked in blood and bathed in fire.
The whole of their world. “Hang on, Cap. Christ…”

“You bitch! Traitor!”

Murderer.

“Hang on! Help! I need help!”

“Hold on. I’ve got you. I’ve got you…”

It was a hellish eternity of suffering, of cruelty and guilt and terror, before the madness finally left.
The fires were burning out, spent and smoldering. With them went the pleasure and the power
and the calm satisfaction of completing her mission. And without that, there was only guilt and
grief. Serene and steadfast and undeniable. Hurt. Betrayal. Lies. Murder. Black Widow. She
was nothing now. No one she wanted to be. No one at all. She’d destroyed the only thing she’d
wanted, the only pure thing she’d ever had. She’d ruined everything she could have been. An
Avenger. An agent of SHIELD. His partner. His friend. The woman he loved. He’d given her
his heart, and she’d put a bullet in it.

“No… please, I didn’t want… I didn’t… Please…”

“We’re going to get you through this, Nat. I promise you. We’ll get you through this.”

Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

So many broken vows. So many lies. So much loss. She laughed until she cried. And then she
slept.

When Natasha woke, she was free. Her mind was loose, unbound, the hellish haze that had
imprisoned it for days blissfully gone. The hallucinations and voices and phantom sensations had
disappeared, releasing her at long last, and she shuddered in all-encompassing relief. She opened
eyes that felt grimy and crusted with the salt of unshed tears, blinking lethargically as the scene
overhead finally sharpened into something she could understand. A gunmetal gray ceiling. Bright
fluorescent lights. The distant hum of powerful engines. The helicarrier. There was something
firm but not uncomfortable beneath her back. The suffocating smell of smoke was gone. The
scalding heat and heavy night had been replaced with cool air laced with the aroma of sterility.
She closed her eyes a moment, fighting to gather her wits. Nothing cooperated, stubbornly
disjointed and detached and useless. Even as her jumbled senses languished and her thoughts
remained scattered, one thing was dreadfully clear.

Steve was gone.

She gasped a sob of utter devastation, trying to roll to her side, but she couldn’t. Her hands and
feet were bound in padded cuffs. She shivered desperately, helplessly, and tears escaped her eyes
that she’d squeezed shut to roll into her hair. Steve was gone. She’d killed him.

“Natasha?”

The familiar voice pierced the despair clenching her heart. A hand closed over her own, warm
and strong and callused. “Nat?”

She wanted to ignore the call, to slip back down into the blackness and escape the agony, but she
couldn’t. She opened her eyes and looked to the right. “Clint?”
“Yeah,” he answered softly. His lips turned in just a bit of a comforting smile, but the gesture
didn’t reach his eyes. He looked exhausted and burdened with worry. Worry for her. “You with
me now?”

There had been that voice consoling her before. She knew now it had been his. His hands
holding her gently to the bed, tipping water into her mouth, easing her as her stomach heaved and
her lungs failed and the poison had consumed her. Whispering comfort. Cutting through the
fever. Trying so desperately to fix her, to ride out the hellish nightmare with her. To bring her
back. “Yes,” she whispered.

Clint nodded, visibly relieved. “Let me get these off.” He went to work unbuckling the straps
that restrained her to the bed. As he did, flashes of horrors burst through her mind. Her own
voice shrieking. Doctors and nurses and Clint trying to calm her, struggling to sedate her. God,
what the hell had happened to her? What had she done?

You know what you did.

Natasha choked. Nothing seemed quite real, but she knew it was and it would only be weakness
and craziness to try and convince herself otherwise. She was lost in it all, unfocused and reeling
and trembling, as Clint freed her. He wordlessly slipped a hand under her back and helped her sit
up. Dizziness assailed her, so violent and powerful that she feared she’d throw up. But she
swallowed everything down and breathed long and hard through her nose and waited for the small
room to stop spinning and settle. “Here. Drink. You’re dehydrated. We couldn’t keep an IV
in.”

He offered her a cup filled with ice water. Numbly she took it, lifting it to her dried and cracked
lips. She started to notice things as the numbness vanished. She hurt all over. Her sprained hand
was braced in a splint. Her leg was bandaged. Her chest ached with every deep breath. Her head
was pounding miserably with each beat of her battered, laboring heart. Her arms were covered in
bruises. Track marks in her veins. Injections. She couldn’t stand to look at them. The hospital
gown she wore was too skimpy and short to pull it over the red spots. She was naked beneath it,
exposed and vulnerable.

Clint stood in front of her, watching as she vacantly sipped the water. “Do you remember what
happened?”

In some ways, she remembered everything. In others… She couldn’t bear it. “No.”

“The STRIKE Team brought you in. You’ve been here for a day. Your system’s been purging
whatever drug you were given. It’s, uh… The withdrawal hasn’t been pretty. You were
seriously–”

“Screwed up,” she whispered. Broken. Damaged. Insane.

Clint cocked an eyebrow. “That’s one way to put it.” He sighed gently as if he was debating
explaining her condition further. She trusted him in ways she didn’t trust anyone else. After all,
he’d saved her five years ago, pulled her from Brushov’s hell and brought her literally out of
darkness. He’d convinced Fury to give her a chance, to make her an agent of SHIELD. He knew
her heart and her mind and her body in ways that no one else did. But sitting there, his eyes
intently watching her, analyzing her, judging her… She’d never felt so low. “The compound in
your blood affected your brain. It messed with your limbic system, caused a heightened sense of
hostility and anxiety. It jacked your anxiety through the roof. The amount of adrenaline in your
body was elevated to unhealthy levels. Your heart rate and blood pressure wouldn’t come down
no matter how many sedatives the docs gave you. You were having hallucinations so bad that I
didn’t think we could ever get through to you. It was… I was worried.” Natasha grimaced,
unable to stifle her reaction. Clint rarely admitted he was concerned, let alone frightened. He was
stoic and steady, even in the darkest and most desperate of situations. To see that he had been
scared for her… It nearly broke her again.

“You were on the verge of a heart attack. This stuff you were injected with nearly killed you,” he
announced gravely. She closed her eyes and wished it had. “But you got through it.”

Her hand was shaking so bad she could barely hold the cup steady. He took it from her before it
spilled and set it back to a table beside the bed. The silence that came was deep and unyielding.
The insanity might have been gone, but the miseries it had left behind were threatening. Every
quiet breath, every beat of her aching heart, was filled with them. Memories and whispers and
desires. She tried to draw up her shields, to protect herself with chilly apathy like she’d done in
the past, but she didn’t have the strength or the fortitude. Clint released a long breath again,
staring at her. She wasn’t brave enough to look at him, terrified of what she’d find in his eyes.
Accusation. Hatred. Understanding. Forgiveness. She wasn’t sure what she deserved. “What
happened wasn’t your fault,” he finally said. That was worse than anything. A goddamn
placating lie. “The doctors said with the levels of that serum compromising you, you had no idea
what you were doing.”

“Yes, I did,” she whispered harshly. He couldn’t take her guilt from her. She wouldn’t let him.
“I knew exactly what I was doing.”

He was stiff in front of her. She still refused to meet his gaze, her eyes blankly focused on her
wrists where they crossed each other in her lap. They were bruised black and blue. “Brushov
took you back.”

She flinched at the disappointment in his voice. She wasn’t sure if it was disappointment in her or
not. He’d always looked out for her, taught her how to walk the straight and narrow, to stay pure
and good in the face of the evil of the past. He’d been the one to unmake her and help her build
herself into something better. To hear her confess like this, beyond argument or defense or even
understanding, probably cut him deeply. He’d had faith in her when no one else had, and she’d
ruined that, too. “I didn’t want to,” she said, her hard mask crumbling. “I tried to fight, but I…”
But she what? Succumbed. If Brushov hadn’t used the serum on her, would she have struggled
until the end? Would she have chosen death over serving him again? She didn’t know.

Obviously Clint didn’t, either. “That’s not terribly comforting,” he said dully. She finally looked
to him, hurt (though, honestly, she had no right to be). “And it’s not going to be much of an
excuse. Rumlow wants to crucify you. I’m not sure Fury’s going to protect you. I’m not sure
anyone is going to protect you. Nobody understands what happened, Nat. The STRIKE Team
has their account, but nobody really knows what went down between you and Rogers. You
could have just escaped after you shot Perry, but you went after the Cap.”

“He was my target.”

“Brushov ordered you to kill him?”

“I had to do it.” The vindictive bastard. It almost felt like Steve had been used against her, not the
other way around.

He looked like he didn’t understand. Of everyone, he was probably the only one who could.
“Nobody knows what to think.”

Nobody. Not even him. She looked away, simultaneously believing she shouldn’t be punished
for her actions yet desiring nothing so acutely. There was no way for her to prove she’d been
forced to take the serum. There was no way for her to prove she’d been a prisoner, not a
participant. There was no way to prove that Brushov had taken her, that she hadn’t gone back to
him. What did it matter, at any rate? I shot Steve. I killed him.

Desperation burned her. “What do you think?” she asked hotly. Her tone was tight and
frustrated. “That I wanted to shoot my partner? That I wanted to…” Her voice failed her. Even
she couldn’t defend herself.

Clint didn’t answer immediately. He’d been her partner, too, on the battlefield and for countless
dangerous missions in the past. He was her friend, her confidant, even her lover when the
occasion suited them both. He lowered himself into a chair that had been positioned beside the
bed and leaned back, slouching wearily. He stared at her evenly, appraising her again. He
sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. Something inside her throbbed mercilessly at seeing his
faith in her waver. “I didn’t want to believe it, but… The truth hurts worse than lies sometimes.”
She knew that better than anyone. He shook his head. “I do think there’s going to be hell to pay
if Rogers dies.”

If? Her heart sped in sudden panic. “What? He – he’s not…” Horror and joy rushed over her
simultaneously, and the suddenly the gray room was spinning and the lights were blinding and her
head was pounding with the need to know. She moved without thinking, her bare feet hitting the
cold, metallic floor. She tried to stand but her body just wouldn’t, her knees buckling and her
nerves tingling with weakness and her head spinning with nausea. She wasn’t going to be
stopped. She made her legs be firm, ignored the awful flops her stomach was doing, and rose
above the throbbing in her skull. “Where is he?”

“Easy! Just take it easy!” Clint said, jolting to his feet and moving quickly to grab her arms. He
didn’t push her back onto the bed, but he was clearly not pleased that she was up. “You need to
rest!”

“Where is he, Barton?” she demanded, trying to wriggle free of his grasp. His fingers pressed
with bruising intensity into her skin. The harsh intensity of her glare was staggering, but he held
firm. As firm as Steve had been when he hadn’t let her go. The pain grew sharp. Tears filled her
eyes. “Please… just tell me where he is.”

Clint hesitated for an eternity longer, obviously uncertain of whether or not he should reveal
anything about Rogers’ condition. She feared for a moment it was because he didn’t trust her or
thought the monster of her rage would return to complete her mission at the possibility of her
failure. But it wasn’t that. His eyes were soft with worry. He didn’t want her to be hurt
anymore. “In the ICU,” he finally said, and his fingers loosened in their grip.

She turned and rushed from her room. “Natasha, wait. Wait!” She didn’t listen. She couldn’t
hear him because her mind was rushing with so many things, so many words and sensations and
memories. She couldn’t stop to think. She couldn’t stop to feel. She surged down the corridor on
unsteady feet that threatened to topple her at any second. The nurses and doctors and agents she
passed regarded her with wide eyes, with shock and alarm. With fear. With blame. With hate.
They all knew the truth, and their angry glares knocked her back. Black Widow shot Captain
America. Black Widow murdered Captain America. She nearly backpedaled, nearly recoiled and
returned to the safety of her room. But Clint was behind her, his strong hands steadying her again,
and when she looked back to the people around her, they weren’t staring. They weren’t even
there anymore.

How much longer was the serum going to torment her? Paranoia and hallucinations. Insanity.
Hell. Maybe that was where she belonged, what she deserved.

No. Steve’s still alive. There was a chance… There was hope.
She was shaken, though, and her strength and bravery all but vanished. Clint draped a robe
around her shivering body. “Come on. You need to take things slow. I got you.” He walked
with her, an arm around her shoulders to guide her and protect her. The frantic rush of her heart
was tempered by trepidation, and she looked down to her bare feet shuffling along the deck
plating and tried ardently not to feel or think. Eventually they reached the ICU, and Clint stood
still for the biometric scanner. The computer acknowledged him and the doors swished open. It
was only a few more steps after that before Clint grasped the handle to the door of one of the
rooms. He pulled it open for her.

She wanted to work up the courage to look. She needed to gather her composure, to try and pull
that stoic mask she always wore so adeptly into place, but there was no time. The minute the door
opened, she saw Steve. The lights were dimmed over the hospital bed, but they still showed every
horror. His large frame was completely unmoving. He was covered in bandages. Around his left
thigh. Around his stomach. Around his right hand and his chest. White was streaked with red.
And where she could see skin, it was cut and scraped and bruised. His left leg from his knee
down to his toes was in a cast. His back was braced by plastic and metal. His face was lax,
deeply unconscious, lusterless blond hair limp upon his brow, his eyes encircled in darkness and
tightly closed. A tube ran from his slack lips, secured into place by tape. It connected to one of
the innumerable machines surrounding the bed. His chest was slowly rising and falling,
rhythmically, methodically because a respirator was breathing for him. Things were beeping, the
monitors surrounding him proclaiming for all to see how very badly he was hurt (as if that could
even be denied, as if anyone had the strength and audacity to hope otherwise). But he was still
alive. Just barely alive.

This was so wrong. It was so wrong.

You did this.

Natasha couldn’t make sense of it. She didn’t remember much of the STRIKE Team’s harried
and chaotic return after the firefight on the Russian pier. Everything had collapsed inside her,
unable to support the weight of the truth. The doctors had rushed Steve away, trying to save his
life. She’d assumed they’d failed, and then she’d lost herself in the fire again because it was easier
to feel anger than it was to feel anything else. It was easier to make herself believe that Steve was
dead because facing the extent of what she’d done was unbearable. Now it was all before her,
stark and true and undeniable. Steve’s strong hands were limp and broken. Steve’s body, smooth
skin and muscle beneath her caressing fingers and lips, was bleeding and wrecked. Steve’s eyes,
so damn sure that she could be good and pure, that she could be saved, were closed tightly and
hiding him from the horrors of the world. Steve’s voice, promising things he should never have
promised, was silent.

You did this to him.

Tears burned her. She wanted him back the way he had been. She wanted to go back to that one
night where she’d let him inside, to all those nights and days before it where she’d flirted with him
because it had been fun to see him blush so innocently, where he’d laughed at her jokes and
smiled at her knowingly and led her with a firm hand and an impenetrable heart filled with valor.
She wanted him back. She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anything before. This was
crushing. The serum hadn’t been hell. This was hell.

And she was trapped with the evidence of her own evil right before her eyes.

Her lips moved in a ragged whisper. “Is there any chance?”

“That he’ll recover?” Clint stepped beside her. His face was weary and worried again as he
stared at the destroyed form of Captain America. Then he released a slow, long breath and
swallowed uncomfortably. “Not much. They got the bullet out of his chest.” Natasha flinched,
her eyes flicking to the long bandage that ran down the length of Steve’s sternum. She could
imagine the horrors under it. A ragged, red scar. Staples and stitches. Blood and cut skin and
bones broken on purpose so that hands could reach inside his chest and try to repair his wounded
heart. The dark room closed in about her, shadows and suffocation, and she grabbed the foot of
his bed to steady herself. “But there’s a lot of damage. And obviously his fight with the Red
Guardian did a number on him. Twice over.” She grimaced again as a flood of unwanted
memories assailed her. Alexei screaming like a madman. Alexei driving Steve down. Alexei
breaking Steve’s back. Even with that, Steve had gotten up and come back and rescued her. He
could have left her to Brushov’s tortures, to the madness and sickness. He could have killed her,
but he hadn’t. He was too strong and pure and good.

He was nothing like her.

You did this to him!

“He’s been touch and go. He’s in a coma. The doctors aren’t hopeful that he’ll come out of it.”
Clint’s quiet words seemed thunderous in the vacuous quiet. Natasha couldn’t stand to tear her
eyes from Steve’s bruised, unconscious body. It hurt to look at him, to commit every injury to
memory. But she did. This was all she could do. At the very least, she owed him this measure of
bravery and honor. She wouldn’t hide from the brutality. “But he’s tough. He made it this far.
And he’s Captain America. That’s gotta mean something.”

Captain America. She hadn’t thought of Steve like that for what felt to be forever. And it did
mean something. Captain America had stopped the Red Guardian. Captain America had sunk
those ships and prevented a madman from spreading his poison all over the world. Captain
America had saved her life. Her throat tightened until she could barely speak. “I tried to give him
an out. I tried so hard to get him to back off. He didn’t know what he was getting into.”

“He knew.”

Tears blurred her vision. “Why didn’t he wait for backup?”

“They called it in,” Clint said.

“It was too late! He should have known better. He should have been smarter! What the hell was
he thinking?” The anger was irrational, but she couldn’t stop it. She was furious with him.
Furious that he’d gone after her already so injured. Furious that he’d pushed himself to the brink
and paid the price. Furious that he’d been so goddamn stupid and self-sacrificing in a world that
honored and respected nothing.

Clint didn’t answer right away, and that tense, miserable silence returned. “I think he was trying
to protect you,” he finally said. Natasha turned sharply and glared at Clint with watery eyes. He
refused to be dissuaded, watching her evenly. His hard expression wasn’t malicious, simply firm
with the truth. “You were on the wrong side, Nat. Willingly or not. And SHIELD doesn’t ask
questions anymore. They just strike hard and fast and first.”

That hurt more than she could admit. How quickly her good deeds had been forgotten in the face
of her reputation, of her past. “Brushov took me,” she said again. This time she wanted to defend
herself. It hadn’t been her choice. None of it had been. The pain rose up, swelling like a tidal
wave, and she could barely keep ahead of it. “He wanted me back, so he took me. Gave me a
mission. A target. Just like he always had, he turned me into his weapon, and I had to follow his
orders.” The sob pushing up her throat hurt, but she swallowed it down. And the anger
disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving her with the same sad fact that was indefensible. “I
knew exactly what I was doing.”
Clint’s taut expression loosened as her shoulders quivered with the strain of holding herself
together. He watched her as she struggled, and a heavy moment of emptiness crawled away. In
its wake he set his hand to her shoulder and pulled her around and tugged her to his chest. She
couldn’t relax, not even surrounded by the familiar comfort of his embrace. “You remember what
you told me after Loki took me? After he turned me into his weapon.” Of course she
remembered. It was bullshit, and she didn’t want to hear it because this was different. “You told
me not to do this to myself.”

“Stop,” she hoarsely begged. “Just… Please don’t try to make it better.” He kissed her forehead
roughly. “Please don’t.” She felt every bit of his worry, of his fear that he’d lost her if not in
body then in soul. His muscles were tight with pain. She didn’t think she could bear his grief in
addition to her own. She was raw and brittle and torn. The contact of his skin to hers was
repulsive. The thought of solace, of forgiveness, was repulsive. She didn’t deserve absolution.
Not from him. Not from anyone.

“I don’t know how to help you.” His voice was a low rumble against her hair. “I don’t know–”

“You can’t,” she declared while her strength lasted her. There was no coming back from this. He
couldn’t offer her redemption or a chance at walking the straight path or a way to wash this blood
from her hands. She’d shot Captain America. It was her fault, and there was no way to make it
better. She’d known exactly what she’d been doing. Even if she hadn’t want to. Even if she’d
been made to do it. Even if she couldn’t stop herself. Violation. No. Weakness.

Steve would have killed himself before he ever let himself hurt her.

“Go. Please.”

“Nat–”

“Please, Clint. Just go.”

He hesitated a moment more, leaning back to gaze into her face. She refused to look at him. She
couldn’t bear it. She wasn’t trying to be cold and cruel, but that was who she was, it seemed. He
was hurt that she didn’t trust him. He was hurt that she was sending him away. She was such a
goddamn coward. He finally nodded, pressed his lips to her brow again, and left. The door softly
shut behind him.

The ventilator swished. The monitors pulsed and beeped and kept telling her Steve was still
alive. She stepped closer to the bed, her legs moving, her heart beating and her lungs breathing
and her soul shaking. Tentatively she reached for his left hand. It didn’t seem right to touch him
now, to hold his hand as she’d done so many times in the past. Simple moments that she’d taken
for granted. Simple moments that were lost forever. Even if he came back… She didn’t want to
entertain the thought, because if it didn’t happen, the pain would be made so much worse by
hope. But Steve had taught her too much about faith to disregard it. He could come back from
this. And when he did, he would never forgive her.

She had no right to touch him. No right. But she did, because she was still so damn selfish.
Lightly she dragged her trembling fingers over his skin. It was dry and smooth and cold. She
folded their fingers together and swept her thumb across his split knuckles. And she had no right
to kiss him. But she did. Selfish. She choked on a sob and touched her lips tenderly to his hand.
Her knees failed her and she went down beside his bed, holding it all inside because she had no
right to grieve. She had no right to cry over him.

She pressed his limp hand to her cheek and her mouth to his palm. She closed her eyes and
imagined his face looking up at her. The night bathed them both, but he radiated his own light,
blue and gold and beautiful and so very warm. His hand caressed her cheek and wiped away her
tears. His mouth closed over hers, his fingers sweeping into her hair and holding her close. If she
could live in this moment, she would. Forever.

When she opened her eyes, his hand was still lifeless and cold and his eyes were still closed and
he was still dying. He was dying because of her and her past and the dark world into which she’d
dragged him. I did this to him. I did it.

“Steve,” she whispered. There were so many things she should have told him. She should have
told him the truth, all of the truth, even the parts she lied about to herself. The Red Room. What
Brushov had done to her. The things that had been taken from her. Who she was. And she
should have apologized and begged him to return to her and begged his forgiveness and begged
his understanding. She should have tried to explain and made promises and thanked him for
everything he’d done for her. But she didn’t.

No, she confessed something, the one thing she would have never had the strength and courage to
tell him otherwise. If he could have heard her, if he could have known… This was the only way
she could speak the truth. She carefully and gently laid herself beside his lifeless body and
pressed her head to his breast and listened for his heartbeat. It was there, strained and slow and
tortured, but still there. Cold tears slowly rolled down her face and dampened the bandages over
his chest. She closed her eyes and pretended she was back in his apartment, stealing glances at
him as he dressed and trying to convince herself that she didn’t need him, that she didn’t want
him. That she didn’t love him.

But she did. “I love you, too.”

She was a monster, pure and simple. Those few tears were all she could manage. She didn’t
deserve to cry over him, but it didn’t matter because she couldn’t. She couldn’t cry at all. So she
closed her eyes and listened to his heart and silently hated herself.

She wasn’t left alone with him for long. The door to the room opened, and Nick Fury stepped
inside. Natasha turned wearily and faced him, not making any move to hide the fact that her eyes
were red and her cheeks were still wet, that she had Steve’s hand enfolded in her own, that she
was crushed and lost and so very low. Fury’s face was impassive, an emotionless frown tight on
his lips. But she knew him too well not to see the sorrow, the confusion and anger and
disappointment. The regret. “I want to know what happened,” he softly said. She wasn’t certain
if that was an order from her commanding officer or a request from a man that, on occasion, she
considered a friend. “I want to hear it from you.”

Surprisingly she felt calm and composed, more so than she had since picking Steve up from his
apartment the night before this disaster of a mission had begun. She stared at Fury evenly.
Everything was down again, buried under her covers, under her lies and masks and defenses. She
was an agent of SHIELD debriefing her director. Only that and nothing more. She gently set
Steve’s hand down on the hospital bed, her fingers lingering against his for a second, longing to
feel him grab her or touch her or even move. There was nothing. “Brushov already had a super
soldier. The Red Guardian.” Alexei. He was dead, too. He’d sacrificed himself for her just as
Steve had, and they were both gone. That was what her love did. It destroyed people.

Fury’s voice drew her from her dark thoughts. “Rumlow mentioned that in his report. The techs
recovered a mountain of data from a warehouse in Sokolyne.”

Natasha nodded. “Rogers and I tracked the serum there. We infiltrated, but before I could get out
with a sample, we were attacked by Brushov’s men. Brushov had planted Petrovich to lure you
into sending Captain America so that he could pit Rogers against the Red Guardian.” Fury wasn’t
pleased. His eye flashed in anger and alarm, though she didn’t know whether it was over the fact
that he had been played or the fact that his top agents had been lured into a trap with such a brutal
purpose behind it. “Rogers lost the fight. Brushov took me prisoner and injected me with his
insanity serum. He told me to kill Captain America and return to him.” She looked down.
Saying it had been too easy. Too simple and too easy. Like it had happened to someone else.

“The Red Guardian beat the crap out of Rogers and left him to die,” Fury said quietly, “and
nobody thought to call this in.”

“I can’t explain Steve’s reasoning, Nick. I wasn’t there.”

“No, you were busy being reprogrammed into a mindless murderer,” Fury irately declared. Her
mask cracked and she flinched. She wasn’t strong enough to stifle it. The Director put his hands
on his hips and shifting his weight. He sighed, like he was trying to wrap his head around all of
this. “And he was busy disobeying a direct order and leading an unauthorized military strike on
foreign soil.”

“With all due respect, it might not have come to that if you’d been honest with him about what this
mission was really all about,” Natasha returned icily. “You pitted me against my partner. I
betrayed him to achieve your directives. Why even have us work together if you’re going to set
us against one another? You knew he wouldn’t agree to it.”

“The order to retrieve the serum came from above,” Fury returned. Natasha had suspected that
was the case, and it softened her anger a bit but not enough. “I had no choice. And I gave it to
you because I knew you could get it done even if Rogers stood in your way. Secretary Pierce
wanted the jump on Brushov. You know better than anyone how dangerous he is and how hard
he’s been to capture or kill. He figured we needed a contingency plan in case whatever Brushov
was building got loose in the world. We needed a way to neutralize the super soldiers Brushov
created.”

“Well, thankfully, there was only one and he’s dead,” Natasha declared coldly. “And you got to
have your cake and eat it, too. You got your sample of the serum, and Rogers shut Brushov down
for you.” She was unable to keep the spite from her voice. Fury appraised her evenly. “I find it
hard to believe you couldn’t extract the serum from my blood.”

Fury sighed softly. He had the decency to look somewhat ashamed. “We did. Pierce’s orders.”
She felt cheated. Violated again, and it was even worse because it had been at the hands of
people she’d trusted. Maybe Steve had been right to doubt. Maybe the insanity serum was strictly
evil and should only be destroyed. “Unfortunately the sample’s not pure. But it’s probably good
enough. They’re working on coming up with an antidote. Considering what that serum made
you do and what it did to you, it won’t be soon enough in coming.” She didn’t know what to say
to that. That the ends justified the means? That there was consolation in the fact that something
like this could be stopped in the future? It was nonsense. Their lives had been destroyed to build
a deterrent to biological warfare. The road to hell was truly paved with good intentions. And bad
intentions masquerading as good. Rogers wasn’t as naïve as she’d thought.

Fury was continuing to speak, so she made herself pay attention. “The Russians are screaming
bloody murder. The fall-out from this is going to be widespread. Captain America raiding a
Russian port and sinking two Russian ships. The World Security Council is shitting a brick.”

“If there’s a price to be paid for going in there without getting your say-so, I think he’s more than
paid it,” Natasha declared. “And he did the right thing.”

Fury wasn’t pleased with her tone. “I agree. He made a tough call but in the end he stopped
Brushov from unleashing a weapon we weren’t prepared to face. It’s going to take the researchers
weeks if not months to come up with an antidote to the serum. By then, we could have had a
world filled with maniacs and murderers, far more so than it already is and that’s damn scary.” He
released a long breath, folding his arms over his chest with a creak of leather. “I think I can
convince the Council to see it that way. And I think the Russians will back off if the media
happens to get wind of what Brushov was trying to do and his ties back to old Soviet interests.
They’ll want to distance themselves from that. There’s no love lost between Moscow and
Brushov.”

“So what is this?” Natasha asked. “All’s well that ends well? Everything’s okay. SHIELD gets
the serum and we consider the mission a success.” She could hardly believe the spite she heard in
her voice. Life wasn’t fair. Things rarely ended as they should. The innocent were hurt and the
good men were abused and the evil got stronger. That was the way things went. There was
nothing right about any of this.

“Not quite,” Fury answered unhappily. “The Council wants you arrested for attempted murder.
And they’re not the only ones. Most of the STRIKE Team is behind them. Pierce is behind
them. And if Rogers dies…” Fury’s eye darted to Steve’s comatose body. “I don’t think I can
protect you if we lose him.”

She felt every muscle in her body tense. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe. All of the countless
murders she’d committed. Robberies and arsons and massacres… The hypocrisy of it all was
astounding. She’d committed endless atrocities at Brushov’s side in her youth, but those had been
overlooked because she was the best spy and assassin in the world and SHIELD had needed her.
But now that she had shot Captain America (which was nothing to cast aside, for sure), she was
damaged goods. She was expendable. And they want her chained and locked up and punished
for this one act. She’d been under the influence of a psychosis-inducing chemical compound
when she’d shot Steve, and this was the unpardonable crime. She’d thought that as well but her
reasons were grounded in emotion, not logic. And then she realized what the Council wanted.
“They need a scapegoat.”

Fury respected her enough to not argue. “I think so.”

Natasha didn’t know what to say, what to think. It would be a lie to say she was not frightened or
disgusted or hurt by it. She was being betrayed by the very people to whom she’d pledged her
allegiance. She was being betrayed by the people who’d wanted to give her the chance to reform
herself and wash all that red from her ledger. But the way Fury was staring at her suggested he
wasn’t there to take her into custody. Even if he couldn’t protect her, he was going to try.
“Natasha, I’m sorry. I should have never sent you on this mission.” That wasn’t what she
expected him to say. Fury rarely admitted he was wrong. To hear him apologize for a mistake
was staggering. It wasn’t the comfort she thought it might be, because if Fury had screwed up, if
Fury had been played the fool, then the world was darker and more dangerous than anyone
knew. “I thought you would provide insight into the situation, knowing you had ties to Garanin
and Brushov. And I thought… Well, it doesn’t matter that I thought.”

“You did what you thought was best,” she softly said, numb and lost. She looked down at Steve.
“So did he.”

“I know that. And I know you.” Fury shook his head, his gaze soft and sorrowful. “I know if
there had been a way to stop yourself, you would have done it.”

“I–”

“You’re not the same person Barton brought before me six years ago. You’re not the same person
he begged me to spare. And you know that, too.”
Natasha wasn’t so sure anymore. Before she’d seen Brushov, she hadn’t thought about the dark
places in her heart in some time. She’d been beside Tony Stark, stopping Ivan Vanko and Justin
Hammer from threatening innocents. She’d been an Avenger. She’d been on countless missions
with Clint and Steve, fighting for right and justice and the security of the world. That one glance
at that hideous face had unearthed so much darkness. Killing for pleasure. Killing for power.
Killing for vengeance. She hadn’t taken a life like that in so long. She’d surrounded herself in so
much good that she had been made better because of it. Was she going to throw that all away?

She felt fire again, but it wasn’t the insanity serum burning away her control. It was her own
heart, burning with strength. Burning with defiance.

Fury sighed. “I get the impression the Council wants to close the books quickly on this one. And
Secretary Pierce seems to think the best course of action is to play it safe and try not to stir the
hornet’s nest. Brushov took money from some fairly evil men in return for his serum, men who
are going to be plenty pissed off when they find out he can no longer deliver. Pierce wants to wait
out the war, see who is left standing in the end. But I’m not sure that’s good enough. Brushov
will find a way to survive; he has before. Right now he’s weak and probably looking for a safe
place to regroup. There’s never been a better opportunity to hit him. I don’t need to explain to
you what a threat he poses. Even if he can’t make another super soldier, that won’t stop him from
trying. You and I both know that. Or from trying to dose the world on his insanity serum.”

Some part of her understood what he wanted, but she couldn’t quite believe it that he wanted it.
At least, that he wanted it done like this. “What are you asking?”

“I think you know,” Fury obliquely answered. He stepped closer, lowering his voice and curling
his hands over the plastic foot of Steve’s hospital bed. “This mission isn’t finished. I’m changing
the directives. Stop Brushov.” He glanced to Steve. “And then kill him.” His glare narrowed,
his eye raking over the damage done to Captain America. Fury could be ruthless when it suited
him, and he was in a strange way protective of his agents. Of his assets. Captain America was
that above anything else. An asset, the best asset, in the war on evil. A shield between light and
dark, a hero of the highest caliber. And Fury wasn’t above disobeying orders himself when it
came down to it. He looked back at Natasha. She was another of his assets. His weapon. “You
want the go-ahead to take him out? It’s yours.”

Natasha lifted her chin. That calm sense of purpose came over her. With Brushov it had always
felt this way, too. Detachment. Cold power. Strength from apathy. Fury watched her evenly.
“Coordinate with Hill; she has people searching for him. Track the son of a bitch down and finish
him. Understood?”

She took a deep breath and gave a curt nod. This was familiar. This was what she did. This
grounded her. “Understood.”

“Get it done, Agent Romanoff.” Fury looked at Steve’s sleeping form again. “And you better
wake up, Cap. You and I need to have a discussion about trust.” He gave Natasha a final
knowing look before leaving the room.

Natasha stood still. The ventilator was still swishing, and the monitors were still beeping. It
seemed very far away now. She felt distant, resolute and hardened. The fire was burning, but it
was the one she knew. The one she could control. If her past had come back to destroy her
future, she would destroy it. Evil like that didn’t need to be studied or ignored or redeemed. It
needed to be annihilated. It was that simple. Redemption and revenge. Fury was giving her
what he knew she needed.

She looked down at Steve’s still body again. A pang of doubt flashed through her mind. What if
he died? What if… No, she wouldn’t think about that. Yet it still felt wrong to leave him like
this, on death’s doorstep, put there by her hands. Maybe by my hands, but not by my heart. And
I’ll make Brushov pay for everything he’s done to us.

This promise she would make damn sure she kept.

She lowered her hand to Steve’s, grasping it firmly, feeling his fingers twitch weakly and
mindlessly against her own. She looked to his face and saw his eyelids flutter just the tiniest bit.
He wouldn’t want this. He wouldn’t want her to do it, not for him and not for herself. But she
would do it because this was who she was. This was all she could ever be.

She drew a short breath to keep her resolve and leaned down and roughly kissed his forehead.
Then she set his hand over his chest and walked away.

Natasha moved fast. She always did when she had a mission. She wasn’t well and she knew it
but she ignored it. She found her way to her standing quarters aboard the helicarrier and quickly
showered and methodically examined her body and found that her injuries were a nuisance but not
serious enough to hamper her. Her head was still pounding, and nothing seemed quite right like
the world was slightly off-kilter (or she was, which seemed infinitely more likely). But she buried
that all down deep and dressed in her familiar black outfit. The smooth leather was tight to her
skin, and she relished the feel of it like it was part of her. Another layer. She slid a gun into each
hip holster and attached a sheathed knife onto her belt and placed another pistol around her calf
under her boot. Then she donned her Widow’s Bite around her wrists.

Just like that, she was ready. And she moved through the helicarrier, ignoring the questioning
glances and the doubtful glares and the whispers. They meant nothing. Once she had her target,
nothing could stop her. She found her way to the flight deck, moving upward quickly from the
bowels of the ship and saw Clint was waiting for her beside a quinjet he’d already prepped for
take-off.

He was armed to the teeth. She could see the guns in the holsters strapped to his legs and his fully
stocked quiver and bow. And there were weapons loaded into the rear of the jet. Shotguns and
assault rifles and grenades. But other than the two of them, there was no one else.

They’d never needed anyone else.

She wasn’t even sure she needed him. Somehow having him with her felt akin to exposing
someone else to the blackness of her past again. And not because he’d be in mortal danger.
“Fury know you’re here?” she coolly asked.

“No,” he answered. “I’m not here for him.”

“You don’t have to do this,” she said as she walked up the ramp into the jet.

He matched her stride perfectly. “I know.” He glanced at her once.

They didn’t say anything more about it. If he was worried about her (and she knew he was), he
wisely didn’t bring it up. If he thought she wasn’t ready or that this was unwise, if he believed
that going on some violent crusade to exact her revenge would only hurt her further, he didn’t tell
her. She was silently grateful for that. And she was comforted with him beside her. She
wouldn’t have to face whatever lay in wait alone.

They secured the jet in a matter of minutes, working together like a well-oiled machine, speaking
without words and knowing with only glances and silence. He slid into the pilot’s seat, pulling
headphones down over his ears and flipping switches as he readied the flight controls. She sat
beside him, putting on her own headphones and watching him, feeding off of his strength and
steadiness and stoicism. He communicated with the flight deck personnel and with the tower.
She listened, the rush of words meaningless as they filled her head. In short order they were given
permission to leave. “Ready?”

She said nothing. He throttled the rotors of the jet up for vertical take-off. A few seconds later
they were clear of the helicarrier and rising far above the ocean. With well-practiced precision, he
switched over to the aircraft’s powerful engines, and a moment later they were cutting through the
evening sky.

Natasha drew a deep breath. Every part of her was tense with anticipation. And fear. And
anger. She was going back into the darkness again. She was going back to Brushov as she had
so many times in the past. But this time she wouldn’t let him take her. This time she wouldn’t let
him own her. This time she would fight the madness.

And this time she would kill him. She didn’t care what it cost her. She didn’t care if it damaged
her beyond repair, if it destroyed her completely. She’d already lost the only thing that mattered.
 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for reading, everyone! Well, time for Clint and Nat to
kick some butt and take some names. A fair warning: this chapter contains some
pretty dark and disturbing imagery, language, and mentions of sexual assault. Read at
your own discretion.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The streets of Volgograd were teeming with the unsuspecting. That was just as well for a poor
orphan girl who needed to steal to survive. Pockets were filled with wallets, with crumpled bills
and coins, and purses were brimming with cash and credit cards and other valuables. Her fingers
were fast and thin and light, so light that no one suspected her and even if they did they could
never catch her. She was ten years old and used every bit of her innocent appearance to her
advantage. She’d figured out how to do that early on. People were gullible and foolish and
stupid, and she could use that against them. They saw what they wanted to see when they looked
at her, this pale girl with hardly any meat on her bones and torn clothes and a dirty face. She was
a shadow, a victim, a hellcat, a threat, a chance for redemption, a suffering child, whatever they
wanted to see. If the man looked like a decent sort, she screamed that another man had hurt her
and begged for help, and as he floundered and contemplated confronting her would-be attacker
(some other unsuspecting fool who was glued to his place by shock and horror), she clung to him
and stole his money. If she knew the man thought highly of himself, she threw herself at his feet,
weeping and moaning and whimpering, and when he went to shake her off or spit at her, her small
fingers found her pocket. If the man was heavyset, she outright snatched what she wanted from
his hands and ran like the wind through alleys and up fire escapes that she had memorized like the
back of her hand while he yelled and huffed and fell far behind her. If the woman had children,
she recited a sorrowful tale of abuse and hunger and famine, and when the lady offered up some
small pittance of money, it was that much easier to raid her purse later when her eyes were turned
elsewhere in a busy store.

She played them all. She lied to them, manipulated them, stole from them, outran them and
outthought them and outdid them. She made them see what they wanted to see. She had a
thousand lies for every situation, and she wielded them like knives and cut deep with them.
Usually by the time her victims had realized they had been swindled or cheated or bested, it was
far too late and she had already made off with what she wanted. It wasn’t any easy life, but she
excelled at it and learned to love it. It was freedom and power. She owned these grungy streets,
the dirty corners and the dark places, and she could make anyone think she anything she wanted.
She was a thief, a pick-pocket, a girl with no family and no past and any future she wanted. And
when the darker thugs, the bigger men and the gangs, came for her, they learned there was
viciousness beneath her soft eyes and within her small frame. Ruthlessness. The first time she’d
stolen something, the first time she’d hurt someone, she’d felt after that. Guilt and shame. And
she’d cried because, though she didn’t remember much of her parents, she did remember that what
she had done was wrong. But when her perpetually aching belly had been filled with food and
sweets for the first time in forever, she had quickly realized that right and wrong were relative
things. The truth was fluid and changing according to circumstance, and she could convince
anyone of her reasons, of her excuses, including herself. And she could take what she needed.
She could take what she wanted. She wasn’t afraid to do what she had to do to survive.
There was a day a different sort of man wandered into her world. She skulked in an alleyway,
watching as the sleek, expensive cars rolled down the gray streets. They stopped in front of a
restaurant, one of the wealthier establishments known to cater to organized crime and corrupt
government officials. It was one of her favorite haunts, though she needed to be careful about her
marks. These men were dangerous, but they were also arrogant, extremely so, and arrogant men
tended not to notice her, or if they did, they didn’t perceive her as a threat. She watched as they
exited the cars, men dressed in expensive suits and one or two garbed in the distinctive greens and
reds of army uniforms. There were also flashy, beautiful women adorned in glittering dresses that
were clearly there for one reason and one reason only. And there was another man, a younger
one, who had a leather briefcase tightly clenched in his hand. He stood back from the others,
clearly a subordinate of some kind, and he looked nervous and unsure of himself. These were
hardened sorts, business and military men, and he was a boy among them. He was the one.

She slid among the evening shadows, dancing through them, small and fleet. She came up behind
them as they finished with the cars and chatted. The owner of the restaurant came out to greet his
guests, speaking loudly with the sort of exaggerated genialness of someone desperate to make a
good impression. That was sufficient enough of a distraction. She knelt into a pile of muddy
snow and slathered it all over her hands and face. Then she parted with the cover of darkness,
summoning tears to her eyes like it was nothing and forcing her body to shiver in the brisk winter
air, and ran straight into the young man. She collided with his legs, tangling and twisting her
hands into his suit jacket. “Please help me!” she cried. “Please! I’m lost! I can’t find my mama!”

The young man reeled in shock, stepping back from her and trying to keep her from getting him
dirty. He stammered, embarrassed and clearly afraid of attracting the attention of his employers
like this. The other men were turning, looking, accusing, and she cried harder, clinging and
wiping her grimy fingers all over his nice suit as she flailed and begged. And then he set the
suitcase down to push her off. She grabbed it and ran.

“Stop her! Stop her!” They were shouting, furious, but their cries grew distant and indistinct as
she tore down the street and to the comfort of the alley. They were chasing her, guns drawn from
jackets, but she didn’t slow even as bullets slammed into the road behind her. She was scared,
then, that they were actually shooting at her, that perhaps she’d made a huge mistake, but she ran
on because she couldn’t stop now. They wouldn’t catch her. She held tight to her prize, jumping
upward and onto the lower ladder of a fire escape. She climbed like a spider, fast and undaunted
even though the rungs were slick and freezing to her fingers. Gunfire cracked behind her, bullets
bouncing off the metal steps and the building behind her. She didn’t stop, climbing lithely,
quickly, until she reached the top of the building.

She sprinted across the roof, forcing all the speed she could from herself. The men were fanning
out on the street below, cars revving up and tires screeching, and more were following her up onto
the top of the building. Fear was increasingly defeating her resolve. Whatever she’d just stolen
was obviously important, far more important than she’d anticipated, and these men were more
dangerous than she’d thought. She was in too deep. But she realized again that there was no
going back. If they caught her, they would kill her.

She leapt across the gap between two buildings, rolling as she landed and immediately springing
back to her feet. She was smaller than them and faster, and there were a dozen places in this
neighborhood that she knew could hide her. She cut across this lower roof, heading to the
adjacent street where there was a narrow, rusty fire escape that would lead her down. She
bounded and jumped and slipped quickly through the damaged steps and dilapidated rungs, and
her feet struck the security of the alley and she sprinted out into the street, smiling because she was
confident they hadn’t seen her.

But they had.

A car pulled up, shrieking to a sudden stop. Her eyes widened and she backpedaled, trying to run
the other way back into the alley, but the men were already there. She clenched her prize closer
even as they stalked toward her, guns pointed at her. This was hers and she wasn’t going to give
it back. “Come on,” one of them snapped. He reached out for the briefcase. “Don’t make us hurt
you, little girl.”

“Please don’t,” she whispered. They thought she was weak and small. She would show them. “I
didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t. Please… I’m so hungry…”

His hard scowl loosened just a bit, and it was enough. She swung the briefcase up hard and fast
and knocked his hand away. And then she ran into him, kicking him in the shin. Her foot found
his groin next, and he went down with a howl and a loud curse. Everything she knew about
fighting she’d taught herself, rough and fast and dirty and unbound by rules or training. So when
the next man tried to get her, she let him before biting his arm as hard as she could. He screamed
too, infuriated, and whipped his gun at her. But she’d already darted to his rear and pulled a
pocket knife from the folds of her dirty clothes. She slashed him and he screamed. She smashed
the briefcase across his face as he fell. Then she ran away, jumping and sliding across the hood of
the car that had blocked her path in a desperate attempt to reach the alleyway on the other side of
the street. Other men were already there, trying to block her.

“Stop!”

The calm command pierced through her panic, and she skidded until her feet slipped out from
under her on the slushy ice in the road. She fell to her back, increasingly terrified as the men
closed in around her. They were dark and malignant, and surely they’d kill her. But she still got
to her feet, holding the knife in front of her and the briefcase to her chest. It was hers. Hers.

A man stepped out of the car. She recognized him as one of the military officers from earlier. His
bearded face was hard and his eyes were small and narrowed. He stared at her, hard and long and
unwavering. She stared back even though she was afraid.

The man she’d kicked in the crotch was abruptly behind her, and he grabbed her arm tightly. He
yanked the knife away from her. His fingers promised more than just pain. “General, let me take
care of her. I’ll do it gladly.”

This man, the general, did nothing and said nothing. He stared at her like he could see through
her dirty, thread-bare clothes and filthy, pale skin and inside her heart. She didn’t squirm under
his gaze. “Who taught you to steal?” he finally asked, his voice a low baritone that seemed to
rumble against her heart. She caught her breath and lifted her chin. “Who taught you to fight?”

She didn’t cower, though the more she looked at this man, the more she realized that that was
what people did in front of him. He obviously had power and a great deal of it. He intimidated
and threatened and hurt others. While that frightened her, it excited her, too. It excited her in
ways she couldn’t describe. “Nobody,” she answered in a steady, defiant voice.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Nobody.”

His thick lips curled slightly in amusement. Smiles clearly did not come easily to him, but he
smiled at her. “Then nobody will miss you if I kill you for what you have done,” he said.

Her breath caught in her chest and she felt a gun push into her skull. She waited for her life to end
for this monumentally stupid mistake she’d made. She had always done what she needed to do to
survive, but she had gotten greedy. She had gotten confident. She lowered her eyes in a mixture
of terror, shame, and defeat. “My name is Natalia,” she said softly, desperate to save her life.
“Natalia Alianovna.” The case was hers, but she would give it back. She didn’t want it
anymore. “Here! Please.”

The general stared at the briefcase, shifting his glare between it and her face. She kept her head
bowed and her eyes averted in submission. The tense, silent moment seemed to continue forever,
and she spent it increasingly terrified and certain that she would die, that she’d finally marked a
man she couldn’t beat. The sound of his shoes against the street was thunderous, and huge, rough
fingers slid over hers and took the briefcase. “Never give back what you take, Natalia,” the man
said. He stood in front of her now, huge and imposing, and those thick fingers grasped her chin
and lifted her face. She looked into his dark eyes and saw power. So much power. “There is no
room in this world for the weak. For the righteous. For the compassionate.” His fingers swept
down her cheek, though not tenderly. Analytically. Possessively. “I see fire in you. Fire that I
can make stronger. But if I take you, I will never give you back. Do you understand?”

Even at her young age, she understood. It wasn’t simply a threat. It was a promise. But it was
also an escape. It was a way out from this life, this life filled with wanting and needing. And she
saw that power and wanted more than what she had, more than hunger and coldness and stealing
simply to eat. More than being nothing. More than being a ghost that no one wanted and no one
loved. “Yes.”

“Come with me and I will make you into somebody more powerful than you ever dreamed.”

She went with him.

He always kept his promises. She learned quickly that he did. Dreykov’s daughter. Sao Paolo.
The hospital fire. Children and innocents. Men writhing beneath her lips in pleasure and then
writhing beneath her hands in pain. Countless assassinations. Countless murders. Steve.

Power in return for her soul. What he took he never gave back.

The sunset washed over the Russian countryside like blood. Clouds thick and heavy with rain
threatened in the west, sluggishly rolling closer to blot out the day’s dying light. Clint set the
quinjet down in a shadowy copse of trees that would obscure it from view. Not many people
came to this place, this little area south of Podolsk outside of Moscow which had made it ideal for
Brushov’s operations. Unless one knew to look for this military compound nestled in the woods
and fields, one would never find it.

But Natasha knew well where to look.

Hill had tracked Brushov’s trail to Moscow before it had run cold. That had been enough to
convince Natasha that he’d come to this place. And it made sense, in some sadistic way, like he
was trying to lure her back to him. She wondered again if Clint wasn’t right, that nothing good
would come of this. Nothing good had ever come from here. She gritted her teeth and checked
her weapons and blinked away the image of Steve on life support in a hospital bed. She couldn’t
let this go. She had to finish it. For him and that stupid promise he’d made her. And for herself.

She and Clint walked through the quiet evening, silent and steadfast as they picked their way
through the woods. Natasha led them over the gently rolling terrain, emptying her mind as she
picked a path from memory. There was a road some ways to the east, a winding trail well worn
by trucks and cars. It was empty and swathed in the red of twilight, but she could hear the
puttering and rumbling of engines in her mind. It was all close now, these things that she’d never
wanted to think about again, these nightmares she’d buried down so deep. The inclination to turn
back and run away, though, never became anything more than that: an inclination. A whisper of
fear that couldn’t douse her anger, her desire for vengeance. Alexei was dead. Steve was so
badly hurt. She was lost.

No. Tonight she would find her path. Tonight she would atone.

Clint was stiff beside her, every movement cool and controlled. His bow was upon his back, his
quiver fully stocked and his guns loaded. His eyes were narrowed as they jogged through the
woods. A short run had them on the outskirts of the compound. This place obviously hadn’t been
tended to in quite some time as the brush and overgrowth from the woods had pushed upon
against the stone wall along the perimeter. There was a gate a little ways down where the road
was, and they ran to it. She pressed herself to the rough, gray stones and crouched. Clint knelt
beside her. His quick eyes devoured the scene beyond the gate. Natasha didn’t look. He seemed
doubtful, but she only offered a small nod. This place might have seemed deserted, but it wasn’t.
After missions, she had often returned here. Brushov owned many bases of operations spread
throughout Russia and Europe, but this was special. His most secure. Home.

The gate was easy enough to climb, though if anyone had been watching they would have surely
seen the two SHIELD agents scaling it. The grounds beyond were deserted and unkempt, filled
with old weeds and grass that hadn’t been properly cut in ages. It didn’t seem likely that anyone
was watching them, but she frankly didn’t care if they were. She was coming and nothing was
going to stop her. On the other side of the wall, Clint drew his bow. He had an arrow fitted and
ready to fire as he walked away from the gate. Natasha followed, pulling her gun from her hip
holster. The crickets buried in the tall grasses chirped and sang. As they sprinted across the yard,
she noticed some of the weeds were bent and broken, recently disturbed by tires and feet. Her
suspicions were correct. In the wake of losing most of his men, of having his plans destroyed and
his serum burned away, Brushov had come back here. He was hiding.

The compound was a weary gray building, stained by time and weather in many places,
forbidding and dark. She tried not to notice the familiar lines of its exterior, that slope of its roof
and the long walls that ran back for dozens of yards. Craggy brush and vines caressed the walls
like wicked fingers, snaking up concrete and choking it. A thousand unwanted memories prodded
at her subconscious as she glanced up. Returning from missions, her guns empty and her
conscience emptier. Deployed with her target burned into her mind and the cold chill of
confidence powering her heart. Longing to see the sun, to smell fresh air, while she was kept
inside and conditioned. She tore her eyes away and followed Clint toward the door.

Of course the compound was not as deserted as it seemed. The minute they approached the steps,
there was gunfire. Snipers shot through the dirty glass windows of the floors above them. Clint
sidestepped a bullet that buried into the concrete at his feet, unleashing the arrow he’d held taut to
his bowstring. The shot flew fast and true and sunk into the neck of a soldier in the window. He
barked out a shriek before tumbling with a spray of blood and glass. Hawkeye shot the next
sniper before the body of the first hit the ground. Together Natasha and Clint stepped up to the
doors. They were locked. Clint slung his bow over his shoulder and pulled an explosive from his
belt. He set to fastening it to the doors where they were sealed. While he worked to prepare the
detonator, Natasha turned and shot the two men she heard approaching from the rear. She stepped
to the side of the door and he pressed a red button on the small black box before sliding to the wall
on the other side. A second later, the doors exploded.

Natasha drew her other gun from her hip holster and peered into the smoke drifting out from the
inside of the compound. She raised both of her weapons and charged inside. Two dozen soldiers
were waiting in the lobby, probably summoned by the look-outs. It didn’t matter. This mission
wasn’t about stealth. It wasn’t about getting information or surveillance of their enemies or
assessing a threat. It was about eradication. Extermination. There was no need to be subtle. And
they weren’t.
Clint was beside her, and his bow was singing as he launched two shots in rapid succession into
the group of soldiers fumbling to shoot them. One was an explosive arrow, and when it hit the
man closest to them in the chest, those around him were knocked back by the bang and a wall of
fire. Natasha pulled the triggers of her guns, shooting those that were reeling in surprise. A man
came at her from the side, charging with a knife drawn, but she grabbed his wrist and broke it. He
dropped the blade with a cry of pain, helpless as she rammed her fist into his chest. Her Widow’s
Bite crackled with energy, electricity jolting over his body. She dropped his twitching form to the
floor. Clint landed a forceful kick into the midriff of another soldier, sending him tumbling back
into the smoke and debris. Then he drew another arrow from his quiver, stabbed another
approaching soldier with it, before fitting it to his bow and launching it amongst the remaining
men. When it hit, it released a slew of darts from its shaft, and the thugs around his target
screamed.

Natasha quickly emptied her guns, firing into the crowd of men sloppily trying to kill them until
her magazines were spent. She dropped the useless weapons and sprinted forward, rolling and
springing herself up into a handstand. Her thighs locked around the throat of another man, and
she pulled herself up before driving the Widow’s Bite into his temples. He screamed hoarsely,
and she threw herself back down to the floor on her hands and flung him over her. She jumped to
her feet, scooping a fallen Kalashnikov and firing into the remainder of soldiers. Smoke and fire
filled the room, poisoning the air and choking those still stupidly attempting to stop the two
SHIELD agents. Bullets flew toward them, bullets that were poorly aimed and easy to avoid.
Clint ducked from a misaimed kick, rolling to his left and pulling on his bowstring again. The
arrow hit his attacker in the forehead. He lithely rose to his feet, firing his bow repeatedly, his
sharp eyes picking the outlines of men through the haze.

When the smoke shifted, there was only a man left, fumbling to reload his rifle. Natasha threw the
spent Kalashnikov to the floor, drew her knife from her belt, and smoothly threw it at the last
soldier. It buried hilt-deep in his chest.

Natasha crouched and grabbed her guns, quickly pulling fresh rounds from her belt and ejecting
the spent magazines. When she passed her knife, she pulled it free and whipped the blood of it
before returning it to its sheath. Clint walked beside her as they stalked through the wreckage and
bodies. They didn’t speak, didn’t even need to share a glance. Ahead there was an elevator.
They summoned it to them. There was the ding of the lift reaching their floor, and the doors
opened. Two men appeared inside, and at seeing the SHIELD agents, they reached in their
jackets for their guns. They weren’t nearly fast enough.

Clint shot one before he even had a chance. Natasha pointed her gun at the other. “Gde General
Brushov?” she asked lowly, her eyes narrowed.

Sweat beaded on the man’s pale face. He pulled his hand from his jacket, numb and useless
fingers dropping his gun to the floor of the elevator. Terrified eyes glanced between Natasha and
Clint. “Vnizu. Vnizu, v laboratorii.”

“Spasibo.” She pulled the trigger. They stepped inside the elevator. Clint pushed the bodies out
so that the doors would close, and they headed down.

They were calm, silent, as the elevator dinged again and revealed the basement. It was dark. The
calm comfort of killing teetered as she took in the sight of the long, shadowy hallways. Memories
came back again. So many memories. Rooms lined the hall ahead, black and vacant but full of
ghosts. Doctors drawing blood. Doctors pushing needles into her veins. Doctors, cold and
heartless and uncaring. Wicked hands. Men hurting her. Chairs with straps and restraints from
which she could never break free. Pain and terror. Nothingness. Walking along these corridors,
the gleaming, polished tiles cold beneath her bare feet. The tiles were dull and unwashed now and
stretching ominously into the shadows. Walking with a hand upon her shoulder, tight and
controlling. Clint’s hand fell to her arm, firm but familiar. He shook his head, unnerved. “What
is this place?”

Natasha drew a shaking breath. “Krasnaya komnata.” Her lips moved around the soft, haunted
words. “The Red Room.”

Clint stiffened. The memories continued to drift in front of Natasha’s unwilling eyes. Being back
here, smelling that stale air that somehow still reeked of blood and sex and sterility, seeing that
long hallway that went past the examination rooms and the training rooms and the cells…
Everything she’d been trying to hold back, that she’d repressed for years, was suddenly pouring
from the darkness inside of her. The insanity serum had burned away the cage, and it was all
loose and wild and terrifying. The things they had done to her in this place. The serum
treatments. The torture to make her stronger, to make her impervious to pain, to teach her how to
hurt in turn. The nightmares. Taking away her future. Ensuring her complete compliance, her
total submission. Binding her to Brushov. Binding her to the Red Room. Lust. Lies. Endless,
twisted lies. “You are Black Widow. Black Widow does not feel.” She hadn’t felt then. She
hadn’t felt the agony, the fear, the nights she spent lying upon the hard cot in her cell and dreading
the sound of footsteps in the hallways outside and the long shadow beyond her door… “You are
Black Widow. Black Widow does not feel.” Not the blood running down her legs or the blood on
her hands. Screaming. Hers. Others. Hers. “You are Black Widow. Black Widow does not
feel.”

She felt. She felt it all, as sharp and horrifying as the day it had happened. This was where
Brushov had made her. This was where he had broken her down and hollowed her out and
rebuilt her as something else. This was where he had taken her innocence, where he had scorched
her veins with the acid of his serums, where he had driven her conscience from her mind and her
love from her heart. This was where he had taught her to be his weapon. She had given herself
over to him, and he had killed everything good and pure inside her and left only the murderer.

And the murderer had come home, it seemed, just like he’d wanted.

“Walk away, Nat,” Clint softly said. She snapped from the storm of thoughts assailing her and
looked over at him and found him watching her with worried eyes. His face was stoic, but he
couldn’t hide how he felt from her. Not this time. “Walk away. Don’t do this. If we have to kill
him, we kill him, but let me be the one.”

The familiar weight of her guns in her hands and that purpose in her heart was nothing but
comfort. “No,” she said softly. “He’s mine.”

He wanted to argue, but he didn’t. He said nothing as she stepped out of the elevator and into the
corridor. She found that place inside of her, that calm, cold place where things couldn’t touch
her. Not fear or panic or anger. This was what Brushov had shown her, what he had taught her,
what he had built within her. A weapon she could wield with impunity. She would wield it
against him. Her boots were quiet against the tiles as she crept down the hallway, Clint behind
her. He held his bow at the ready, the red laser guidance light cutting through the blackness and
illuminating dust floating through the air. She glanced at the rooms as she passed. They were
dark, filled with equipment covered thickly in dust that had been left idle for years. Paint was
peeling. Things were left, pens and files and carts full of tools. She didn’t see these things, not
the chairs or the needles or the microscopes. She didn’t see. She was Black Widow.

At the end of the hall, two double doors waited. Before Clint and Natasha reached them, they
heard the crackle of voices over a walkie-talkie. She recognized one of them instantly and her
grip tightened on her guns. Brushov was demanding a report, and his voice was full of frustration
and more rattled than she had ever heard before. Two men pushed through the doors, swinging
them open, and their faces immediately blanched and their eyes widened. She didn’t give them a
chance to respond to Brushov’s query. They fell with heavy thuds, each shot in the forehead.

She and Clint stepped over the bodies and continued down the dark corridor. The path forked
ahead, but she remembered the way. Despite the fact that these memories had been buried for
what seemed like an eternity, they felt fresh and new and she very clearly recalled that hand on her
shoulder, guiding her left toward the laboratory where Brushov and his horde of researchers and
scientists tested the results of his serums and procedures. “You will be a new breed of assassin,
Natalia. Faster. More powerful. And you will never know grief. You will never allow guilt to
restrain you or compassion to stay your hand. You will kill, and you will know only
satisfaction.” She shook away the voice. She tried to shake away the hands touching her. “You
are beautiful, Natalia. Stunning. A rare flower.” Fingers drifting down her chest. Lifting her
chin. “Men will forget themselves to have but a taste of you. Wrap them about your fingers.
Squeeze them until they cry for mercy. They will beg you to seduce them, beg you to strangle
them, beg you to destroy them.” A thumb sweeping over her lips. Wiping away her tears. “Kill
them all.”

All the men she had killed. This would be one that meant something. This one she would feel.

The lab was ahead. She slipped silently down the dusty hallway, a black wraith floating on light
feet, slipping among the shadows as the lights flickered. Clint followed just as quietly, his body
tight and ready. They reached the doors and paused. He looked to her, holding his bow up, as
stiff as a coiled spring. He caught her eyes. She saw in them so many things: worry for her, fear
for her, love for her. Most of all, she saw him standing by her as he always had, prepared to do
what she needed. But she didn’t see his trust. She didn’t see his faith.

Somehow that cut through to her heart. Somehow that hurt more, hurt deeper, than the
memories. He didn’t trust her.

Brushov had taken everything from her.

She was going to take from him the only thing she could.

Clint pulled a grenade from his vest. He held her gaze, but the question was thankfully gone from
his eyes. She drew a deep breath, raising her guns and centering herself. The storm twisted and
roared inside her, but she tried to get back to that calm place.

And when she did, she saw Steve smiling at her. They were getting ready for a mission. What or
where was inconsequential because they were going together, so she knew he had her back. She
knew they’d be okay, that they’d succeed, because he was Captain America and he brought out
the best in everyone. He brought out the best in her. She teased him, said something that made
him laugh. She couldn’t remember what, but it didn’t matter. He was smiling at her, his eyes
deep and blue and open and beautiful. He was smiling, and so was she. She felt at peace.

There were good memories, so many since she’d come to SHIELD, and she wasn’t willing to let
any of them go.

So they burst through the doors.

Brushov was there. And Garanin. And a slew of soldiers protecting them. That wouldn’t stop
her. Nothing would stop her now.

Clint tossed the grenade. It hit the floor to the right of the group, clattering and rolling under a lab
bench before exploding. He didn’t wait for deafening boom to subside. He dropped to his knee
to avoid the spray of gunfire. His arrow struck a soldier, and he screamed. The man’s gun kept
going off as he fell, driving bullets into the ceiling. Plaster sprayed down on them, and the lights
shattered. Natasha dove behind a desk, firing her gun as she did and killing another of the men.
Bullets slammed into the barrier behind her. She waited, breathing slowly and evenly, for Clint to
make a move and draw their fire. He did. She heard the arrow detonate, felt the pulse of another
explosion rush over her and ruffle the papers above her head, and she whirled and quickly took
aim. The gun in her left hand went off, and a man fell. The gun in her right hand went off, and
another man fell. She was a machine, aiming and shooting and dancing throughout the room.
She moved faster than their bullets, so much faster than them.

A soldier reached for her, but she sidestepped his hasty grab. She dropped one gun and rammed
the Widow’s Bite into his stomach. She kneed him in the chest and shoved the Bite into his neck.
Another man came up behind her, but an arrow pierced his hand before he could grab her. He
howled and staggered. A second arrow brought him down. Clint spun, using his bow as a
weapon against the next man. He hit him straight across the face. He nocked another arrow and
fired at the man beside Garanin. Natasha shot the ones guarding Brushov. Without the insanity
serum, these men were truly no match for them. They were cold experts at killing. They were
ruthless. And they were powerful.

A breath later, it was over. And now only the two monsters remained.

Neither of them moved. Natasha kicked away the burning wreckage of another desk. The lights
overhead flickered, some shot through and others knocked loose of their fastenings on the ceiling
and dangling from their wires. She pointed her gun at Brushov. For his own part, the general
merely stared at her. He was not threatened, hard and emotionless. He didn’t blink, didn’t drop
his gaze. Didn’t give her an inch of ground on him.

“Get on your knees,” Clint ordered. He had shouldered his bow and drawn his own handgun.
Sometime during the melee he’d been clipped in the leg by a bullet if the glistening spot growing
on his black pants was any indication. But there was no sign of any pain in his angry visage.
“Now. On your fucking knees. Both of you.”

Natasha never looked away from Brushov. The two men didn’t move despite Clint’s terse
demands and the guns pointed at them. This was not the first time they’d been threatened like
this. It would be the last time, though. The hatred burning in Natasha’s heart was wild and
unrestrained. Frustration washed over her, sharp and upsetting. “On your knees,” she hissed.

Brushov glared at her a moment more, a moment filled with pounding hearts and crackling fire
and the echo of gunshots. She refused to waver as he challenged her. She never would again.
She held the gun. She held the power. Mercy was hers to give or deny. His life was hers to
take. The silent war between them raged endlessly, it seemed, before Brushov finally submitted.
And when he knelt, Garanin did as well. Clint holstered his gun, pulling a zip tie from inside his
combat vest and approaching Garanin. “You’re coming with us.” He wrenched the man’s hands
behind his back and bound them. “You can tell us what you know before we put you out of your
misery.”

It hadn’t been part of the mission objectives, but it made sense. Garanin had his hands in so many
operations, had funded so much evil over the course of his life, that capturing him and allowing
the SHIELD interrogators at him could produce vital information. Once Clint secured him, he
hauled him to his feet by his arm and patted him down. He pulled a gun from the expensive suit
and tossed it aside. He pressed his own weapon to the back of Garanin’s head. “You are a fool if
you think you can break me,” Garanin said slowly, evenly. “And you are stupid if you think it
will matter.”

“It matters,” Clint said. “Let’s see you payroll evil from a cell.”
Garanin smiled wanly. Knowingly. “There are forces moving in the shadows. You think those
shadows are far from this thing you consider so sacred, but they’re not. There are shadows
everywhere, and the most damning are those you refuse to see.”

Clint hit him across the head. “Quiet or I’ll rethink letting you live.” Natasha glanced to him. His
expression was still stony, but she could see doubt flicker in his eyes. Doubt in her, she feared.
She would prove to him that she was no one’s weapon. She tightened her grip on her gun and
leveled it at Brushov.

Brushov smiled again. It was a hideous expression. He hadn’t often done it, but every time he
had it had been out of cruelty. Every time since that first time he’d smiled at her on the streets of
Volgograd. “So you’ve completed your mission. And now you come to kill me as if that can
vindicate you,” he said. His eyes were filled with malice, with amusement. Emerging from that
apathetic mask was the true nature of the monster. His lust for pain. Sadism. Viciousness. He
chuckled. “All the things I have taken from you, Natalia, and he was the one thing for which you
fight.”

“He’s got nothing to do with it,” Natasha snarled. “This is for me.”

“I taught you to lie better than this. Running to SHIELD has made you weak. You’re nothing
more than Captain America’s whore.”

Natasha stiffened in shock and hurt. Clint’s eyes widened furiously. “You son of a bitch!” He
turned his gun on Brushov. “Shut the hell up!”

Brushov saw her reaction. He saw through her masks. He always had and always would. He
was digging his claws into her heart and ripping her to shreds. “You’re his whore now instead of
mine, but a whore still. Incapable of love. Did he know the truth about you before you shot
him?” She flinched. “Pathetic, Natalia. I taught you not to feel, but obviously you did.
Obviously you never stopped. Have you learned your lesson this time?” The gun wavered
slightly. “If you wish to feel, then tell me: how did it feel to pull that trigger? How did it feel to
take his life?”

“This isn’t about him!”

“Then do what you came here to do,” Brushov calmly ordered. His eyes glowed with insanity.
“Be what I made you to be. An assassin. A murderer.” He smiled. “Black Widow.”

At that, her hand shook. Her eyes stung with tears, and the world burned and blurred and shifted
around her. Her finger twitched upon the trigger, aching, itching, stiffening. Those memories
spilled again from the hole in her heart where her control had held so firmly for so many years.
They rushed over her, brutal and efficient as they eviscerated her will. Those evil things she’d
done. The red in her ledger. The unspeakable acts this man had made her commit. He deserved
to be killed. He deserved to suffer for what he’d done to her and the countless other victims of his
Red Room. For what he’d done to Alexei and for what he’d done to Steve. This was the right
thing to do. It wasn’t murder. It was justice. She was an agent of SHIELD, and she was going to
complete her mission. She was going to execute him.

But she hesitated.

Clint was watching her. His worry reached across to her, raw and desperate. “Nat, don’t do it,”
he said. He shook his head out of the corner of her eye. “He’s playing you. Don’t.”

Brushov’s smile grew wider and more confident. More anticipatory. Like a monster toying with
his prey. And suddenly, even though she held the gun, he had all the power again. He always
did. He always did. “And once more you fail,” he said. “SHIELD has ruined you. He has
ruined you. Compassion is weakness, Natalia.”

“It is not,” she snapped. Her voice was rough and pinched in hardly restrained emotion. It’s not
weakness. Steve taught me that. Steve taught me. She wanted to tell him that Steve had proven
him wrong, that he’d defeated the Red Guardian without ever letting go of what he was and the
things in which he believed. She wanted to tell him that Clint had spared her, had trusted her
when no one else had, had helped her when no one else would. She wanted to tell him that Nick
Fury believed in her, that he treated her as more than just an asset and always had. That
compassion was what had turned her feet upon the right path. But the words wouldn’t come.

“It is,” Brushov insisted. “It is the most damning weakness of all. You know this.”

Her heart shuddered in her chest. All the times she had held her victims at gunpoint, just as she
held this man now, and felt nothing as she’d pulled the trigger. No sympathy. No guilt. Power
and purpose. She wanted that now. She wanted it back because the pain inside was crippling.
She felt so much now. So much. It was overwhelming. It was crushing and devastating. It was
damning. This was what she wanted. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to end him. But she
couldn’t make herself do it.

The gun shook. A tear escaped the rim of her eye and spilled down her cheek.

Suddenly Brushov scowled in disgust. He was disappointed. She had failed him. That look had
heralded so much suffering. Lessons rendered in pain and anguish. Lessons applied through
terror and torture. “So much potential wasted.” He shook his head. “You’re damaged beyond
repair. Unfit for SHIELD. They will not take you back. I called, and you came home to me. I
told you to kill Captain America, and you did.”

She gasped on a sob, taking a step closer until she towered over him. She shoved the quivering
gun to his forehead. Some part of her knew he was taunting her, manipulating her. She knew he
knew he had lost, that this would inevitably lead to his death, and he was trying to lash out at her
one final time. He was trying to take her again, trying to take everything she had built for herself,
everything that she loved and wanted and needed. But she was too broken and brutalized to not
fall into his trap.

“Shut up!” Clint’s voice cut through the murderous storm in her mind. “Nat, don’t do this! Walk
away!”

Brushov ignored him. “You gave yourself to me, Natalia. I told you once that I never give back
what I take. Kill me now or let me live. It doesn’t matter. You ran away, but you were never
free. You can never escape.”

“Natasha! Stop!” Clint was begging. He sounded far away. “Stop!”

“Nobody can save you from yourself.” Seductress. Murderer. Black Widow.

“Nat–”

“You wish to feel love? You wish to be loved? Never. Nobody can love you. Nobody.”

The fire burned inside her again. Fury. Hatred. Insanity. Pull the trigger.

“And nobody else will have you again. You belong to me, Natalia.”

Pull the trigger!

 “Natasha!”

A gun fired. Natasha recoiled in shock as Brushov’s blood splatted on her hands and his body
pitched forward to the ground. She looked down at his limp form at her feet, at the red spreading
from the holes in his head all over the gray floor. He wasn’t moving. He was dead. It took her
overwhelmed mind a moment to realize that. And a seeming eternity passed before she realized
that she hadn’t killed him.

Clint lowered his gun. His sharp gaze was focused on Brushov’s body. He unloaded the rest of
his clip, shooting until every bullet had been pumped into the limp form on the floor. Then he
looked up at her. He stared at her, his hazel eyes filled at first with unhinged and dangerous fury,
with that awful insanity, but everything faded with a blink and a slow breath. After, there was
sadness and relief. The room was silent as they stood, reeling in the aftermath. Fires burned.
Smoke swirled. The nightmare was over.

Brushov was dead.

“He can’t hurt you anymore,” Clint finally promised.

She couldn’t comprehend the enormity of that, of the fact that this thing that had been of part of
her for so long, for her whole life, was finally lying defeated at her feet. It didn’t seem real. None
of it seemed real. What he’d done for her. Why he’d come. He’d known exactly how to help
her. How to save her. He always did. “Clint–”

“Let’s go.”

They did. The fire spread, uncontained, unabated, unrestrained. The lab was burning. The Red
Room was burning. They let it burn to the ground. As the two SHIELD agents took their
prisoner back to the jet, it began to rain. The flames hissed and sputtered behind them, clouds of
white smoke reaching into the evening sky like the ghosts of the tortured and maimed and
murdered finally escaping hell in search of salvation.

They flew away. Natasha watched it all disappear, a fog of fire and smoke and red rain. The
silence pressed, deep and unbreakable. She didn’t know what to think, how to feel. She was
numb. Everything was laid bare before her eyes, drifting freely through her thoughts. But she
wasn’t afraid anymore. She wasn’t afraid.

Clint’s hand reached across the cockpit and took hers and squeezed hard. “You belong with us,”
he said softly. “You always have. And nobody can take that away from you.”

She was Natasha Romanoff. An Avenger. An agent of SHIELD.

She closed her eyes and thanked him for saving her life again.

Chapter End Notes

Gde General Brushov? – Where is General Brushov?

Vnizu. Vnizu, v laboratorii. – Down. Down in the laboratory.
Spasibo. – Thank you.
Krasnaya komnata. – The Red Room.
 Chapter 13

She was gone from him.

Clint knew Natasha better than anyone. He thought he knew her better than she knew herself
sometimes. He was the one who’d been sent to kill her, to eliminate the threat Black Widow
posed to the world. That was the mission he’d been assigned by Fury, but after fighting the
infamous assassin and somehow managing to best her, after seeing the light in her eyes underneath
the cruelty and coldness, he’d assigned himself a different mission. Bring her back. Remake her.
He’d never admitted it to anyone (not even to himself really) but if Fury hadn’t agreed to his new
objective, he would have walked. That was how strongly he felt that Natasha was worth saving.
That was how strongly he believed it could be done, that he could do it. That it needed to be
done.

After all, if no one had given him a chance… He preferred not to think about it.

But Fury had agreed. It hadn’t been an easy task, cutting through the training, digging down
below the torment and conditioning and brainwashing. He’d learned of the horrors of the Red
Room without ever being told. He learned from the scars on Natasha’s heart, from the damage to
her psyche, from the nightmares through which he had held her and the flashbacks out of which
he had brought her. Clint was tough, and he’d seen and lived through and done some pretty
horrible things. But this… The damage had gone deep, so deep that for a while he’d wondered if
he could even get through to her. If this caged animal, tortured and injured beyond feeling, could
ever come out of hell. But he’d been persistent, surprised by his own patience and tenderness,
coaxing the woman out from the monster. He’d stood by her on her first missions, training her,
but learning from her, too. He was her partner. Her friend. He’d let her hurt him because he
knew he could take it, physically in the sparring ring, emotionally in the bedroom. He’d let her
shut him out when she’d needed to. He understood her because when he looked at her he saw
just a bit of himself. He’d taught her about SHIELD, about taking who they were with all of that
power and violence and turning it into a tool for good. They knew all of each other’s worst
secrets through looks and touches and deep silences. Words weren’t necessary. Details weren’t
necessary. And as she’d come out of that darkness, she proven herself time and time again to be
an asset. A hero. A good person.

But this threatened to ruin all of that. And he felt so goddamn helpless.

He should have been firmer. He tried to never tell her what to do. Their pasts weren’t similar,
though they had both been hired murderers, but Clint had always made his own decisions. In
some ways, that was worse. In others, it wasn’t, because for him it was always a matter of shifting
his moral compass and keeping it aligned with the right direction. Natasha had been handled,
controlled by someone else, for much of her life. It was difficult for her to form her own
opinions. She hid it (and all of her other issues) so remarkably well that he didn’t think anyone
noticed. She had a hard time seeing the right course of action, rather than seeing it and
consciously choosing to avoid it. She’d gotten so much better about it in the last years as she’d
risen through the ranks of SHIELD. She was so well-adapted, leveraging all of her considerable
skills in convincing everyone of what she wanted them to see. She wanted them to think she was
okay, and honestly, she had been. She’d closed the door on the darkness, putting it all behind her
and throwing herself into her new life. She laughed and smiled and felt things, real things like
trust and loyalty and companionship, and it wasn’t just an enthralling act. It was true and
genuine. She knew right from wrong now, at least within the confines of their lives as spies and
assassins where everything was admittedly gray and foggy. But she knew the worth of life, of
compassion and sympathy, of staying one’s hand. Clint had tried to never make her decisions for
her, steering her in hopefully the right direction (although, in their line of work, it wasn’t always
easy to find it). This time, however, he should have told her what to do. He should have stopped
her.

He was a goddamn moron. He couldn’t have stopped her. For someone who’d spent her life
under the control of another man, Natasha was surprisingly stubborn. So he’d done for her the
only thing he could have. He watched her coming apart before him, thrust into the very hell from
which he’d barely pulled her six years ago. Confronted with the very man who’d made her. He’d
known it could only end with her going back to the darkness the minute Brushov’s eyes had
shone with that sadistic hunger he’d seen in so many evil men in the past. If she had killed him,
Clint would have lost her.

To say he hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t enjoyed it, would have been a lie. He wasn’t above
vengeance. He knew how badly Brushov had scarred her, and he hated it. In some ways, this
man had haunted him, too. But he’d done it for her. He’d done it to spare her.

Still, it didn’t matter because she was gone from him. Not in the way he’d feared, but gone from
him all the same. It hurt in a way he wasn’t expecting. She sat beside him in the co-pilot’s chair,
silent and empty. Aside from that soft and shaken “thank you” she’d uttered as they’d flown
away from the burning remains of the Red Room, she hadn’t said a thing. She hadn’t even looked
at him. She’d gone through the motions, keeping an eye on their prisoner, stowing their weapons,
piloting the jet for a moment so he could see to his bleeding leg. He’d seen her withdraw before,
pulling everything into herself with that deadened glaze in her eyes and that empty expression on
her face. He’d always found this more frightening, Natasha without her heart, without her soul,
fleeing back into that place deep inside where she couldn’t feel. She was trying to escape the
miseries, the undeniable truths, the mistakes. Her own weaknesses and fears and pain. He’d
brought her out of the past and away from the shadows. But he didn’t think he could bring her
out of that place. Only she could do that. And he didn’t have faith, as fundamentally shaken as
she was by the insanity serum and her encounter with Brushov and what she’d done to Rogers,
that she could save herself. He could see it all slipping away.

And he didn’t know what to do to stop that.

He capably guided the quinjet into the hangar bay of the helicarrier. It was late. He was tired. He
felt like he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in days. That burst of energy that came from fighting
and killing had faded, and now he was worn and fatigued. This was over, at least. He’d brought
Natasha home again, as whole and preserved as he could manage, and maybe in time she could
heal. The Red Guardian was dead. Brushov was dead. The Red Room had been razed to the
ground. It was all over.

No, it’s not.

The minute he set the jet down and taxied to a stop at the end of the long row of idle aircraft, he
saw the STRIKE Team emerge from the rear of the bay. Led by Rumlow, what remained of the
once powerful group stalked toward them. They were armed. Clint held his breath, staring
through the windshield of the cockpit after powering down the jet’s engines and switching off its
systems. Rumlow gestured to Rollins and a few others, and the team broke apart to flank the jet.
They disappeared around to the rear. Clint sprung from his seat and exited the cockpit quickly.
He grabbed a gun from the rack and loaded it.

Lights had flooded the fuselage. Natasha was preparing to move Garanin, pulling him up by his
arm after slicing the zip tie around his ankles with a knife. She looked at him questioning eyes.
“Rumlow’s here,” Clint explained.

She understood. Her face was still stoic, but a flash of sadness filled her eyes. “Clint, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Clint returned hotly. “I’ll distract them. Take the jet and go.”

She shook her head. “I can’t do that,” she said evenly. Calmly.

He wished he could be so composed. He knew what the STRIKE Team was here to do, and
there was no way in hell he was going to let them do it. She had to escape. If she needed to run
away from SHIELD, then that was what this had come to. No arguments or debates or lengthy
good-byes. She needed to go now before they arrested her or worse for what she’d done to
Captain America.

Rumlow was a vindictive prick. This had nothing to do with Captain America.

“I’m not going to let them take you,” he firmly declared. His heart was pounding, shuddering,
with the thought. SHIELD wasn’t what it used to be. SHIELD was ruthless now, striking those
who stood against it and damaged it. Threats were eliminated, not rehabilitated. He’d rather have
her as a fugitive, as difficult and dangerous as that was, than as a prisoner. Or a martyr. “I’m not
going to let that happen.”

“You can’t stop it,” she said softly. The acceptance in her eyes was striking, and it cooled his
anger. “I shot Steve.”

“It wasn’t you! Brushov made you do it!”

“It doesn’t matter. I told you. I knew what I was doing.” Her words were quiet, completely
serene. She wasn’t willing to fight. She wasn’t willing to stand up for herself. Just as she had
when they’d brought her in two nights ago, she was lying down. She was submitting. He saw a
glimmer of tears in her eyes and she looked away to hide them. “Nothing can change what I did.”

He couldn’t stand to see her so defeated. He’d gone through some pretty horrible experiences
with her, endured torture and war and fights gone to hell, weathered fear and loss and uncertainty.
She’d been there for him when Loki had taken him and turned his mind. Lately she’d been the
rock, the one assuring him, the one lifting him and carrying him when he sank too low. He’d
never seen her like this. That fire was gone. That fire that all her time as a weapon of the KGB
hadn’t extinguished… That fire he’d seen in her back when he’d rescued her… It was gone.

He couldn’t get it back. He couldn’t save her. Not from this.

But he sure as hell was going to try. He wasn’t going to let them take her without a fight.

He slammed his palm to the release for the ramp. The rear of the jet opened, the ramp descending
with a hydraulic hiss. Clint holstered the gun and stepped out into the hangar bay. The STRIKE
Team was waiting. He swept his eyes over them, those that were healthy enough from the assault
in Volgograd to be on duty. They were bruised and haggard and angry, spread out in a
threatening circle around the jet. Clint eyed them warily. Their guns were lowered. For the
moment. Rumlow stepped closer. “You know why we’re here,” he said. His tone was even and
level, not vicious but not caring either. “I’ve got to take her into custody. Let’s not make this
harder than it has to be.”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Clint asserted, glaring at the other man. The huge hangar was silent for a
long moment after that. No one spoke. The STRIKE Team was still, firm and unyielding. Clint
was just as unwavering. His anger exploded to the surface. “Come on, Rumlow! You know
her. You know she wouldn’t have willingly shot Rogers or hurt any of you!”

“I don’t know that,” Rumlow retorted, “and neither do you.”

“Brushov was controlling her! He was using her! She had no choice!” Clint struggled to keep
his temper in check. “All the missions you’ve done with her. All the times she’s fought by your
side and had your back and you’ve had hers… All of that doesn’t mean a fucking thing, does it?”

“I’m just following orders,” Rumlow stated, like that was now or ever had been a reasonable
excuse.

“Sure, you are,” Clint sneered. “Just like you followed Cap’s orders when he told you not to fire
on that ship?” Rumlow faltered slightly. Someone less perceptive than Clint wouldn’t have
noticed. “Yeah, I’ve been reading the reports. That tech you had with you during the op? He has
a different version of events than you do. And he pretty clearly remembers Rogers telling you that
he and Romanoff were not clear.”

Rumlow’s face hardened into a scowl. “Kid was scared shitless. He’s remembering wrong.
What? You gonna take the word of one tech stooge over the word of my entire team?” It was a
challenge, pure and simple, and when Clint didn’t take it, Rumlow smiled. However, his grin
slipped away in short order. “Now back off. Or are you going to betray us, too?”

“She didn’t betray you.” Clint tensed every muscle in his body. “If you want to arrest her, I want
to hear it from Fury.”

“Christ, Barton! What the hell is the matter with you? She shot Rogers in front of a dozen
witnesses! She held a gun to his chest and put a bullet in his heart while kissing him for God’s
sake!” Clint flinched. “That’s messed up, even for her. But then Black Widow kills her mates.
Everybody knows that. Everybody except for America’s Golden Boy apparently. I always
thought Rogers was naïve, but he’s really just stupid as shit.” Rumlow stepped closer, his lips
twisting in a cruel smirk, as he got into Clint’s face. Clint gritted his teeth. He knew Rumlow
expected some sort of retaliation, but he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. The other man
offered a little amused grunt of surprise. “Huh. Guess you really don’t care. Maybe you’re
pissed off she’s sweating up someone else’s sheets. That’s it, isn’t it?” Rumlow smiled
knowingly, his eyes simmering with that same sadistic glint that Clint had seen in Brushov and
dozens of demons before him. “Good thing for you she put your competition in a coma. It would
have been damn hard to win her back after she fucked Captain America.”

Rage didn’t begin to describe it. He knew what he had had with Natasha wasn’t secret. Neither
of them had ever spoken of it, but SHIELD was full of spies and people skilled at gathering
information. It was impossible to keep anything quiet and hidden. And it was impossible to
tolerate what Rumlow was saying. “You son of a bitch,” he snarled.

Rumlow’s amusement disappeared and his face returned to a stony frown. “Step aside and let us
do what we came to do,” he ordered.

Clint’s hand strayed to his weapon. “Not until I hear it from Fury.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Rumlow declared. “I’d rather not have to put you down, but I will.
You’ve been weak since Loki took you. Weak and pathetic. Even Fury thinks so. Why else
would he have you chasing a pair of freaking 084s around the world? Face it, Barton. You’re
out. You can’t protect her anymore.”

Clint narrowed his eyes. “Watch me.”

“Clint, stop.” The quiet voice from behind him stilled his fingers before they closed around his
gun. He turned and saw Natasha coming down the ramp of the jet, pushing Garanin as she did.
She looked around but somehow seemed to not see anything as though she was outside of her
body and watching from afar. She regarded them with dead eyes. “It’s not worth it.”
He knew what she was saying. He read between her words. I’m not worth it.

Suddenly guns were brought to bear and pointed at Natasha. The movement was sudden and
surprising though it had probably been inevitable. Clint drew his own gun and backed up to stand
in front of Natasha. He narrowed his eyes, glancing among the STRIKE agents encircling them.
He couldn’t believe it had come to this. This wasn’t SHIELD. This wasn’t anything for which he
wanted to fight. “You’re not taking her like this. If she needs to answer for her crimes, she’ll
come willingly. No guns. No force.”

“Did she say that? Or is that just what you wanted to hear?”

Clint glanced quickly around the team threatening them. He couldn’t take all of them. And even
if he was crazy enough to try, there wouldn’t be a way out. Maybe he could get them off the
helicarrier and to some place safe, but he knew better than anyone that there was no way to escape
SHIELD.

Natasha pushed Garanin roughly toward one of the STRIKE agents. The man stumbled and
floundered, fighting for his balance with his hands bound behind his back, before the agent caught
him. She raised her hands, staring evenly at Rumlow. “I said that,” she said, “and I’ll go without
a fight.”

Rumlow obviously hadn’t expected that. His brief look of surprise disappeared into a
disappointed sneer. “Wise move,” he commented. He signaled his team and they rushed in.

Rollins came first, huge and imposing. He looked downright excited to grab Natasha and shove
her forward. It took all of Clint’s strength to not move as he manhandled her to the others. But
when he slapped her down and wrenched her arms behind her back, he did move. He pointed his
gun at Rollins’ back. “Get the hell away from her!”

Every rifle in the room snapped to him. Rumlow pulled his handgun as well and aimed it at
Clint. “Back off! Drop the weapon!” Nobody moved. The tension was unbreakable. Rumlow
got angrier. “Drop it!”

Rollins pushed Natasha down hard, one hand in her hair and the other holding his weapon to the
back of her head. Her lip was split and bleeding, but she didn’t fight. “Payback’s a bitch,” he
spat, “You’ll suffer for what you did to Rogers and Perry. We got our asses kicked for you.”

“You hit her again and I swear to God I’ll blow your fucking head off,” Clint threatened.

“Enough!”

The loud command echoed from the other end of the bay. Fury quickly came closer, Hill with
him. His one eye was flashing in barely controlled warning, and his face was stern and wrathful.
He glared at the STRIKE Team as he pushed his way to the center of the circle. “All of you calm
the hell down!” he shouted. The anger in his voice was intimidating. “Guns down. Now.” Still
nobody moved. Clint could hardly breathe, his eyes trained on the muzzle of the gun pressed to
Natasha’s skull, his finger tight on the trigger of his own weapon. He wouldn’t stand down. Not
until they did. Fury was enraged that no one was obeying his order. “Now.”

Rumlow was the first one that caved. It looked like it was physically difficult and uncomfortable
for him to do it, but he dropped his arm and holstered his weapon. The other members of the
STRIKE Team had been waiting, waiting for their leader to make his move, because once he
acquiesced they all followed suit. Clint couldn’t help but notice and wonder where the hell their
allegiances were. He stood stiffly, watching as every gun was holstered or lowered, before easing
his own arm down. But he didn’t put his gun back on his hip.
If Fury noticed, he didn’t say anything. “You will not under any circumstances hurt Agent
Romanoff,” he said directly to Rumlow, “or I’ll throw you in detention with her. Understand,
agent?”

Rumlow didn’t make eye contact with Fury, but he lifted his chin slightly in defiance. “Yes, sir.”

Fury said nothing more, watching with unabashed disgust as Rollins pulled Natasha to her feet.
The burly man didn’t apologize, and his hands were only gentle now because the SHIELD
Director was observing his every movement. He took her arm and led her away, Rumlow
following but not before sending Clint a final sharp, arrogant glare. Clint ground his teeth
together, refusing to acknowledge the bastard because he didn’t deserve even so much as that,
instead focusing on Natasha while she and Garanin were escorted away. She didn’t turn, looking
down at her feet as Rollins tightly held her arm. Her posture rang of acceptance, shame, and
defeat, and it was so goddamn hard to keep still and watch her walk away. This wasn’t right.
Don’t let them take her.

But Fury slowly and subtly came to his side and brushed his arm and that was all he needed to
keep his feet still and his mouth shut. They watched until the STRIKE Team was across the
hangar and out through the double doors that led into the underside of the helicarrier. Then Fury
shook his head. “This had to happen,” he declared softly. “There wasn’t any other way.”

Clint couldn’t keep his anger under control anymore. “No other way? So she gets to take the fall
for this?”

Fury turned an angry, hurt glare at him. “I can’t stop that,” he snapped. “Even if Brushov
forcefully injected her with the serum, we have no proof. It’s only her word, and we know that
doesn’t carry much weight.” Clint bristled. “The World Security Council wants someone
punished.”

“We can let that happen!” Clint returned sharply. “We have to get her out!”

“What exactly would you like me to do, Barton? She shot Captain America! Whether or not she
was in control of herself, Rogers is in the ICU on life support because she pulled the trigger!
Somebody has to answer for that! We have nothing to corroborate her story, and I can’t fake it
this time!” Fury shook his head. The fire of frustration in his eye spoke as to how much this upset
him. He took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself. Clint had never seen the Director so
riled. Beside him, Hill stood taller, shooting her fellow agent a tense, guarded look. “I went
directly to Pierce, but he’s not willing to stand against the Council this time. My hands are tied.”
Fury sighed wearily, defeated. “The past always seeks its due.”

Clint gritted his teeth and tore his gaze away, furious and unsatisfied. This couldn’t be how this
ended. “You need corroborating evidence,” he said, his glazed eyes slowly focusing on the
concrete of the hangar bay beneath his boots. He grew more and more certain of himself with
each moment until he looked up and met Fury’s gaze. “I was there. I heard Brushov admit that
he injected Romanoff with the insanity serum. He confessed to it before we killed him. He
wanted her back, so he took her.”

Fury glanced to Hill. She folded her arms over her chest, eyeing Clint suspiciously. For his own
part, Clint stood tall even though his leg was killing him and he was exhausted. He kept his face
steely as Hill scrutinized him. “You sure about that?”

About what? Hill was too smart for her to actually be questioning his story, so that meant she was
questioning his reasons for lying. And he was damn sure. He’d done it dozens of times before,
and he was good at it. Lying was a simple thing. Lying was the least of his sins. And he’d lie
about anything to anyone to save Natasha. Plus it wasn’t much of a stretch. Brushov hadn’t
about anything to anyone to save Natasha. Plus it wasn’t much of a stretch. Brushov hadn’t
directly admitted to what he’d done to Natasha, but it had been pretty damn obvious. “Put my
name on it,” he said. “I’ll say it to whoever needs to hear it. Brushov forced her. She didn’t
willingly shoot Rogers or anyone else.”

Fury appraised him. Clint wasn’t going to back down. After another tense moment during which
Clint was certain the other man was silently and critically judging him, the Director finally
nodded. “Hill, make it official.”

“Is that enough?” Clint asked.

Fury’s gaze was cool and unreadable. “I guess we’ll see.”

He wrote a report. Signed an affidavit. Hill witnessed it, logged it, and suddenly this brash idea
he’d had was real. He couldn’t erase it or retract it or refute it (not that he wanted to). He’d
perjured himself. His account of Brushov’s confession concerning the serum was SHIELD
record, the truth insofar as the truth existed within the huge, sprawling intelligence organization
loaded with spies and killers. The truth insofar as there was such a thing to any of them. He knew
that Natasha hadn’t willingly shot Rogers like he knew he needed air to breathe or that the sun
rose in the east and set in the west, but there was no way to prove it. He had his faith and that was
it, but his faith wasn’t enough this time. Still, he didn’t care if he lost his job or went to prison or
went to hell for lying. He had to do something. He looked around now, at the agents and techs
and soldiers working on the helicarrier, colleagues and peers and acquaintances turned friends
sometimes, and wondered when it was that they had all started becoming such strangers to him.
He’d made a home at SHIELD, a home when he hadn’t had one or wanted one for years, and
suddenly it was a foreign, alien place to him. What was worse was that he’d made a home for
Natasha, too, and now she stood alone, a convenient scapegoat because the shit had hit the fan
and no one was willing to stand up for Black Widow.

After he’d filed his report, Hill staring at him knowingly the entire time but never calling him out,
he’d immediately trekked to the bowels of the helicarrier where the detention block was. His leg
was still bleeding and he was hungry and tired and desperately in need of a shower. He ignored
all of that and took the lift down. It was quiet and dark, very late with only a few guards on patrol
and manning the desk outside. “Sir, no one is cleared to see Agent Romanoff,” one of them
declared crossly as Clint approached. “Secretary Pierce’s orders.”

Clint didn’t know Pierce at all, so it was difficult to deduce the reasoning behind that. Was he
trying to protect Natasha considering she’d been branded a traitor and the STRIKE Team had
already been all too eager to dole out its own punishment and retribution? Or was he a cold
bastard who wanted Natasha to suffer in solitude and stripped of everything like the enemy they
thought she was? It didn’t matter because he didn’t feel one bit inclined to obey. “You want to
stop me, you go right ahead,” he said, letting the biometric scanner log his entry before stepping
through the security checkpoint. The guard clenched his jaw but didn’t say or do anything, and
Clint was immensely pleased after what Rumlow had said earlier that he still had the clout to
frighten other agents into submission.

Inside the darkened detention block, he walked quickly down the central corridor. On either side
were cells composed of gray walls and a large, shatter and bullet proof glass pane between the
hallway and the inside. Most were dark. Two further down the way were lit. The closer one was
Garanin, who’d traded his expensive suit of a criminal for the gray jumpsuit of a prisoner. Clint
didn’t even afford him a glance, stalking past his cell until he reached the end of the corridor.

The last cell was partially illuminated. Shadows covered half of it, draping over the sink and toilet
attached to the wall. Clint could see the edge of the cot. And he could see her legs, dressed in
that same drab, nondescript gray attire. Her body was pressed to the wall in the darkness, but her
legs were tucked to her chest. She had her arms wrapped around them. Her face was completely
hidden.

Clint sighed. Suddenly all of his fervent energy and devotion fled him as if it was seeping from
his weary body through his filthy skin. He didn’t know what to say. He’d never fathomed
something like this occurring despite who she had been. He’d foolishly believed that all of this
was far, far behind them. “Nat?” His voice was so loud in the quiet. Thunderous. There was no
answer. “Nat? Are you okay?” He peered into the shadows, but he couldn’t detect any
movement. What little he could see of her was completely still. She was using the blackness as a
shield. She was exceedingly well-versed in doing that. He released a slow breath again, fighting
to find some semblance of peace and control. He hadn’t felt any since the STRIKE Team had
come back bearing Steve’s dying body and Natasha’s broken spirit. “Nat, please… Please tell me
you’re alright.”

Her soft voice cut through the silence like a knife. “I’m alright.”

He knew she wasn’t telling the truth. Her breath hitched just slightly, her words filled with a
weak tremor, and Clint couldn’t help but think back to Brushov’s cruel taunt about Natasha
becoming such a poor liar. “I’m staying with you,” he swore. He lowered himself to the ground
gingerly. The gunshot wound in his thigh was bleeding again, and he smeared reddened soot on
the floor as he sat cross-legged in front of the spotless, glimmering window into her cell.

“You shouldn’t. You should go.”

“Nat–”

“I can’t take anyone else down with me,” came the emotionless response.

What she said soured Clint’s stomach because she never talked like that. Despite all of the trauma
she’d endured, she never embraced self-pity. When she cared, it was steadfast but silent, and she
never compromised herself. “Don’t talk like that,” he said, unbothered by the hint of disgust in his
tone. “You’re better than this, better than what he made you to be, so don’t give up.”

She said nothing. She didn’t argue with it or dispute it or agree with it. Like it didn’t matter, what
he thought and what he said. That made him angrier, and it took a few silent, tense minutes for his
ire to dissipate. He sighed again, shifting across the concrete floor so that he could lean his sore,
aching back against the glass wall of her cell. The quiet endured, vast and vacuous, drawing the
strength from their hearts into its gaping maw. Clint closed his eyes. Things filled his head, things
that he’d known were true but he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. He was a master at keeping
himself cool, at doing what needed to be done without getting emotionally disturbed or invested.
But once he let the first of those timid thoughts be heard, they grew louder and louder until the
next thing he heard was himself asking a question that he’d never thought he’d need to ask. “Did
you sleep with Rogers?”

It wasn’t any of his business, frankly, and she had no cause or reason to answer. Furthermore, it
had already been confirmed by the cruel words of both Brushov and Rumlow, words that had cut
far too savagely for them to be anything other than the truth. Still, he wanted to hear it from her.
Clint and Natasha had been lovers for a time, but they had never been in love. Love had no place
in their worlds, where sex was used for power or for control or for release. He knew her
intimately in ways that no one else ever would. He knew what gave her pleasure, what drove her
pain, what eased her when the darkness came too close. But he didn’t know her heart, not truly,
and he respected that. There was safety in detachment, safety in distance, and though he cared for
her, he’d never fallen for her. Not truly. So he felt he could honestly ask this question and that
she should honestly answer it. “Did you?”
There was accusation in his voice. Maybe even a bit of jealousy, if he could be honest with
himself. He thought she wouldn’t respond. “Yes.”

Clint closed his eyes in weariness and tipped his head back into the glass. “Nat, you should have
known better.”

She might have been crying. The slow pattern of her breathing changed ever so slightly, but he
didn’t turn to look at her because he knew she would never let him see. In the many times they’d
been together, worked together and slept together and fought together, she’d never let him see her
lose control. Still, he knew right away that she had done just that: lost control. And it was
because of Rogers. “I know,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

How many times had he told her to never let things get personal? How many times had he
warned her of that? And this wasn’t just some random guy she’d fooled around with. This was
Captain America, and the price for their indiscretion was too damn high. “It all came out.” Her
words were meek and teeming with pain and sorrow. “I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted him. I
needed him. I – I know I shouldn’t have… Because if I hadn’t…” She didn’t finish, but what
she left unsaid was clear. If she hadn’t fallen for him, none of this would have happened. Maybe
that wasn’t entirely true, but whatever she felt for Rogers had been twisted and tortured and had
fueled what she’d done to him, what Brushov had made her do to him. That frightened Clint
more than he could admit in front of her. Rogers had taken his place. And what had happened to
Steve maybe could have happened to him, had things worked differently. Had Fury not benched
him and reassigned her almost a year ago. Had he let himself love her. Had she loved him.

“He’ll want more than I’ve ever wanted from you.” It wasn’t a warning or a chastisement. It was
just a statement of fact. In all honesty, Clint had noticed weeks and weeks ago that something was
blossoming between Rogers and Natasha. He hadn’t spent much time with them, granted, but it
had been pretty obvious. Partners typically worked closely together, but their relationship was
going beyond that. It was the way he looked at her. It was the way she laughed with him, the
way she flirted with him like she was just a woman instead of a highly-skilled assassin. She was
open and comfortable with him. She seemed happy to be in his presence. Calm and relaxed like
she could finally let go of the last vestiges of her past and all of her training and become a new,
better person. Beyond, even, than what Clint could make her be.

“It doesn’t matter,” Natasha whispered. Now the hurt was there, and the defeat, and it was open
and raw and visceral. “None of it matters now.”

Clint didn’t know what to say. He wanted to comfort her, but there was no way to make this
better.

The conversation died. He sat, breathing slowly and evenly and deeply, compartmentalizing
because that was what he did when things were painful and frightening and disturbing. He didn’t
hear her again, not the shift of her body nor the sound of her breath. If she cried, she did it silently
and without any sort of request for solace. If she suffered, she didn’t want his help. It was like he
wasn’t there. It was like she wasn’t, either. A ghost ripped of her substance, of who she was and
who she wanted to be. She was gone from him. He knew it beyond any doubt. The shadows
pressed hard and fast.

Clint must have dozed in the many long, quiet minutes that followed because the sound of
footsteps pierced through the haze in his mind. He jerked to awareness, his typically sharp senses
scattered with exhaustion for a moment, as he sat up and looked down the hallway. The shadows
were still there, but he saw a darker figure moving among them. It was Fury. He rose to his feet,
his wounded leg crying out in pain at the motion. He turned to look behind him, to warn Natasha
that the Director was coming, but she was already away from the cot. She stood in the center of
the room. Her face was bruised but her eyes weren’t red. If she’d come apart, it wasn’t obvious.
She was cold and stiff but not weak.

Fury was flanked by a few of the guards and a few agents. Clint recognized them as belonging to
the administrative SHIELD office that interfaced directly with the World Security Council. They
were pencil-pushers and secretaries, but they were among the most powerful in SHIELD because
they held the keys to the offices of higher-ups, literally and figuratively. Nobody got anything
without their say-so. Sitwell was also there. He didn’t look pleased. Clint held his breath as his
heart started to pound. He was uncertain of what was happening but he knew he’d do just about
anything to stop SHIELD from unleashing its new form of justice on Natasha. Punishment for
crimes not yet committed. Punishment for things that were beyond control, beyond repair. “Sir,”
he said stiffly in greeting.

Fury didn’t acknowledge him with anything more than a glance. He looked into the cell, and
something passed through his eye. Regret. Grief. Anger. Disappointment. Clint couldn’t make
it out. “Agent Romanoff,” he said.

Natasha lifted her chin. That fire was back, Clint saw, and he was relieved for it. She wasn’t
going to go down without a fight. If there was to be a court martial, she’d defend herself. He’d
say whatever was necessary to aid her. And there were those who would vouch for her
character. He knew there were. They’d get through this. She wasn’t going to end up in prison.
“Director.”

Sitwell tapped at the pad he held in his hands, and one of the guards walked to the side of the cell.
He worked at the wall panel for a second, and the doors unlocked. Fury grabbed the handle and
pulled it open. “Captain Rogers woke up,” he said. “He corroborated Agent Barton’s statement
that you were forcibly injected with the insanity serum against your will and were unable to
control your actions at the time you shot him. He’s refusing to press charges against you. You’re
free to go.”

Natasha’s stoic expression shattered in shock. She looked at Fury, her cheeks whitening and her
eyes widening. She seemed as though she couldn’t believe it. Frankly, Clint couldn’t either. All
of this, the last few hellish hours that had threatened to stretch into a long battle of laws and
testimony and endless misery, was over, just like that. It seemed impossible.

Fury’s expression softened. He released a slow breath and held out his hand to her. “Come on,
Natasha,” he coaxed with surprising gentleness in his voice. “You’re free.”

A long, tense moment passed. Natasha still didn’t move, uncertainty freezing her body to its place
inside the cell. It was almost as if she’d been in there for days or weeks, not simply hours. But
then she took a step. And another. Tentative, as though accepting this, embracing it, would show
it to be false, a cruel trick or dream. She reached the door and stepped outside. She didn’t take
Fury’s hand.

They were all watching her. Sitwell in blatant repulsion. The guards in fear. Fury in relief. Clint
in worry. She never looked at any of them. She gathered herself, her shoulders firm and her head
held high, and walked down the hallway and back into the darkness.

After Fury had swooped in from on high and ended this nightmare before it had truly begun, Clint
found it within himself to go to the infirmary. His leg needed tending. He needed to eat and wash
the grime away and sleep. Fury had said nothing after his fateful announcement, sharing a look
with Clint that the archer couldn’t interpret before stalking away. He was having a hell of a time
figuring anything out, let alone people’s motives and choices. Despite how glad he was that this
seemed to be (as incredible as it was) concluded, he felt cheated and unsatisfied. On some level, it
couldn’t just end like this. That wasn’t fair to the people who’d suffered. Clint hadn’t even been
hurt, hadn’t been part of the hell that had befallen his friends, but he was angry about it all the
same. But he wisely chose not to cross or question Fury because there was something unhappy
and even guilty in the Director’s eye, like he’d been forced into doing something he hadn’t wanted
to do. Like his own hands were dirty and covered in dried blood. Maybe they were.

Clint had wanted to follow Natasha. Every inch of muscle inside him had tried, pulling taut and
itching with the desire, but his heart had known better. He’d let her go. She needed space and
time, and he could give that her. And if she didn’t want to be found, he would never find her. He
was concerned for her, but the very foundation of their relationship was trust and he couldn’t
betray that. It had wavered certainly these last few days, maybe even since he’d been benched so
many months ago, but it was still there. Maybe what he’d told the others about Brushov making
some sort of conveniently-timed confession had been a lie, but the fact that he’d had to lie about it
had somehow made the substance behind it true, if that made sense. Natasha’s past had dragged
her back into it. She never had and never would go willingly. He should never have doubted her.

And if there was someone who had the right to blame her for what had happened, it wasn’t him.
It wasn’t any of them.

A nurse patched up his leg. The wound wasn’t deep. She’d silently washed it, cleaned it, stitched
it, and bandaged it. He hadn’t made a sound of pain while she worked, lost in thoughts that took
him everywhere but nowhere. When she was done, he had a hole in his pants and a bandage
under it that looked pristine and white compared to the black, bloody, dirty cloth surrounding it.
He stopped trying to hide that it hurt as he walked away. Nothing seemed quite right as he moved
through the infirmary. She gave him painkillers, but he didn’t take them. That didn’t seem right,
either.

His feet carried him to Rogers’ room. He hadn’t meant to go there, but he found himself at the
door all the same. He looked and saw Hill standing at the foot of the bed. He stepped inside.

The door slowly closed behind him. Hill turned at his entrance. Her face was unusually open, its
stoic, disapproving frown for once replaced with something softer. Clint came closer, his eyes
shifting from her to Rogers where he lay unmoving in the hospital bed. The captain looked much
better than he had yesterday. He was off the ventilator. The doctors had inclined his bed slightly
so that he looked more like he was sleeping rather than dying. His bandages were freshly
changed, that same bright white in a world full of darkness. He was breathing slowly, steadily, as
the monitors beeped in time with his pulse. He looked peaceful. But he wasn’t awake. And he
wasn’t aware.

“How is he?” Clint asked.

Hill traded her weight to her other leg. She looked worn. “He’ll live,” she said. “The doctors
were pretty damn shocked. He’s going to need some more surgery to deal with his back. And his
leg. But he’ll live.”

The first light of dawn was coming through the window to their left as the helicarrier headed back
across the Atlantic toward the States. The illumination added healthy color to Rogers’ pale,
bruised flesh. Clint stared at him, at the way he was deeply unconscious, at the bags of blood and
saline and antibiotics and analgesics that were being pumped into him. Rogers looked like a damn
kid despite his huge frame and sizeable muscles. It was difficult not to feel sorry for him. Not to
be afraid for him. And not to respect him for the hit he’d taken to stop a madman and save the
world. Again. “Didn’t know you cared,” Clint said, returning his gaze to Hill.

“I’m not here to hold his hand,” she tightly returned. She had a pad with which she’d obviously
been working. “Fury wanted me to document his statements.” There was something in her
voice. Something guilty and irritated.
Clint grunted. “His statements.” He tried to picture it, Steve slowly returning to the waking world
after coming so close to dying. Those young blue eyes hazy with agony and confusion, blinking
and blinking and trying unsuccessfully to focus as Fury loomed over the bed and talked to him
and asked his questions. “He didn’t exonerate Romanoff, did he.”

It wasn’t a question. Hill lifted her chin slightly. “What do you think?”

“I think nobody’s going to question the Director of SHIELD,” Clint answered. “I think a lot of
people want this to be over. And I think even a super soldier coming out from under injuries this
bad wouldn’t be able to string a sentence together to save his life, let alone someone else’s.” And
even if Steve had been conscious and cognizant enough to actually speak, he was being loaded
with enough morphine to sedate a dozen men. He would hardly be in his right mind to carefully
dictate legally binding and trustworthy testimony. Fury could have put the words right in his
mouth. The look on Maria’s face told Clint that that was basically what had happened. “You’re
okay with that?”

“I’ve lied for SHIELD before. And so have you. Recently, I might add.”

“Not for SHIELD,” Clint said. This was wrong. They had no idea what Rogers really thought.
If he recovered from this and got back up and went back out there (which he would because he
was Captain America and Captain America never quit), he could very well not forgive Natasha
for what she’d done to him. They’d taken that choice from him, lied on his behalf, spoke in his
stead with words not his own. It was hypocritical for him to be angry about it, but he was. He
didn’t know Steve all that well, but the few times he’d spent working with him had proven the
soldier to be a good man. He didn’t think Steve would want Natasha punished. He’d forgive her,
no matter how badly he’d been injured, because he was naïve and kind-hearted and he saw the
best in everyone. But Clint couldn’t be sure about that. And good men didn’t lie or respect those
who did.

Good men. “I don’t know who I’m lying for anymore.”

There was a lot in that soft statement that he meant but didn’t say. He knew she would understand
because Hill was sharp and shrewd and extremely capable. Surely she’d noticed the same things
he had. SHIELD’s increasing reliance on fear and intimidation to get the job done. SHIELD
striking first. SHIELD changing from the inside out. She sighed softly, staring at Rogers like she
was questioning everything, too. But then she lifted her pad and went back to work. “I need to
get going. I have records to falsify.” Clint gave half a laugh at that, and she even smiled, which
for her was truly a rare occurrence. She turned and headed towards the door. She paused,
however, and looked back at him. “Fury did what he thought was right. He always does.” Clint
turned and met her gaze. He wondered if she was placating him or placating herself. She wasn’t
the type, but this was pretty much beyond anything they’d seen before. “SHIELD is about
protecting people who need protecting. That includes our own, doesn’t it?”

Clint thought about that long after she was gone. It wasn’t absolution, but it was justification, in a
way, and hope that everything to which he’d devoted his life was still here. Nobody was walking
away from this unscathed. Nobody was clean. He didn’t know how he felt, but he was sure they
could keep going. Finding the right direction was always the hardest part.

He stood, watching Rogers sleep and breathe, listening to the monitors and the steady pace of his
own heart in his chest. The sun was rising now, cutting through the clouds outside, and the day
seemed bright. Maybe brighter than it should have been, but it felt good.

Rogers groaned softly. A grimace twisted his face, and he turned his head on the pillows. Clint
came closer, laying his filthy hand over the injured man’s. He squeezed his fingers tightly, and
Rogers eased back into a deeper slumber. Clint released a slow breath. “When you wake up, I
need you to do something for me,” he said softly. “I need you to take care of her.” He smiled
weakly, calm and assured even though Rogers couldn’t hear him and couldn’t answer. “I know
you will.” A good man. He’d always done what he could for Natasha. Letting her go for good
seemed to be all that was left.

He headed to his bunk in search of a shower and sleep and but mostly for some peace of mind. In
spite of all of this, he didn’t think it would be too hard to find it.
 Chapter 14

Two weeks later

Steve’s first steps were the hardest. Even without the doctors reprimanding him, he knew he was
taking them too early. The crushing fact of how close he’d come to dying hadn’t really sunk in
yet, despite all the glaring evidence. He’d spent a week in the ICU, battling through surgeries that
were a blur of agony as the doctors tried to fix his back. He’d been too unstable for these
procedures before, and the damage had unfortunately begun to heal around improperly positioned
bones. He’d languished in the grip of pain for what seemed to be forever. He’d been feverish and
delirious, and nightmares had flitted across his mind. The Red Guardian. The war. Brushov and
the Red Skull. Peggy. Natasha. Unfamiliar hands and faces had surrounded him and calmed
him and cared for him with detached, professional concern. His muscles and bones, so weak and
battered and broken, hadn’t functioned at all, refusing to support him in even the simplest tasks, let
alone heed his commands. And his commands had been scattered and useless. He’d been
trapped, tormented and terrified, slipping in and out of consciousness against his will. But in his
moments of lucidity, when the pain had thankfully diminished to the point where he could think
and feel and recognize the world around him, the doctors had insisted he was recovering. He
simply needed to keep fighting and stay patient.

So he had. And after a week that simultaneously felt like no time at all and an eternity spent in
hell, he’d finally come back to himself. He realized almost instantly that he was in the medical
ward at the Triskelion, that some hazy memories he had of being moved hadn’t been a dream.
Keeping still was suddenly no longer an option to him, but sitting up was so much of a struggle
that walking seemed downright impossible. It had been frustrating, and the unrelenting ache and
crushing fatigue of his slowly healing body had compounded his misery. Still, with renewed
purpose and determination, he struggled through the pain, working with the therapists assigned to
him, fighting for every inch of ground in this battle. It had taken quite a bit of effort and practice
to get his strength back. Sitting. Standing. Getting one foot out in front of the other and then the
other foot out in front of the first without his damaged leg buckling or his broken back failing.
That had been when the truth of what had really happened to him, of how badly hurt he’d been,
had really struck him. Simple things like getting out of bed and bending over and walking seemed
insurmountable, forbidden by pain and weakness.

He had kept at it. After those initial excruciating, unbalanced steps, walking got easier.
Everything got easier. Another week passed, and he was standing and shuffling and finally
limping about on his own. His wounds were healing to fading marks, cuts, and bruises. The
hideously huge scar down his chest from where they’d cracked his ribs and sternum to repair his
heart was quickly becoming only an angry red line of puckered skin. Still, he tried not to look at
it. The internal damage was recovering as well, though his abdomen remained excruciatingly
tender. His range of motion was limited; his back was taking longer to recover given the amount
of damage done to it and how badly it had been aggravated by fighting with it so compromised.
He could walk and get himself up and straighten to his full height, but raising his arms was more
difficult and twisting his body at his hips was downright impossible. Patience. The physicians
and therapists kept advocating that, that he not push himself so much, that he give himself time.
The trauma he’d suffered was massive, and nobody could simply walk away from it, not even
him. The serum could bring him back and restore him to complete health, but it couldn’t be
rushed.

He had tried to wait. But the days wore on, as the lengthy seconds bled to even lengthier minutes
and then to an eternity of empty hours, and Natasha never came. His patience started to fail him.
And it wasn’t just Natasha. Nobody came. He felt like he was being isolated, kept apart from the
world as though people thought he was too fragile or too weak or too stupid to deal with whatever
had gone on during his convalescence. He knew something had gone on. He’d asked the nurses
if Natasha had visited when he’d been drifting in and out of consciousness, and they’d looked
sadly upon him and simply answered that she hadn’t. When he’d pressed why, it was always
“you look like you’re in pain” or “eat before it gets cold” or “let me help you sit up” or “try to
sleep, Captain Rogers”. He’d gotten more and more concerned and less and less appeased by
their kind but steadfast refusals to tell him anything. But he’d been trapped in that bed by their
watchful eyes and his own weak body. And his loneliness and fear and worry had mounted. His
chest ached miserably and not only because a bullet had torn through his heart. His mind raced
with questions, questions he couldn’t answer, and they pounded and tormented and drove him
mad until peaceful rest was an impossible dream no matter how tired he was and how badly he
hurt. Was Natasha alright? Had she escaped the hold of the insanity serum? Had SHIELD taken
her? Had she gone back to Brushov? Was she even alive? Where is she?

He could hardly stand the consuming power of his worry. That evening, though, Agent Hill had
arrived, bearing a tablet computer. Steve had been almost ecstatic to see her, thrilled that finally
someone had cared enough to come to him and talk to him. She’d been pleasant but as serious as
ever. She’d needed him to sign-off on some things, but she’d rushed through it like she thought
he was still too out of it to see what it was he was putting his name on. His quick eyes had
devoured the documents she had slid onto his lap. They were affidavits, statements that someone
was claiming he’d made. Hurt and betrayal had stung him deeply, and he’d refused to sign them
until she told him the truth, all of the truth, which she had albeit reluctantly. She had told him
everything, about SHIELD getting its hands on a sample of the insanity serum from Natasha’s
blood, about Fury sending Natasha and Clint after Brushov to kill him, about Natasha’s arrest and
subsequent release. About how Natasha’s continued freedom was contingent upon the statements
that he needed to sign. About all the things that had happened in the wake of their mission to
Crimea. After Hill had finished, he’d pressed his thumb to the fingerprint scanner on the pad to
digitally verify the documents and demanded someone get his uniform.

Now he was walking with as much strength and speed and grace as he could manage, holding his
head high as limped through the huge gray and marble corridors of the Triskelion. He knew he
looked as bad as he felt; his face was still bruised and littered with scabbed cuts and scrapes. His
eyes were hollow with fatigue and pain and they betrayed every bit of his close brush with death.
But he wasn’t going to be brushed aside. He wasn’t going to be used again. And he wasn’t
going to let this happen.

“You can’t do this,” he firmly said as he barged into Fury’s office. The Director was seated at his
desk, the massive screens on the other side of the room displaying a slew of images concerning the
world’s worst terrorists and criminals. He turned at Steve’s entrance and regarded him coolly,
having the computer pause in its analysis. Steve fought to keep the grimace from his face as he
walked closer, fought to keep his body from trembling and his stride strong. Cold sweat beaded
on his brow and across his back, but he ignored the uncomfortable shiver tickling him and stood
tall. “You can’t let her do this.”

“You should be in the med bay,” Fury said sternly, not at all convinced by his display.

“To hell with that,” Steve snapped. “You can’t send her out there! She’s not ready.”

“That’s Agent Romanoff’s decision,” the Director returned matter-of-factly. He shut down his
computer screens around his desk and leaned back in his chair. Behind him the evening was gray,
the DC skyline coated in thick, soupy, gloomy clouds. A few wayward droplets of rain splattered
against the windows. “And I’m not ordering her out there. She wants to work. She asked for the
missions. I have plenty to give her.”
Steve released a breath that was shakier than he liked. “She asked,” he repeated incredulously.
“And you think she’s thinking straight? After everything she’s been through.”

“I think Agent Romanoff can make her own choices,” Fury responded, not appreciative of Steve’s
harsh tone. “And I think her choices are her own business, not mine and not yours.”

That was pretty laughable, coming from him. And, to put it bluntly, Steve didn’t give a damn
what Fury thought. “I know what happened with Brushov. I know you sent her out there to kill
him when she was barely over the withdrawal from the serum. She was compromised, and you
sent her to murder the man who tortured her and raped her and turned her into a serial killer. You
think blood washes away blood?”

“I think sometimes vengeance is the only answer, the only way to screw your head back on
straight after something this bad happens.”

“That’s bullshit!” Steve snapped. He winced and fought to restrain his temper. Somebody should
have told him earlier that Natasha had assassinated Brushov. More than that, though, somebody
should have stopped her. He’d promised her back in Yalta that they would stop Brushov, that
they would prevent him from hurting anyone else. But there was a difference between killing a
man and murdering him. Murdering him had never been the answer. Murdering him was the sort
of thing he would have wanted, something that he would have used to lure Black Widow back
into his control. The cost of his life was insignificant. The Red Guardian had meant nothing.
The serum had meant nothing. It had always been about his control over her, and if she’d shot
him in cold blood… “She’s not ready to go back into the field. You didn’t see what this did to
her, Nick. You didn’t see how low he brought her. I did, and I’m telling you: she’s not ready.”

Fury’s expression softened. “Look, Cap, I’m not ordering her to go. I mean that. She and Barton
took Garanin into custody, and he’s been nicely ratting out quite a few of his business associates.
There are messes all over the globe to clean up. Bad men who are up to evil things. We have an
unprecedented opportunity to hit them now, before they have a chance to hurt more people or
even prepare for our attack. She wants to be a part of that, and I don’t blame her. This is personal
for her.”

Considering how much Natasha thrived on and relied on how impersonal she was in her work,
that wasn’t much consolation. “She doesn’t need to make amends.”

“She feels she does. We could use her. She gets the job done better than anyone else ever has or
ever will.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “You ever stop to ask why?” Fury’s jaw tightened ever so slightly.
“Or are you too busy trying to strike first to care about the things that get sacrificed on the way?
Things like trust.”

Fury sighed. He respected Steve enough to look ashamed. Either that or he was afraid of losing
Captain America as his asset. Steve wasn’t sure which anymore. “You want to sit?” he asked,
gesturing to one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. Steve glanced at it, part of him
adamantly wanting to remain standing as a show of his obstinacy and strength. However,
everything from his sore left leg to his tender abdomen to his throbbing back told his ego he was
being absolutely stupid and demanded that he rest, so he sank gingerly into the chair. “I’m sorry
about deceiving you. Secretary Pierce wanted the serum. He wanted to neutralize it before it
became a problem.”

“And that was it?” Steve asked. He didn’t know Pierce. He’d never met him. But rumor had it
he was powerful and not afraid to get his hands dirty to get what he wanted. He was ambitious,
and it didn’t sound like it was always for the right reasons. That was more than enough to make
Steve suspicious.

Fury narrowed his eye. He didn’t like being questioned, especially like this, and Steve knew it.
“That was it.”

Steve shook his head. “Then why the covert op? Why all this secrecy? Why not send the
STRIKE Team in off the bat to shut the whole thing down and bring the serum out?” And then it
really came down to it. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Fury looked down to his desk. It was as
much of an admission of guilt as Steve had ever seen from him. “If this was about neutralizing a
weapon, that you do with as much help and cooperation as you can get. That you do with your
friends and allies working with you. This? This was a sneak and grab. This was stealing it, pure
and simple. I’m not an idiot. I know why you didn’t tell me.”

“You’re paranoid, Cap. Jumping at shadows. And you should know better than to question the
orders of your superiors.”

“The day I stop questioning my orders is the day I quit,” Steve answered tightly. “I’m not a
weapon.”

“Neither am I,” Fury returned, “but I know the world isn’t black and white. Sometimes you have
to steal and cheat and kill to do the right thing.” That didn’t satisfy Steve. The ends justifying the
means was never a viable defense in his book. Neither was ignorance. “Pierce had faith in me to
get the job done. I knew I needed to get you in there to put down whatever super soldier Brushov
had created, and I knew I needed Romanoff to get the serum out. I played it strategically because
I had to. I’d tell you I had no choice, but you probably wouldn’t believe me.”

“No choice,” Steve repeated. “I suppose you also had no choice when you lied about me waking
up from a coma to drop the charges against Natasha.”

Fury didn’t so much as blink. “Would you have pressed charges?”

“No, I wouldn’t have. But that’s not the point. Once you start compromising, even with good
intentions in your heart, it gets harder and harder to stop. Once you start looking the other way
and turning a blind eye, it gets harder to see anything clearly. And suddenly you’re down a road
you never meant to walk wondering how the hell you got so far away from what you wanted.”

“I don’t need a lecture from you.”

“You put me in an impossible situation. I had to lie.”

“I wasn’t about to let the Council make an example out of Romanoff. I had no options and no
time, so I did what I could. Nobody got hurt.”

Nobody got hurt. That wasn’t entirely true. And maybe it seemed that way because the damage
went deeper below the surface where people couldn’t see it. Or where they could choose not to
see it. Steve sighed irately, looking away from Fury and running his hands down his legs to grasp
his knees. Suddenly his strength wavered and his energy failed him. “You have to convince
Natasha not to go,” he said softly. “She can’t just… give herself back to this. It’ll destroy her in
the end.”

“These are simple missions. Low exposure. Recon and report in.”

Steve grunted a chuckle at the irony. “You mean like the last simple recon mission we did?” he
muttered. “Look how well that turned out.”

“You know a hell of a lot about picking yourself back up when you fall,” Fury said. “So does
she. Let her.”

For a moment, Steve wondered if maybe he should. Maybe it really wasn’t his place to say
anything. Natasha could certainly take care of herself; she had lived through horrors that Steve
couldn’t possibly fathom surviving. She was hardened, strong, and stubborn. She had never
asked for help. Yes, she did. It just hadn’t been with her voice. It had been with her eyes,
frightened to look into his, tentatively searching for acceptance and forgiveness. It had been with
her lips, passionately seeking her own pleasure but wanting his more. It had been with her hands,
desperately clinging to him in a moment of weakness. Maybe he was reading too much into it all,
but he didn’t think that she was so strong as to rise again in the face of her past and pretend it had
all been nothing. She needed someone to help her now. She wasn’t grounded. She wasn’t in
control. She hadn’t been from the moment they’d left DC all those days ago. If she went back
out there to lie and manipulate and murder, she would lose herself.

He couldn’t let that happen. “If you won’t talk her out of it, then at least let me go with her,” he
said.

“If she’s not ready to be out in field, then you’re definitely not,” Fury remarked coolly. Steve felt
the Director’s keen eye analyze him. “You’re not invincible. The hit you took was substantial.
You honestly think you can go out there and fight?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Steve answered.

Fury wasn’t convinced. “You need time to get yourself back together. And even if you don’t
blame her for what happened, you need time to sort it out.”

He didn’t blame her. Not one bit. And he found the double standard repulsive. “So I deserve
time to heal and she doesn’t?”

“She doesn’t need it.”

The anger came back. “If you won’t send me, send Barton. Send somebody with her.”

Silence came between them again, awkward and laced with weariness. Steve looked away,
feeling tired and defeated. The pain was really starting bother him. His chest and back ached so
fiercely that breathing was a trying venture for a moment. He knew he could be naïve. He knew
what people thought of him and his morals. Sometimes he felt like he was the only person around
here who did the right thing no matter what it cost. He couldn’t trust Fury. He couldn’t trust that
he’d done the right thing with the insanity serum, that SHIELD’s researchers weren’t trying to
turn it into their own weapon. He couldn’t trust that Fury was keeping Natasha out of prison
because he feared losing her rather than feared losing one of SHIELD’s top agents. He couldn’t
be sure of anything anymore.

“When Barton first brought Romanoff before me six years ago, I was hesitant. He wasn’t the first
agent we sent after her. She’d killed three before him. And he was supposed to take her out, but
he questioned his orders–” At that Fury gave him a long-suffering look. “–and decided to take her
prisoner instead. And he went through hell and high water to convince me to bring her on and
give her a chance. I’ve never seen him fight so hard for someone, not even for himself.” Fury
leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his desk and folding his hands in front of him. “She was
the best I’d ever seen. The best spy. The best assassin. An unbelievable asset. She got it done
like no one else could. She could go in, get what we needed, eliminate the threat, and get back
out without anyone ever knowing she was there. Barton was completely right about her. But
still…” He sighed a little as though he was displeased. “I knew what she was. I knew what she
would always be. Maybe she’s not the same person she was when he brought her to me, but that
monster I saw inside her is still there. That sort of darkness taints everything you are, everything
you see and hear and feel. That sort of darkness doesn’t go away. That sort of darkness is damn
hard to kill.”

“Nobody is beyond saving,” Steve tightly said.

“You don’t need to save her. You’re her partner,” Fury reminded, “not her keeper.”

“I’m her friend,” Steve corrected.

Now it was Fury’s turn to chuckle, and it hurt to see him do it. It might have been good-natured,
but it felt demeaning. “Just that, huh, and not something more? Rumor has it that things got a
little close between you two. Maybe too close.” Steve flushed in embarrassment and anger and
averted his eyes. He wasn’t ashamed of what he had done, of what he had let happen. He wasn’t
even ashamed that it had apparently become gossip fodder. But he was angry and bothered as all
hell that it had been used against Natasha, both by Brushov and anyone else looking to hurt her.
And he was angry that what he felt for her was being treated like it was nothing. “Look, Cap, I
don’t know what went on between you and Romanoff and I don’t care. But don’t let whatever
you think you feel get in the way. One of the reasons I put the two of you together is I hoped she
would teach you something about distance. She’s an expert at emotional detachment.
Compassion doesn’t always have a place here. This is SHIELD.”

The last of Steve’s restraint eroded. Ignoring the pain flaring through him, he stood. “You’re
right. This is SHIELD, and I’m seeing more and more that SHIELD isn’t what I hoped it was.
You want to talk about following orders? You want to talk about trust? It’s earned, not given. It
means doing the right thing all the time, not just when it’s convenient or easy. Compassion
always has a place. It’s not weakness. Giving someone a chance is not weakness. If you thought
that, you would have never done it for her when she was brought to you.”

“Things weren’t as complicated back then,” Fury stated as though that could be an excuse. “I had
more latitude than I do now.”

Steve glared at the other man, breathing hard now but not caring. Fury had basically admitted he
was at the whims of Pierce and the Council, and that more than anything reinforced Steve’s belief
that he’d been right to defy orders and do what he’d done. “You know why I got back up? You
know why I went after Natasha by myself, why I didn’t call for backup?”

“To stop Brushov and put down the Red Guardian,” Fury coolly answered. It was clear from his
tone his own temper was fraying. “You were afraid somebody would tell you not to. You
decided to be a hero rather than a soldier and an agent of SHIELD.”

Fury still didn’t get it. Steve gritted his teeth. “No,” he said. “Brushov had to be stopped, but that
wasn’t the reason. I got up for Natasha. I would have rather fought a mad man with my back
broken than trusted you not to hurt her.”

His words struck hard. It might not have been overly noticeable, but Fury’s eye widened slightly.
His taut expression loosened. His form slumped just a bit. These were small things, but Steve
saw them. Not many people could stun Nick Fury into silence. Steve wasn’t sure he wanted this
dubious honor. He was unhappy that it had come to this. “You’re wrong,” Fury finally
managed. “You know it.”

“Am I? If I hadn’t been there, would Rumlow have brought Natasha back alive?” Fury didn’t
answer, and that alone was enough to convince Steve that the other man knew he was right. It
was all there. Pierce wanting the serum. Rumlow firing on Brushov’s ship while he and Natasha
had still been aboard. The STRIKE Team’s cruel and vicious treatment of Natasha. The lies and
manipulation. All of the missions where they had shot first and asked questions later. Something
wasn’t right. He’d been trying to ignore it for months, but now it was impossible not to admit it.
“I think the writing’s on the wall, Nick. You need to see it now before it’s too late. Getting the
job done is one thing. But getting it done the right way is another. And the way I see it?
SHIELD is starting to only care about power. The power to strike first and hard. The power to
cause fear and the power to control people. That’s what this mission was about from the
beginning. Power. Brushov had it, and you wanted it.”

Fury was losing his patience. He stood as well. “The world isn’t what it was,” he said. “Back in
your day, you could see your enemies. They stood at podiums right in front of you and
broadcasted their evil intentions. We have to be smarter. We have move faster and strike harder
and anticipate better because the world is filled with shadows. This shadow might be nothing but
that one might be a terrorist driving a nuke into a city or a madman dumping poison all over the
world. I don’t have the luxury of doubt, Captain.”

“I joined SHIELD to keep the world safe,” Steve said.

“And that’s what we’re doing,” Fury returned. “The best way we can.”

“You sure about that? Because I’m not.” Steve crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his
weight off his bad leg. “I joined SHIELD because I believed you were doing the right thing. I
still want to believe that, Nick. But if I find you’re not, I won’t just walk away. I’ll take a stand.
And I’ll take the whole thing down.”

He expected anger. But Fury only looked at him in sad understanding. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

At that, Steve walked out. He kept himself tall and straight until he got out into the hallway. And
then he took three steps and sagged wearily, leaning against the wall. He drew a deep breath,
gathering his composure and rising above the pain, lingering for a moment as his heart pounded.
After what felt to be a long time, he stood straight again. He walked down the hall and rounded
the corner toward the elevator.

And he ran right into Natasha.

She collided with his chest. She immediately backed away from him as though he’d burned her.
His eyes widened and his heart leapt. “Nat.”

She turned her expression into steel. “Captain.”

Her cool acknowledgment took him aback. He looked her over. She wore her combat suit. Her
make-up was perfect, her hair vibrantly red and straight upon her shoulders. She looked every bit
like she had before they’d been sent to Crimea. Bold and beautiful and dangerous. But her face
was pale and her eyes bore the scars she didn’t otherwise show. So much had happened since
he’d seen her last. And he knew right away that everything he’d said to Fury, everything he’d
feared, was true. She was lost and hurting. Underneath her cool exterior, she was unraveling.
“Nat–”

“Don’t,” she warned lowly, brusquely. She pushed past him.

Steve swallowed through a dry and aching throat. “Don’t what? Don’t talk to you? Don’t care
about you?” She stopped. Her shoulders were stiff as she stood there, staring down the corridor
toward Fury’s office in frustration. Steve refused to waver even as the long, uncomfortable
silence stretched between them. He gritted his teeth and crossed the small distance back toward
her and set his hand on her shoulder. When she refused to turn to him, he pulled her around.
There was resistance, but not enough to stop him. “We need to talk,” he said.

Still she didn’t look at him. He didn’t know if it was out of pain or fear or guilt. Or anger. He
didn’t know. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she said. She pushed his hand off her shoulder.
“There never was.”

“Why didn’t you come when I was…” He couldn’t finish, suddenly afraid of the answer.

“I shot you,” she bluntly declared. The ice in her tone froze his heart. “I didn’t think it would be
right for me to be there.” There was self-loathing in her voice, so much so that it was impossible
not to hear it. And he heard it.

“I don’t blame–”

“Don’t,” she snapped again.

He didn’t know what to say. He knew that she was pushing him away. He knew why. He made
himself believe that she wasn’t doing it on purpose. But that didn’t stop the pain, and it came,
hard and fast. He’d watched her do this to him in the past. Block him out. Shove him aide.
Deny him. This time it was too difficult to stand still and let her do it. “So that’s it?” He tried to
keep his voice quiet and level, but his anger was creeping in. After all, even if he didn’t blame her
for what had happened, she was right. She’d shot him. She’d betrayed him. She’d almost killed
him. She owed him more than this. “You’re just going back out there. Like this didn’t mean
anything to you.”

She was trying vehemently not to shake. He could see feel the minute tremors wracking her form
as close as his body was to hers. “What happened didn’t mean anything,” she said. “It can’t.”

“Why not?” he demanded. She didn’t answer, and he felt his control over his emotions slipping
further. “Why not?”

“Because it can’t,” she snapped. “I can’t be with you. It was a mistake, and now it’s over.” He
couldn’t believe what she was saying. The words cut into his head, sharp and vicious, but they
didn’t make sense. He didn’t know what he had wanted of her. He supposed he should have
expected this, but he hadn’t. He was a goddamn fool. “I just wanted to feel something. I was
weak and I was scared. And you were willing and available.”

It took him a moment to recover. The anger was still there, stronger now that it was fueled by his
hurt and humiliation. She was trying to hurt him. Hurting people was what she did. “So that’s
it?” he repeated.

She finally met his gaze. Her eyes were dark and shrouded. “That’s it,” she agreed.

He couldn’t believe this. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t accept it. “You’re lying.”

“Lying is what I do, in case you haven’t noticed.” She pulled away from him again. “I’m asking
Fury to reassign me. I don’t think we should work together anymore.”

Steve could hardly stand to listen to her. “If that’s what you want,” he said (and it hurt so badly to
say that), “but don’t go back out there. Please. It’s not what you need. It’s not.”

Now she was angry. She glared at him, cold and detached, and any regret and tenderness that
might have been there was gone from her face and her eyes and her voice. “You don’t know
what I need,” she seethed.

“I know you,” he said firmly as he grabbed her arm, “and I know burying yourself back in that life
isn’t right. Killing Brushov wasn’t the answer and–”

“I didn’t kill him,” she said lowly. Furious tears shone in her eyes. “Let me go.”

Steve leaned back, shocked. He reeled uselessly for a second, struggling to figure out what to do.
What to say. She was drowning. He could see it and he needed to stop it before she slipped away
from him completely. “Natasha, please, whatever you’re feeling, I can help you.”

“This is who I am,” she returned. With a blink the tears were gone. “This is what I am. You
can’t change me. You can’t save me, Rogers. You never could.” Something inside Steve
throbbed. His emotions twisted in a storm that was cruel and cutting. Her eyes softened slightly.
“And I don’t feel. I don’t feel anything at all.”

“Nat, please–”

“Let me go.” She wrenched her arm from him and walked away.

Steve stood, stunned and aching. His voice cracked in pain. “Natasha, listen to me. Please.
Don’t do this.” He tried to go after her, but his left leg clenched against his will in a shot of agony
that went straight to his back, and he couldn’t. “Please talk to me.” She ignored him and kept
going. She ignored him. “You can’t walk away from me! Nat!” She didn’t stop. Desperation
trumped his control. Anger poured from his broken heart. It was hot and harsh, and he couldn’t
stop it. He couldn’t stand there and let her go. She couldn’t do this to him! “You can’t just walk
away!”

But she did. Steve closed his eyes, struggling to keep it all inside. He couldn’t. He turned and
drove his fist clear through the wall, gasping in pain and grief and anger. And when he caught his
breath, he looked up and saw she was gone.

He went back to his apartment. There was no reason to stay in the Triskelion, and he certainly
wasn’t going to go back to the infirmary to stew in isolation. He didn’t ask for permission. He
didn’t get anyone’s clearance. He didn’t care what anyone thought. He didn’t give a damn
anymore. He felt so alone, so fundamentally scarred and betrayed. And not just by his partner.
By everyone. By Rumlow and the STRIKE Team. By Fury. By all of SHIELD. And by
himself for ever having faith that something so deeply rooted in shadows could be good.
Whatever Peggy had founded had been right and true, forged with the best of intentions, and it
killed him that her vision for a better world seemed to be disappearing before his eyes. Natasha
was right about him. He was naïve and foolish. It was idealistic nonsense. All of it. He didn’t
know how to save any of them. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to try.

She gave him an out, and this time he was going to take it.

So he called a cab and dragged himself home. He stood out in the hallway in front of his door,
fatigued beyond measure, reaching for his keys. He dug them out of his jacket pocket and
dropped them (of course), and when he bent down to get them, he almost couldn’t stand up. He
found himself leaning into his door, gasping through waves of agony as the muscles of his back
twisted and contorted in a horrendous spasm. And he almost lost it then and there, everything
he’d buried under apathy surging up inside him. But he held it back, his fingers reaching for his
keys, and he pushed himself up and kept going.

It was silent inside his apartment. Everything was as he’d left it, and it seemed like a lifetime ago.
He tossed his keys to the stand by the door and gingerly pulled his jacket off. It was thundering, a
low, rumbling groan that vibrated the windows. He flipped on a few lights, warm illumination
pushing back the night. He limped to his bedroom, his sneakers thunderous against the hardwood
floors. As he passed the den, he stopped. It was dark and empty. The ghost of a conversation
shared more than three weeks ago danced through his mind, and he closed his eyes against it.
He’d promised himself on the ride home that he wouldn’t think about it anymore. Not about her.
Still, her sharp voice cut into him. “If you wanted trust you should’ve stayed in the army.” The
future was disgusting to him. Right then he hated it. Sure they’d made compromises during the
war, tough compromises that dug deep into their consciences sometimes, but they’d done it to
protect people. And those compromises had never made him feel so dirty and used and abused.

He spotted things on the coffee table. SHIELD’s files on the Howling Commandos. Peggy’s
letters. Before he thought better of it, he was picking up the old papers. “Read these and know
that I never stopped thinking about you and what could have been. All my love.” He hadn’t read
them. Dozens of letters, bound together in a pile by a piece of twine, still sealed in their
envelopes. He ran his thumb over the edge of the top one, Peggy’s pretty cursive handwriting
staring up at him. He took them with him as he walked to his bedroom and set them on his bed.

He took a shower. He stripped off his clothes with great difficulty and removed the plethora of
bandages from his body. He turned the water up as high and as hot as it would go and stood in
the scalding spray. He breathed heavily in the steam, letting the tingling sensation work over his
sore and battered body. Everything hurt. It was hard to stand there and accept that. Everything
hurt and he was alone. He hadn’t cried, hadn’t really let go, since he’d woken up in the future and
found that everyone he’d loved was either dead or dying. Just as it had been out in the hallway,
the urge to do it was overwhelming, the tears burning in his eyes and blurring the tile beneath his
feet. He felt stripped bare, uncertain and tattered with the world cruelly off-kilter around him. But
he hung on again. If he fell, he would have to get himself back up, and he didn’t think he had it
within him. It was better to just keep going, to ignore it and sleep and hope tomorrow would yield
something brighter. At least he kept telling himself that. He always had in the past, and it usually
helped.

When the water grew cold he turned it off and stepped out. He dried himself tenderly, not
wanting to look in the fogged-up bathroom mirror, not wanting to see how low and injured he
was. He didn’t bother with the bandages, dressing in some comfortable pajama pants and a white
undershirt. He got himself a glass of cold water and downed it. Then he sat on his bed. There
wasn’t much else to do. He couldn’t drink his sorrows away. There was no pain medication that
could even take the edge off of what he was feeling. No one to talk to. And he was exhausted,
miserably so.

Outside the thunder was getting closer, not violent but louder. He was still for what seemed to be
a long time, so worn and weary and hurt that any movement or thought at all was too much. He
felt numb, tortured and tormented beyond the point of feeling, and the detachment was almost
blissful. Eventually he reached for the stack of letters. He carefully moved himself into his bed,
his body so leaden and stiff and sore. He opened one and started to read it, but he fell asleep
before he finished.

Sometime later there was a rapping at his door.

He opened his eyes lethargically. The comforting nothingness of a really deep sleep was slow to
release him, but whoever it was who was outside his apartment was persistent and knocked again.
He winced at the pain in his head that quickly rolled its way down his body as he sat up. Blearily
he glanced at the clock on his nightstand. It was after midnight. He wasn’t entirely awake even
as he groaned and climbed out of his bed and padded to the front door. He fumbled to unlock it
and open it.

Everything inside him came alive again, shifting from darkness and pain to light and purpose.
“Natasha,” he whispered.
She stood there, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans and soaked to the bone. Her eyes sought his. They
were bright but filled with tears. She was shivering and broken but so beautiful. “You were
right,” she said. She tried to smile. “I can’t walk away from you.”

Steve pulled her into his arms and kissed her frantically before closing the door behind them.
 Chapter 15
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The rain pattered against the windows of Steve’s bedroom. It was a soft, gentle sound, peaceful
and lulling. So was the steady beat of Steve’s heart beneath her cheek. They lay in his bed, her
leg thrown over his and her arm draped across his belly. The night was silent around them, heavy
with blackness though golden lights from the city slipped through the droplets of water coating the
window to sneak inside. She watched the yellow twinkles slide languidly down the pane and let
herself drift and dream.

Everything seemed far away. Distant. She was safe from it here, safe from it with him. She
slipped her hand over his chest, feeling him shift a little under her. She wasn’t sure if he was
sleeping. She wasn’t sure of much at that moment, except that she felt good for the first time in
what felt to be forever. These last two weeks had been difficult, with him battling for his life in
the ICU and her battling for her soul everywhere else. She’d wandered through it all, determined
not to feel, not to let the reality of what had happened reach through her apathy. She could rise
above it. She could fight. She could be who she was, what she was, before her past had tried to
take her back. She could close off her heart and cage it again and return to the life she’d almost
lost. Detachment. Coldness. A thousand masks for a thousand situations. Everything to
everybody.

But she’d been lying to herself. And Steve was the only one who was strong enough and brave
enough to not let her get away with it. She should have gone to him when he’d been suffering in
the medical ward, but she hadn’t been able to make herself face what she’d done. It had been so
much easier and safer to stay away. She’d hurt him so terribly, and she’d been afraid of his
anger. Of his hatred. She didn’t think she could bear that after everything that had happened,
because nobody could be so good as to not despise her for what she’d done. She hated herself.
She hated herself for following Fury’s orders and betraying him. She hated herself for using him.
She hated herself for fighting with him, toying with him. She hated herself for failing him and
shooting him. She hated herself for staying away. She was still so damn selfish, such a weak
coward. Most of all, she hated herself for loving him and then trying to leave him. That was a
new pain, a harsh and unrelenting pain, and it was something she didn’t understand. And because
she didn’t understand it, she was terrified of it. She didn’t know how to stop it.

She wanted to sleep now. She wanted to not think, to bury this all again back into the darkness in
her heart. But she couldn’t. She’d come back to him instead of deploying with the other agents.
She’d left minutes before the mission briefing and driven to his apartment in the teeming rain.
She’d stood outside and hesitated, letting the water run over her like that could wash away all of
the awful things that clung to her. She’d made love to him again like that could make her whole.
She’d hoped to God it could.

But it hadn’t. Tears burned her eyes. She tried not to let them fall. “Steve?” she whispered.

If he’d been sleeping, he woke for her. He took a deep breath. His huge hand splayed across her
bare back. “What?”

She was so afraid to ask. That feeling of being out of control returned. This time it wasn’t so raw
and demanding and wild, but it was no less frightening and powerful. “Back on that ship, when I
was… You said you loved me.” She licked her lips, struggling to press onward. “Did you mean
it?”
His voice was low, a gentle rumble against her. “Yes.”

“Do you still?” Men had pledged things to her. They’d given her everything, their money and
secrets, their minds and bodies and hearts. Love. This was the one and only time she wanted it.
This was the one and only time it mattered. If he could love her after everything she’d done to
him… Maybe she wasn’t beyond saving. “Do you still love me?”

He moved beneath her, forcing her to look up at him. She didn’t want to, had frantically tried not
to as they’d made love before, but her eyes went straight to the scar down his chest. It was ugly
and violent and undeniable. What she’d done to him. The tears she’d been struggling to hold
back spilled down her cheeks. “How can you?” she whispered harshly, disgusted that she could
be so selfish and presumptuous as to even ask. “I hurt you. I hurt you so badly.”

“It will heal,” he said like that could erase everything. In some ways it would. In a matter of days
she knew that scar would fade, growing from this angry red mark that marred him to a fainter line
that could barely be seen and then finally to unblemished skin. Like everything else, it would
disappear, and in no time at all he’d be as strong and whole and powerful as he had been before.
But somehow that made it worse. That made it easier to brush this all aside. She didn’t think she
could do that anymore. He deserved better than that.

He deserved better than her.

Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Sobs clenched her chest and throat, and the room spun in streaks
of black and gold. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m so sorry!”

She came apart. Finally and unreservedly. It was a deep, devastating thing. She cried like she’d
never cried before, as though all the tears she had held inside for the countless atrocities committed
by her and against her were suddenly escaping in a flood of anguish. Her sobs were deep,
pouring from the depths of her quivering heart and damaged soul, spilling against him in a hot
rush of tears and halting breaths. He said nothing, holding her to his chest, his arms strong and
sure around her. His hand stroked up and down her back in a slow, comforting pattern. He let
her let go without a word, without threat of condemnation or punishment, without empty solace or
silly lies. He was the only one who ever had.

Natasha cried until there was seemingly nothing left inside her, like her heart was simply a
cavernous hole in her chest that ached dully for something to fill it. It was much more than
release. She knew that as the last of her tears slipped down her cheeks, as the last of her pain
eased its way to the surface. It was freedom.

She nuzzled into his chest. That scar was still there, haunting her, but she wasn’t so afraid
anymore. “I’m sorry,” she said again. Tenderly she pressed her lips to it, feather-light and so
careful.

They didn’t speak again for a bit, her shaking breaths and the soft murmur of the rain filling the
quiet. She settled back against him, kissing his body as though that could erase the bruises and
cuts and the million awful moments of the nightmare they’d endured together. “Nat.” His voice
was so loud even though it was barely more than a whisper. “You think I shouldn’t love you?
Because of what? Because of what you’ve done? Because of your past?” He sighed slowly.
She stared into the shadows on the other side of his bedroom, terrified in a way she couldn’t
remember ever feeling before. “I’ll admit that I didn’t know what to think of you when we started
working together. I guess I thought what everyone thought. I thought you were playing me. And
I heard what they said about you. They said you couldn’t feel, that you used people, that you hurt
people. It’s hard to work with someone you don’t know and can’t trust to be honest with you.”
She winced and buried her face deeper into him as if she could hide. She was falling from this
fantasy that in his eyes maybe she could erase the evil she’d done. That she could erase Black
Widow from her past, present, and future. Somehow his eyes were the only ones that mattered.

“But they were wrong. I was wrong. I know it sounds crazy, but I realized during all this that I
did know you. I know you from a thousand little things. I know you from all the times you act
like it’s no big deal when I don’t know something I need to know about the future. I know you
take missions that no one else will take, the really dangerous ones, so other agents don’t get hurt. I
know you stand tall and calm when things fall apart. I know you can outsmart anyone. I know
how loyal you are to the people you care about. I watched you stand by Barton after New York
when no one else would. I’ve seen you carry kids out of burning buildings and help refugees
escape gunfire. I’ve seen you run toward the fight when everyone else is running the other way. I
know that my trust in SHIELD has been shaken, but seeing that there are good people like you
still trying to protect the world helps me keep my faith. I’ve seen you take a bullet for someone
else. I know you’d take one for me because I know what you’ve done for me. What you did for
me, how you helped me through when I needed it the most. You saved my life. You’ve saved
me every time I’ve needed you to.” She closed her eyes. “I know you. I know who you are. I
always have.”

She looked up at him. His lips were turned into a soft smile as he wiped away the last of her
tears. “And I still love you.”

Warmth exploded through her, warmth more wonderful than pleasure, than power, than anything
she’d ever felt or wanted to feel. She smiled, too. Hungrily she moved up to his face and
captured his lips in a searing kiss. His fingers worked their way up from her hips to her breasts as
he deepened the kiss and pushed her down into the pillows. She whimpered into his mouth, heat
cutting straight to her core. “Steve,” she whispered. “Steve, wait.” He stopped, raising his head
from her chest to look down.

“What? I know. You don’t need to–”

“Yes, I do.” More than anything she needed to. For him and for herself. The words suddenly
came so easily, so naturally, and she meant them. God, did she mean them. “I love you, too.”

His eyes shone in relief, in understanding and appreciation, because he knew what it was for her
to say that. For her to admit that level of weakness and dependence and truth. She stroked her
thumb along his lower lip, staring into his eyes and living in that moment she’d nearly lost. The
thought that this could be the first of so many moments, each as bright and amazing as the last,
was almost too much to accept. “I’m yours.” She’d never given herself willingly. There’d never
been a choice. Never before had her body and heart been hers to give.

And she was giving them to him.

He laughed, a carnal vibration against her throat that made her shiver. She shivered as he trailed
fervent kisses down her chest and his hand slipped between her legs. “Does this mean I can call
you ‘sweetie’ now?” he teased.

“Not on your life, Rogers.” It was hard to think with the sweet torture he was levying upon her.
The wet heat of his mouth latched on the side of her neck as his fingers roamed and explored
deeper. She gasped. “And don’t – don’t think this means I’m backing off when you… when you
decide it’s too dangerous. We’re still partners. And I was just fine before you joined SHIELD.”
She could barely think. “So you can’t tell me what to do.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You’re not in charge.”

“Uh-huh.”

He wasn’t for the moment at least. She took control. That was what she did, and he let her. He
groaned as she carefully climbed on top of him, sliding her hands and lips up the hard muscles of
his chest to his face. She kissed him passionately, possessively, wanting to taste him, to feel him,
to own him. He was willingly offering every part of himself to her, and she would take it. She
wanted him again and again, more than anything she’d ever wanted before. And she wasn’t
afraid of that anymore. She felt like she had gone so long without this that it was brutal to even
consider denying herself further.

As she looked down at him, though, she couldn’t tell if the wince on his face was due to pleasure
or pain. She lifted herself slightly to get her weight off of his injuries, even though the loss of
contact was punishing considering how strong her desire for him was. He was meeting her every
step of the way, no matter how sore and exhausted he was. She had blinded herself to that, but
now it was all she could see. She’d stop now if he asked her to. She’d do anything he asked.
“Promise me you won’t let me hurt you again,” she whispered, gazing worriedly at the eyes he’d
squeezed shut.

When he looked at her again, his eyes were dark and deep and filled with desire. With
confidence. With trust. She didn’t know how he could be so good. And she didn’t know how
she of all people could be so fortunate to have him love her. He grabbed her hips and pulled her
back down on top of him. She moaned in ecstasy when he came inside her again, and he reached
up to cup her face and bring her mouth to his. “You won’t.”

The rain stopped. Natasha woke when the soft, gentle song against the windows of Steve’s
bedroom grew silent. The world was dark blue and lavender and gray. She closed her eyes
again, weary and wondering for a moment if it all hadn’t been a dream. But Steve was curled
around her, as hot as a furnace and about as heavy, breathing peacefully into the back of her
neck. The urge to sink back into sleep was almost overwhelming, as warm and contented as she
was. She smelled him all over her and all around her, basking in true comfort and relief, and
nearly let go of her tenuous hold on awareness.

But she didn’t. Things crawled out of the quiet, things that she’d been able to ignore because of
all of the pleasure and release she’d found in him the night before. Now they were there, needling
her. Threatening her. They clawed their way through the pleasant haze in her mind, ripping at it
and cutting at it and eating at it until she wasn’t strong enough to ward away the darkness. Harsh
voices sliced through the silence. Harsh voices from ghosts that rang of disappointment, that
swore pain and punishment, that dragged her kicking and screaming back to the hell she had so
narrowly escaped. She knew the men who’d hurt her were gone, dead, but they would haunt her
for a long time, maybe even forever. It was foolish to think these things could ever be erased. It
was foolish to think the past could ever be forgotten.

And it was foolish to think the monster she’d become could ever be killed.

Natasha opened her eyes again. It was dark. She saw the lines of Steve’s nightstand. She saw
the gray and white tiles of his bathroom and the gleaming brown of his wood floors. She saw the
smooth white of his ceiling and the oak of his dresser. She felt the softness of his sheets. She felt
the smooth, taut skin of his chest pressed to her back, the strength of his arm that was wrapped
possessively around her stomach, the warmth of his comforter that was pulled over them both.
She felt these things, knew they were hers, knew they were real and pure. But the shadows
swooped in around her. She could never deny them. Never. They would never let her escape.

Everything last night, so beautiful and strong and made certain by ecstasy and euphoria, now
seemed weak and brittle. It was all just lies she’d told herself. She didn’t belong here. Not with
him. Even if he loved her and she loved him, she was too dark and damaged. She knew that now
more than ever. It was weakness. Cowardice. Selfishness. She couldn’t do this. And Clint had
been right: Steve would want more than she could give him.

Without thinking to, she slid out from under his arm and away from his warm body. She tucked
the blanket around him. She could see things that frantic passion and pleasure and desperation
had hidden the night before. The bruises all over him. The scars. The one on his chest, furious
and vicious. But he was peaceful, breathing easily through parted lips without a hint of pain or
distress on his face. She laid her hand upon his forehead, brushing back his hair before trailing her
fingers longingly down his face. She swept her thumb over his lips once more, his lips she
desperately wanted to kiss. But she didn’t dare because if he woke up, she’d never be able to
make herself leave. And she needed to leave for both their sakes. The darkness was there. She’d
let it take him once. She couldn’t let it have him again. She needed to leave.

She stood to find her clothes. They were still damp from the night before, scattered along the floor
from his door to his bed. She walked on light and silent feet, scooping them up one at a time. As
she searched for her other shoe at the foot of his bed, she saw some papers that had been knocked
onto the floor. Curiously, she picked them up.

They were the letters. The letters from his past. The letters from the woman he’d loved. Natasha
swallowed through a suddenly tight throat, holding them in shaking hands. She sat at the end of
his bed carefully, pulling on her wet shirt and setting the pile of letters in her lap. One had been
recently opened; he must have done it the night before. She hesitated for a moment, looking back
over her shoulder to see him still deeply asleep. She slid her fingers into the ripped envelope and
pulled the letter free.

It was wrong to read it, as wrong now (if not more so) than it had been all those nights ago when
she’d come to get him for their mission into Crimea. But she did. She couldn’t stop herself. And
when she was finished, she folded up the paper and put it back inside. She drew a shaking breath
and stared at the tentative light of a new day filtering into his bedroom. The irony of it all, that the
woman he’d loved and lost should be the one to tell her what she needed to hear in order to love
him now.

“Natasha?” His groggy call, rough with sleep, pulled her from her thoughts. She turned and saw
him watching her with hazy eyes. He clumsily pulled the blankets aside. “Come back to bed.”
She didn’t move at first, lost in thought. Lost in this moment. Wondering. Lingering. “Nat,” he
called again, reaching for her. And then he groaned and gasped and fell back into the pillows
partially on his side but mostly on his back, panting and whimpering.

That cut through to her, and she was up in a breath and crawling toward him. She settled beside
him and kissed him as hard as she could. He was too worn and exhausted to do much more
besides moan. “Don’t move. Just rest,” she said. She slid closer and gathered herself and
gathered him into her arms. She pressed herself to the headboard, angling him so that he lay over
her lower body to take the pressure off his back. Her fingers threaded through his hair, tucking his
head to her chest. He groaned against her. She could feel him shaking in pain. “Let me take care
of you.”

“You don’t…” He was too tired and too stricken to finish what he wanted to say.

“Go back to sleep.”

He didn’t at first. She could feel him ride out how badly he hurt against her, his muscles
tightening and contorting and twisting underneath her fingers. He gasped, his hands balled into
the sheets. She slid her hand down his back, tender until he relaxed under her touch. “It’s
alright,” she whispered. He moaned again as she carefully caressed his bruised skin, soothing him
until his shaking stopped and he was calm. She kept her hand on his back and kissed his hair.
She’d failed him before when he had needed her. She wouldn’t now. She was there, and she was
staying. Everything that had seemed so dark and difficult was gone once more, drowned in how
very much she wanted to help him. He’d saved her in every way she’d needed. He’d stood
between her and her demons. This small thing she could do for him. She stared into the shadows
but saw only his room again. And she stayed awake the rest of the night, holding him tightly and
warding away the pain so that he could sleep. He did, peaceful and content.

Later that morning, when the sun was bright and vibrant and spilling fervently inside his room, she
left him in his bed and padded quietly to his shower. When she came out dressed in one of his
shirts and her panties, she saw he was awake. He was watching her tiredly, blearily, pale but not
in pain, and suddenly everything seemed very real. The consequences of this decision she’d made
to remain when she could have run were right there before her. His eyes. His hands. His heart.

“Hey,” he said softly, a dopey, happy smile on his face. His expression fell when she didn’t
answer and didn’t come closer. He reached for her hand, and she hesitantly gave it to him and let
him pull her closer. “What’s the matter? You look like you have something on your mind.”

Tentatively she sat on the bed. This was new. This was something she had never done before.
The silence came back, rife with expectations and wishes. Teeming with his need to help her. It
was a driving need, and before it had driven her away. She had to learn to let it bring them
closer. She could learn. She would learn. This would not be easy, not for either of them, and
they both knew it.

He winced and tried to sit up. She reached over and planted her hands against his shoulders and
gently pushed him back down. “Don’t,” she said softly. The driving desire to hold him was too
much, and she wrapped her arms around him and slid herself beside him and laid her head on his
chest. His heart was beating beneath her ear again, so strong and sure. She could be, too.

They were silent for a long time. She breathed. So did he. He wove his fingers through her
damp hair, and she caressed her thumb over his knuckles where their hands were laced together
on his stomach. His question came. She knew it would. “You want to talk?”

There were so many things in the shadows, so much more than he knew. Things that frightened
and unnerved her. Things that hurt. These were things that she’d never told anyone. But he
needed to know. She hesitated because she wasn’t sure she knew how to be that open and
vulnerable. She was afraid again, but she didn’t have to be. She could do this, let go of herself
and start to truly feel and live and love. She could be what he wanted, what he needed. She
wanted him to understand her, all of her, the bad things and the good things. She wanted him to
have her heart and teach them both how it worked. Walking away wasn’t the answer. Hiding
and lying weren’t, either. She couldn’t shut him out anymore. That quiet, dark place inside her…
she was never going back to it.

She wanted him. She had for a long time, but now she was prepared to do anything, to let him see
and feel and taste and know every part of her, to have him be hers. “When you find someone else,
and you will, please don’t compare her to me,” the letter had said. “I’ve spent my life measuring
minutes by what they could have been with you. And I know it’s not worth it because the minutes
we lost can’t ever be found and the minutes we’ve wasted we can’t ever get back. So let me go.
Please, Steve. Don’t let your past define your future.”

Steve’s fingers slipped under her chin and gently lifted her head from his chest. He kissed her,
trailing his lips softly up her face, pressing them to her skin tenderly. As he leaned his forehead to
hers, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply of his strength. She could do this. She could. “Tell
me what you’re feeling,” he whispered.
 She did.

THE END

Chapter End Notes

I just want to take this opportunity to thank you all so much for reading. Honestly, I
wasn't too sure about writing a story of this size and complexity about Steve and
Natasha; I hadn't much seen them as a couple until The Winter Soldier came out, but
the tension between them was just too hot and delicious to resist :-). So thanks for all
your support. Special thanks to my beta-reader, E, for her help as always. And special
thanks to LenaAzarova and Olha for help with the Russian translations.

Special thanks to mrsbarnes1o7 for this amazing cover art:

Come find me on tumblr!

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