systematicfailure

[systematicfailure]

Counting Days

Paring: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: You never had a reason to count days when you thought you still had all the time in the world.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, grief

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: Wager a listen to Choke by OneRepublic while reading. Anyways, hope y'all enjoy.

You learn to start counting days once she’s gone.

The first few come and go in shock, the piece of you that refuses to believe the truth of it all, makes a second plate of breakfast in the morning and the several that follow. She was going to come back, you were sure of it. You just have to be patient.

Day thirteen is different from the ones before.

Time is precious and grief is suffocating, you finally realize - you feel foolish for never noticing. A more forgiving part of you rationalizes that there was no way of knowing how little of it you had but then the grief sets in, all encompassing - it latches onto your limbs, pulling you further away from the light she so easily brought you. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. The heroes won but if that was the case, then why did it feel like you just lost everything?

Your life turns into a series of maybes and what ifs. You recognize that you’re bargaining, trying so desperately to replay that day to find something to change or tweak, another path that leads her back to you. It hurts more than you care to admit but the record keeps spinning, and in between one alteration and another, you fall asleep in a bed that is now only yours.

You dream of her.

There’s a glimmer in her eyes and you hate that even in your dreams, you compare it to the dull, unseeing emeralds in the haunting dying embers of night. The image is fleeting as she turns slightly, rays of sunlight peeking through half open blinds, illuminating her features. A familiar smirk lays across her face, hands moving up to dust the bangs from her forehead.

“Staring is rather rude, you know?” She teases, a light chuckle touching the tip of her tongue.

“I just don’t want to forget.” Natasha quirks an eyebrow at your response. Shaking her head, she follows the movement of your frantic irises, a question rising in the way her mouth crinkles at the corners. You ignore it, standing up from the bed before closing the short distance to her. Nose tucking into her neck, you breathe in the underlying scent of cherry blossoms and tangerines. You know it's just a dream, know deep in your bones it’s not real but as your head cranes back, her eyes of worry tracing each inch of you, you let yourself believe, even for a moment, that when you wake up she’ll still be there.

She isn’t.

When you wake it’s unbearably dark. Your motions are sluggish as you stumble out of the confining sheets and down the elevator to the front entrance of the compound. A scream gains traction in your vocal chords, fighting its way past your lips as you throw your scorching body against the wet pavement outside. How many times were you going to do this? How many times were you going to lose her? How many more days? When was enough, enough? The second the thought surfaces, you feel selfish. The answer would always be the same.

As many times as it took. You freely put the shackles on because there ceases to be a day that exists where she’s not worth every last bit of this agony that swallows you whole.

You carefully right your position, drawing your aching chest into your knees and you remember her.

Dawn is on the horizon when you finally shuffle your weight off the ground. Shivering, you keep your eyes to the floor as you enter the kitchen. What remains of the Avengers linger at your reappearance but do not pose a question when you make two cups of coffee instead of one. They know it’s a habit you’re not quite ready to break yet. Vaguely, your head tilts their way as you exit. You don’t have enough left in you to do anything more.

When you reach your bedroom door, you falter. It’s still partially open from your earlier haste to get away and everything comes crashing down once again. Both ceramic mugs tumble to the concrete when you catch sight of the worn, brown leather jacket. It’s all too much and wholly not enough, rolled into one. You can’t take it anymore. Ghosts are chasing and nipping at your heels; the smell of her lingers in hallways and rooms, random items of clothing hanging in closets and lying atop of chairs, memories bombarding at every turn.

You need to leave, at least for a little while -- not forever but long enough.

A snarky fragment of your consciousness mocks you when you bring a box of her things, lamenting the irony of taking memories you’re trying to leave behind. You huff out loud in response, continuing to put it with the rest of your stuff anyways before shutting the trunk. The rest of the team waits patiently to bid their goodbyes. After over an hour, there’s only Clint left. You eye each other patiently, sizing the other up before identical, miserable grins stretch into place.

“Take care of yourself, yeah?” You say because you really, truthfully mean it. You don’t blame him, not anymore at least but you know a significant portion of himself always will. He gives you a barely perceptible nod, pain licking his eyes in a faint mist. Without hesitation, your arms wrap his shoulders, pulling him close. He seizes at the motion before returning the gesture ten-fold, the strength of it crushing the breath in your diaphragm.

“I’m so sorry.” He whispers brokenly into your hair, fingers gripping your sides. Your body tightens around him in a squeeze as a response before you ease away from him. Tears gather and collect in his eyelashes, falling briefly but he’s quick to swipe them dry. A sigh escapes you then, long and drawn out as the backs of your cornea’s burn at the weight of all you both had lost. “As am I, Clint.”

When the compound fades from your rearview mirror, you finally loosen the captive hold you have on your sobs. They come out silent at first but it’s not long before you’re choking on each exhale, chest rattling with the force it takes to regain a semblance of oxygen in your caving lungs.

You think you might never be okay again and it terrifies you.

At first, roaming the world does help ease the ever persistent ache you feel. The days blur and melt together. You never stay in one place more than a week, the constant need to run as far as your legs can take you keeps the thoughts at bay. You avoid Ohio, taking a ship to Ireland instead. Eventually, you find yourself in Italy, in a small rural town with more hills than people but there’s a familiar voice in the back of your mind, prodding you to realize that you’re doing something wrong and you hate yourself for not figuring it out sooner.

You don’t remember when it happened but somewhere between leaving and now, you stopped counting. It’s a betrayal you had no idea you were capable of, it feels like forgetting and the last thing you want to do is forget her.

You force yourself to stop running and the ache you welcome back resembles coming home.

Finally, you visit Ohio. It's gut wrenching and painful but worth it in the end when you find them, her family. They tell you stories you won’t dare forget. You come to the conclusion that people are liars, grief does not lessen or fade, it just becomes more manageable to bear. Your soul is still hollow, ghosts don’t stop nipping at your heels but when you see her in your dreams, you tell her you’ll find her again, in another life, and you’ll get the happy ending you both deserve.

You don’t go back to New York.

You plant saplings in the fields of Ohio, by a house made for two, that you nurture with aging hands and you watch them flourish into breathtaking creatures of nature. Their limbs and branches stretched towards one another, forever intertwined.

You learn to love counting days, especially when it leads you back to her.

[systematicfailure]

The Weight of the World and All Its Soldiers, part one.

Paring: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: With anxious hands, you reenter the world, forced to rebuild your life from the ground up. No place to call home, frequent nightmares and a thrumming power buzzing in your veins you don’t understand, can you really be free? The strangers, calling themselves the Avengers, reveal that it might not be so hard after all. 

Warnings: Dark themes - torture, death, gunshots

Word Count: 2.7k

“Tell me, do you fear death, 81?” 

A long exhale sounded in the air, followed by a plume of smoke. Each corner of the four-by-four cell you called home for the past twenty-odd years of your short life were coated in grime, the white painted concrete walls were chipped and cracked in more places than not. By now, you knew the fragility of your stance in a place like this, had known it ever since the man behind the vibranium door stole the light from your eyes. 

You were only six when it happened, an age where you didn’t know any better. Not like the naïve, child version of you stood a chance. Truthfully, it was an elaborate plan, concocted before you were able to draw your first breath of life, enacted on numerous occasions. Still, maybe if you were just a bit older, a smidgen wiser, a tad more careful that fateful night, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. You can still remember the dance of the carousel in the distance, the smooth transitions of the horses ascending and descending, as your hand left the loose confines of your mother’s, who was too distracted to notice. Your baby brother’s curious eyes trailed after you, a toothy grin appearing between the gap of his two front teeth when you winked back at him. The dust had risen from the gravel underneath your pounding feet as you took off, child-like glee surfacing in your eyes that reflected the colorful bulbs of light. Even though you could hear the frantic cries of your mother’s voice grow distant, your feet never stopped, too intent on reaching the swing of the plastic animals. 

If you had been smarter, you would’ve realized that your doe-eyes stood no chance against the bored ones of the teenager manning the entry stand. You would have turned away and went back the way you came to find your worried mom. Things would have turned out much simpler if you had. You didn’t.

“Sorry, kid. No ticket, no ride.” 

The beginnings of a protest formed on your lips before a heavy hand landed on your shoulder, stopping your reply in its tracks. The man dwarfed your height, his shadow cascading over your shoulder as he stood behind you. The inner workings of a deceitful grin stretched across his chapped lips, an arm circling around your thin frame. He bent down at the waist, snaking his head past your body to get a good look at your face. With a small hum of approval, he straightened back up, pulling a maroon ticket from his jacket pocket, a twinkle appearing in his coal eyes. 

“Here ya go, sorry about my daughter. You know how kids can get.” 

You should have denied it, this man was definitely not your father but he was right. You were a kid, one desperately looking to just get on the dang carousel already so your lips stayed closed, a slightly uncomfortable smile etching its way along your mouth as the man ushered you up the stairs, ignoring the faint confusion brimming in the dark-haired teenager. Maybe if he had stared a little longer at your retreating figures, he might have realized that the man came from the complete opposite direction. 

Once you got on the horse of your choice, a white mare with a splotch of black around it’s right eye and speckled brown spots littered throughout its torso, you forgot about the strangeness of the man next to you, about the lead hand that never left your shoulder but only seemed to grow tighter, because your serotonin levels were at an all-time high and nothing could bring you down from the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. 

You swung in time with music, laughter bubbling in your throat and bursting forth in an excited squeal. He had turned to you then, the grin from before easing into a half-smirk you missed as your arms pushed outwards, fingers waving through the cool evening breeze of early fall. The joy ravaging your body was insurmountable, worries long forgotten. 

There’s a cruel lesson you’ve learned in life, one that has weighed down your soul and robbed the breath from your lungs. At first, you were too young to see it. Then, too scared to admit it. The world would not let you so easily forget, it’d force its snake-like grip around you until you were choking on the vile truth of it all. 

All good things must come to an end. 

When the ride ceased its course, lulling to a stop, the man whose name you’d soon learn to be Dr. Frazier, grabbed your hand. With a steady yank, he pulled you up and off the plastic saddle, leading you into the direction you briefly recalled when exiting your mom’s car earlier. A wrinkle appeared between your brows, head twisting around to watch the fair lights grow dimmer as you grew closer to the parking lot. Where was he taking you? You didn’t want to leave! You hadn’t done nearly enough yet, there was still the teacups your mom had promised you could take your brother on once she finished getting you guys the elephant ear you had so craved when first entering. 

“Hey, Mister! Let me go!” You said, a huff escaping as you dug your heels into the gravel. It was ill timed as your body was tugged forward from his brisk pace, collapsing onto the sharp pebbles. A cry escaped your lips at the feeling, rocks tearing into the flesh of your legs that weren’t protected because of the bright red shorts you wore. The sting of blood radiated against your scraped knees, your bottom lip folding beneath your front teeth causing tears to rush forth and burn the corners of your eyes. Dr. Frazier let out an agitated sigh, bending at the knees as he towered over your cowering frame. 

“Listen here, дурак. I’m only going to say this once. You’re going to get up, dust yourself off and follow me obediently to the car. I don’t wanna hear another word, got it?” He snapped, roughly grabbing you by the shoulders. After a shaky nod from you, his features relaxed into an almost serene smile. At the sight of it, you had to hold back a flinch. How could a man so quickly change faces at the drop of a hat? 

Raising on trembling legs, you stood. 

“Good girl. Now, come along. I have some people I want you to meet.”

If your six years of life had taught you anything, it was that you were anything but. Time and time again, you tested the patience of your parents, whether that be by throwing flour across kitchen counters at your siblings while your father made dinner or by the simple nature in which you radiated constant energy. Your mom always blamed it on your age but as you grew older and your legs never stopped bouncing or shifting in place, they had begun questioning it. 

By age five, you were in the doctor’s office of your local pediatric hospital, eyes darting to and fro as your foot tapped a frantic rhythm on the linoleum floor. When the kind lady doctor entered the room, you shot up out of your seat, your mouth spouting off random sentences that your mind jumbled together in the effort to leave the confines of your head. From then on, it had been an upheaval battle to focus your thoughts. You wanted to be better because you saw the exhaustion in the gaze of your parents but you didn’t know how. You had so much to say and so little time to say it, you couldn’t help the fact that your senses were constantly bombarded by everything and nothing, all at once. 

So it took you by no surprise that once your nerves calmed ever so slightly, you threw yourself into a sprint, away from the man that you finally realized wanted to hurt you. Your freedom was short-lived, your legs only so long, your feet only so fast. Dr. Frazier was back on you in seconds, the deserted parking lot doing nothing to aid in your attempt to escape. He whirled you around, behemoth of a hand shuttering its way across your mouth to silence your scream. In no time, he had hoisted you up, slamming your head against the collar of his shirt. You kicked and screamed, making all the effort but to strangers, it would only appear to be a father quieting his daughter’s tantrum. 

He had taken advantage of your childish urges, used them against you, and you had been paying the price ever since. The experiments had started shortly after but that was a time you refused to look back on. You did that enough in your nightmares. You wished desperately that you were back in your mother’s hold, to hear the sound of your brother’s babbling. To remember your father’s face, to see their smiles and just be whole again. No fears, no trauma, no pain.

You wished for all of those things but you had lost the hope of them a lifetime ago. 

Another long exhale broke you out of reverie but this time, smoke did not follow, and the sound was accompanied by the flare of Dr. Frazier’s nostrils. He never was happy when you ignored him, of course. 

Making eye contact with his flaming, coal irises, your expression settled into a neutral one. You had long since stopped giving him the satisfaction of any one emotion. 

“No, sir.” You spoke precisely, both words enunciated with clear intent. He did not suffer a bumbling fool, the angry, red lashes on your back attested to that. 

You did not fear death, for it is only in harboring it, will you be set free. Going so far as to fool yourself into believing that you would welcome it with open arms. God, you were tired. Tired of experiments, of the constant need to please, of sacrificing every part of yourself for the good of someone else. You wondered when it would be enough, if it would ever be enough? Hope was such a fickle thing, it fleeted carelessly each passing day. Back before you knew better, you held onto it in tightly fisted grips but all it ever did was crunch beneath the weight and fall in shattered remains through pleading hands. It no longer bore any life into aching bones and dull eyes. 

A smirk fused itself into the corners of Dr. Frazier’s mouth, an airy chuckle blowing residual smoke from tar-tainted lungs, further proven by the dry hacking that produced droplets of blood that fell to the floor near your feet. A surge of satisfaction ran through you at the sight but you quelled it before your lips could uptick. 

The lock to your cell door clicked, signaling its unlocking as the rest of his body came into view. 

“Time for another trial, 81. Maybe death will show its face for you this time.” Four armed guards flanked around you, forming a rough diamond shape once you stepped out into the dimly lit hallway. Dr. Frazier took his place at front, a single guard in-between the two of you. Fresh faces, it would seem. Your head tilted vaguely at the thought, surveying your surroundings without moving your head. The only guard you couldn’t see was the one directly behind you but you caught a glimpse of him when exiting your room. He was fidgeting with his rifle, eyes skirting between everyone and a nervous breath breaking into the silence. 

The guard to your left held none of those same ticks, face cold and closed off. The one on the right held himself in the same way. To your luck, the one in front shared similar traits to the guard behind you, with faltering steps and bated breaths. If you so desired, you could risk an escape but the humming shackles tightly enclosed around your wrists served to remind you that you were currently powerless, rendering the jolt of energy that rumbled in your veins null. You couldn’t remember the last time they were taken off. 

Following obediently, you were led past multiple corridors, mindlessly counting and naming off each turn even though you already knew the path by heart. Left, right, right, left, right. Coming to a halt, you took in the familiar sight of yet another vibranium door. As you passed the threshold, the room before you opened up. The back wall had a floor to ceiling one-way mirror, hiding the onlookers from view that you knew watched every single trial. The rest of the walls were made of the same metal as the door you came through, free of scratches and dents unlike your own cell walls. In the middle of the room sat a lone recliner chair, facing away from you, a neuro-brain scanner attached to the headrest. “You know what to do, 81.” 

Fate was a cruel mistress.

You made your way to the chair, your arms extended so that Dr. Frazier could attach the long, threaded chain to your cuffs. An inaudible sigh reached your tongue as he tightened the scanner around your chin before the chair drew back with a hiss. Your eyes closed on instinct when he pressed a series of buttons on the rollaway computer but snapped open soon after when you felt his presence on your left. In his hand was a syringe filled with a frosted liquid, stark in color against his tanned skin. You shook your head at the sight of it, knowing its purpose. 

Lights out. 

The needle fell from his grasp as alarms blared overhead, a frantic look overcoming Dr. Frazier’s features. Quickly, he paced back over to the computer, fingers anxiously typing out a shutdown sequence and subsequent wipe of all systems. The screen flashed, a loading bar steadily creeping. Five percent complete. A round of muffled footsteps echoed behind the trial room door, drawing closer as multiple gunshots were fired and a strange clang cut through the noise. Twenty percent complete. Sweat gathered on your forehead, glistening in a light sheen as he swiped the syringe from the floor. Swift footfalls drew near as Frazier plunged the sharp point into your skin, emptying the liquid. Thirty-two percent complete. Your body seized, rattling in the seat, a spluttering cough leaving your chest. 

“Time’s up, дурак. The Reaper shall be the one to pay your dues now.” Frazier whispered menacingly in your ear, a loose hand digging into his lab coat pockets -- two different but cylindrical pills resurfacing in his grasp. His beady eyes swept over your convulsing form, fingers reaching to comb the long bangs plastered to your head, longingly. Pressing his palm to your forehead to stabilize your movement, the white capsule in his fist settled over your mouth, forcing its way past your clenched teeth. 

The processing bar jumped. Seventy-two percent complete. 

“Hail Hydra.” Dr. Frazier popped the other, black in color, tablet down his throat. The reaction was almost instantaneous, one moment his feet were grounded on the floor and the next, his lean body doubled over, choked gasps foaming down his chin. You looked on, wincing as your brain pounded against your skull. The veins in your forearms rose from deep beneath your skin, forming almost thick strings that cascaded throughout your flesh. He had granted himself a quick, painless death but had not given you the same luxury. 

Ninety-five percent complete.

You had lied to Frazier earlier, you were completely terrified to die. You still wanted to taste freedom for the first time in twenty years, you wanted home cooked meals and soothing drawls to talk down all the fear you were forced to face. You wanted to learn, about anything and everything, however useless the skill or hard the task. You wanted the forest and all its trees, the ocean and its rumbling waves. The shore, the moon, the endless expanse of stars. Selfishly, you wanted it all. Everything you had missed out on because a cruel man decided he had the right to take it away. So, please. You thought, as your head swam, vision blurring as you heard the door behind you bang open. Rushed footfalls drawing closer as you caught a faint glimpse of red hair and a glimmer of urgent voices before the darkness took over. 

Let me be free.

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