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The Price of Perfection | n romanoff

Summary: Natasha will stop at nothing to be perfect, but what will it cost?

Warnings: body dysmorphia, negative self image, toxic thoughts, self hatred, tiny mention of SA

wc: 1k

notes: this is depressing as shit. I wrote it one go (again) and tbh I don’t think it makes sense. I just started writing and didn’t stop. Yeah… vent fic idk. Anyway, enjoy, you angst lovers :)

-⧗-

Mirrors.

A symbol of vanity, casting reflections upon the eyes of the beholder. They’ve seen the most lavish ballgowns and the sleepiest eyes, countless discarded outfits and miniature fashion shows.

Used with friends, with families, with loved ones, a way to see one’s favourite people in the same place. They brought so much happiness without so much as a second thought, so why did she hate them so much?

Whilst the rest of the world crowded to take pictures in the mirror, Natasha had hers concealed away like an antique. A pale sheet usually covered the large reflective glass on her wall, she couldn’t bear the sight.

It wasn’t the mirror itself that caused such repulsion in the Russian’s stomach, no. It was the figure she had staring back at her that left her paralysed in disgust. She avoided all reflections like the plague, far too afraid of what she would find if she looked.

Mirrors hid nothing. They were as raw as could be, every flaw highlighted like the freckles on her pale skin. Natasha never cared for the way her body looked, it served her just fine, but something had shifted lately, something small in her mind triggering an avalanche.

How do you even begin to understand something that has been objectified your entire life? How do you view it as anything more than a way to assist a mission, anything more than something for other people to break at will. The visible scars were one thing, but the invisible marks of the many hands that had slid grotesquely around her waist and pawed at her chest like pieces of meat were what stuck out the most as she obsessed over her reflection.

Perfection was a slippery slope.

And Natasha Romanoff craved perfection.

It was all she knew. But gone were the days of having instructors barking orders to ensure she maintained that divine perfection. She was on her own now, but was that a good thing?

Her self control was impeccable but her eyes told another story. They burned across the expanse of her stomach in the dim bathroom light, slender fingers tugging at the flesh on her hips whilst her jaw was set rigid. The cool air barely raised a hair on her arms as she picked herself apart, falling deeper and deeper into her nightmares as red lines began to form across her limbs and torso.

Where was the perfection she had been told she was?

Was it buried underneath the blanket of snow that coated her homeland in its icy beauty? Or was it simply a ruse, a false pretense, meant only to manipulate her further into the ultimate weapon.

Whatever it was, she couldn’t see it now. Even through blurry eyes filled with tears that warped her reflection further, Natasha still stretched and pulled at her skin, ignoring the burn that ignited just under the surface.

How can someone possibly want to love someone like her? A freak, a mess. Bile rose in her throat the longer she panicked, her eyes frantically darting between countless scars and layers of muscle she only perceived as extra weight.

Where had she gone so wrong?

Her mind, usually her sharpest weapon, unmatched in the face of the enemy, had turned on itself and left her the victim in the lonely battlefield. But who was she fighting, if not the figure who mimicked her every move and felt so familiar yet so horrendously foreign.

She didn’t know who she was anymore. Who did her body belong to, because it certainly wasn’t her. Would anyone want her in this state, or would they be just as repulsed as she was after mere seconds of inspection.

“But you’re beautiful.”

What lies. Her grip on reality may have faltered, like fingers slipping on sodden rocks, but she knew what beauty was. And yet now, face to face with the one so many people had admired, she couldn’t see the so-called beauty.

A breathy laugh escaped her lips, yet her expression did nothing to match it. It wasn’t that of happiness, but of desperation, of insanity, the final parts of her slipping away as dysmorphia finally took its hold.

She would never be beautiful, not to herself. Maybe for a fleeting moment when the sun shone just right and her chest felt a little lighter, but that feeling never lasted. All it took was one glance at her reflection in a window for the clouds to settle back inside her mind, reminding her over and over that she would never look the way she wanted. No matter how much she craved it.

The sheet went back up. Her eyes stayed glued to the sidewalk in fear of catching herself in a shop window, and slowly Natasha felt herself slipping away. Her close circle barely saw her anymore, she didn’t want them to see what she saw, and her fork only pushed her food around her plate instead of allowing her a taste.

She knew the price of perfection was high, but it felt astronomical as she scrambled after it, neglecting her life for a glimpse of that feeling. Yet it seemed the harder she tried, the further it felt, leaving her exhausted day after day.

But she never quit. That wasn’t Natasha Romanoff. If she wanted something, she got it, no matter the sacrifice.

But she was fighting a losing battle. Her clouded mind never once gave way to the idea that she was already perfect. How could it? She wasn’t happy with her body, no matter how much she lost or how far she ran.

To the rest of the world, she was the epitome of perfection.

But to herself, she would never be enough. No matter what.

And no compliment could fix that. Not when her self image was so warped that she couldn’t see straight anymore.

She was, and always would be, the reason for her downfall. No enemy could take her down quite like her own mind could and it was the only thing that gave her a sense of control.

But for the price of perfection, could she give it all up?

#natasha romanoff #marvel #fanfic #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #natasha romanoff angst #natasha romanoff oneshot #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanov #natasha x reader #angst no comfort #I can’t write anything but angst

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unholyhelbig · 9 months ago

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Crescent 10/12 | Natasha Romanoff x Moonknight!Reader

Summary: When Natasha Romanoff takes a job as head of security for Dina Jackson she has an ulterior motive- to find the tomb of Egyptian artifacts that the art world is racing for. Dina’s disgraced niece is charming, awkward, and under the influence of Khonsu, the God of the Moon.

Warnings: This is 18+, if you are a minor I will block you. Fingering (r reciving), pet names, orgasm control, scars, mentions of pregnancy (Not what you think), suicidal idealations (in a martyr way), Car crashes, mentions of the afterlife, Dom/sub dynamic, horrible grammar

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“God, I need a shower” the words escaped Natahsa’s lips when the door to the hotel closed behind you. It was air conditioned in here, drying the sweat to your skin and making it feel tight, nearly unbearable. For just a moment, you missed the sandy dry heat that Cairo had to offer.

The ex-Avenger in front of you pushed the doors to the balcony open despite her words. There was a soft breeze that blew back the sheer curtains. They moved like phantoms, caressing her arms and her shoulders when she turned to you.

A toxic orange light caught the heat of the day as the sun began to lower behind the horizon. It illuminated her. Natasha’s silhouette reminded you of a statue that Dina had taken you to see when you were young; located in the Louvre. The Winged Victory of Samothrace.

White Parian marble expertly carved in the beautiful shape of a woman draped in cloth. Often, her form was compared to an angel. As angelic as the Greeks could form without a biblical translation. Wings stretched behind her, upturned to the sky. Her hand reached forward, stoney fingers grasping for something- touch, perhaps. The comfort of companionship.

Natasha reached her hand out to you now, and how could you possibly deny her? She blinked at you with deep emerald eyes that were so alive compared to the art, the statues and artifacts, that you surrounded yourself with. There was no death in her gaze, no thrumming orders from an ancient god that meant you no good will.

“Come here,” Natasha purred.

You did what you were best known for and obeyed. One hand snaked around your waist, the other splayed against your shoulder. Her forehead pressed close to yours. You breathed in Natasha Romanoff like she was the only fresh air in the pristine hotel room. Her lavender scent was so strong and grounding. You wanted to savor it.

“You can join me, if you’d like.”

“Hmm,” You hummed, feeling your brow furrow. You were much too deep in her subtle touches to register what she had said. Not for a few moments. Your eyes snapped open, and you pulled back enough to view her amused expression. “In the shower?”

She chuckled “Yes, in the shower y/n. If you want to, that is. We can take turns.”

“We should really conserve water. I’m pretty sure there’s a drought.”

Natasha made a soft noise in the back of her throat. Her smile gave her away, and so did her manicured fingers dragging down your arms. She stopped at your hand and pulled you along with her.

You recalled the first moment you met Natasha. It was in the bathroom of the apartment building your aunt called home. There was such a deep-seeded embarrassment that plagued you when the gorgeous woman caught you using hand soap to wipe away the musk of the journey there.

The two of you had seen each other, sure, but there was something intimate about what she was implying. Natasha had walked in on you changing your shirt a few weeks back. She’d seen the scars that pockmarked your skin, had averted her eyes out of respect. There was a silent agreement as she flicked on the water, that neither of you would turn away.

A slick type of heat filled the room and the sound of falling water eased your nerves. Natasha nodded so slightly, but you were close enough to see it. It was nearly laughable, how nervous you both were. There was an electric feeling that was building up in your chest. It felt like camp, almost, lifting your shirts in the darkness of a fire just to say that you did.

Your skin prickled when you did finally lift your shirt. Any trepidation you felt washed away when Natasha did the same. Of course, you knew she was going to be fit. She’s a secret agent, an Avenger, and before that… before that her muscles must have been carved from the same white Parian marble of the Winged Victory of Samothrace.

Her back was marred with scars that cut deeper than any chisel could. You watched her in the mirror, the way her shoulders tensed and then untensed when she settled. She was the most beautiful thing that you had ever seen.

Your breath caught when her fingers, cold compared to the rest of the room, found the discoloration on your shoulder. A bra strap cut through the middle of the burning mark. She diligently pushed it aside and brushed her thumb over the raised skin.

The mirror had fogged up, so you directed your attention to her eyes. She was frowning at the mark, moving her hand to cup your cheek. You took a step closer, hooking your fingers around the loops of her jeans to pull her flush against you.

Natasha’s fingers moved to the brass button of your pants, unhooking it with a practice ease that made you giggle against the small of her neck. You could feel her smile widen when your fingers found the latch of her black lace bra. You wanted to get your hands on her, get as close to her as possible.

When you kissed the side of her neck she sighed and pushed her head back, giving you full access to the curves and dips of skin. A small whimper escaped her when you pulled away, letting the strip of fabric fall between you. Natasha panted, her chest pushing out. You wanted so badly to palm her.

“No touching, malen'kaya luna.” she demanded in a low growl, instead, flicking her eyes to your own chest.

She was really going to make you do this yourself? The deadpan look she gave you was all the answer you needed. You had never moved with so much fervor before, stretching unnaturally until you found what you were looking for. When the bra fell between you both, exposing your top-half to the Black Widow. You beamed at her proudly.

“Happy?”

“Very.”

It was like a game of strip poker at this point; she removed her pants, you painstakingly focused on your socks, much to her dismay. Eventually the two of you were naked in front of one another, taking in the soft curves of your bodies, the softness of her skin, the constellations of freckles.

Natasha reached her hand out to you and led you into the shower, your breath mingling with the steam. The water burned for just a moment, eliciting a sharp gasp until you felt Natasha’s hands soothe over the warmth.

She closed the distance between the two of you once more, her tongue sliding against your lips, begging for entry that you folded into without problem. Her hands found your breasts and squeezed. You mewled into her mouth at the sensation, craving the way she swallowed the sound. You were determined to make her feel the same.

“We’re alone, right?”

Her words were a distant growl, nearly drowned by the flow of water. You went to nod, to respond to her, when her lips attached to the pulse point on your neck, she cupped your center in one fluid motion, applying pressure but not giving into your silent demands.

An unholy noise escaped you at the sensation and you tried to ignore how attractive the knowing smirk against your skin was. Part of you wanted to fight that sensation, and the other part- well, the other part wanted to crumble beneath her.

One salacious finger traced across your folds, brushing your clit and you swallowed back a shiver. Your nails dug into the smooth skin of her back, head dropping to her shoulder. “Natasha,”

“You’re so wet for me.”

“We’re in the shower,” You gritted out.

She gave you a playful frown “Well, in that case, I can just-“

Natasha attempted to move her hand, but you grasped at her wrist desperately, holding her in place. Her pupils were blown out, stealing the green from her stare. A hungry breath escaped her lips and fanned your collarbone.

“If you’re going to be that needy, darling, I’ll need you to beg for it.”

Beg for it? Ha! Beg for it. It had been two years since you’d been touched by anyone other than a magic wand that was tired from use. There was always a small piece of you that was afraid of Konshu’s lurid interruption; but even he respected your boundaries.

You weren’t one to beg, not really. Anything that you could do with another person, you could do with your own fingers. Though, with Natasha’s hand cupping your cunt, her other one raking perfectly manicured nails across water-worn skin, you would resign yourself to begging. Hell; you get on your knees and worship this woman if you had the chance.

Her eyes gave her away, that animalistic lust flashing like canine teeth dripping with saliva. The Black Widow was nothing, if not patient. She’d wait for you to decide despite knowing exactly the choice you had made.

“Natty,” you nearly whined, blushing at how desperate your voice had become. “Can you please fuck me. I want to come on your fingers.”

“All you had to do was ask,”

The words were whispered in her husky voice that drove you wild, yet, she only gave you a small moment to let her words wash over you before she inserted her finger inside of you. A moan moved past your throat at the sudden intrusion. Natasha’s lips were on yours, swallowing the sound.

“More,”

“More? Wow, you really are desperate. How long has it been, detka?”

Her question was punctuated by another finger. They curled into you, pumping in and out of your pussy with a stamina that could only accompany an ex-avenger. She was an expert at this, her touch reaching further than your own awkward efforts under the alien light of a perfume billboard.

“Nat, I’m going to…”

You gasped against her, nails digging into her back, tracing the curved line of her spine. You couldn’t possibly get any closer to her, your breasts pushed flush to her own. She groaned at the sensation and the sound alone made you want to lose control.

“Go ahead, darling. Come for me.”

Natasha’s words were enough to let you give into the building sensation in the center of your stomach. You let out a cry as you tightened around her fingers, riding them greedily through your orgasm. She continued to work them inside of you, nursing you down from the high. You were shaking against her. How could you ever think a vibrator was enough?

She pulled her fingers from your cunt and brought them to her lips, sucking your wetness from them with a satisfied moan. The sight alone was enough to have you craving more. But you had manners, you’d been nothing, if not loyal.

It was your turn to satisfy her.

Sleep refused to fall over you despite the nights various activities. Natasha was tangled against you, having drifted into unconsciousness. You’d both been worn out from travel- from staying under the steam of the shower for much too long, and then continuing to taste her when the two of you vowed to get some rest.

Natasha’s arm was around your midsection, her nose pushed against her side of your neck. Your legs were tangled. You held her closer than you had ever held anyone before. The last thing you wanted to do was let her go. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

The occasional car horn drifted up from the city of Cairo below. The stars that lined the velvet sky bled so easily into the man-made boroughs below. Past the outer-limits was a vast desert that called to you, almost dreamlike. You longed to feel the warmth of the sand, smell the crispness of land without civilization.

Natasha drew in a sharp breath and you froze, her muscles tightened for just a moment in her slumber. She finally relaxed and tightened her grip against the smooth skin of your stomach. You stared at her with so much love and admiration in your eyes, reflecting the twinkling lights from the city.

If you were to die now, or tomorrow, while you fumbled your way through the Valley of Kings under Khonsu’s control, you figured you would be content. Just being able to know Natasha Romanoff like this, to lay with her like this, would be enough. Even if it were just for a fleeting moment.

You asked me if I have ever been infatuated with anyone before.

Khonsu had taken a moment of warm Egypt wind to materialize within the whisps of white curtains. You drew in your own breath, but relaxed. Intrusions such as this were expected, but much less welcome when you were only scarcely covered by a top sheet. You rushed to pull the fabric over your chest, cheeks enflamed.

He’d never shared much with you, if anything at all. If there was more than empty sockets where his eyes used to be, you would be able to see his vulnerability. Instead, you gave him a small nod, as if not trying to scare him away.

There was a woman once. Ruia. Her son was a high priest of an outlying village, a benevolent ruler that welcomed the Gods with open arms. Back then it was normal for us to show ourselves. There was no need for an avatar.

You’d heard of this from Layla. Her God was much more forthcoming with her history. She was much more forthcoming with every piece of information. Khonsu pulled away from the swaying curtains, pacing with nervousness at the foot of the bed. His staff was gripped in his wrapped hand.

Ruia and I fell in love quickly, and passionately He lilted his head, as if eluding to the woman wrapped around you at this very moment, her soft form, her rhythmic breathing. We lived in absolute bliss for fifty years.

“What happened?” You whispered.

I am a God that can manipulate time, but I cannot stop it. Slowing it down is one thing, but Ruia… Ruia loved me with everything she had. I could spend forever with her, I wanted to spend forever with her. But she wasn’t interested in infinite life. She wanted finality. She wants me to join her when I am ready.

There wasn’t a bitterness in Khonsu’s voice, there was just resignation. He looked down at the carpet, at the moon that hung like a broken fishbone in the sky. Then back at you with a sadness that was written all over his skin-stripped features.

“Are you ready?”

His height shrunk when he knelt at the bottom of the bed, still towering over the two of you. His shadow was stretched over the sheets, over your body. The half-moon of his staff hung like a blade over your head. Natasha did not stir.

Are you?

The Valley of Kings was a tomb. The answer had been right in front of you, carved into the gold finish of Lady Madja’s coffin. You’d been so focused on the map that you hadn’t thought of what it would lead you to. That seemed so trivial compared to the current cat and mouse game that you were playing with your aunt.

A cool breeze wafted from the Nile, it’s water was a different, vibrant type of blue that New York could never produce. Boats drifted against the current, their captains like ants among a hill. It was easier to focus on them, on the sunrise, than the looming trip ahead of you.

After Khonsu had left last night, you hadn’t gone back to sleep. You’d tightened your grip on Natasha and placed a soft kiss against her temple. She’d still been asleep when you’d gotten a message from Layla, asking to meet her. She promised coffee and Feteer Meshaltet from her favorite spot.

Though, you didn’t have much of an appetite, you accepted the baked pastry regardless, taking small nibbles as the two of you walked along the length of grass that bordered the Nile. Layla watched you as you watched the water. Neither of you said anything for a long time.

“I’ve gotten work from Mark that Dina and Chip left on a flight a few hours after yours. They should be landing by nightfall.”

When that didn’t draw an answer from you, Layla stopped and waved her ring-clad hand in front of your face. You blinked a few times at her, then frowned down at your barely-touched breakfast. You were brought back to yourself and hated the pit that formed in your stomach.

“You with me Moon Bitch?”

“Moon Bitch?”

“You’re the avatar for a Moon deity and you’re kind of a bitch. Especially under his hand.”

Yeah, you supposed you were kind of a bitch these last two years. It seemed stupid now, drawing away from your family, from your friends, from your emotions, just because a pile of celestial bones had ordered you to. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered except for Natasha.

“Do you ever think about what happens when you die?” You asked, passing her your unfinished pastry. She fisted the white and red wax paper and lilted her head to the side, much like your master had the night before.

“We both have died.”

“Do you remember it?”

Layla clenched and unclenched her jaw before she frowned at the food and dropped it into the waste bin that lingered on the edges of a patch of green. Neither of you had much of an appetite. Food wasn’t something you thought about in the face of your ultimate demise.

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts, “I remember the snowstorm that night, how cold it was. It was barely visible but we’d gotten a call, you know? A woman was in labor and we were the only truck on service.”

You wanted to put your hand on your own and tell her stop but something held you back. She’d never been willing to share this with you before. You’d seen Taweret hit her with a warning stare when she’d been taunted mercilessly by the avatar of Mandulis. They’d always taken the high road.

Khonsu had found great amusement in the teasing. You had to swallow the lump in your throat and stand by his throne, staring down at the way the torches within the white sandstone flickered. There was a deep resentment towards yourself that day, how you’d abandoned her in that moment. If not for Khonsu’s bony hand engulfing your shoulder, you would have pushed forward.

Layla took a deep breath “The ambulance hit some black ice and spun out of control. Through a guardrail. I’d been flung from the vehicle and into a snowbank. I could see the highway above me, the headlights of a passerby who stopped to help. He saw me first and rushed to help, but I told him about the pregnant woman who was still in the back of the ambulance. I told him to go to her, and he listened.

“I fell asleep in the snow and when I woke up, I was in this stretching field of reeds. It was the warmest I had ever felt, it radiated from my core and all of that fear- all of that pain from the crash, had vanished just as quickly as it had come.”

It wasn’t like that for you, but you weren’t about to tell Layla that. She shrugged dismissively and started her slow stroll once more. You took a few moments before following her, shoulders drooping. Of course it was different for her, warmer, softer, acceptable.

“That’s when Taweret found me and offered me a second chance at life. It was almost… hard to leave that field, to enter the harshness of the world again, but I’m glad that I did.”

You nodded, swallowing the dryness in your throat. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“Mm,” She hummed, frowning at you “Is there something you’re not telling me. Considering we’re having a group share.”

Was there? While Khonsu had implied that this was a suicide mission for him, he hadn’t said it outwardly. Through the course of your toxic relationship, you learned to read him. Despite trying to play it cool, he had the subtlety of a cinderblock.

“Did you know Khonsu had a wife?” You asked her another question, not ready to ponder the answer to her own.

Layla shook her head, using the back of her hand to wipe the sticky sweat from her forehead.

“He came to me last night after Natasha and I spent some time together. I think we remind him of what he used to have with Ruia. It was like he made his choice. Like he was done.”

She stopped and turned with a ferocity that was enough to snap her neck. There was confusion and then anger on her face. Layla wasn’t daft, she knew exactly what you were alluding to. There were Gods that had grown tired of their immortality before. The prospect of watching the world around you die had them craving the ever-falling sands. The deity equivalent to ending it all.

“No.” She closed the distance between the two of you “He can’t just let you die!”

You shushed her when a group of mothers walking their children around in strollers shot them wary looks. They were sidestepped and your voice found an even and soft tone. “Khonsu is the one keeping me alive, of course he can. Either way, I’m not meant to get the happy ending.”

Layla looked at you sadly, the tension in her body stifled with sudden realization. There was an odd type of peace that fell over her features, the same resignation that you felt last night. If you refused to take him to the Valley of Kings, then he’d sever the link right there and you wouldn’t get a chance to say goodbye to Natasha the way that you wanted.

But, if you led him there, if you took him through the cold walls and the quiet crypts, he’d give you some form of mercy for your service these past two and a half years. That mercy would be in the form of one last moment with the woman that had crashed into your life unceremoniously.

“I’ve been labeled as a mistake. A worm, and I finally found the one person who never questioned my potential.” You grasped both of her hands, sadly running your thumbs over her bruised knuckles. “I’m not meant to stop Khonsu, I’m meant to lead him to his love.”

“And what about yours?”

“She’ll be okay.” You gave her palms a squeeze. “You’ll make sure of it.”

#Natasha Romanoff #Natasha Romanov #Natasha Romanoff x reader #Natasha Romanoff x you #Natasha Romanoff x y/n #Natasha Romanov x you #Natasha Romanov x y/n #Natasha Romanov x reader #Moonknight #Moonknight reader #Marvel #Marvel fanfiction #layla el faouly #I don't know anything about egypt lol #I'm doing my best I promise

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quietlyimplode · 1 month ago

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ignite your bones

After the fall of General Dreykov, and the remnants of the Red Room still at large, Natasha first year at SHIELD is anything but healing. Labeled a traitor and a turncoat, Natasha tries to find her footing in a strange new world.

Whumptober 2024: Day 16 - ‘no, I can’t feel anything’

Warnings: panic, self harm, medical procedure

Word Count: 2k (gif not mine)

Summary: they won’t let her see Clint. Desperate times.

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

(A/N- halfwayyyy! <3)

Natasha opens her hand, the wounds large on her knuckles as she picks at them absentmindedly.

She hasn’t wiped the blood off the glass, just like they haven’t washed his blood off the floor.

She thinks they’ll get around to it, but it’s clearly not a priority.

Sweat still clings to her.

She closes her eyes and they’re beating him. She can’t get the images out of her head.

She’ll kill them, she’s sure of it.

Once they let her out, she’s going to kill them. Even if Thompson then kills her.

She doesn’t care anymore.

She wipes the blood off on her t-shirt, the black SHIELD issued clothing becoming darker with the stain of red.

Natasha bites the inside of her cheek, centering herself.

Deciding not to dwell on the fact that she may have traded one organisation for an equally corrupt organisation, she stares doggedly at the hallway entrance, wishing for someone to come.

She needs to know he’s alive.

He was when they took his broken body.

He didn’t look dead, just on his way there.

She bites down harder.

Taking a breath, she waits.

Maria locks down Natasha’s cells more thoroughly. She adds only herself, Clint, Coulson, Fury, two recruits she knows and trained personally, and Sharon.

She worries for the spy.

Clint’s attack was clearly targeted.

To have it done in front of Natasha was a show.

Her phone rings, Coulson’s ID flashing.

“Any news?” She asks in greeting.

“He’ll be okay. Broken ribs, broken nose, broken arm and bruising. Nothing internal they can see, so bed rest for at least two weeks.”

Maria opens his SHIELD file.

“Not in medical-” she starts.

“No, but there’s only a few truly safe places for him.”

“Maybe he can take her,” she jokes, but even as the words come out, she knows it’s a good plan. “Coulson, maybe they can go, we can finish up here, and they can go.”

He stays silent for a moment.

“Let’s get him stable first, and then make some plans.”

Maria nods.

“Someone needs to check on her.”

“Someone needs to stay with him.”

Maria sighs heavily.

“Fine. But if she does anything, you’ve got her for the next week.”

“I don’t think I’m getting the better part of the deal,” Coulson replies, “he’s in medical.”

Maria suppresses a laugh.

“The two that did it? Were they on the list?”

Coulson takes a moment.

“Yes, but we only got one. The other is at large.”

“I think I know, but why Clint? Was it because of her?”

“I think… a warning. For both of them. For us? I don’t know. The quicker we get this done the better. Has the news started to filter in the gossip chains?”

Maria glances at her other phone.

“That there’s been some disappearances?”

Coulson doesn’t reply.

“Yes,” Maria continues, “people have noticed. But SHIELD’s a big operation, no one is too suspicious, yet.”

“That’s good,” he replies. “I have to go, the doctors are coming.”

“Yeah okay, ask them when he’ll be ready to move.”

“Will do. Thanks Maria.”

And with that the call ends.

Maria sighs heavily, hoping that Clint doesn’t have any lasting trauma from the attack. She scoffs to herself. It’s a stupid notion.

She thinks of Natasha, trauma central, and opens the cameras.

The woman stands staring at the door.

The blood on the windows is stark red against the whiteness of the room.

Maria frowns.

Stares.

Waits for her to move but she doesn’t.

She knows she needs to go and see her, probably tell her that he’s going to be okay, but her feet don’t move, stuck in limbo as she watches the woman.

The blood on the floor is Clint’s.

Grief for her friend hits her, and she sucks in a breath.

She needs to move.

One foot in front of the other, she tells herself.

Clint groans.

He hurts. He feels the familiar drag of painkillers and reaches up to touch his face, finding a drip in his left hand, the sensation of pain familiar.

“We got one of them,” he hears Coulson say. “You’re okay, just beaten up.”

Clint holds a thumb up, hoping it conveys everything.

His arm is heavy.

He remembers.

His body.

Hurts.

He feels so tired.

“Natasha,” he says, his throat sore and dry. “Check?”

Coulson takes his hand and places it back down on the bed, the movement comforting and reassuring.

“Sleep,” he prompts, as Clint feels the pull into darkness.

Maria walks down the hall grudgingly.

She had been planning to go.

She tells herself that anyway.

But when Coulson had called and said it was a request from Clint, she knew she had to go now, before she left for the night.

The last corner finds Natasha staring at her, still in the same position she had watched her in hours ago.

She walks forward to the window and greets her.

Natasha adjusts her position.

Maria sees the welts on her hands, the blood red scabs from punching the glass.

“That must hurt,” she states, looking at her hands.

“No.”

Natasha’s voice is clearer than Maria remembers.

Perhaps with purpose.

“Is he alive?”

“Yes,” Maria responds, not wanting to elaborate.

“Can I see him?”

She thinks for a moment. Looks at Natasha’s hands, the way she tried to help.

“No,” she decides. “But when he is better, we can take you.”

Natasha’s eyes flash with anger, it’s gone in an instant, but it puts Maria on edge.

“Take me to see him?” she asks again.

Maria frowns, wanting to leave. She’s tired, she wants to go home, not deal with the Russian assassin and her demands.

“No,” she repeats.

Natasha takes a step closer to the bloody wall.

Leaning back, she smacks her head hard against the window.

Once.

Twice, before Maria reacts.

“What are you!? Stop!”

Natasha hits it a third time, cracking her skin and opening a fissure on her forehead that starts to bleed profusely.

She leans back again, showing no signs of stopping.

Maria swipes the door to open, and Natasha misses her mark of hitting her head for a fourth time.

In hindsight, Maria recognises that this was the only way that she could see Clint, the only power that she has in a very powerless situation.

“Stop!” Maria’s voice echoes in the room.

The command holds power as Maria holds Natasha’s arms.

“Stop, I’ll take you to him.”

She feels cornered.

Blood drips down Natasha’s face, the bruise already forming, and the cut wide.

“Stop,” she says again, just so it’s clear.

Fear, in the lengths that Natasha would go to see that Clint is okay, curls in her gut.

She’s not sure it’s the right decision to send them away together, but maybe, it will give her another purpose.

She doesn’t trust her with national secrets, but maybe she does trust her with her friend.

And maybe that’s more important than National Security.

“Handcuffs,” she sighs, producing a tissue and handing it over.

Natasha points to the bed.

“Get them.”

Maria doesn’t want to step inside Natasha’s cell, like entering someone’s room, or home without permission.

Natasha does as she’s told, stepping backwards and watching that Maria doesn’t move towards the button that closes the door. The handcuffs are placed on and Maria gestures for her to come forward.

Bloody tissue in hand, Natasha blots blood out of her eye-line.

“You’re insane,” Maria mumbles looking at her.

“I need to make sure he’s okay. I can’t… I owe him.”

The brief sentence makes Maria pause mid-step.

“You owe him?”

She’s sure Clint would never put a quid pro quo on a life, not one that he’s put this much energy into saving, and proving she’s an asset and not a liability.

Natasha stops alongside her.

“I owe him,” she repeats. “He can’t die until I know what the debt is.”

Maria starts forward again.

“You did something for us,” she starts, her voice purposefully low. “There’s a mole in SHIELD,” she admits.

Natasha’s harsh laugh makes her glance back.

“Double agents are everywhere. You think Russians are the only ones that house American spies in their midst? Any fool would know that they house agents that work both sides. Only bigger fools let them get promoted to director.”

Maria stops again.

Natasha clenches the blood soaked tissues.

“You knew?”

“I suspected.”

Natasha wipes at her face again.

“Your face tells me I’m right.”

Maria snarls.

“I don’t like you,” she tells her.

Natasha blinks languidly at her.

“I know.”

The last key swipe leads them out, and Maria starts the walk to medical.

Natasha is lucky that it’s late. Only the janitorial staff and a few agents milling around. No one gives them a second glance.

Looking back, Maria finds Natasha’s head bowed, eyes cast to the floor.

Blood dripping and making a trail.

“Are you doing that on purpose?” she asks.

“Because if you are, the floors get wiped down frequently. So there’s no chance of you following it out.”

Natasha touches the tissue to her nose.

Maria ignores the action.

The first elevator is quick, but the second that leads to medical is slow.

Natasha looks at the signs, she sees the hyper vigilance in her eyes as she spies the arrows.

The signs of fear are subtle.

The slight beads of sweat along her brow.

Small inhalations of breath that are more measured, like she’s practicing meditation.

The way her muscles seem to tense on every step, like she wants to run away but it’s sheer force of will that keeps her moving forward.

“Don’t kill anyone,” she mutters.

Natasha nods.

She’d been joking but apparently it was a consideration.

Maria decides against the medical team.

She didn’t like Natasha but she knew a risk when she saw it.

“Turn.”

She pushes Natasha into a medical bay.

The bed inside seems to make Natasha balk.

“Sit.”

The order seems to help.

The panic flits across her face momentarily before it’s dampened down into an impassive mask; Maria doesn’t miss it. She looks curiously at the woman in front of her, the blood doesn’t seem to phase her, but the room does.

“I’ll get the doctor.”

She watches the fear reaction play out in real time.

“No,” Natasha says, her voice almost inaudible.

Maria rolls her eyes.

“You need stitches, you don’t do things half assed, and that will continue to bleed.”

Natasha wipes at her head, the clink of the handcuffs shift Maria’s focus.

“You.”

The request is whispered but forceful.

“No doctors. Please?”

Maria doesn’t know why Natasha has a fear of doctors, but she does feel sorry for her. She knows the vulnerability costs her. Knows by the way Natasha won’t make eye contact or the way she squeezes her hands to stop them shaking. It breaks open the wounds on her knuckles and Maria is reminded of how hard she must have hit the glass when Clint was being beaten.

“Fine,” Maria says, “but it might not be neat.”

Natasha shrugs, fingers rubbing the raw skin on her hands.

Maria hands Natasha a towel.

She finds the antiseptic wash, the pain killers, gloves and the numbing cream.

“Do you want these?” she asks, holding up the pain killers.

Natasha shakes her head, staring at the blue gloves, now on Maria’s hands.

As gentle as she can, she rubs the numbing cream on Natasha’s head.

The only reaction is a flinch.

Maria cleans Natasha’s hands first. Slowly, she opens them up, washing the blood, putting the antiseptic on and watching for a reaction.

Natasha seems out of it.

Maria isn’t sure if it’s the blood loss, or the place, or a combination, She wraps each with a bandage. First the left, and then the right.

She wipes the blood again.

“Do you feel this?” Maria asks, gently touching her forehead.

It takes a minute for Natasha to answer.

“No. I don’t feel anything.”

Maria thinks there’s more to her statement than she understands. Touching her head, she realises the wound seems more superficial than deep.

She opts for glue over stitches.

Gently, she washes the wound.

“He’s okay, you know.”

Cleaning it carefully, wiping the blood away, she continues.

“Broken ribs, broken nose, broken arm, some bruising,” she lists. “Nothing he hasn’t had before.”

Natasha’s eyes focus behind Maria, but subtly her breathing changes.

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