May 16th, 1992
"Yelena, I'm really not going to ask you again," said Alexei, holding a mouthful of potato in front of the blonde who was sat at the high-chair, three-years-old and kicking violently in the chair. Natasha observed and pfft-ed through her lips, thinking glumly to herself, All in preparation. She looked up and met Melina's disconcerted eyes, a mouthful of pees and corn-meat in her mouth.
The older woman frowned, and put her fork down. "Is something funny?" she asked, in a soft voice that threw Natasha completely off her game.
"What?" asked Alexei, turning around to face the girls, eyeing Natasha. "What happened?"
With Alexei distracted, Yelena used the opportunity to hit the spoon out of his hand. "But I don't want to eat it," she complained, nervously, her eyes welling with tears. She looked at everybody at the table, almost like she was asking for mercy. Natasha couldn't understand it. It had taken weeks upon their arrival for Natasha to even understand what the hell Yelena was saying through her thick baby-talk; she still struggled at times.
"Nothing," shot Natasha, looking to Melina for support, but who met her with equal disdain. She looked between the two of them, her nine-year-old body heaving with judgment and a hot flare as she stood up.
"Where are you going?" asked Alexei bluntly, standing as well, although he didn't follow her. He just picked up the spoon that Yelena had flung.
"To get the sauce," replied Natasha, flatly, her tone ominous.
She had thought of the reply on the spot as she walked away from the table. It was perfect. It made Melina feel dumb for forgetting it, and it made Alexei feel like an idiot for standing up. She escaped briefly from the dull-lit dining room into the kitchen, turning on the light before she knelt down on the tiles to scavenge the bottom cupboard for tomato sauce. She took in a deep breath, regulating, holding her knees to her chest. She thought about yesterday, and the day before that. It was all the same thing. Three months of dinners, except with slowly increasing levels of English, and with that slowly increasing levels of agitation; more confrontation, more apologies, more for Natasha to rationalize, or attempt to. This meant nothing to Nat, who should've been training, and therefore nothing itself consoled her. She was restless. She didn't understand. The few times she'd brought it up with Melina, she'd shut her down easily, saying, This is just like any other mission, Natka. Think of it like that. But it wasn't, and she couldn't. This wasn't her mission, anyways. It was Alexei and Melina's; she and Yelena were just decorations.
She finally stood up, clutching the sauce in-hand as she walked back to the dining room. She plonked it on the table, and Melina looked at her like some sort of manifestation of dread itself, humanoid.
It was true, to some degree. Melina could handle the nine-year-old, but in so many ways, she couldn't mother Natasha. She'd been fighting her since day one, about almost everything; homework, clothes, accents, names, foods. It seemed worthless to both of them. And it had occurred to Melina that maybe they were just too similar, but it didn't fix the problem. Melina didn't know what she would have needed at that age, for she had never been given the opportunity to live outside of the Red Room aside from this very assignment. She'd been undercover, but never involving more than one other partner. Now she was responsible for Alexei, and these two girls. Natasha was always the problem-child. It didn't matter how naughty or sad Yelena got, it was always Natasha's silent anger which stung her the most.
Dinner was silent for the rest of the night. Melina and Alexei spoke to each other about work, which Natasha interpreted as their progress in developing the mission, but which Yelena could easily comprehend as simple grown-up language. They sipped their glasses of wine and asked each other questions about how their days were going, if their bosses were satisfied, and had they heard anything from the neighbors? Then Melina cleared the table, and Alexei went to his office.
Natasha didn't know about the work, but she knew enough. The adults had sat her down at the beginning of the mission to speak with her about how it would go, and what they'd expect from her. They said things like, "We don't know when we'll return back to Russia," or "It's Melina's job to research and gather information, and mine to carry out their expectations and build their trust in us." Natasha couldn't remember it all. She knew they worked in a research lab, a Shield facility named the North Institute. She knew they were researching the Winter Soldier Program. She knew that once they had the intel that they needed, Alexei would burn it to the ground. She knew that when it was burnt to the ground, they'd return to the Red Room.
Feeling good-for-nothing, Natasha helped wash the plates while Melina got Yelena ready for bed. It was only 6pm. It seemed that the fact not everybody in the house was three-years-old had eluded Melina. She scrubbed the cutlery, too, and then loaded it into the dishwasher, half-angrily. She didn't know why she was so full of fury tonight. Maybe it was the fact that Monday was tomorrow, and she'd been assigned a small homework task to complete a family tree. Maybe it was the fact that Yelena hadn't eaten her dinner and was an ungrateful disaster. Maybe it was the fact that nobody had asked her why she was angry, including herself. She remembered the many videos that her instructors had shown her in preparation for the assignment, but none of them had anything to do with regulating her emotions. She'd been hand-selected by Dreykov upon the basis of her resemblance to Alexei, but mostly as she had shown herself as the most skilled spy in her age category. Melina had watched her on an earlier occasion, during a bi-annual program selection period, to test strength, endurance, and other various attributes. Melina had observed how Natasha managed to get what she needed from people with confidence in her capabilities. She was one of the lucky ones; she had never known anything else. Killing was one day all she would have faith in knowing how to do, thought Melina.
When the dishes were done, Natasha looked out the window. The streetlights were on, and nobody was playing. The neighborhood kids always played in the afternoon, after a day of television, board games, and jumping into swimming pools. They would ride around on bikes. Even though Natasha knew how to ride one—and by the time Natasha was sixteen, she would know how to pilot three different kinds of aircrafts, sail a boat, ride a motorbike, and drive manual in any given vehicle—Natasha had never owned a bike, so she didn't play with the other neighborhood children.
There were forty-two houses in the neighborhood, and twenty-seven families with school-aged children. Natasha knew all of them. There was no private school option, only a pre-school, middle school, and a high school. So they all went to Northwyn Grove middle school. Melina joined the parents' committee and attended meetings to upkeep appearances, but Natasha knew she secretly liked it. Melina had instated a stop sign on the left turn from Main St to Graham. Every time they passed it now, Melina's face would well with pride. Alexei never went to the school, but he often volunteered in the community to set up birthday barbeques in their big center park, or he'd sometimes help plant trees in honor of a local charity fundraiser. Alexei found he liked to be useful and look after things. Melina found she liked having a voice.
Natasha hadn't found anything yet. She'd found a lot boring, a lot unimportant, and even more aggravating. It wasn't all true. She'd found a forest behind their house which had a big hollow log to sit on and watch birds nest from. She'd found a friend in her English teacher who never said anything to her, but smiled at her when he read through her classwork. She'd found Alexei's record players whilst snooping in his study over the weekend, and had listened and listened to an Elliott Smith vinyl for over an hour, doing nothing else. But the small things weren't enough. At least in the Red Room, Natasha's life had purpose. Here, she was expected always to invent something to do with her time. She was jealous of Yelena, who was constantly entertained by the people around her, and who never thought about anything seriously. Natasha couldn't imagine she'd ever been Yelena's age.
"Hey, you," said Melina, walking into the kitchen, sighing a little as the hanging curtain-beads from the doorway brushed past her shoulder, hitting each other now. Natasha watched them. Melina smiled at her, "Thank you. For the dishes." She turned back around and opened the fridge, pulling out an opened bottle of white wine. She grabbed a glass from the cabinet and set it down, pouring the wine.
Melina had never had anything to drink before coming to America three months ago. Alexei had taken her to a bar after their first day of work and bought her a gin and tonic. She didn't like the taste of it at first. It made her mouth soft and her tongue wobbly, but when she stood up and realized how her mood had been lifted, she sat back down and asked for another. They'd gotten drunk, though it only took Melina two G&T's and a glass of scotch, Alexei downed six or seven shots of whiskey before standing up to drive them home; the bar-man looked at them like they were complete lunatics.
She sipped the wine and looked at Natasha, still facing the window. Her brows knit together, forming two lines, then she put the glass down. "Is there something out there?" she asked, coming around to watch out the window as well.
Natasha moved away. "No," she replied, and then attempted to walk away.
Melina looked at the back of her head and felt compelled to do something, as she so often did. "Natasha, just—" she attempted, walking after the red-headed girl. When Natasha turned around to look at her with that awful Natasha expression, Melina realized that she was out of luck. Nothing would change if nothing changed. Melina sighed, and then put a hand against Natasha's cheek, almost awkwardly. They stared at each other, wondering what this meant. Melina had time to ponder in their silence if this would change the nature of their relationship; this touch. Melina hadn't even hugged Natasha. It was a stark contrast between the two little girls. Yelena needed her, needed her now, needed her quickly all of the time. Natasha, even if she did need Melina, would have had no idea about it; she'd never known to ask, as it hadn't been taught to her as a feeling. It had been scolded out of her at such a young age that Natasha didn't even remember what it was like to need something beyond fundamental survival skills.
Natasha grabbed Melina, ever so gently, by the wrist, taking her hand away. She bit her lip, potential nervousness encroaching. "I don't want you to do that," she said, staring into Melina's eyes. Then, with an unintended pause, she turned around and started up the staircase.
Melina said the first thing that came into her mind, "Well, I don't want you to walk away from me, Natasha." She regretted it instantly, of course.
Natasha stopped, turned, and scoffed, "What do you want from me?" she asked, boldly, and walked up the stairs sharply. Her American accent was lost in the anger. It was always easier to keep the accent when you remained calm and even-toned.
"Mind your accent," thundered Melina, to get in the last word. She watched the girl the whole way up the stairs, with her back turned, body heaving with rage.
Natasha's bedroom door slammed and Melina groaned, sitting down at the end of the stairs. Then she sat back up, retrieved her wine from the counter, and returned to the same place. Maybe Natasha was right. Maybe she didn't know what she was expecting from Natasha. Melina didn't know what she was expecting from any of this. And not only did it freak her out that she was in the position she was in, but she also had no idea when it would end. What if they were here for another seven god damn years? What would Melina do then with a sixteen-year-old version of the Natasha she couldn't even control now? And she thought about Yelena, too. Of course, she thought of the toddler upstairs in her bed with a small night-light and small hands and small smiles and she thought about how at any moment, it too would no longer be real. None of this was real anyway, so why did she feel it mattered so much?
Alexei came out from his study behind the living room, shutting the wining door softly. He looked at Melina and felt soft, looked at her hands. Ageless hands, slender and vital and pulsing. He wanted to kiss those hands.
They'd known each other since they were teenagers, with Alexei being just over four years older than her. He'd been shipped in by his father from a program in Siberia into one of Dreykov's agencies, as Dreykov had heard of his abilities; his size and unusual strength made him an asset, a fear-factor. Alexei took out looming threats, carried out deals, and was the face of Dreykov's underground trades. For a short period of time, he'd been involved in the shipment of trafficked children to the Red Room from different areas across Russia. It had been his job to locate the children and take out whoever they had been sold to by their parents. This trade-off meant that nothing was lost. And as Alexei had never been inside the Red Room, it was his understanding that the Red Room was an alternative to child trafficking. On the plus side, he was worshipped. Dreykov gave him work and missions that he couldn't turn down. He'd met Melina on a covert operation in Germany. During this assignment they had been on a stake-out for three days straight, just the two of them. Melina had kissed him before being taken back to Russia. Alexei stayed to finish the job, and they did not see each other again.
When Alexei heard about the Ohio Mission from Dreykov, he had naturally been curious about his counter-part. Dreykov had told him that Melina was chosen first before all others, and it had been by her request that Dreykov employ Alexei. He was charmed. Two decades had passed and Melina had thought of him to play the part of her American husband. He didn't get his hopes up, though he allowed himself to be naïve. Melina had changed a lot; she was more serious and grave now than he remembered her. They got along and met each other's expectations, but Alexei could tell something was wrong and wanted to satisfy her completely.
Alexei sat down next to her on the staircase, took her wine into his own hand and drunk from the glass. He handed it back to her, breathing out, "I heard you girls fighting." He had hot breath which smelt funny. Melina could ignore it because she liked them smell of every other part of him, particularly his neck. She looked at him, and he looked back. "Do you want me to talk to her?"
Melina shook her head, looking down at the carpet. "No," she said, deeply, "no, that will only unsettle her." She looked at him again, carefully. He was tired-looking. He hadn't slept well, Melina suddenly remembered. They shared the same bed, naturally, but last night Alexei had come downstairs to sleep on the couch as he was restless, and keeping her awake. She smiled weakly at him. "Are you happy here?"
It felt weird to ask him that question in English. To know they had a completely different language in which they were both easily more expressive, and yet to speak in a different language to request feelings was strange. They'd promised to each other, though, that they would only speak English. It was better for the girls, particularly for Yelena. It was important, and bigger than them.
Alexei sighed, not knowing what she wanted for him to say. She was confusing to him sometimes; she had bigger emotions than he could stand usually. He dropped his head and thought, then replied, "I am happy to be anywhere, Melina. But..." He groveled in his words. "Well, I like this, I suppose. We wake up together, we work together, we are a team. You and I, all the time, a team," he stressed, then licked his lips. "Yelena looks at us as her parents. That was difficult at first, but now it's extraordinary, I think. Reciprocal. And Natasha's a good girl, she just needs something else that we don't have yet. We'll find it." He bit down on his lip now and looked back at Melina. "But I am happy here. I want you to be happy here, too, while we are here. We can't very well do a good job pretending otherwise."
Melina nodded, finishing her wine. She put it down on the carpet in front of her feet.
"I'll come to bed soon. I have more to do yet," Alexei muttered, standing up. He looked at her again, hopefully, but then turned away, walking back to the study and shutting the door without another word.
Melina walked to the kitchen and put the glass in the sink, wiped her nose, and walked up the stairs. It was a modern house that made almost no noise. She opened the door to Yelena's bedroom and poked her head in. Yelena stirred and sat up in bed.
"Baby, go to sleep," said Melina, instinctively, regretting having opened the door to check on the blonde. She tucked her hair behind her ears and looked in at the girl from the doorway, light pouring into the bedroom now.
"Can I have a glass of water?" she asked, folding her legs, one on top of the other.
Melina looked at her, seriously, like impending doom was awaiting, before nodding, sharply. "Okay," she said in a crisp whisper. "Okay, but stay right there," she instructed, shutting Yelena's bedroom door again before stepping into her own bedroom. She grabbed the empty glass beside her bed-side table and walked to the bathroom, filling it up in the sink. Melina yawned and then came back into Yelena's tiny dimly lit bedroom, kneeling down by the bed to place it on Yelena's hardwood floor.
"Thank you, Mommy," she murmured, lifting the glass up off the floor to drink from it. She drank like she'd been dehydrated for all of her life.
Melina took the glass from her and set it back down on the floor. "I'll see you in the morning, baby," she said, quietly, kissing Yelena's forehead before turning off the light on the desk by the window. Melina pulled the door to, and yawned again. She grabbed her dressing gown from the coat hanger by the stairs and put it on over her clothes; jeans and a singlet. She looked into the hallway mirror and felt strangely.
Melina didn't look old. She'd been told by her instructors that her secret weapon was her age; it concealed experience. She could play people by making herself seem younger or older—it all depended on what she needed, and to what will she needed to bend. But here, Melina needed to look like a mother. There was no leotards, no ponytails slicked back for training, no shoes in case on the run, no knives in her closet drawer. There was just Melina, in a flannel shirt, a singlet, baggy jeans, a floral dressing gown, fluffy socks, messy hair, and drooping eyes.
After consideration, she walked to Natasha's bedroom and knocked on the door. "Darling?"
"Don't come in."
Melina shut her eyes and breathed out. She asked, softly, "Why not?"
"I'm getting changed," Natasha called back.
Melina let her hand just rest on the doorknob while she thought of something—literally anything—to say. She hadn't thought it out in her mind, or played it through like she'd planned to. She was just here, and had to improvise. "Look, I just want to talk to you about before, Nat," she said, listening to Natasha shuffle around in her bedroom. "I'm sorry about the way that I reacted to you; I was just angry." She waited for Natasha to say something, but nothing came. She took in another deep breath, "Sweetheart?"
Natasha finally opened the door and Melina's hand flung off the doorknob. Natasha was wearing her pyjamas. Melina was stunned and didn't say much as Natasha walked away and sat down on the bed. She just followed after her, and sat down beside her.
"I know this isn't easy for you," said Melina, not looking at her, keeping her eyes strictly away from anywhere on Natasha's face. "I know it's different from the Red Room. From Russia. Everything's new and strange and it doesn't feel right, but..." Melina folded her arms, "Well, it doesn't feel right to me either sometimes. And it doesn't feel right to your d—" Melina furrowed her brows, "to Alexei." She tried to straighten her posture, but realized it was already as straight as possible. It had been drilled into her the hardest of all mannerisms in her years at the Red Room. "Look, you think I don't get it, but..." Melina shook her head, "I do. I'm just like you, Nat—it's why we have our clashes, you know? We just have different eyes that we see out with."
Natasha still didn't say anything. Her knee was bouncing. Melina couldn't even tell that she was listening.
"I just know that we can't disagree on everything all of the time, Natasha. You've got to speak to me, or else I can't know, and I can't help. Do you understand what I mean?"
Natasha nodded, looking at her. Melina still didn't meet her eyes. Natasha crossed her arms like Melina's, and straightened her posture like Melina's. She began, quietly, "I meant it before, though, you know." She continued, "About what you want. I mean, I don't know. You and Alexei, you've got real important work to do, and that's great, but," Nat shrugged, "I don't have anything to do. I'm not allowed to train. I'm not allowed to practice."
Melina thought quietly to herself before answering, "Well, what does Yelena do?"
Natasha looked at her, and blinked. She replied, "She plays. She learns." She slid her tongue between her lips and let out a breath, "But that's different. Yelena's just a kid."
"But Natasha, so are you." Melina added on quickly, "Here, you are allowed to be."
She was offended at first but let it rush over her. She furrowed her brows and her knee stopped bouncing.
"We have a nice big yard for you play in. The neighbors have swimming pools. You can listen to Alexei's records. Play with your sister. You could cook dinner with me, watch the television, climb the trees. Natasha, I don't mind," she said, all of it pouring out of her quite fast. She looked down at the little girl. "I only want for you to be less miserable here. Think of your time here as a mission, but a mission different from ours. Your mission will be to make friends, to learn, to look out for Yelena and yourself, to be a child." She put a hand on Natasha's knee, but quickly took it away when she remembered what happened downstairs. She breathed in again, "I only want for you to talk to me. That's all. If not to me, to Alexei. Nobody else has this opportunity, Natasha. Just you. This is what life will be like for however long, and we have to make do. Wouldn't you rather spend the time feeling something other than fear instead of waiting around for it to end?"
Natasha finally met Melina's eyes.
Maybe she was right. It all seemed perfectly wonderful, except for the fact that Natasha didn't know where to start. Maybe the reason why she'd been so obsessed with watching the neighborhood kids was because they felt more like a study than something she could ever live up to. They were playful, engaging, totally real. Natasha was somewhere else along the frontlines, watching. But with Melina's word, Natasha now understood that maybe that was what she was here to do; get from the frontlines into the playing field. When she understood it like a game, she realized she could win it.