Dreykov
She had been cleared for missions. Finally. Every time she was given a new task the redhead felt a wave relief go through her. If she didn't dig too deeply into the feeling it was merely relief at something to do. She refused to dig too deeply into it. Instead she embraced each mission, desperate to show she was able to handle it.
With each success she felt the seemingly impassable chasm between her and her teammates close ever so slightly. Natasha was always driven but the occasional mission paired up with Steve always set her off. Each time she'd aim higher, complete it faster, with more Intel, with less scrapes and bruises. She was every bit as good as he was when it came to work and she could prove it.
The Avengers were in high spirits, and in Tony's words "Why shouldn't we celebrate? We are the world's first team of superheroes. Surely we get a little bit of luxury." Admittedly, Tony had a very different definition of a good time compared to most of them and eventually the group had settled on a few activities to rotate between.
Steve was enthusiastic about anything team building, and pretty soon Tony had combined it with teaching Steve and Thor modern earth things. Movie nights, field trips, the works. It turns out Bruce is ridiculously good at poker and it soon became a monthly poker match between them all. Betting chips ranged from chocolate chips to actual chips. Clint proudly organised Mario kart tournaments, although it took a few hours before Steve or Thor understood what was happening. Tony occasionally, would get the their blessing and host a party. These had been small intimate affairs, complete with an obscene amount of alcohol followed by large groups filled with quiet conversation and a fully catered venue.
It was one of Tony's events, and this party leaned more towards the quiet conversation and catering end of things. For that Natasha was grateful. Her day had been far too long to spend several hours with the same group. Being able to drift through the party gave her a welcome sense of freedom.
She paused to smile at a familiar face and grab a new drink. "Natasha! Always good to see you." A voice called from behind her. Spinning around she found herself looking at Lincoln, a friendly man who worked in SHIELD. His title was long winded but he essentially managed personnel and hiring. She smiled in return. "Likewise, do you want anything to drink?" The redhead replied.
"I'm alright. How have you been? It feels like it's been forever, what with you as an avenger and the whole alien mess we've been dealing with." The smiling man continued.
"Busy, like you've been. I swear in the movies superheroes get a rest after saving the world."
"If only. The things I'd do to get a week off at this point- I swear Hill's turned into a slave driver." He laughed. The conversation continued, exchanging pleasantries and sharing updates on the past few months. Natasha and him had been a lot closer before and this conversation reminded her of why, he was easy to talk to. Open and aware enough to recognise when a topic change was needed. Unlike some of his more unfortunate colleagues.
Around them people flowed and moved through various conversations. Occasionally someone would brush past her, a sensation that made her skin crawl despite it being a harmless accident.
"So, how's your cat? Still causing you trouble?" She asked.
Lincoln laughed and began explaining his disastrous cats latest mishap, involving getting stuck in a wall for several days. She sipped her drink, watching the way the man's eyes creased when he smiled and how his hands moved constantly.
A shoulder brushed against hers. The thick stench of cologne hung about the man who did it, filling her throat. Her ears. Her mouth. She almost coughed, instead making a choked sound. Dreykov. The smell of it tightened in her chest. Her lungs filled with it. She wasn't breathing properly if the distant sensation of light headedness was anything to go by. Excuses fell out of her as she moved away from Lincoln hurriedly. Searching for that man with his overpowering cologne. Short and stocky with stubbly grey hair. What was he doing here?
She glanced towards the speakers. The thrumming noise wasn't from them. Her heart pumping in her head. All she could hear. Static overtook her. Around her the noises, the smells, the sights in technicolour. Sending a shock through her system when it slipped past the static of her mind. She was too far from the door and too close to him. He was talking now, his conversation partner frowning. Was she breathing too loud? Everyone around her could probably hear her gaspy breaths. She sounded like a dying animal.
Her knuckles white and grotesque against the crystal glass she held. Her feet no longer listened to her. Go to him, kill him, stop him, anything! Instead she stood, transfixed. Her eyes watched him. Natasha saw everything and nothing. Dreykov remained a blurry figure making conversation. She watched the way his fingers moved, how he shifted on his feet. Everyone around her existed as a blur. Everyone around her was all she could see and hear and feel.
Someone sneezed, another person placing down their drink. Questions about their day, their families, their work. Music was playing. She didn't recognise the song. Awkward laughter from the left side of her. Someone took a heavy step. A door opened. A lighter flicked on. The smell of cigarettes clung to her. A cacophony. He seemed taller than she remembered. Isn't it supposed to be the other way round?
A wet sensation on her cheek drew her hand to it. For a horrifying second she was sure it was blood. No. Her fingers came back glistening with tears. She was crying? Her eyes remained on him as she gasped for air. Quieter. She needed to be quieter. The silky fabric of her dress running along her fingers held her focus for a moment. The undercurrent of dread, a remnant from the fear of the red room was no longer a silent companion. Instead it roared through her. He cracked his knuckles absentmindedly. Her stomach twisted, fingers trembling slightly as she stood. She didn't remember him doing that before. Did she want to remember anything from before?
For a moment she was twelve again. Standing still in front of him. For a second she was sixteen again. He congratulated her, a hand slapping her shoulder. For a moment she was eighteen again. He was inspecting her, every inch of her after graduation and all she could do was stand silently. She was going to die again. The feeling overtook her. Adrenaline filled her and yet she couldn't move. Waiting for death to turn and take her, for him to do what he came to do. The moment didn't come. Each second stretched into another tortuous eternity.
She watched him still. Little inconsistencies began to snowball. The curve of his nose was wrong. He'd never have worn a jacket like that. His hairline was so different. Each minute tell began telling the story of another man. A step closer. His voice was different. It was impossible for him to be here. Dreykov was dead. She was fine. He wasn't here. She was fine. The roaring panic didn't slow. She couldn't breathe. Any moment now he'd turn and see her and it would be him.
Pain. A sharp pain in her hand. Her glass lay shattered on the floor, blood from her hand dripping onto it. The pain was grounding. The pain was real and present. Dreykov was dead. The man she was watching was just a man. It wasn't him. She wasn't crying anymore but her dress clung to her tightly. She was sweating, beads of sweat dripping down her. People were turning to her. She'd made a scene. Her laugh sounded more like a whimper. Clint was beside her now, she was answering questions. Reassurances tumbling from her tongue.
She was in a bathroom. Her hand being dabbed clean of blood. Clint was good. He didn't ask too many questions, and he let her sit silently. He talked to her. She was pulled under the waves, waves of sand drowning her again and again. What a fool she made of herself. Over some cologne. How was she supposed to save anyone if a simple smell took over her. Erased every part of logical thinking. If she froze. The sand was over her head. In her mouth. In her lungs. Drowning out the smell and the memories. Her thoughts rushing through her. Over her.
She strained to hear Clint's voice above her own breaths, above the voice that was wearing her down with questions about her worth. About her place here. If she could handle it. She strained to hear his voice and wait out the storm. She strained to find some way in which she was enough. In which she could be confident she wasn't out of her depth.
The redhead lay, curled up in her bed. Her fingers gently traced the stitches covering her other hand. Static filled her, drowning out her thoughts. Bliss. She lay in bed, letting the static take over her. Counting the stitches. Feeling each one and the muted pain from it. The sleeping pills lay beside her bed unopened. Through the crack in the curtain she watched the dark shade of night slip away.