Your hair falls in limp curtains on either side of your face as you spit blood, letting your head hang. You hiss quietly as the cold air hits your bloodied lip— every inhale feels like fire, let alone the piercing ache in your chest and the cut down your arm.
Your arms are fastened with chains to the ceiling, pulled taut as they rub your wrists raw, and you can't help the cry of pain as he pulls your chin up roughly to meet his hard eyes again.
Your favourite cable-knit jumper is discarded somewhere in the dank, damp room, and your collared shirt is ripped and bloodied.
"Where is Natasha Romanoff?" He speaks softly, slowly, yanking you forward by your chin again. After all, there is no one here to speak over him— and in the quiet of the room, perforated only by the deafening ringing in your ears, his voice is so loud it makes your head hurt.
"Who?" You manage to gasp out before his boot meets your stomach again. A kaleidoscope of colours bursts before your eyes, amorphous, dancing, abstract shapes blurring and running before your vision as your scream cuts off when he pins you to the wall by your already bruised neck.
"Don't play games with me, Professor. I could always just kill you and leave you here for her to find." His tone is almost jovial for the murder threats he delivers so casually. He spreads his hands, raising his shoulders slightly as if to say, 'you have a choice.'
But what choice is that?
"You know she won't rest until she finds you. You'll never have peace again." Your eyes are filled with vehemence, malice permeating every second of the hard look you fix him with as he falters for a second— and then regains his countenance to take you in smugly again.
"And then she'd be playing right into my hands." Comes his playful tone. The message is clear: 'Anything you do, I'll find her despite it. Just co-operate.'
But when have you ever been one to listen to reason?
You think back to when you and Natasha were still dating, when you'd realised that your now-wife had been stashing handguns around the house.
—
"Nat, I know your job is a lot different to mine, but I found a handgun in the closets today!" You gesture towards the sleek, black automatic on the table.
"You can't keep doing this, Nat. Worrying that I'm not going to be safe. I'm a well-kept secret, aren't I?" You speak softly, taking her hands.
Those viridian eyes are hard, yes, but they're also filled with so much hurt and fear— and you know all she's gone through. The Red Room, her mother's murder at the hands of Dreykov, her little sister almost dying— things have been hard, and no matter how much you try to assure her that your campus apartments are safe, you know she needs these handguns around your home.
She needs to know she can keep you safe.
And so, you relent, telling her gently that she can keep five, and no more, in your shared home. She gives you that small half-smile, pulling you to her with an arm hooked around your waist as you bury your head in her neck, closing your eyes as the golden mid-afternoon sunlight filters through the blinds, turning that russet hair you love so much into a kaleidoscope of fiery reds and honeyed oranges.
Natasha knows you understand.
Later, she watches you read on the bed with a soft, open look she reserves only for you, and you can't help but try to reassure her. Although she's there with you, watching you, it feels as if she's miles away, the paperwork in front of her as she sits at the desk long forgotten.
"Nat... you know nothing's going to happen to me, right?" you speak softly into the quiet evening, and her head lifts as her eyes finally flicker up to meet yours.
"You don't know that, malyshka." she matches your timbre, and you set your book down, turning to face her as you tilt your head to the side.
"No, I don't," you admit into the quiet evening, watching as her jaw tenses again. "But I do know that whatever happens, you'll find me."
You bridge the gap between the bed and the desk chair in a moment, settling on Natasha's lap as her hands automatically come up to wrap around you, steadying you as you drop your head to press your forehead to hers.
"I trust you, Nat. With my life."
When she meets your eyes, they're filled with so much love for you that it almost takes you back, the near tangible force of her affection for you hitting you as she surges up to meet your lips.
Your hands wrap around her shoulders, and you know in that moment, that she'll never let you fall.
—
He takes in the steely look in your eyes, and knows you're not going to give him anything. He sighs, pulls on the chains holding you to the ceiling so you jolt, your various injuries screaming at you as you give a sharp cry.
"Well, maybe after a day without any food or water you'll see things differently." You close your eyes briefly, and when you open them again he's a hair's breadth from your face.
You inhale sharply. His eyes are hard as flint, searing into you in a way that makes you dread the next few days.
"I'll be back when you're ready to talk."
—
She can't think, she can't feel, she can't breathe.
You're gone.
You're gone, you're gone, and it's her fault, and everything's too much.
She throws the plate she's been looking at against the wall, feels a bit better. It clears her head.
And she's Natasha fucking Romanoff, and she's going to find you, just like she promised you all those years ago.
She realised what had happened about an hour ago— but she should have much sooner. It was after a fight.
—
"You can't keep doing this, Natasha!" You hate raising your voice, and she winces at the use of her full name, but raises her voice with you nonetheless.
"Doing what, my job?" She knows she's being unfair, knows that all you want from her is her time— but her mission didn't go the way she wanted it to and she's tired and somehow thinking rationally is too hard; it's so much easier to shout.
"I'm not saying you should stop going on missions, Natasha. All I want is for you to go on shorter ones—" you falter, and she realises that you don't sound angry at all. You sound tired, and pleading. "I just want time with you, love, that's all I ask— and I never get it." You run your hand through your hair in that way you only do when you're frustrated, and she just snaps.
She aches so badly to be there for you, but that red on her ledger stains her vision wine-dark every time she closes her eyes, every time she lets herself be happy with you, and some part of her screams for her to push you away before you get hurt— before she hurts you.
"I don't need you whining for my time like a fucking child every waking moment! Maybe I just need you to leave! I was better off alone."
The apartment is silent.
You choke back tears, stumbling back through the apartment to throw the door open as Natasha stands there, stock still. She only comes back to herself when she hears the door close softly, only realises what she's done when day turns to night and you're still not there.
Her thoughts are a mess of 'you've finally done it, you've finally ruined everything, finally pushed away the one good thing you have,' until she finally notices that you left with nothing but the clothes you had been wearing.
You haven't even taken your phone. And so she decides, she's going to find you, she's going to beg for your forgiveness; she'll be damned if she's going to push away the one good thing she has, the one thing she can't lose.
Her first stop is, of course, the library. It's the evening now, and she steps between the bookshelves in the dim lighting provided by the reading lights lining the stacks of books— she knows you curl up, knees pulled to your chest, by the bookshelves when things get really bad.
But her heart stops in her chest when she steps between the sixth and seventh shelves— it's right at the back of the library, where nobody would have heard you scream.
Your glasses, twisted and broken, lie on the floor, strewn to the side of a myriad of brutal scratches on the soft wood floor. There are little smudges of blood towards where the scratches and marks peter off.
Her head is empty. It's like she can't comprehend that something's happened to you, the thing she's been scared— no, terrified— of for years; and it's her fault.
—
And now, she pulls herself up from where she's sat with her knees pulled up to her chest for the better part of the last half hour, pulls out her latest burner phone, punches in Clint's number.
Because as much as Natasha Romanoff hates asking for help, she's not going to risk you.
—
You don't know what time it is.
No natural light gets into this tiny, damp prison, and for all you know it could have been weeks but for the fact that you're only hungry enough for it to have been about two days.
You haven't slept, haven't eaten, haven't done anything, save for been beaten bloody and starved, since you've been kidnapped, and by now the hours blend into one another.
As much as you love and trust Natasha, it's a perfectly plausible explanation that you'd simply decided to leave after she had shouted at you— for once, there's an explanation for you disappearing, and you've no doubt your captor knows this.
The large, metal door creaks open on its rusty hinges, and your heart drops into your stomach, adrenaline and terror curling through your limbs.
"She's not coming, Prof." his voice is still almost teasing, and you have to grit your teeth to stop the tears from slipping out.
"You think that's going to make me talk? You may as well kill me. I'm never going to tell you anything." You keep your voice as steady as it can be. If you're going to die, at least your last moments won't be spent pleading.
You can afford her that small mercy— knowing you had a quick death. There's no point in prolonging it.
You turn your chin to the side briefly, closing your eyes for a second as he reveals a sleek automatic from his pocket, cocking it and pointing it at your chest. You have no doubt that he's anything but an excellent marksman.
You're not going to go with your eyes closed, you make up your mind, as you stare right at him. Let him look into your eyes as he takes your life.
"Stop!"
Your head jerks up, your eyes meeting familiar green ones as she walks in slowly, hands held out in front of her as she takes you in with searching eyes.
She closes her eyes briefly as she notes that you're still awake, relief overwhelming her— and it's quickly overtaken by guilt. You look— terrible. You could never be ugly, not to her, but your lip is bruised and bloodied, there's a large red patch on your shirt that hadn't been there before, and you've got nasty-looking lacerations up both your arms.
She says your name so softly that you can't help the tear that traces its way down your cheek.
"Nat," you murmur, wincing as you shift against your chains. You try to speak, to warn her that she shouldn't be here, she can't be here, but she sets her gun on the floor, pulling two out of her boots and another from her jeans before she speaks again, her voice low and hard. "Hawkeye is waiting on the other side of that door. Let her go. You're cornered."
He gives Natasha a grin that makes her insides crawl, levels the gun so it points straight at you. "Ah yes, but they won't stop me before I put a bullet in your pretty wife."
She inhales sharply, gives you a quick glance as if to say 'I'm sorry,' and nods resolutely at your captor.
"Fine. What do you want? Money? Protection?" She's cut off as he chuckles bitterly, hefting the gun in his hand.
"So you really don't recognise me then?" He gives a deranged, unhinged laugh, searching Natasha's face as something more than hatred flickers across his face, raw and open.
Natasha wracks her brain, cursing her many missions and assignments over the years as she struggles to bring to mind who this man could possibly be. She treats the situation carefully, speaking quietly and neutrally as she gestures to the gun.
"I might. If you just put down the gun, we could talk—"
He cuts her off, his voice raised now. It breaks as he speaks, grief and loss lacing the words like venom. "No! I'm not stupid, Ms. Romanoff. I'm aware that the second I put this gun down, I'm a dead man— I know what happens to people who threaten your family." He flicks the safety off, hefts it in his hand again as you meet her eyes, silently conveying how much you love her in that moment as she tears her eyes away from you to face him.
"You killed my brother. You were a little fifteen-year-old, and you slit his throat as I watched. Do you remember, Ms. Romanoff? Ilyasanov Knezevic, at your service." He inclines his head as the colour drains from Natasha's face.
"Ilyasonov, I'm so sorry— I can't give you anything that could make up for that—" but he cuts her off again, his laughter maniacal and broken.
"Oh, no, dear Natasha. Blood is to blood, ashes to ashes. I'd see the walls painted red with mine and hers if it meant your ruin." His smile is feral and bared as he lets the words drip from his lips like poison.
It only takes Natasha a split second to realise he won't be negotiate, urgency and fear flashing through her eyes as she bolts across the room to where he stands.
Oddly introspective as you watch the scene play out, you realise that the expectation that the moment would pass in the blink of an eye is a complete and utter lie.
Every moment seems as if it drags on to eternity, from the moment Natasha begins to run, to the split second where Ilyasonov's finger finally tightens on the trigger, to the impact in your lower abdomen that feels strangely as if you've been hit by a brick.
The moment time starts again, however, is when Natasha's horrified gaze meets yours. The world seems to hold its breath, sounds strangely muted as if you're underwater and not standing in a dingy basement with a gunshot wound in your abdomen. Everything fades away, save for the glistering, garnet liquid that stains your fingers as you touch them to your stomach.
It resumes again when you crumple to the floor.
Ilyasanov Knezevic has not known fear since a certain scarlet-haired assassin slit his family's throats in front of him. He finds it again now, as Natasha meets his eye.
(How funny, to understand an old friend just as the world flips and fades to nothing before his eyes.)
Knezevic's neck snapped ruthlessly and efficiently, Natasha runs like she's never run before, skidding to her knees just in front of you as she picks the locks of your chains with shaking fingers.
"Love? Hey, look at me. Please?" She can't keep the frantic, coursing fear from her voice as she hears the final lock click and she practically rips them off your wrists, lowering you gently into her arms as she smooths your hair away from your forehead.
Why is everything so quiet?
It's difficult to hear anything over the ringing in your ears, and you're just about to let sleep take you when her voice breaks through your daze. It's broken, and pleading, and your eyes flutter open to meet hers as she lets out a deep breath, pressing her forehead to yours.
"Please, malyshka. I need you to stay awake for me. Okay?" Her breath catches in her throat as she takes in how tired, how completely finished you look. This is her fault. "Hey, nod that you understand. I need you to nod!" she doesn't realise she's raised her voice, raw desperation lacing her words, until you flinch away, and she squeezes her eyes shut for a second before giving you that small smile of hers, smoothing her thumb along your cheekbone as your head rests in the crook of her arm. She can't do this, she can't do this, she can't lose you.
"Prosti, lyubov'." She presses a kiss to your forehead. "Please. I just need you to stay awake for a few more minutes, okay? Help will be here soon."
You smile at her softly, and Natasha's heart gives an unruly jolt as she sees the red lining your lips.
"Nat. You know I love you more than anything. Don't you?" Your voice is soft, laboured, and she winces slightly, tears slipping down her face despite her insistence that she has to be strong for you, that smile she only gives you tugging at her lips as she smoothes the hair away from your cheeks, peppers your face with kisses as you give her a quiet laugh, and then a deeper wince.
"I need you to know, that you have always been enough. Okay, Nat?" She nods her head through the tears, squeezing her eyes shut and then forcing them open to meet those sea-glass irises she loves to gaze into so much. "I love you. So much." Tears slip down your cheeks as you laboriously reach up your hand to cup her cheek. She places her palm over your hand, holding it to her cheek as she presses her forehead to yours.
"Just a little longer. Just stay a little longer, please, please." She begs, Natasha Romanoff begs you as your eyes flutter shut. She grits her teeth and then, where her left hand staunches the blood flow from your wound, gives you a good, hard press.
Your eyes fly open as you cry out, a broken off, raw scream as tears fall down Natasha's cheeks alongside you. Your breath comes in ragged pants, and she applies slightly more pressure as your vision goes white, your back arching off the ground and into Natasha.
"Shh, shh," comes her frantic voice, her lips pressing to your sweaty forehead in a quiet promise. You will make it out of here. You will.
When the S.H.I.E.L.D medic division arrives and Clint directs them to where you lie cradled in Natasha's arms, she almost physically cannot let you go. It's like a part of her is being ripped away, one she— she's not sure is coming back.
The flashing lights stain the grey sky a technicolored, tangled, mess, and a part of Natasha dies beneath the muted, bleached moonlight.
—
When you come to, the first thing you realise is that there's nothing around your wrists.
You let your eyes flutter open, the harsh fluorescent lighting of your private hospital room burning itself into your retinas as you groan softly, bringing your hand up to rub your eyes— and then stilling as something is pulled taut.
As sound and colour come back to you, you notice the quiet beeping in the background and the blossoms of indigo blue and soured green and yellow that blare out at you from in-between the bandages covering your torso and arms. That's the next thing you notice. The muted throbbing in your abdomen.
And then it all comes back to you. The basement. Ilyasonov. Natasha— and... the gunshot. You bring your hand to rest lightly on your bandaged abdomen, and let your gaze flicker up from the monitor to the door, sweeping around the room until they land on a familiar redhead.
"Nat?" you call out before you can help yourself.
Her head jerks up as if she's been yanked, and when her eyes meet yours it's as if a part of her is restored. She's across the room in a heartbeat, her hands darting up to touch you— and then stilling, shaking, over you.
You give her a smile, and suddenly her hands are cupping your face, her soft lips are on yours, and you prop yourself up on your elbow to run your fingers through her hair. You gasp as she nips your lower lip, and she takes the opportunity to search your mouth. It's not consuming, not passionate and overtaking in the way you're so used to with Natasha, but rather soft and undemanding, filled with so much love and hope and relief.
When you finally break away, you pat the bed beside you, moving up so she can lie next to you. You wrap an arm around her waist, tucking your nose into her neck and just inhaling her familiar scent as she finally feels herself relax after days of worrying, of panicking, of not knowing. And then, your lips press gently to her neck and words are spilling from her mouth, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, please forgive me," words so foreign that you stop in your tracks and pull back slightly to look at her.
"Nat. You don't have anything to be sorry for. That was the Red Room. Not you. Do you hear me?" You feel her soften against you as her lips meet your hair.
"I— I don't know what I would do without you." She says your name so softly, so full of love, that your brow furrows against her neck.
"Well, I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me, love." You press another kiss to her neck as her arm encircles you, pulling you gently into her side even more.
"I know. I wouldn't have it any other way." Her voice is soft, quiet.
She rubs your back, sings to you, which is a rarity, as you fall asleep— and when you’re finally sleeping peacefully, she tips her head back beneath that bright white light, and lets her eyes close, tears tracing their way down her cheeks as she exhales shakily.
She has you. She has you, and she knows it’s going to be alright.