Every year on her birthday, Natasha used to light a candle for Yelena. Once, when she had just turned four, Yelena had asked her big sister if she could light the candle instead. Nat had simply smiled and squeezed her shoulder, telling her that when she was all grown up she would be able to do it for herself. Yelena didn’t understand what her sister meant at the time, but she supposed her sister had been trying to convey the message that she wanted to do something special for her while she still had time.
What little time they’d had left, indeed.
Yelena was taken aback when she saw the candles in the Budapest safe house for the first time. She assumed that it was simply part of the decor of the house, but her heart sped up in her chest slightly. When Natasha showed up at the house with the dreaded red vials, Yelena began to realise something.
“You put the candles there, didn’t you?” She asked her later on during their drive in the stolen car (she remembered the joy she’d felt at doing something adrenaline inducing with Natasha, and wondered if they’d have ever done something like that back in Ohio if they’d been given the chance).
Natasha sent her a sheepish smile. “Yeah. I’ve been lighting them every year. I even did it during my years in the Red Room, too. I got caught though and one of the guards stabbed me with a butterfly knife,” she explained, rolling up her shirt to show Yelena a scar along her abdomen.
The blonde winced. “I’m sorry. You didn’t have to do that for me.”
“I wanted to,” Natasha reassured her, still smacking on the gum in her mouth. “That way I always got to keep a part of you with me. The scar symbolises that and even though it hurts like a bitch, I’ll always cherish it.”
Yelena smiled slightly. “You have gone soft, haven’t you?”
Her sister’s hand reached out to poke her in the cheek. “Shush. Now turn on the radio.”