Paris, 2015
22nd December, 2015
Paris, France
“What is this?”
It was the tone of his voice that made her look up, struck by the cold tone she hadn’t heard in some time. He was framed in the doorway, and holding a torn piece of newspaper in danger of being ripped further by his tight grip.
She looked at him, more bemused than anything, and returned her gaze to the carrots she was peeling with one of her favourite knives. “I won’t know until you show-”
The crumpled paper was slammed down so hard that the counter groaned, and she spun, instinct warring with concern, knife levelling at his sternum. His face was tight with restrained emotion. She frowned, searching his gaze for a moment longer. His jaw worked furiously, and in the short time it took her to set down the knife and vegetable and look at the paper, he stormed off towards the bedroom.
The headline and following images made her blood run cold in her veins.
M'AS TU VU?
HAVE YOU SEEN ME?
She wasn’t sure where the image of her had been taken; it was grainy and only showed half of her face, but there was no mistaking the now familiar black-and-white portrait of her partner in his old army uniform. She read on, alarm blaring through her body and sharpening her focus to ice.
The DGSE has reason to believe that wanted American-Soviet HYDRA fugitives have taken residence in Paris, and urges local law enforcement and the general public to be alert. All reports will be followed up, and any information is to be reported immediately. WANTED AND DANGEROUS-
The rest of the article was torn off, and a heavy thud from the bedroom made her look up. “James?” she called, a little uncertain. He strode from the bedroom, eyes sliding over her as if she wasn’t there. “солдат.” Soldier. She tried, and his title made him stiffen and still from where he was bent at the bathroom cabinet. “I don’t understand. We were careful-”
“Don’t give me that shit.” His voice was biting and sudden, and she stiffened defensively. “Turn on the news.”
She did as he asked, and for a moment she wasn’t sure what she was looking for, watching the young weather girl point to a snowstorm on the green-screen behind her wordlessly. And then her eyes caught on a familiar name and title, scrolling along the news banner at the bottom of the screen.
Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow, Avenger, takes a Christmas holiday in Paris.
Nausea flooded her gut, and she turned back to her partner, unsure what to say, but hoping to explain. She hadn’t thought the woman could trace the email; she’d sent it from a throwaway account, routed it through as many IP addresses and networks as the shitty computer at the IT-Café could manage without breaking- Fuck.
Her guilt must have shown in her face, because the anger simmering on her partner’s face reached a boiling point, and he stood, slamming the cabinet shut so hard that it cracked at the hinge. It swung there, limp and broken and she sucked in a quick breath. “Я не спрашивал ее-” I didn’t ask her-
“Did you fuck me because you wanted to, or because you wanted to distract me?” Though his rage was hot, his voice was cold and restrained, near remote. It was the Soldier who spoke, though James simmered and stewed in his eyes.
She shook her head. “I wanted to- I did, I wanted- I don’t know- but, James, I wasn’t trying to-”
“Trying to what? Get us caught? Fuck, Ghost. Of all the suicidal-” He cut himself off, shoving the two guns he’d pulled from the hiding place into his waistband, and strode past her, shoulder colliding roughly with her own.
She spun after him, with the momentum. “I was asking for leniency, James. I’ve been making amends, I just had to make sure they knew I was.” It was the wrong thing to say, and she knew it immediately, shutting her mouth with a click as he strode back towards her.
“’Amends?’ What ‘amends’?”
He knew her too well, that was the undoing of it. She didn’t even need to say it. He knew her too well and had probably known even back then what she had been doing, but had been unwilling to admit it, but now it was staring them in the face. She held his gaze. “You- All those trips, all those outings…” There was a tremulous sort of horror to his voice.
“It had to be done.” She couldn’t help the clipped tone of her voice, the defensive stance she took, hands curling into fists at her sides. “HYDRA needed to-”
“Fuck HYDRA!” He swore again, and barked a hysterical laugh. “You were out there, alone, and you didn’t tell me. What, you didn’t trust me?” She shook her head, opening her mouth to argue, but he bulldozed through, sharp and cutting. “You were stupid. Stupid and proud. Jesus- you could have died! You. Could. Have. Died. And I wouldn’t have known. I would not have known where to go to find you. I would have-”
He ducked his head, and held his breath. She watched the shaky exhale that made his shoulders twitch, and willed herself to speak. Somehow, she couldn’t make her mouth work, couldn’t form the words she needed to say. She stood; carved of ice, carved of stone.
Finally, he looked back up. There was no anger in his eyes now, and she hated the steely blankness that had replaced it, the wall that had gone back up. It was that disconnect, that horrible indifference that brought her voice back. “Я просил прощения.” I was asking for forgiveness. She croaked, and reached for him. This time, he flinched from her, and there was nothing imaginary about the sharp pain that stabbed through her chest. “Я пытался заработать дорогу домой.” I was trying to earn our way home.
His face flashed with momentary realisation, and she knew he was remembering their picnic on the hill, and her rhetorical question.
If he wanted you back, if you could go back, you would?
The emotion was gone as quickly as it had come, and it was as if he had donned a mask. “Нам нужно разделиться. Она будет ожидать, что мы будем вместе.” We need to split up. She'll expect us to be together.
A heavy weight settled low in her chest. “We’re stronger together, safer together-” She tried, desperation colouring her voice, but it was as if the more emotional she got, the further away he drifted. There was no warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. “James, дорогой, please.” darling.
“Свидание в Бухаресте через четыре месяца. Надеюсь, это ее потрясет.” Rendezvous in Bucharest in four months’ time. Hopefully it'll shake her. And then he was gone, the front door swinging open behind him.
She stared at the doorway, at the empty space, and imagined briefly, the greying, decrepit form of her handler appearing there.
Dog. He called her. You forget yourself, dog. His watery, blind eyes stared at her, and he sneered and spat. You forget who you belong to.
Her partner had not been born to HYDRA. He was not their spawn. Not like she was. She wondered just how putrid and decayed her insides had become, if the sticky, black tentacles of HYDRA had always filled her, wriggling and poisonous. She must have been born rotten; born murderous and savage, untrusting and brutal. She was not warm like he was. She thought about the cavern in her chest, about the blackened, crusted hole where a heart should have been. She had let herself, for a moment, a foolish moment – forget what she was.
Monsters did not have hearts, and they were not good, and they did not deserve the warmth and solace he had offered.
You forget yourself, dog. You forget who you belong to.
22nd December, 2015
Paris, France
Natasha stood in the middle of the empty apartment, and tried to keep calm.
There were two peeled carrots on the kitchen counter, one still sitting in a pile of its skin, turning brown with exposure to the air. The fridge door was open, and one of the bathroom cabinet doors was swinging loosely on a single hinge, and the television was on and muted.
But there was nothing else.
No evidence of her quarry. No other evidence that any living person had been there. There were no belongings in the bedroom, the sheets had been stripped, the taps and sinks were dry, and the windows were shuttered tightly shut.
“Блядь!”
She swore, loudly and suddenly into the stillness of the apartment.
She had been close. So fucking close. If not for the fame and notoriety that surrounded her, she might have had them. Might have had her.
She could hardly call herself a spy now; what with the embarrassing obnoxiousness of her arrival into Paris. She should have taken up Stark’s offer of a private jet, should have just flown the quinjet herself, should have done anything but attempt to slip unnoticed into the country with the hordes of other holiday travellers.
She could picture her old mentor’s disapproving frown, could picture the faint disappointed furrow in her pale brow.
“Ты лучше этого, Наталья.” You’re better than that, Natalia.
“Yeah, well… People like mystery a little too much.” She retorted aloud, lips twisting at the thought of the countless tabloid stories that claimed to know her, know her story, her habits. It seemed almost spiteful, a little ironic, that her persona, that the ‘Black Widow’ was one of the most sought-after Avengers. The media had appeared to take her skill set as a challenge. Usually she was able to evade paparazzi. She had been sloppy in her excitement.
Because it had taken her a while to narrow down the origin of the email, and she had begged the help of one of Stark’s many analysts, a shy, small man down at the very back of the basement floor. He had been near too timid to even help her, and she had unabashedly charmed her way to his assistance, and a promise of secrecy.
Once she had the location, she had moved quickly. Too quickly. She should have just fucking planned better.
She pulled out her mobile, and dialled her contact at the DGSE. She needed to at least put the border on high alert, make sure they had every fucking guard in the fucking country on the look out for the pair. Natasha didn’t linger any longer in the apartment. There was only so much of the stillness she could take, and she knew they wouldn’t have left anything of value.
In the hall, one of the neighbour’s doors was open a little, and Natasha met the curious eye at the crack with the full force of her ire.
The door was shut again in haste.
February 14th , 2016
Adriatic Sea, Hvar, Croatia
The crack of gunfire resounded off the still, sparkling water of the Adriatic. It was not the only sound that was at odds with the shimmering, crystalline scene; cries of pain and fear, shattering glass, and the loud crackling distortion of bubble-gum pop playing through a broken speaker all pounded unforgivingly from the pleasure yacht anchored off the coast of Hvar.
She was sweating; unusual, due to both her level of fitness, and her core temperature. But the Mediterranean sun was beaming down relentlessly, and the security that she had encountered aboard the boat were surprisingly well trained.
Ghost dived behind the last-standing bar at the prow of the yacht, just in time for machine gun fire to light up the deck where she had just been. A sharp, feminine squeal came from beside her, and she turned her head to meet the terrified eyes of yet another blonde, bikini-clad woman. Christ. Marko Vuković had a clear type, and heavy-handed taste. She’d counted no less than seven women aboard the yacht now, all wearing the same pink-heart patterned bikinis. The Croatian-millionaire businessman also had a heavy-handed influence in the remaining Euro-HYDRA cells.
Around them, glass and alcohol burst and the woman started screaming again. She ducked, rolling away again, phasing out of tangibility but staying visible – drawing the fire of the remaining pair of security guards. One of them was shirtless, and his glistening, sun tanned torso made a fine target for the short throwing knife she yanked from her belt. She stood, and threw it with all her strength.
It sunk with a wet thud, into the meaty flesh of his shoulder, and he squawked, bullets flying wide as he collapsed with the pain of it. The momentary lull in fire gave her enough time to cross the deck with quick strides, and grip the burning hot barrel of the other man’s gun, and force it skywards.
For a moment, they wrestled for control of the weapon, before she slammed her forehead into the jut of his nose. She could feel the crush of the cartilage against her forehead, and he grunted, grip loosening enough for her to tug the gun out of his grip, hefting the heavy weapon with one hand and firing a quick spurt at the downed man attempting to pull her knife from his shoulder. He collapsed silently, blood pooling under his body and blending into the red, sticky pools already formed by the other dead men atop the deck.
A sudden, crashing, bursting hit to the side of her head sent her reeling, and she dropped the gun in favour of stumbling back and clutching at her ringing skull. The last standing man brandished the remnants of the green glass bottle he’d hit her with, and she licked at the moisture dripping onto her lips. It was metallic with the tang of her own blood, and bubbly and sweet with what she assumed was the expensive champagne from the bottle.
“Hajde, kujo.” Come on, bitch. He spat, panting heavily. She blinked again, clearing her vision of the dizzy spots that burst across her retina. The broken speaker switched songs, and a distantly familiar staccato beat began.
“This hit, that ice cold, Michelle Pfeiffer, that white gold. This one for them hood girls, them good girls straight masterpieces-” The whiny, American singer sung, and he leapt for her.
She bent, leaning away from the sharp jab of the bottle as it came whistling through the air towards her. As his body shifted with the momentum of his swing, she jabbed sharply at his exposed throat, and he croaked a gurgling breath, swinging half-heartedly again as he stumbled back and clutched at his neck. She followed his backwards movement.
“I'm too hot, hot damn! Called a police and a fireman, I'm too hot, hot damn! Make a dragon wanna retire man-”
She spun herself into a roundhouse, kicking the bottle from his grip, barely solidifying her stance before she advanced again, and brought up her knee sharply into his crotch. As he collapsed forwards with a wheeze, she brought her hands together, interlacing her fingers into one fist, and slammed it into the nape of his neck. He tumbled to the ground, unconscious.
“Girls hit your hallelujah, Girls hit your hallelujah, 'Cause uptown funk gon' give it to you-” she whirled on the last working speaker, and fired the last three bullets of her handgun into the exposed speaker cone, and the terrible song cut off with a spark and a puff of smoke.
She only had a moment of peace; a sudden loud splash off the side of the boat and subsequent flailing drawing her attention. Ghost jogged to the starboard side of the yacht, and sighed. Vuković was swimming frantically towards shore, his gasping breaths audible from where she stood. He didn’t appear to be a competent swimmer, and so she took her time collecting her discarded weapons, before she reached for her grappling pistol, thumbing briefly at the sharp edges of the hook.
She stood at the edge of the yacht again, and fired casually at the plump man’s floundering form. The man screeched, red blooming in the water around him, as the hook sunk into the flesh of his shoulder. Mechanically, she retracted the hook, dragging the screaming man back towards the yacht.
When he was close enough, she reached over the side, and grabbed him under his armpits, hauling him back aboard like a toddler. She dropped him gracelessly on the deck, and his eyes went wide, face growing pale as he realised he was lying in the drying blood of his men. She took a seat on the side of the yacht, stretching her legs before her and crossing her arms and ankles casually.
“Pozdrav, Marko.” She greeted him. He scrambled, pushing himself over onto his back to look at her, horrified.
“What do you want? Money? Drugs? Names?” He began to bleat near immediately, hands coming together in prayer over the blubber of his belly. “I can give you it! Anything! Please! You want the yacht? You take it, you have it, please-”
She stared at him. “Do I look like someone who wants a yacht?” She interrupted him.
“Y-yes? No! I don’t- You look like a reasonable woman! Please…” He was sniffling now, and it made her wrinkle her nose in displeasure. Where were his tears during the torture and illegal experimentation that killed ten women in the name of ‘advancements’? She had no pity for him.
“I have a question for you.” She said, and stood, pushing a single bullet into the chamber of her handgun. “Were you present at the HYDRA research facility 1348, during the winter of 89’?”
“Wh-what?” He coughed, choking on his own tears and snot. “Yes-” it was all she needed to hear, and the rest of his sentence was lost in the crack of her gunshot. Marko Vuković slumped lifelessly to the deck, surrounded by the other foul men he had once employed.
She sat back again, rocking gently with the movement of the waves against the boat.
With the work done, and the adrenaline fading from her system, she grew aware of the aches and pains across her body. Her head was still aching; throbbing down her neck, and blood was clotting at her temple and above her ear. Bruises, from the fists of the other men, were blooming on her torso, and she was bleeding from a shallow wound on her thigh, a near miss from a lucky bullet.
She made no move to treat herself.
Instead, she turned her face to the sun one last time, and eased off her seat.
Clean-up was mindless. The bodies went into the single life-raft, and she pushed it out to sea with a single hole in the bottom. It would sink to the bottom, bringing the weighed corpses with it, but not before it had travelled out of easy sight of any pleasure cruises that might happen across its path. She collected her remaining belongings; gathered the spent shell casings scattered across the deck, and paused momentarily to tip the remnants of some whiskey into her mouth, careful to avoid the jagged, sharp edges of the shattered bottle.
One of the women that had run below deck appeared for a moment, head popping up and then dipping out of sight with a squeak as she made eye contact. She sighed again. “Nisam ovdje da te povrijedim. Odvest ću jahtu na obalu i ostaviti te.” I'm not here to hurt you. I'll take the yacht to shore, and leave you be. There was no response from below, but none of them came out armed and crazed, set on revenge either, and so she stood atop the prow and steered the yacht towards shore.
Free from distraction, body grown used to the edge of pain, her mind returned to what she had been avoiding. She couldn’t help but think of the glint of sun against silver when the light refracted off the water, couldn’t help but think of blue-grey eyes as a cloud drifted across the clear sky.
Pathetic.
She was pathetic.