The Irony of it All

48

Natasha could feel the drug slowly leaving her system. The pain replacing it. Her screams echoed through the sound proofed holding chamber. The waves of agony racking through her body as she writhed and twisted. Ever so slowly, the pain started to ebb, and her head cleared. Her breath came out in pants and her memory came back in flickers.

Like before, she remembered her youth first, then her first time meeting Clint. She recalled how cold it was in the freezing rain and sleet. Her red hair, soaked and dripping, water droplets falling onto her eyelashes and down her face, pouring over her lips. She hadn't worn makeup that day. Her long, raindrop studded lashes blinked up at the man in the mask. She could feel the biting cold of the concrete under her knees as he stood across from her. Her knees planted in the forming puddles and her hands on top of her head, as the assassin known as Hawkeye held his arrow in parallel with her forehead. It was an execution, and she knew it.

No one had ever gotten this close to her before, and if she didn't already have an arrow in her arm, and an arrow still through her calf, he probably wouldn't be alive right then. She refused to close her eyes, staring up at him through her lashes. She'd spent her whole life reading people and getting inside their heads. There was no telling just how many people he'd killed, but as she looked at him...she knew. He was a good man, with a good heart. He wasn't the type of person that would knowingly kill innocent people. He deserved to live because the world needed people like him.

So she breathed in, and she closed her eyes. She accepted her fate then. She welcomed it. Because if she were to be left alive, then many more innocents would die by her hands. If this was going to be the one thing she did right, then so be it.

"I'm going to give you a choice." Her heart almost stopped. It was the first time he'd spoken. Her eyes fluttered open to meet his. "You can go back to killing for the Red Room, doing what they tell you, and fighting only for their agenda and killing innocents." She couldn't believe what she was hearing. He was letting her go? "Or...You can come work for my people. Fighting to preserve life, rather than end it. I can't promise that they'll let you in. But it's your choice."

She stared up at him, her lips apart in shock. She wasn't sure if it was a joke or not, but she could see through liars. He was lying. He wasn't just going to let her go if she opted for the first one. If she said 'No', then he'd kill her. But that didn't matter. Because the truth in her heart was that her first chance to get out and do good and wipe the red from her ledger was right in front of her. Even if she ended up in prison, could it be worse than the prison she was already in?

"I accept."

"Which one?" He asked.

"The latter. The one where even if I end up in your American prisons, innocent lives are saved."

Suddenly the image flickered and switched. Soft lips were against hers, warming, calming. They moved in tandem with her, receiving what she gave and giving just as much. A gun shot rang out. The loud sound made her ears ring. Her lips pulled away and her eyes opened. Blue eyes stared back at her, filled with confusion and agony. Heartbreak. He looked down. Her eyes followed, landing on the gun that she held against his chest, and the crimson color that bled through his filthy shirt like an ink spill. She looked back up at him as he fell, his eyes questioning her as his voice did the same. "Nat?"

Natasha's eyes burst open, her chest heaving as she sharply took in air. The pain was still there from the withdrawal. But that wasn't what made the tears leak down her cheeks. "No," she softly cried. "No, no, no, no, no, no." She wracked her brain, trying to make sense of the situation. It just didn't make sense.

She didn't know how long she'd been silently crying. Her screams had long faded away when the heavy door creaked open. She turned, half hoping to see Steve breaking it off its hinges like he'd done in Ukraine. But the door swung open, rather quietly and Clint walked in. She sat up, her shoulder burning as she did so.