NIGHTMARE ▹ Natasha Romanoff

eighteen.

If she could have, just once, seen all the people from that bar in Omsk again, Svetlana thinks that the first thing she'd say would be sorry, for all the broken tables. Then most likely follow it up with a bullet down each of their throats because she is anything if not thorough. She is thinking this as Fury shows her eight, possibly nine, files on that mission, and how it correlates to Dima, and quite a few other things that she realizes she should probably be registering but all she can think is that if Dima were here he would have had the files burnt because he was a paranoid son of a bitch who was convinced that anything on paper would be found. Natasha is also resting her knee rather close, which is distracting enough if it weren't for the way her eyes keep flicking over and, yes, she is very aware that she is still technically a prisoner here and that's likely the only reason Romanoff's shockingly green eyes keep returning to her face, but she is anything if not thorough even when it comes to speculation.

They're in a typical holding cell, except instead of dark grey walls framing the bullet-proof window mirror, the place is white, with a fairly large table in the center, to which Svetlana is confined to. Fury, unlike Natasha, isn't sitting. He seems mostly to be glaring.

"Are you listening to me, Agent Rostov?" sounding less angry than annoyed. Which may have been too strong an emotion still, considering his facial expression changed less than her status as single; either way, she doubted he was happy. On a side note, Svetlana wondered if he practiced that dead look in the mirror.

"Absolutely not, sir," the accent lilting her words, twisting them mildly at the ends, and although english didn't feel as strange and wispy on her tongue as it used to, she knew her voice came out mildly boxy, like trying to fit a key in a slightly too small hole. A small snort from beside her, then, that she wonders if she imagined when Fury twists his hawk gaze onto Natasha and she is motionless again. Continuing with a smile, "but please, don't let me stop you. I think agent Romanoff is enjoying it." The snicker this time around is not imagined, Svetlana is sure.

Fury watches her for a second. His scrutiny makes her want to crawl out of her skin; reminds her too much of therapists and psych evaluators in white walled rooms with couches that try too hard to be comforting, the same questions over and over, because apparently people are convinced that if you tell someone enough times that something isn't their fault they'll begin to believe it. You don't, she thinks. Svetlana never did.

"Romanoff, with me." With a turn on his heel, Natasha rising from the chair, the type that spins too fast when you rise. And then they're both gone, walking through the iron clad door, leaving once again only the demons in her head to talk to. As well as the two guards stoically positioned at the door, but they don't seem in the mood to converse.

One thing, she thinks in her solitude, is apparent. The investigation was going nowhere. Without the jurisdiction to travel abroad and the backing to support her theories, Svetlana was finding it rather difficult to explore her options from there on out. The only clear lead she could find was Dima's safe house in Calais, but shockingly enough, Shield wasn't too excited about her taking a quick trip to France on a mere hunch. Which meant her only use at the moment was to slide down in the stupid spinning chair, kick her legs out frustratedly and glare at the ceiling. The chair beside her spun some more.

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"We are not sending a SWAT team to fucking France." Crossed arms and deadly glare seemed to be the default setting for Fury lately. Not too surprising, considering their current predicament. It wasn't like the rather hot and strangely kind blonde locked up in the other room and continually pulling his strings was helping. Natasha pushed a lock of hot red hair back.

"I'm not asking for a team. We check out that house, in and out; just me and Svetlana," she reasoned, moving over slightly as Clint walked over from the corridor down the left and pulled a chair round the table, almost identical to the one in the joint holding room.

He less sat than perched, folding his arms on the table, leaning forward. "Since when are we on a first name basis with Spalko over there?" He jerked a thumb to the two way glass with a knowing smirk.

"Don't be an asshole, Clint."

Fury watched coolly, then shook his head. "You do this Romanoff, it's on you if anything goes wrong." He said slowly, looking her in the eye. Natasha returned his gaze, "Is that a yes?"

"Interpol's not gonna give you jurisdiction over a guess from the enemy," Clint countered.

"Not the enemy."

"Whatever." He threw his legs up on the table, "You really expect to get this approved?"

"Who said we need approval?"