NIGHTMARE ▹ Natasha Romanoff

nineteen.

Natasha Romanoff is not a pushover. She understands the vitality of orders, the necessity of following the right ones. But Natasha Romanoff does not do whatever she is told. And yet she finds herself within three hours on a plane to France, with a fugitive on one side, an ancient woman who may be asleep or dead on the other, and a restless need for movement. Svetlana is kicking the seat in front of her. Natasha told her to stop an hour ago; she's quite sure she's only doing it now to piss her off.

Fury, stubborn that he was, denied the request for a carrier; too suspicious. He also pressed the matter of keeping Rostov handcuffed or in someway subdued; considering the plane was public, Natasha ignored this. Clint was sending her the mission files, as well as a string of suggestive one liners he said to use on Svetlana down in Calais; Natasha also ignored these. She was a professional. She was not going to sleep with her charge, despite how attractive she was, or how many ridiculous emojis Clint sent.

Rostov, stopping her siege on the seat before them, turned to face Natasha. "Show me the files." She said, the first thing spoken since they boarded. Natasha looks down at her phone and checks the time.

"Those are classified." She replied simply. Svetlana gave an exaggerated sigh, twisting in her seat to face Natasha fully. The space between them was minimal then. Natasha chose not to address this in her mind anymore than necessary.

"Just a peek. I know nothing. This is unfair." Svetlana continues, exasperated. "Those brutes back at your strange flying house would not even give me a gun." Natasha's lips turn up barely at the corners.

"Here's a file," said Natasha pulling out a thin dossier, "that you might be interested in." The SHIELD stamp was the only thing on the manila cover. Natasha leafed through it vaguely, then handed it over to the frowning blonde. Svetlana opened the first page; saw the image attached with the silver paper clip. She didn't have to read any further.

Natasha looks straight ahead, inspecting the seat before her. She spoke slowly. "Svetlana Rostov. Born January 15th, 1984 to Sasha and Arkadi Rostov. KGB; originally reconnaissance department." She turns her head, watching Svetlana now. "But on probation since a mission four months ago, Novi Grad, Sokovia."

Svetlana knew very clearly where this was going. She looked up from the file, snapped it shut, and her eyes met Natasha's. Gave a crooked smile. "What can I say? We all make mistakes."

Natasha watched her closely. "What happened?"

"You've read the file. You know."

"Maybe I want to hear it form you."

Svetlana raised her eyes to the roof of the plane. Took a shaky breath. "I fucked up." Natasha waited, unspeaking. Svetlana rubbed a palm against her thigh. "I don't have to humor you with this."

"You will." Natasha answered.

"Asshole." The blonde muttered under her breath.

She waited several moments before actually speaking. Her fingers were twitching. "It was- should have been- simple. We had a target." She has no control over the waves of memories that come crashing in. Bloodied hands. Screaming, a building on fire. A child's cries. "Weapons dealer, ex Russian mafia; pretty big player. Escaping the country with, according to our intel, some special bomb. We didn't know why it mattered. Completely undetectable, or something."

Natasha listens intently. Her face was not unkind. "Just a small team. Sokovian police had no idea. We were to take the dealer from his hotel suite," she gives a little sardonic smile, "the Ritz, I think. Or the Sokovian version, anyway. Long story short, things got messy. A fight. The man-" her throat goes dry.

She resolutely stops her self from chocking the rest of the words out. "The dealer, he grabbed the bomb. Set it off." She is quiet for a few seconds after this. She remembers that sound, the moment the steady beeps first started. How comical it had seemed; the countdown, blinking red light, a man bleeding out on the floor next to it. Remembers throwing herself out the window, leaping for the next building. Misjudging the length, the crack of her bone against the railing she threw herself over.

"Lucky, I guess." Picks at a nail. Forces the words out emotionlessly. "Could have been a bigger bomb." 

She tries not to speak the rest of the flight; her voice might break.