A Crazier Than Average Year, A Matt/Nat Story

Who We Are, 2

Natasha, 2012

She closes her eyes before hitting the ground. Maybe that's a mistake. In any case, she closes her eyes and it happens so fast she barely feels a thing.

From the epicentre of the blast -- white-hot energy burning bright and fast. Vibrations that weaken the structure of the foundation they're standing on. The ground starts to dissolve under their feet before the energy is sucked back to its source. Natasha has a good grip on Matt's arm, they're running forwards and then, suddenly, suspended in thin air. It goes from too bright in the warehouse to dark again. They're pulled back. They're falling. Then, just as suddenly as the forces in the room swept them up, it pushes them out towards cold, night air. Natasha scrambles. Her heart leaps into her throat. She lets go of Matt.

Forearms hit the jagged concrete and she claws for purchase. She's slipping. Hands come back with nothing but crumbling rock. She starts to fall backwards into the gaping hole where the floor should be. There's a great roaring sound and the warehouse just above her erupts in flames. She recoils from it, curling in on herself and closing her eyes as she falls.

She hits something on the way down. Side impacting some kind of tall shelving unit. She feels the air knocked from her lungs. Pain erupts along that side of her body. She's twisting in mid-air when her feet impact the ground and her legs collapse under her with the force of her descent.

Maybe she blacks out, there's a moment missing. Next thing Natasha knows she's gasping for breath and her eyes are open. It's black, at first, then an explosion of white and red spots like she's looked right into the sun. Way above her, about twenty feet, bright orange flames lick away at the remaining floor.

Testing her body, Natasha brings her arms up to her torso, her breath is cut short by a lash of pain along the left side. Arms are working at least. Lungs protest but still fill and empty on command. She tries to sit up and falls back with a bit-off moan. There's a stabbing pain in her right calf that obliterates every other sensation. For a moment she's not breathing. Instead, holds everything completely still as though that will somehow help mitigate the sensation of bones — that should be straight and strong and unyielding — shifting in her leg.

She forces a slow exhale between clenched teeth and pursed lips. Breathes back in as deeply as her bruised ribs will allow. Natasha plants her hands and leverages up to sit so she can see the injury. Her left foot is slightly twisted away from the direction of her leg. There's blood seeping from her pant leg into the top of her boot. She fishes the combat knife out of her belt with a muttered curse and uses it to cut her right sleeve from wrist to elbow, tearing the fabric off just above the joint. Breathing carefully, she leans forward through the pain and ties the strip of fabric tightly around the compound fracture. She repeats a mantra in her head, something she learned as a child in the red room, no bol' yavlyayetsya chast'yu togo, kto my yest' . After a minute the pain dulls to an ache. One she can push back with every breath that leaves her body.

It won't work. Not for long, anyway.

Matt is somewhere down here with her. For the first time, she extends her awareness past her own body and takes in the warehouse basement. What she hit on her way down is a tall stack of wooden shipping pallets. Rows of them, some stacked with crates or wrapped in plastic, dot and line the length of the storage facility. The stacks closest to the blast and the caved-in floor have toppled dangerously. Natasha manages to squash the first image that rises to her mind of Matt crumpled somewhere beneath a pile of debris and toppled pallets.

"Matt?" She calls out, peering into the dark for a hint of the black-clad vigilante. There's no response, but when her eyes have mostly adjusted she makes out the curve of his shoulder protruding from the rubble. Her heart starts hammering in her chest. She hopes, all at once, that he can and can't hear it. Gritting her teeth she starts to drag herself towards him. "Matt?" she hisses, but he still doesn't stir. He's laying on his side with his arm captured beneath his body. His jaw is slack, she can't tell if he's breathing.