Natasha's first instinct is to cut her losses and keep running.
In fact, the moment she comes back to what passes for a luxury hotel in Novgorod she's rushing to pack her things up. The rule is, you travel light if you have to. At any given moment, the things she cannot afford to leave behind, must always be light enough to carry. She grabs her backpack from under the bed, It already holds a small collection of passports, rolls of American dollars and Euros, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a stick of deodorant, and a bottle of water. She stuffs her laptop, her smartphone and a collection of weapons on top of it.
Hawkeye is bright and observant and-- damn determined when he puts his mind to it. She mentioned Durov, so that mission is fucked. She'll have to beg out of it, even though it'll hurt her reputation.
She does a last sweep of the room just to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything. The clothes in the closet can all be left behind. She'll get new ones when she touches down on-- Wherever she goes. Paris, maybe. Or London. Or, what the hell, why not Reykjavik? It's remote enough. Remote is good.
She checks to make sure that the black key card is still tucked away safely between the pages of her Russian passport in the bag. It's one of the few things she has that connects her to her past, she's not leaving it behind. On instinct she touches her hand over her heart to feel the familiar shapes of the rings resting there, to make sure she hasn't lost them. She was wearing them when she woke up, they must be important to her, for some reason. So she's hanging on tight to them.
Except, they might not even be hers. Someone might've placed them on her. Or they may've been for an assignment. Maybe they're important to her, maybe they're nothing. They're not inscribed, but if she got married, they wouldn't be, would they? She's too paranoid for that. Fuck, is she married? Or did she just walk out on a mission? She just doesn't know, and she's sick with not knowing.
She's out the door before it hits her. She can't leave.
The simple truth of it is that Hawkeye might well be her only link back to her past and the years she's lost. Though she keeps telling herself that it doesn't matter, the fact that she doesn't know anything she's been up to for the past ten years keeps niggling at her. It's like a sore tooth, or a bruise she can't stop poking at. Except worse.
She has nightmares like never before. In one, the sky opens and demons crawl through, descending on the city below. A great pillar of light shoots up in the sky, and she slices through it, throwing the world into darkness.
In another, a hospital crumbles around her, babies crying and sick people coughing as the ceiling catches fire. She can feel the heat of the flames licking at her face, but walking through the hospital corridors, she's untouchable, but for the way little worms of guilt eat away at her insides.
Other nightmares, she just remembers as disjointed little fragments. A strike of lightning; a man in green in a cage of glass; being chased by something unseen, the path behind her crumbling.
But they're not the worst. The worst are the dreams of places that she has never been. A little cottage atop a cliff with the sea raging below. Falling asleep to the cluck of waves in a bed under a mosquito-net, skin slick with sweat in the cloying warmth.
She can't tell what's memory and what's just her fucked up mind messing with her. (Though she assumes the demons at least are made up.)
Slowly, she walks back into the hotel room, lets her backpack drop on the bed, and then she just stares at the hideous painting on the opposite wall.
Hawkeye knows her name. He must know other things about her too.
A sudden wave of nausea hits her, and she's running for the bathroom. She barely makes it in time, the lid clattering harshly against the porcelain cistern, before she's vomiting into the bowl. It's over in seconds, but it feels like it goes on for eternity. Body trembling, she sinks to the floor, touching the back of her wrist over her mouth and swallowing thickly.
She can't trust anyone. She can't even trust herself.
In fact, the moment she comes back to what passes for a luxury hotel in Novgorod she's rushing to pack her things up. The rule is, you travel light if you have to. At any given moment, the things she cannot afford to leave behind, must always be light enough to carry. She grabs her backpack from under the bed, It already holds a small collection of passports, rolls of American dollars and Euros, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a stick of deodorant, and a bottle of water. She stuffs her laptop, her smartphone and a collection of weapons on top of it.
Hawkeye is bright and observant and-- damn determined when he puts his mind to it. She mentioned Durov, so that mission is fucked. She'll have to beg out of it, even though it'll hurt her reputation.
She does a last sweep of the room just to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything. The clothes in the closet can all be left behind. She'll get new ones when she touches down on-- Wherever she goes. Paris, maybe. Or London. Or, what the hell, why not Reykjavik? It's remote enough. Remote is good.
She checks to make sure that the black key card is still tucked away safely between the pages of her Russian passport in the bag. It's one of the few things she has that connects her to her past, she's not leaving it behind. On instinct she touches her hand over her heart to feel the familiar shapes of the rings resting there, to make sure she hasn't lost them. She was wearing them when she woke up, they must be important to her, for some reason. So she's hanging on tight to them.
Except, they might not even be hers. Someone might've placed them on her. Or they may've been for an assignment. Maybe they're important to her, maybe they're nothing. They're not inscribed, but if she got married, they wouldn't be, would they? She's too paranoid for that. Fuck, is she married? Or did she just walk out on a mission? She just doesn't know, and she's sick with not knowing.
She's out the door before it hits her. She can't leave.
The simple truth of it is that Hawkeye might well be her only link back to her past and the years she's lost. Though she keeps telling herself that it doesn't matter, the fact that she doesn't know anything she's been up to for the past ten years keeps niggling at her. It's like a sore tooth, or a bruise she can't stop poking at. Except worse.
She has nightmares like never before. In one, the sky opens and demons crawl through, descending on the city below. A great pillar of light shoots up in the sky, and she slices through it, throwing the world into darkness.
In another, a hospital crumbles around her, babies crying and sick people coughing as the ceiling catches fire. She can feel the heat of the flames licking at her face, but walking through the hospital corridors, she's untouchable, but for the way little worms of guilt eat away at her insides.
Other nightmares, she just remembers as disjointed little fragments. A strike of lightning; a man in green in a cage of glass; being chased by something unseen, the path behind her crumbling.
But they're not the worst. The worst are the dreams of places that she has never been. A little cottage atop a cliff with the sea raging below. Falling asleep to the cluck of waves in a bed under a mosquito-net, skin slick with sweat in the cloying warmth.
She can't tell what's memory and what's just her fucked up mind messing with her. (Though she assumes the demons at least are made up.)
Slowly, she walks back into the hotel room, lets her backpack drop on the bed, and then she just stares at the hideous painting on the opposite wall.
Hawkeye knows her name. He must know other things about her too.
A sudden wave of nausea hits her, and she's running for the bathroom. She barely makes it in time, the lid clattering harshly against the porcelain cistern, before she's vomiting into the bowl. It's over in seconds, but it feels like it goes on for eternity. Body trembling, she sinks to the floor, touching the back of her wrist over her mouth and swallowing thickly.
She can't trust anyone. She can't even trust herself.
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