Make You Ill, 3/5. NC-17.
Title: Make You Ill
Series: #13 in Ready For The Siege
(#1 - Look Over Your Shoulder, #2 - Armed Up To The Teeth, #3 - Misery Inspires, #4 - Broken Underneath, #5 - Change Is Coming Soon, #6 - Lick Your Wounds, #7 - Bitter Sparks, #8 - Father's Will, #9 - To Feel Safe Again, #10 - Hit Your Prime, #11 - Open Your Eyes, #12 - Can't Be Ignored)
Author: Eustacia Vye
Author's e-mail: eustacia_vye28@hotmail.com
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Loki/Natasha, Natasha/Yelena, Natasha/Winter Soldier
Disclaimer: Not mine! Some comic backstory is incorporated into characterizations, but this is still primarily movieverse.
Spoilers/Warnings: Post-movie. Read the other stories before this one, because it does refer back to events in them. Additional warning for underage sexual situations, drug use (with and without consent), dubcon, noncon, mindfuckery of various flavors (hello, Red Room!) and detailed descriptions of violence.
Title and series title from "The Royal We" by Silversun Pickups
Special thanks to phoenixrising06/
romanovasledger for plotting and characterization discussion. :)
Summary: Natasha's past is starting to haunt her and Loki refuses to leave well enough alone. Unfortunately, the Red Room never did take no for an answer.
Prior chapters:
One - Evaluating Threats
Two - Smoke and Mirrors
Three - Hazy Shadows
Natasha was lying naked on her back in a room she didn't recognize. The walls were painted white, some of it peeling, and heavy black drapes blotted the windows. One lamp was on in the room, casting dingy shadows everywhere. The bed she was lying on was covered with a worn duvet that had once been a brilliant ruby, but was now faded and threadbare in spots. Yelena was kneeling on the bed, holding her arms down above her head, an intense look on her face and blue eyes boring into hers. Her blonde hair was tied behind her in a loose braid, wisps escaping it and making her look almost impossibly young. She was only dressed in an oversized white man's shirt, buttoned up haphazardly and exposing too much skin. Natasha frowned at her, her thoughts fuzzy and blurred around the edges. Where was she? When was she? Was this simply a memory or a dream?
The Winter Soldier was in the room as well, casting shadows along the wall, his face mostly masked by darkness. "Natasha."
He had been the first to call her that. It had always been Natalia or Comrade or Cadet, but when he was alone with her, sometimes he called her Natasha or Natashenko. He had loved her, even when he didn't remember her, and her heart ached badly.
Naked as well, he stroked her limbs gently. "You look the same, but Lena tells me it's been years since we've last seen each other."
That didn't sound right. Years? No, it couldn't have been. Ivan wouldn't have allowed that, not his prized stars in the Red Room. Natasha tried to say something, but her tongue felt thick and swollen in her mouth, glued to her palate as if stuffed with cotton.
"She'll remember, Winter," Yelena whispered, her voice a crooning sound. "Now we can all remember, and it will be just as it was. We are the Red Room now, Natalia," she said, leaning down to kiss Natasha on the forehead. "This is who we are."
No. That was definitely wrong. She was Natasha Romanoff, Agent of SHIELD with Level Nine clearance, Ambassador to Asgard. She was in charge of herself. She controlled her own mind, and she was trusted. Natalia Alianova Romanova was long gone, buried with all the other fractured lives that the Red Room had given her. It wasn't real, not anymore, not the way Natasha was now. She was Natasha.
He was watching her carefully, looking for the play of emotions in her eyes. What state had they left him in when they put him into the ice? What did he remember? She only remembered fire and desperation, the bite of blades and bullets, a hail of anger and fury. It seemed so distant now, so blurry, a drug induced dream.
"Natasha," he murmured before kneeling at the foot of the bed. He bent his head as he spread her legs apart gently, and she found herself moving them almost of her own volition. She remembered this, her body remembered this, somewhere deep down beneath the haze of forgotten memories and shrouded dreams that the Red Room had left behind. SHIELD therapists hadn't been able to pierce the haze, so she had merely built herself over it. But the foundations were still shaky, still full of holes so large that she hadn't realized that entire lives were hidden inside of them still.
She cried out when his lips came to her flesh, licking into her with the same slow, careful strokes that she remembered. "Winter," she tried to say, and then Yelena was kissing her, tongue sliding into her mouth and moistening the desert there. She cradled Natasha's breast in her hand as the Winter Soldier worked her open with his tongue and then his fingers, bringing her climax quickly. She remembered this, oh, how had she forgotten? Then he was inside her, hands on her hips, even the metal one, and he could crush the bone between those cold fingers but he never would. He would never hurt her, not like that, it was only his absence that ever hurt when she was young and needy and thought she was so strong. Buried to the hilt, Winter studied her response, as if testing it against his own fractured memory. Slowly, he started to rock his hips, and she remembered that feeling, that slide of his skin against hers, the way her body opened to his and responded to his touch. There was no artifice here, no twisting the intent or emotion or desire. They simply were, tangled together and leaning on one another for stability in the quicksand that the Red Room left them in.
Yelena cradled her when she came, shuddering beneath them, nearly sobbing. Everything ached, burning beneath the haze of thoughts that couldn't quite resolve into something clear. Natasha couldn't remember a time when she felt free. The Red Room prevented that. They were always watching, always, and anything real could be broken and used against her.
But she hadn't been with the Winter Soldier at the same time as Yelena. It was working on missions, short bursts of intense reaction and emotion. He was protective of her, and always remembered her no matter what name or personality overlay they gave her. Being with Yelena had been trying to stave off the darkness for a time.
This made no sense, nothing made sense.
The next thing that Natasha could recall clearly was sitting up on the worn out bed, thighs aching and sticky, her hair hanging down in front of her face in clumps. Yelena gave her a glass of water that didn't taste right, but there was no option but to drink it down. Her mouth was so dry and awful tasting, and Yelena was apologizing for the rusty pipes and derelict conditions.
"But you were with Ophelia," Natasha said, looking up at her blearily, her words slurring a little around the edges. She felt ten again, twelve again, and Ivan would be back soon. Never mind he was dead, they were all dead, the feeling was the same. "She has money. She'll give you whatever you want, won't she?"
"Natalia," Yelena said, a tinge of sadness in her voice. "She's outlived her usefulness. I don't need to pretend to care for her anymore. Ophelia means nothing."
Something wasn't right about her words, but her legs buckled beneath her when she tried to stand on her own two feet. Yelena caught her, arms tight around her, lips at her throat. She might have been saying "I love you," but Natasha couldn't quite make out the words.
"This isn't right," she tried to say, but her words were slurring.
The walls were red. The coverlet was red. Blood was red.
No one ever really escaped the Red Room, did they?
***
Clint had hung up on Loki somewhere in the middle of his anguished screaming. It had sounded like he was trashing the room over at Avengers Tower, and he didn't envy Tony cleaning up the devastation. He remembered vaguely when Loki had gotten self-destructive without Natasha, cutting herself, screaming and looking damn near suicidal. Only vaguely, because Clint really preferred to stay away from Loki if at all possible.
But if Natasha was really gone, there went the buffer zone.
He didn't think Natasha was dead, even with Loki completely losing it. The god jumped to conclusions fairly quickly at times, and it didn't sound as though he had stopped to think of what may have happened or any of the potential consequences. Clint knew nothing of magic or monsters, but he was fairly certain that Loki wasn't the only one capable of undoing whatever bond he and Natasha had. And really, just because it was gone didn't mean Natasha was dead. It could be some sort of spell caster. AIM had some, so why not Hydra? Their leaders were cousins, after all. Maybe they shared ideas.
It was easy to pick the lock on Natasha's hotel room door. There were no signs of a struggle, though he honestly hadn't expected to find any. Her clothes were still hanging up or in her suitcases; she might have been in the room nearly three weeks, but she never liked using the dressers. Using suitcases was a reminder that this was not a long term mission.
Honestly, it looked as though she had simply gone out for breakfast, intending to return. Loki wouldn't have fallen apart so spectacularly if that was the case, however.
On the desk were all the usual tourist brochures about Villach. Every single one was open to the pages about Landskron Castle, even the magazines. Those were carefully folded so that the spines were broken, forcing them to remain open at that page. It hadn't looked that way the night before after dinner, so it was a deliberate move on Natasha's part. She knew plenty about the castle thanks to all of her visits with Sam, so she wasn't researching it for that reason.
Yelena had to have made contact. And she must have known about and threatened Clint, because she wouldn't have gone ahead without him, not when she had been worried about this. Natasha must have suspected her room was bugged.
Thanks, Tash. Now I have a starting point.
Leaving her things where they were, Clint headed to Landskron Castle.
***
"All right," Sam said, sitting down across from Loki in the common room. There were still traces of his earlier outburst evident, mostly in the shape of holes in the walls, but much of the other damage was already cleared away. Tony had already put in a work order, and expected the holes to be repaired by evening. "This is probably a stupid move on my part," he began, looking intently at Loki's drawn expression. "Explain how this magical bonding thing works so I understand what you're talking about."
Loki stared at him for a long moment. "I've tried explaining it to Stark and Banner."
"Yeah, they mentioned radiation and whatever," Sam said with a dismissive wave. "I don't need to hear that part, it wouldn't make sense to me anyway. I'm a simple guy, so explain it to me in simple terms, so I understand that," he said, pointing at the holes in the wall.
"There is... history between myself and Natasha."
"Do I need the nitty gritty on that relationship?" Sam asked with a raised eyebrow, seeing how uncomfortable Loki was feeling. He had gotten vague explanations from Steve and Clint, and Natasha had merely said they had an understanding when he had asked her about it. Sam had to admit, some of this was just to satisfy his morbid curiosity. But at the same time, Natasha had this way of downplaying just how serious things could be.
Looking as though he tasted something sour, Loki nodded sharply. "She humiliated me, so I sought to discredit her among her peers." He paused at Sam's raised eyebrows. "You were unaware of that."
"Well, yeah. Not my business, I guess. But being friends with these guys means I hear things, and the story's not always complete."
"She didn't break. Despite everything, she didn't break."
"Tasha's a tough one," Sam said when Loki lapsed into silence.
"I had used magic, but it didn't influence her the way I thought it would. She didn't break, and wasn't frightened of me when I came to her. She even saved me from Amora."
"Yeah, I hadn't heard of that one, either." Sam shrugged when Loki stared at him. "Look. Tasha doesn't talk much of stuff. She said you guys had an understanding, and you know how she can be, right? An understanding doesn't explain holes in walls."
"The magic between us," Loki began slowly, painfully. "It gave me a sense of where she was, how safe she was."
"Like a comfort thing," Sam supplied helpfully.
"I suppose," Loki said, looking at Sam suspiciously.
He loved her, Sam realized suddenly. He hadn't really thought about it earlier, but in his own defense it had been four o'clock in the morning. Four am was never a good time of day as far as Sam was concerned, and this was further proof of it.
"But it was never meant to some kind of indicator that she was alive or dead." Though Loki frowned, he shook his head. That let Sam press on. "So she might not be dead. And if I had to bet on it, I'd say she's still alive."
"Why?"
"Dude, you've seen how she moves, right? The woman can take out twenty guys in heels and not break a sweat."
"But she was afraid of Yelena."
Sam wasn't sure if Loki was aware how tearful he sounded, but decided not to point it out. No fighter ever wanted to be told he was about to cry. It wasn't manly or brave in most of their minds, and Sam didn't think Loki was any different. "Natasha said she used to be a friend. They got the same training. I know if my buddies came back from the dead, I wouldn't want to kick their asses, either. But if it's got to be done, it's got to be done. And she's that way. For all she's a spy, she's got the discipline of a soldier."
"She can't die, Sam," Loki said softly, eyes sliding away from the devastated walls.
"I get that, I do." Sam paused. Did he just talk down the god of mischief twice? Too bad he couldn't put that on his resume. "Listen. This magic thing. It looks like you can do some pretty badass shit with it if you want to."
"Within reason. There are classes of spells in each category of magic."
"O-kay. Is there a way you can try to track her down? Even without the bond?"
Loki paused for so long that Sam was almost convinced Loki ignored him. "Galdr or runic magic may work, but are not easy to do on this realm. I can try to find her spá, the lines her future path would take. It is quite difficult, and may not be accurate. Few know how to read the spá completely."
"Hey, man, whatever gives us a starting point, right? Clint's on the ground there, you work your magic thing. I'm pretty sure Steve will try to work the SHIELD angle."
"And you?" Loki demanded. "How will you search for her?"
Sam grimaced. "Unfortunately, I can't. I'd love to help, don't get me wrong, but I got to get back to work the day after tomorrow. My vacation time is up, and I've got a full day there. It's not the same as being out in the field and I don't have a boss telling me what to do 24-7, but I still got responsibilities to take care of. A lot of them don't have anybody else. I can't leave those guys behind, either."
Loki nodded after a moment. "Would you need my assistance?" he asked finally.
"You did promise you'd come by. And it might take your mind off the waiting time." Sam leaned back in his chair a little. "It's good and bad, working with these guys. You know you're making a difference, giving them a shoulder to lean on and you know how it goes. But at the same time, you could also be ripping open wounds you thought were closed. It was like that for you when you were Lisa, right? That's why you couldn't do more than just sit in the back and man the refreshment tables."
"My assistance then was unnecessary," Loki replied stiffly.
"Help is help." Sam got up to head to the kitchen, wanting another cup of coffee. "Some days are good, you know? You get a lot done, someone tells you how you saved their life, kept them from blowing off the top of their head. Other days, it's not so good. Someone shoots themselves in the chest or takes a knife to the arm." Loki blanched but remained silent. "Yeah. It's a rough job that I've got. But you have to keep going. You have to think that you're making a difference, even if it's only one life."
"Why?" Loki asked, appearing confused.
"Why else are we here, man? It's not hard to go around knocking people when they're down, hurting others just because you can. That's chaos. Entropy. That's easy. That happens without you having to lift a finger. But when you put in effort... that's how you know it's worthwhile. That's how you know what you do matters." Sam looked at Loki evenly. "You've got magic and power and know how. So what are you going to use it for? You'll look for Natasha, but what else are you going to use it for?"
"I don't know," Loki admitted after a moment.
"Well, thinking on that might be something else to distract you. Because I don't think Yelena is going to make it easy on any of us."
***
If Clint thought that he was going to find obvious signs of a struggle at the castle, he was sorely disappointed. Tourists were in and out of the castle to see the falconry or views, or wanted to eat at the restaurant. It wasn't some morbid location full of ghost stories and murder.
There wasn't much point in keeping to his cover any longer. If Natasha was in danger, she needed SHIELD at her back, not an expat with no connections. Talking his way into security wasn't difficult, and they initially balked at giving him access to security tapes, even if the castle security staff was with him. He had no qualms about having them talk with Sitwell; that was simply to be expected when you were the handler for Strike Team Delta as far as Clint was concerned. Sitwell confirmed that Natasha had a GPS tracker still pinging in Villach, and that she and Clint had been tracking a terrorist organization. The guards were extremely helpful after that conversation, and Clint managed not to roll his eyes or make a snarky remark at their expense. They didn't know who he was, after all. They sat with him and scrolled through surveillance data from the night before.
It was dreadfully boring until just after ten o'clock. Natasha walked through the field of one camera into another. Clint watched as she started talking with someone who barely registered on the camera field, as if she knew exactly where they were. Natasha approached slowly, until she was right at the edge of the camera's field of vision. She was yanked out of the camera's view, Yelena's hand clearly around her throat.
Loki couldn't feel their bond anymore, and was certain only death could sever it.
Clint was sure Natasha was still alive. Yelena was a lot savvier than they had wanted to give her credit for, sure. But she wouldn't kill Natasha just yet if they were meeting in a public place. No, her stance, what Clint could see of it, implied that Yelena was feeling confident and wanted something. Considering she had been Ophelia's girlfriend, she likely didn't want or need anything that Hydra could give her. It had to be something that only Natasha would know, maybe something related to the Red Room training they had.
As soon as he left the castle, Clint called New York and asked to speak with Sitwell. "The video looks bad, but she's pinging here in Villach somewhere, you said. Could there be a hit out on Natasha? Someone willing to sell her to the highest bidder, make her be a mercenary again, something like that?" he asked. "I don't have solid evidence, but I don't think Natasha is dead. If Yelena was interested in simply killing her, I'm sure there would have been a body prominently displayed somewhere in the city as a warning."
Sitwell breathed in deeply. "I'll look into that, Agent. It's an angle I hadn't thought about when Yelena Belova's name first came up on the radar."
"In the meantime, I'll keep looking here. I'm bound to find something." He hoped so, at any rate. But odds were good that if Yelena didn't want to be found, he wouldn't find any clues pointing to her whereabouts.
***
Natasha had her wrists tied together, the rope attached to a hook overhead as she knelt on a bed with plain white sheets. No, that wasn't right, this wasn't exactly like the faded memories she had tried to bury. She had been punished once in the Red Room where her wrists had been tied to an A frame, and she had been stripped naked, her clothes ripped from her body roughly before a cane had been applied to her back and thighs. Punishment in front of the other girls for weakness, for failing to do what had to be done. Had she already been with Winter then? She couldn't remember, it was all blurry around the edges.
Yelena had come to her afterward, when she was left on the A frame "to think about her crimes," and she was in nothing more than a white shift. "Natalia," Yelena had whispered, cradling her face in her hands. "How could they do this to you?"
"Easy," Natasha had replied, voice thick with pain. "I failed."
Yelena had been too young for missions at that point. She hadn't been ready, hadn't been with the program as long as Natasha. She was the best and brightest, Yelena was starting out. She didn't understand what it meant, what the price of failure was. She didn't have the memory of a Makarov pressed into her palm at age seven, shooting down another girl who couldn't complete a mission. Show us what you can do.
Sagging against the A frame, Natasha didn't resist when Yelena kissed her lips softly. "Natalia, I can't get you down, I'm sorry."
"Go back to bed, Lena. They'll punish you if they see you here."
Something fierce burned in her eyes then. "I won't leave you like this. You shouldn't be in pain. It wasn't your fault."
"Failure is always my fault. They punish the weak here, remember?"
Refusing to leave, Yelena shook her head and brushed her fingers along the budding rise of Natasha's breasts. "I can help, Natalia. Maybe I can make the pain go away for a little while. You won't feel as lonely in the dark."
"Shadows are our friends," Natasha tried to say, though her smile faltered and her head drooped with the pain. "I don't want them hurting you, Lena."
"I'm small. They won't catch me."
"Lena..."
Yelena kissed her again, soft and sweet, tongue sliding along Natasha's lips. One of her hands cupped a bare breast, the nipple pebbled and hard from the cold. Her other hand slid down her stomach to the juncture of her thighs, through the soft tangled hair. Natasha whimpered a little at the contact, but Yelena touched her softly, reverently, until Natasha was whimpering with desire and not fear. "I'll take care of you, Natalia," she whispered against Natasha's ear, fingers slicked and deep inside of her, curling until they found the spot that made her back arch against the welts on her back from the caning. "I'll always be here," Yelena promised.
It was years later now, Natasha was older and no longer thought Yelena remembered. But her lips closed over Natasha's breast, tongue laving at the nipple as her fingers slid between her spread thighs. Natasha blinked to try to clear the fog from her head, to erase the ghostly afterimages in her mind. "Lena..." she rasped.
Her fingers slid home, deep and sure, remembering the rhythm that had brought Natasha to gasping despite her fears of being caught. "Natalia," Yelena whispered against her skin, her face pressed between her breasts. Yelena's fingers pulled at Natasha's breast, making her cry out at the shock of pleasure. "Oh, how I dreamed of this."
Natasha moaned, arching into her touch. She panted, feeling her body tighten as she approached orgasm. Yelena stroked her until she came with a sharp cry muffled against her arm. Yelena licked a stripe down her stomach, then moved to lick at Natasha's clit while her fingers continued to pump into her.
She startled badly when a pair of hands moved to cup her breasts from behind, one of them cold metal. "Sh," the Winter Solder murmured, nipping at her shoulder. "Natasha," he whispered into her ear, his erection pressed up against the curve of her buttocks. "We're here. We're with you again. You're not alone."
But she hadn't been alone, she wanted to say. She had friends, she had colleagues, she was wanted and admired, revered and maybe even loved. Natasha couldn't answer, not with her breath rasping in her chest, Yelena's mouth between her legs and the Winter Soldier behind her for support. Once Yelena coaxed another orgasm out of her, she rose up to her knees and kissed her full on the mouth, tongue sliding into her mouth. Natasha could taste herself on Yelena's tongue, and she moaned as she felt the Winter Soldier's cock slide into her, full and thick and oh so welcome. She ached badly, pinned between the two of them, Yelena's fingers rubbing at her clit as the Winter Solder thrust up into her. Natasha cried out, overwhelmed and oversensitive, pulling on the ropes around her wrists as she writhed between them.
Natasha didn't know whose name to call out when they wrung out another orgasm, and she simply sagged.
The Winter Soldier untied her at Yelena's nod, and Natasha tumbled into his arms. Oh, that was familiar, too. She was sprawled sideways across the bed, loose-limbed and exhausted. Yelena came back into her visual range, wearing nothing but a smile and carrying a syringe. Despite Natasha's weak protests, Yelena brought the needle to her arm. The Winter Solder held Natasha still for the injection, his expression impassive.
Natasha choked as she felt the burn, and slid back under into oblivion.
All hail the Red Room.
***
The GPS tracker was covered in clotted blood and was discarded haphazardly outside a fast food restaurant. The scratches on its surface indicated that a sharp blade with a smooth edge had cut the tracker out of Natasha's arm. While Clint was glad he wasn't finding Natasha's body, this also made his job infinitely harder. He didn't imagine that Yelena would let her leave little clues for him along their journey.
Fuck getting permission from Sitwell, he was breaking into Ophelia Sarkissian's house.
The house itself was an understated yet very obviously expensive home at the edge of Villach, set back from the road. There were wide, manicured lawns and trees all around, as well as extensive gardens with brightly colored flowers. There was no apparent sign of life around the house, and any security devices were cleverly hidden and unobtrusive. That didn't mean invisible; Clint knew the usual places to look and his keen eyesight meant he found the cameras and sensors without physically being in their line of sight.
Not one of them had any indicators that made it easy to tell if they were on. Of course Sarkissian would make his life difficult. Of course.
Staking out the house throughout the day was an exercise in frustration. He saw no one enter or exit the house. Tapping into the wireless network revealed no traffic. No one was using the phone line. The more he thought about it, the more this was downright suspicious and a little bit creepy. Steve had been certain that Ophelia wasn't in Vienna, and had told office staff she was heading to Villach with her girlfriend Yelena.
And as everyone kept repeating, Yelena was potentially crazy. It all depended on what triggers or personalities surfaced. Natasha only came in to SHIELD's graces because she was tired of fighting and killing, and she had been in full control of herself at the time. There was no way to tell what state of mind Yelena would be in.
Once night fell and no lights came on in the house, Clint cursed under his breath. He could break in, but he hated going through big houses like this on his own in the dark. Beneath the cover of darkness, he crept across the lawn and picked open the lock on the back door. It was pathetically easy, which paradoxically only made Clint feel even more distressed. He had his bow and a pistol, but what if that wasn't enough?
Feeling silly and brave at once, Clint snapped on all the lights as he went through the house, black leather gloves on his hands. It wouldn't do to leave prints behind, after all. The mudroom was pristine, as was the kitchen.
Every knife in the butcher's block was missing.
Dread rising, Clint continued to move through the house, Glock at the ready, his finger on the trigger guard. He moved as silently as he could, glad he at least wore the rubber soled boots that he had brought with him. It didn't feel right as he went through the house, and not just because he was breaking and entering. No one was challenging him. No one was noticing that all the lights were on. There was no noise other than from his own movements.
In the den was a splash of blood on the floor. Nothing in the room seemed to be disturbed, and the splash looked to be more like an arterial spray. He didn't like thinking of how he knew that fact; arrows hitting the throat made a mess, and it wasn't that quick a kill.
One of the bathroom mirrors had a large circular break in it, as if a head had been smashed into it repeatedly. Clint could even see blood and bits of hair within the broken shards of glass. Even worse, in the bedroom connected to that bathroom, Clint found three severed fingers on the floor, drops of blood spattered in a path away from them. The fingers had been cut off after the second joint but before the finger met the hand. What could cut through bone that cleanly?
Gut churning, Clint continued through the house, checking each and every room. He was starting to get a very good idea of why no one had been moving in the house, or why no one had seen Ophelia Sarkissian in a while.
That was it on the first floor. He could go down into the basement or up to the second floor. Too many horror movies had things happen in the basement, so Clint went upstairs.
He should have gone to the basement.
Partway down the hall at the top of the stairs was a series of footprints and blood spatters leading from one room to another. Knowing it was a chickenshit move, Clint went to the room that the tracks led to first. The door opened easily, and the tracks continued into the room. It was a large, elegant bedroom, with matching dressers, mirror, desk and chairs. In the center of the room was a four poster king sized bed that had gauzy draped fabric tied to it. There were partly open doors to his left that led to a large walk in closet. To his right was an open door leading to a bathroom. The bloody trail led to the massive bed, then off to the bathroom.
Lying on the bed was Ophelia, eyes shut and arms flung to the sides as if in sleep. Her throat was cut so deeply her head was nearly severed from her body. Clint could see bone in the gaping wound, and sucked in a breath to keep from throwing up. The expensive bedding had soaked up the blood and bodily fluids, staining them almost black.
Clint backed out of the room and took some cleansing breaths. Okay. He could handle this. It wasn't the first time he had seen death, after all. And it looked as though Ophelia never knew what hit her, and she had been killed in her sleep. Whatever blade that had severed those fingers downstairs likely had cut into her neck, killing her before she could wake. The edges of the wound had been fantastically clean, indicating it was a single slice from a sharp blade.
"All right," he told himself. "No more delays."
Following the bloody trail, Clint went into the other room. The stench hit him hard, and he swallowed down his gorge until his stomach settled. In this room were several bodies, different sets of them with different manners of death. The ones closest to the door were three robed figures impaled on spikes. The spikes were anchored into the floor with flagpole braces, and ran up under the long robes through the body. Each head had been yanked back, opening the mouth in a silent scream to accommodate the point of the spike passing through it in a manner like Vlad Tepesh's classic execution style. Forcing himself to look past the mode of death, Clint examined them more closely. Each robe had various runes and designs worked into it that reminded Clint of the bracelet that Loki had made for the Avengers while a female. A number of the designs were cut into, and Clint could only assume it made those protections worthless.
The three bodies were likely a warning. Behind the three were four older women in what had once been pristine white robes. Their faces betrayed none of the anguish their deaths must have caused them. They had been disemboweled, their rib cages cracked wide open and hearts removed. A few of the missing kitchen knives were scattered around the bodies, edges dulled from use. The hearts were in a pile in the center of the room, along with a hand missing three fingers, a foot and a left arm. Two guards in the corner of the room were the apparent donors of the hand, foot and arm. Their expressions were far less calm than those of the women; one of them had traces of vomit on his chest and mouth and the other had been the one whose head was beaten into the bathroom mirror downstairs.
Beyond the four robed women were two older men that looked like they were functioning as scribes, and another wearing various jeweled amulets and rings. Clint could only imagine that he was the one directing whatever magic had been performed there. That would explain why his head was chopped off, his body doused with acid and pinned down with candlesticks. The two scribes had also been opened up from throat to crotch, their floater ribs removed and jammed into their eye sockets.
The blood had long since dried in clumps and streaks all over the floor. The footprints moved around the room like a horrible dance step outline. Clint couldn't find any other bodies in the room or any other indication as to what had happened there prior to the murders.
Carefully stepping back out into the hall, Clint clutched his phone tightly and took several deep breaths. He couldn't get the stench of death out of his mouth and nose, the image out from the backs of his eyelids. He was dialing SHIELD headquarters before he even realized what he was doing, then stopped. They didn't know what to do about this, and were already looking for Yelena. All they would need to know was that Ophelia and a number of mages were dead; the only mages that Ophelia would know would be through her cousin Ekaterina. Perhaps that was all of AIM's mages.
Clint erased his contact number for SHIELD and instead dialed Steve at Avengers Tower. "I can't believe I'm saying this," he said after Steve picked up, "but we're going to need Loki's help on this one. I need him to come to Austria."
***
When Natasha next woke up, she was alert and cognizant of her surroundings. The coverlet was a different color, the windows were in the wrong place and the door hinges were on the opposite side. She was in a different hotel room, then. How had she missed being transported?
She was bound to the bed, lying sideways compared to where the headboard would be, with the leather restraints running to the corners of the bed. Yanking on them caused the bed frame to creak; they were likely attached to the frame or wheels, as there was no headboard or footboard to attach anything to. The creak alerted the Winter Soldier that she was awake, and dislodged Yelena from where she was lying on the bed. Natasha tilted her head back and saw the armchair where the Winter Soldier was on guard, in full armor and with his weapons beside him or strapped into the armor within easy reach. While his expression remained impassive, his eyes didn't look nearly so dead when his gaze fell on her.
"Winter," she said, her voice coming out like a rough croak.
"You need water."
"I need to get out of here."
"You fought me," Yelena said, sliding her hand over Natasha's bare stomach. "You hit our dear Winter, took me by surprise. You were too sedated, we thought. But you still fought me." She sat up and moved to get another glass vial and syringe.
"That's killing me, Yelena," Natasha rasped. "It's making me sick."
"Oh, no. It's making you better." She sounded so happy, so sure of herself. There was even a bright grin on her face when she turned back toward Natasha.
"Yelena…" It took a moment for her vision to make sense of what she was seeing. "There's blood in your hair."
That didn't bother her in the slightest. "Must be the clerk's. He was getting nosy. After this," she said, waving the syringe, "I'll wash up and we'll go."
"Where?" Natasha asked, eyes widening in fear as the syringe approached her arm. She was bound, there was nowhere she could go to escape it.
"Wherever the fuck I feel like," Yelena chirped.
In went the syringe, out went her consciousness.
***
***
To chapter Four - Beyond Numbers
Series: #13 in Ready For The Siege
(#1 - Look Over Your Shoulder, #2 - Armed Up To The Teeth, #3 - Misery Inspires, #4 - Broken Underneath, #5 - Change Is Coming Soon, #6 - Lick Your Wounds, #7 - Bitter Sparks, #8 - Father's Will, #9 - To Feel Safe Again, #10 - Hit Your Prime, #11 - Open Your Eyes, #12 - Can't Be Ignored)
Author: Eustacia Vye
Author's e-mail: eustacia_vye28@hotmail.com
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Loki/Natasha, Natasha/Yelena, Natasha/Winter Soldier
Disclaimer: Not mine! Some comic backstory is incorporated into characterizations, but this is still primarily movieverse.
Spoilers/Warnings: Post-movie. Read the other stories before this one, because it does refer back to events in them. Additional warning for underage sexual situations, drug use (with and without consent), dubcon, noncon, mindfuckery of various flavors (hello, Red Room!) and detailed descriptions of violence.
Title and series title from "The Royal We" by Silversun Pickups
Special thanks to phoenixrising06/
romanovasledger for plotting and characterization discussion. :)
Summary: Natasha's past is starting to haunt her and Loki refuses to leave well enough alone. Unfortunately, the Red Room never did take no for an answer.
Prior chapters:
One - Evaluating Threats
Two - Smoke and Mirrors
Three - Hazy Shadows
Natasha was lying naked on her back in a room she didn't recognize. The walls were painted white, some of it peeling, and heavy black drapes blotted the windows. One lamp was on in the room, casting dingy shadows everywhere. The bed she was lying on was covered with a worn duvet that had once been a brilliant ruby, but was now faded and threadbare in spots. Yelena was kneeling on the bed, holding her arms down above her head, an intense look on her face and blue eyes boring into hers. Her blonde hair was tied behind her in a loose braid, wisps escaping it and making her look almost impossibly young. She was only dressed in an oversized white man's shirt, buttoned up haphazardly and exposing too much skin. Natasha frowned at her, her thoughts fuzzy and blurred around the edges. Where was she? When was she? Was this simply a memory or a dream?
The Winter Soldier was in the room as well, casting shadows along the wall, his face mostly masked by darkness. "Natasha."
He had been the first to call her that. It had always been Natalia or Comrade or Cadet, but when he was alone with her, sometimes he called her Natasha or Natashenko. He had loved her, even when he didn't remember her, and her heart ached badly.
Naked as well, he stroked her limbs gently. "You look the same, but Lena tells me it's been years since we've last seen each other."
That didn't sound right. Years? No, it couldn't have been. Ivan wouldn't have allowed that, not his prized stars in the Red Room. Natasha tried to say something, but her tongue felt thick and swollen in her mouth, glued to her palate as if stuffed with cotton.
"She'll remember, Winter," Yelena whispered, her voice a crooning sound. "Now we can all remember, and it will be just as it was. We are the Red Room now, Natalia," she said, leaning down to kiss Natasha on the forehead. "This is who we are."
No. That was definitely wrong. She was Natasha Romanoff, Agent of SHIELD with Level Nine clearance, Ambassador to Asgard. She was in charge of herself. She controlled her own mind, and she was trusted. Natalia Alianova Romanova was long gone, buried with all the other fractured lives that the Red Room had given her. It wasn't real, not anymore, not the way Natasha was now. She was Natasha.
He was watching her carefully, looking for the play of emotions in her eyes. What state had they left him in when they put him into the ice? What did he remember? She only remembered fire and desperation, the bite of blades and bullets, a hail of anger and fury. It seemed so distant now, so blurry, a drug induced dream.
"Natasha," he murmured before kneeling at the foot of the bed. He bent his head as he spread her legs apart gently, and she found herself moving them almost of her own volition. She remembered this, her body remembered this, somewhere deep down beneath the haze of forgotten memories and shrouded dreams that the Red Room had left behind. SHIELD therapists hadn't been able to pierce the haze, so she had merely built herself over it. But the foundations were still shaky, still full of holes so large that she hadn't realized that entire lives were hidden inside of them still.
She cried out when his lips came to her flesh, licking into her with the same slow, careful strokes that she remembered. "Winter," she tried to say, and then Yelena was kissing her, tongue sliding into her mouth and moistening the desert there. She cradled Natasha's breast in her hand as the Winter Soldier worked her open with his tongue and then his fingers, bringing her climax quickly. She remembered this, oh, how had she forgotten? Then he was inside her, hands on her hips, even the metal one, and he could crush the bone between those cold fingers but he never would. He would never hurt her, not like that, it was only his absence that ever hurt when she was young and needy and thought she was so strong. Buried to the hilt, Winter studied her response, as if testing it against his own fractured memory. Slowly, he started to rock his hips, and she remembered that feeling, that slide of his skin against hers, the way her body opened to his and responded to his touch. There was no artifice here, no twisting the intent or emotion or desire. They simply were, tangled together and leaning on one another for stability in the quicksand that the Red Room left them in.
Yelena cradled her when she came, shuddering beneath them, nearly sobbing. Everything ached, burning beneath the haze of thoughts that couldn't quite resolve into something clear. Natasha couldn't remember a time when she felt free. The Red Room prevented that. They were always watching, always, and anything real could be broken and used against her.
But she hadn't been with the Winter Soldier at the same time as Yelena. It was working on missions, short bursts of intense reaction and emotion. He was protective of her, and always remembered her no matter what name or personality overlay they gave her. Being with Yelena had been trying to stave off the darkness for a time.
This made no sense, nothing made sense.
The next thing that Natasha could recall clearly was sitting up on the worn out bed, thighs aching and sticky, her hair hanging down in front of her face in clumps. Yelena gave her a glass of water that didn't taste right, but there was no option but to drink it down. Her mouth was so dry and awful tasting, and Yelena was apologizing for the rusty pipes and derelict conditions.
"But you were with Ophelia," Natasha said, looking up at her blearily, her words slurring a little around the edges. She felt ten again, twelve again, and Ivan would be back soon. Never mind he was dead, they were all dead, the feeling was the same. "She has money. She'll give you whatever you want, won't she?"
"Natalia," Yelena said, a tinge of sadness in her voice. "She's outlived her usefulness. I don't need to pretend to care for her anymore. Ophelia means nothing."
Something wasn't right about her words, but her legs buckled beneath her when she tried to stand on her own two feet. Yelena caught her, arms tight around her, lips at her throat. She might have been saying "I love you," but Natasha couldn't quite make out the words.
"This isn't right," she tried to say, but her words were slurring.
The walls were red. The coverlet was red. Blood was red.
No one ever really escaped the Red Room, did they?
***
Clint had hung up on Loki somewhere in the middle of his anguished screaming. It had sounded like he was trashing the room over at Avengers Tower, and he didn't envy Tony cleaning up the devastation. He remembered vaguely when Loki had gotten self-destructive without Natasha, cutting herself, screaming and looking damn near suicidal. Only vaguely, because Clint really preferred to stay away from Loki if at all possible.
But if Natasha was really gone, there went the buffer zone.
He didn't think Natasha was dead, even with Loki completely losing it. The god jumped to conclusions fairly quickly at times, and it didn't sound as though he had stopped to think of what may have happened or any of the potential consequences. Clint knew nothing of magic or monsters, but he was fairly certain that Loki wasn't the only one capable of undoing whatever bond he and Natasha had. And really, just because it was gone didn't mean Natasha was dead. It could be some sort of spell caster. AIM had some, so why not Hydra? Their leaders were cousins, after all. Maybe they shared ideas.
It was easy to pick the lock on Natasha's hotel room door. There were no signs of a struggle, though he honestly hadn't expected to find any. Her clothes were still hanging up or in her suitcases; she might have been in the room nearly three weeks, but she never liked using the dressers. Using suitcases was a reminder that this was not a long term mission.
Honestly, it looked as though she had simply gone out for breakfast, intending to return. Loki wouldn't have fallen apart so spectacularly if that was the case, however.
On the desk were all the usual tourist brochures about Villach. Every single one was open to the pages about Landskron Castle, even the magazines. Those were carefully folded so that the spines were broken, forcing them to remain open at that page. It hadn't looked that way the night before after dinner, so it was a deliberate move on Natasha's part. She knew plenty about the castle thanks to all of her visits with Sam, so she wasn't researching it for that reason.
Yelena had to have made contact. And she must have known about and threatened Clint, because she wouldn't have gone ahead without him, not when she had been worried about this. Natasha must have suspected her room was bugged.
Thanks, Tash. Now I have a starting point.
Leaving her things where they were, Clint headed to Landskron Castle.
***
"All right," Sam said, sitting down across from Loki in the common room. There were still traces of his earlier outburst evident, mostly in the shape of holes in the walls, but much of the other damage was already cleared away. Tony had already put in a work order, and expected the holes to be repaired by evening. "This is probably a stupid move on my part," he began, looking intently at Loki's drawn expression. "Explain how this magical bonding thing works so I understand what you're talking about."
Loki stared at him for a long moment. "I've tried explaining it to Stark and Banner."
"Yeah, they mentioned radiation and whatever," Sam said with a dismissive wave. "I don't need to hear that part, it wouldn't make sense to me anyway. I'm a simple guy, so explain it to me in simple terms, so I understand that," he said, pointing at the holes in the wall.
"There is... history between myself and Natasha."
"Do I need the nitty gritty on that relationship?" Sam asked with a raised eyebrow, seeing how uncomfortable Loki was feeling. He had gotten vague explanations from Steve and Clint, and Natasha had merely said they had an understanding when he had asked her about it. Sam had to admit, some of this was just to satisfy his morbid curiosity. But at the same time, Natasha had this way of downplaying just how serious things could be.
Looking as though he tasted something sour, Loki nodded sharply. "She humiliated me, so I sought to discredit her among her peers." He paused at Sam's raised eyebrows. "You were unaware of that."
"Well, yeah. Not my business, I guess. But being friends with these guys means I hear things, and the story's not always complete."
"She didn't break. Despite everything, she didn't break."
"Tasha's a tough one," Sam said when Loki lapsed into silence.
"I had used magic, but it didn't influence her the way I thought it would. She didn't break, and wasn't frightened of me when I came to her. She even saved me from Amora."
"Yeah, I hadn't heard of that one, either." Sam shrugged when Loki stared at him. "Look. Tasha doesn't talk much of stuff. She said you guys had an understanding, and you know how she can be, right? An understanding doesn't explain holes in walls."
"The magic between us," Loki began slowly, painfully. "It gave me a sense of where she was, how safe she was."
"Like a comfort thing," Sam supplied helpfully.
"I suppose," Loki said, looking at Sam suspiciously.
He loved her, Sam realized suddenly. He hadn't really thought about it earlier, but in his own defense it had been four o'clock in the morning. Four am was never a good time of day as far as Sam was concerned, and this was further proof of it.
"But it was never meant to some kind of indicator that she was alive or dead." Though Loki frowned, he shook his head. That let Sam press on. "So she might not be dead. And if I had to bet on it, I'd say she's still alive."
"Why?"
"Dude, you've seen how she moves, right? The woman can take out twenty guys in heels and not break a sweat."
"But she was afraid of Yelena."
Sam wasn't sure if Loki was aware how tearful he sounded, but decided not to point it out. No fighter ever wanted to be told he was about to cry. It wasn't manly or brave in most of their minds, and Sam didn't think Loki was any different. "Natasha said she used to be a friend. They got the same training. I know if my buddies came back from the dead, I wouldn't want to kick their asses, either. But if it's got to be done, it's got to be done. And she's that way. For all she's a spy, she's got the discipline of a soldier."
"She can't die, Sam," Loki said softly, eyes sliding away from the devastated walls.
"I get that, I do." Sam paused. Did he just talk down the god of mischief twice? Too bad he couldn't put that on his resume. "Listen. This magic thing. It looks like you can do some pretty badass shit with it if you want to."
"Within reason. There are classes of spells in each category of magic."
"O-kay. Is there a way you can try to track her down? Even without the bond?"
Loki paused for so long that Sam was almost convinced Loki ignored him. "Galdr or runic magic may work, but are not easy to do on this realm. I can try to find her spá, the lines her future path would take. It is quite difficult, and may not be accurate. Few know how to read the spá completely."
"Hey, man, whatever gives us a starting point, right? Clint's on the ground there, you work your magic thing. I'm pretty sure Steve will try to work the SHIELD angle."
"And you?" Loki demanded. "How will you search for her?"
Sam grimaced. "Unfortunately, I can't. I'd love to help, don't get me wrong, but I got to get back to work the day after tomorrow. My vacation time is up, and I've got a full day there. It's not the same as being out in the field and I don't have a boss telling me what to do 24-7, but I still got responsibilities to take care of. A lot of them don't have anybody else. I can't leave those guys behind, either."
Loki nodded after a moment. "Would you need my assistance?" he asked finally.
"You did promise you'd come by. And it might take your mind off the waiting time." Sam leaned back in his chair a little. "It's good and bad, working with these guys. You know you're making a difference, giving them a shoulder to lean on and you know how it goes. But at the same time, you could also be ripping open wounds you thought were closed. It was like that for you when you were Lisa, right? That's why you couldn't do more than just sit in the back and man the refreshment tables."
"My assistance then was unnecessary," Loki replied stiffly.
"Help is help." Sam got up to head to the kitchen, wanting another cup of coffee. "Some days are good, you know? You get a lot done, someone tells you how you saved their life, kept them from blowing off the top of their head. Other days, it's not so good. Someone shoots themselves in the chest or takes a knife to the arm." Loki blanched but remained silent. "Yeah. It's a rough job that I've got. But you have to keep going. You have to think that you're making a difference, even if it's only one life."
"Why?" Loki asked, appearing confused.
"Why else are we here, man? It's not hard to go around knocking people when they're down, hurting others just because you can. That's chaos. Entropy. That's easy. That happens without you having to lift a finger. But when you put in effort... that's how you know it's worthwhile. That's how you know what you do matters." Sam looked at Loki evenly. "You've got magic and power and know how. So what are you going to use it for? You'll look for Natasha, but what else are you going to use it for?"
"I don't know," Loki admitted after a moment.
"Well, thinking on that might be something else to distract you. Because I don't think Yelena is going to make it easy on any of us."
***
If Clint thought that he was going to find obvious signs of a struggle at the castle, he was sorely disappointed. Tourists were in and out of the castle to see the falconry or views, or wanted to eat at the restaurant. It wasn't some morbid location full of ghost stories and murder.
There wasn't much point in keeping to his cover any longer. If Natasha was in danger, she needed SHIELD at her back, not an expat with no connections. Talking his way into security wasn't difficult, and they initially balked at giving him access to security tapes, even if the castle security staff was with him. He had no qualms about having them talk with Sitwell; that was simply to be expected when you were the handler for Strike Team Delta as far as Clint was concerned. Sitwell confirmed that Natasha had a GPS tracker still pinging in Villach, and that she and Clint had been tracking a terrorist organization. The guards were extremely helpful after that conversation, and Clint managed not to roll his eyes or make a snarky remark at their expense. They didn't know who he was, after all. They sat with him and scrolled through surveillance data from the night before.
It was dreadfully boring until just after ten o'clock. Natasha walked through the field of one camera into another. Clint watched as she started talking with someone who barely registered on the camera field, as if she knew exactly where they were. Natasha approached slowly, until she was right at the edge of the camera's field of vision. She was yanked out of the camera's view, Yelena's hand clearly around her throat.
Loki couldn't feel their bond anymore, and was certain only death could sever it.
Clint was sure Natasha was still alive. Yelena was a lot savvier than they had wanted to give her credit for, sure. But she wouldn't kill Natasha just yet if they were meeting in a public place. No, her stance, what Clint could see of it, implied that Yelena was feeling confident and wanted something. Considering she had been Ophelia's girlfriend, she likely didn't want or need anything that Hydra could give her. It had to be something that only Natasha would know, maybe something related to the Red Room training they had.
As soon as he left the castle, Clint called New York and asked to speak with Sitwell. "The video looks bad, but she's pinging here in Villach somewhere, you said. Could there be a hit out on Natasha? Someone willing to sell her to the highest bidder, make her be a mercenary again, something like that?" he asked. "I don't have solid evidence, but I don't think Natasha is dead. If Yelena was interested in simply killing her, I'm sure there would have been a body prominently displayed somewhere in the city as a warning."
Sitwell breathed in deeply. "I'll look into that, Agent. It's an angle I hadn't thought about when Yelena Belova's name first came up on the radar."
"In the meantime, I'll keep looking here. I'm bound to find something." He hoped so, at any rate. But odds were good that if Yelena didn't want to be found, he wouldn't find any clues pointing to her whereabouts.
***
Natasha had her wrists tied together, the rope attached to a hook overhead as she knelt on a bed with plain white sheets. No, that wasn't right, this wasn't exactly like the faded memories she had tried to bury. She had been punished once in the Red Room where her wrists had been tied to an A frame, and she had been stripped naked, her clothes ripped from her body roughly before a cane had been applied to her back and thighs. Punishment in front of the other girls for weakness, for failing to do what had to be done. Had she already been with Winter then? She couldn't remember, it was all blurry around the edges.
Yelena had come to her afterward, when she was left on the A frame "to think about her crimes," and she was in nothing more than a white shift. "Natalia," Yelena had whispered, cradling her face in her hands. "How could they do this to you?"
"Easy," Natasha had replied, voice thick with pain. "I failed."
Yelena had been too young for missions at that point. She hadn't been ready, hadn't been with the program as long as Natasha. She was the best and brightest, Yelena was starting out. She didn't understand what it meant, what the price of failure was. She didn't have the memory of a Makarov pressed into her palm at age seven, shooting down another girl who couldn't complete a mission. Show us what you can do.
Sagging against the A frame, Natasha didn't resist when Yelena kissed her lips softly. "Natalia, I can't get you down, I'm sorry."
"Go back to bed, Lena. They'll punish you if they see you here."
Something fierce burned in her eyes then. "I won't leave you like this. You shouldn't be in pain. It wasn't your fault."
"Failure is always my fault. They punish the weak here, remember?"
Refusing to leave, Yelena shook her head and brushed her fingers along the budding rise of Natasha's breasts. "I can help, Natalia. Maybe I can make the pain go away for a little while. You won't feel as lonely in the dark."
"Shadows are our friends," Natasha tried to say, though her smile faltered and her head drooped with the pain. "I don't want them hurting you, Lena."
"I'm small. They won't catch me."
"Lena..."
Yelena kissed her again, soft and sweet, tongue sliding along Natasha's lips. One of her hands cupped a bare breast, the nipple pebbled and hard from the cold. Her other hand slid down her stomach to the juncture of her thighs, through the soft tangled hair. Natasha whimpered a little at the contact, but Yelena touched her softly, reverently, until Natasha was whimpering with desire and not fear. "I'll take care of you, Natalia," she whispered against Natasha's ear, fingers slicked and deep inside of her, curling until they found the spot that made her back arch against the welts on her back from the caning. "I'll always be here," Yelena promised.
It was years later now, Natasha was older and no longer thought Yelena remembered. But her lips closed over Natasha's breast, tongue laving at the nipple as her fingers slid between her spread thighs. Natasha blinked to try to clear the fog from her head, to erase the ghostly afterimages in her mind. "Lena..." she rasped.
Her fingers slid home, deep and sure, remembering the rhythm that had brought Natasha to gasping despite her fears of being caught. "Natalia," Yelena whispered against her skin, her face pressed between her breasts. Yelena's fingers pulled at Natasha's breast, making her cry out at the shock of pleasure. "Oh, how I dreamed of this."
Natasha moaned, arching into her touch. She panted, feeling her body tighten as she approached orgasm. Yelena stroked her until she came with a sharp cry muffled against her arm. Yelena licked a stripe down her stomach, then moved to lick at Natasha's clit while her fingers continued to pump into her.
She startled badly when a pair of hands moved to cup her breasts from behind, one of them cold metal. "Sh," the Winter Solder murmured, nipping at her shoulder. "Natasha," he whispered into her ear, his erection pressed up against the curve of her buttocks. "We're here. We're with you again. You're not alone."
But she hadn't been alone, she wanted to say. She had friends, she had colleagues, she was wanted and admired, revered and maybe even loved. Natasha couldn't answer, not with her breath rasping in her chest, Yelena's mouth between her legs and the Winter Soldier behind her for support. Once Yelena coaxed another orgasm out of her, she rose up to her knees and kissed her full on the mouth, tongue sliding into her mouth. Natasha could taste herself on Yelena's tongue, and she moaned as she felt the Winter Soldier's cock slide into her, full and thick and oh so welcome. She ached badly, pinned between the two of them, Yelena's fingers rubbing at her clit as the Winter Solder thrust up into her. Natasha cried out, overwhelmed and oversensitive, pulling on the ropes around her wrists as she writhed between them.
Natasha didn't know whose name to call out when they wrung out another orgasm, and she simply sagged.
The Winter Soldier untied her at Yelena's nod, and Natasha tumbled into his arms. Oh, that was familiar, too. She was sprawled sideways across the bed, loose-limbed and exhausted. Yelena came back into her visual range, wearing nothing but a smile and carrying a syringe. Despite Natasha's weak protests, Yelena brought the needle to her arm. The Winter Solder held Natasha still for the injection, his expression impassive.
Natasha choked as she felt the burn, and slid back under into oblivion.
All hail the Red Room.
***
The GPS tracker was covered in clotted blood and was discarded haphazardly outside a fast food restaurant. The scratches on its surface indicated that a sharp blade with a smooth edge had cut the tracker out of Natasha's arm. While Clint was glad he wasn't finding Natasha's body, this also made his job infinitely harder. He didn't imagine that Yelena would let her leave little clues for him along their journey.
Fuck getting permission from Sitwell, he was breaking into Ophelia Sarkissian's house.
The house itself was an understated yet very obviously expensive home at the edge of Villach, set back from the road. There were wide, manicured lawns and trees all around, as well as extensive gardens with brightly colored flowers. There was no apparent sign of life around the house, and any security devices were cleverly hidden and unobtrusive. That didn't mean invisible; Clint knew the usual places to look and his keen eyesight meant he found the cameras and sensors without physically being in their line of sight.
Not one of them had any indicators that made it easy to tell if they were on. Of course Sarkissian would make his life difficult. Of course.
Staking out the house throughout the day was an exercise in frustration. He saw no one enter or exit the house. Tapping into the wireless network revealed no traffic. No one was using the phone line. The more he thought about it, the more this was downright suspicious and a little bit creepy. Steve had been certain that Ophelia wasn't in Vienna, and had told office staff she was heading to Villach with her girlfriend Yelena.
And as everyone kept repeating, Yelena was potentially crazy. It all depended on what triggers or personalities surfaced. Natasha only came in to SHIELD's graces because she was tired of fighting and killing, and she had been in full control of herself at the time. There was no way to tell what state of mind Yelena would be in.
Once night fell and no lights came on in the house, Clint cursed under his breath. He could break in, but he hated going through big houses like this on his own in the dark. Beneath the cover of darkness, he crept across the lawn and picked open the lock on the back door. It was pathetically easy, which paradoxically only made Clint feel even more distressed. He had his bow and a pistol, but what if that wasn't enough?
Feeling silly and brave at once, Clint snapped on all the lights as he went through the house, black leather gloves on his hands. It wouldn't do to leave prints behind, after all. The mudroom was pristine, as was the kitchen.
Every knife in the butcher's block was missing.
Dread rising, Clint continued to move through the house, Glock at the ready, his finger on the trigger guard. He moved as silently as he could, glad he at least wore the rubber soled boots that he had brought with him. It didn't feel right as he went through the house, and not just because he was breaking and entering. No one was challenging him. No one was noticing that all the lights were on. There was no noise other than from his own movements.
In the den was a splash of blood on the floor. Nothing in the room seemed to be disturbed, and the splash looked to be more like an arterial spray. He didn't like thinking of how he knew that fact; arrows hitting the throat made a mess, and it wasn't that quick a kill.
One of the bathroom mirrors had a large circular break in it, as if a head had been smashed into it repeatedly. Clint could even see blood and bits of hair within the broken shards of glass. Even worse, in the bedroom connected to that bathroom, Clint found three severed fingers on the floor, drops of blood spattered in a path away from them. The fingers had been cut off after the second joint but before the finger met the hand. What could cut through bone that cleanly?
Gut churning, Clint continued through the house, checking each and every room. He was starting to get a very good idea of why no one had been moving in the house, or why no one had seen Ophelia Sarkissian in a while.
That was it on the first floor. He could go down into the basement or up to the second floor. Too many horror movies had things happen in the basement, so Clint went upstairs.
He should have gone to the basement.
Partway down the hall at the top of the stairs was a series of footprints and blood spatters leading from one room to another. Knowing it was a chickenshit move, Clint went to the room that the tracks led to first. The door opened easily, and the tracks continued into the room. It was a large, elegant bedroom, with matching dressers, mirror, desk and chairs. In the center of the room was a four poster king sized bed that had gauzy draped fabric tied to it. There were partly open doors to his left that led to a large walk in closet. To his right was an open door leading to a bathroom. The bloody trail led to the massive bed, then off to the bathroom.
Lying on the bed was Ophelia, eyes shut and arms flung to the sides as if in sleep. Her throat was cut so deeply her head was nearly severed from her body. Clint could see bone in the gaping wound, and sucked in a breath to keep from throwing up. The expensive bedding had soaked up the blood and bodily fluids, staining them almost black.
Clint backed out of the room and took some cleansing breaths. Okay. He could handle this. It wasn't the first time he had seen death, after all. And it looked as though Ophelia never knew what hit her, and she had been killed in her sleep. Whatever blade that had severed those fingers downstairs likely had cut into her neck, killing her before she could wake. The edges of the wound had been fantastically clean, indicating it was a single slice from a sharp blade.
"All right," he told himself. "No more delays."
Following the bloody trail, Clint went into the other room. The stench hit him hard, and he swallowed down his gorge until his stomach settled. In this room were several bodies, different sets of them with different manners of death. The ones closest to the door were three robed figures impaled on spikes. The spikes were anchored into the floor with flagpole braces, and ran up under the long robes through the body. Each head had been yanked back, opening the mouth in a silent scream to accommodate the point of the spike passing through it in a manner like Vlad Tepesh's classic execution style. Forcing himself to look past the mode of death, Clint examined them more closely. Each robe had various runes and designs worked into it that reminded Clint of the bracelet that Loki had made for the Avengers while a female. A number of the designs were cut into, and Clint could only assume it made those protections worthless.
The three bodies were likely a warning. Behind the three were four older women in what had once been pristine white robes. Their faces betrayed none of the anguish their deaths must have caused them. They had been disemboweled, their rib cages cracked wide open and hearts removed. A few of the missing kitchen knives were scattered around the bodies, edges dulled from use. The hearts were in a pile in the center of the room, along with a hand missing three fingers, a foot and a left arm. Two guards in the corner of the room were the apparent donors of the hand, foot and arm. Their expressions were far less calm than those of the women; one of them had traces of vomit on his chest and mouth and the other had been the one whose head was beaten into the bathroom mirror downstairs.
Beyond the four robed women were two older men that looked like they were functioning as scribes, and another wearing various jeweled amulets and rings. Clint could only imagine that he was the one directing whatever magic had been performed there. That would explain why his head was chopped off, his body doused with acid and pinned down with candlesticks. The two scribes had also been opened up from throat to crotch, their floater ribs removed and jammed into their eye sockets.
The blood had long since dried in clumps and streaks all over the floor. The footprints moved around the room like a horrible dance step outline. Clint couldn't find any other bodies in the room or any other indication as to what had happened there prior to the murders.
Carefully stepping back out into the hall, Clint clutched his phone tightly and took several deep breaths. He couldn't get the stench of death out of his mouth and nose, the image out from the backs of his eyelids. He was dialing SHIELD headquarters before he even realized what he was doing, then stopped. They didn't know what to do about this, and were already looking for Yelena. All they would need to know was that Ophelia and a number of mages were dead; the only mages that Ophelia would know would be through her cousin Ekaterina. Perhaps that was all of AIM's mages.
Clint erased his contact number for SHIELD and instead dialed Steve at Avengers Tower. "I can't believe I'm saying this," he said after Steve picked up, "but we're going to need Loki's help on this one. I need him to come to Austria."
***
When Natasha next woke up, she was alert and cognizant of her surroundings. The coverlet was a different color, the windows were in the wrong place and the door hinges were on the opposite side. She was in a different hotel room, then. How had she missed being transported?
She was bound to the bed, lying sideways compared to where the headboard would be, with the leather restraints running to the corners of the bed. Yanking on them caused the bed frame to creak; they were likely attached to the frame or wheels, as there was no headboard or footboard to attach anything to. The creak alerted the Winter Soldier that she was awake, and dislodged Yelena from where she was lying on the bed. Natasha tilted her head back and saw the armchair where the Winter Soldier was on guard, in full armor and with his weapons beside him or strapped into the armor within easy reach. While his expression remained impassive, his eyes didn't look nearly so dead when his gaze fell on her.
"Winter," she said, her voice coming out like a rough croak.
"You need water."
"I need to get out of here."
"You fought me," Yelena said, sliding her hand over Natasha's bare stomach. "You hit our dear Winter, took me by surprise. You were too sedated, we thought. But you still fought me." She sat up and moved to get another glass vial and syringe.
"That's killing me, Yelena," Natasha rasped. "It's making me sick."
"Oh, no. It's making you better." She sounded so happy, so sure of herself. There was even a bright grin on her face when she turned back toward Natasha.
"Yelena…" It took a moment for her vision to make sense of what she was seeing. "There's blood in your hair."
That didn't bother her in the slightest. "Must be the clerk's. He was getting nosy. After this," she said, waving the syringe, "I'll wash up and we'll go."
"Where?" Natasha asked, eyes widening in fear as the syringe approached her arm. She was bound, there was nowhere she could go to escape it.
"Wherever the fuck I feel like," Yelena chirped.
In went the syringe, out went her consciousness.
***
***
To chapter Four - Beyond Numbers