Widow's Letters (Stargate Atlantis/Avengers) 7/8
Widow's Letters 7/8
An Avengers/Stargate Atlantis story
by mhalachaiswords
At AO3
Summary: Natasha Romanoff tries to reconnect with her son. This is understandably easier said than done.
Rating: PG-13
Setting: Starts in 2002 and goes through the end of Stargate Atlantis; before the Avengers and Iron Man 2.
Characters: Natasha Romanoff, John Sheppard. Guest appearances by Clint Barton, Phil Coulson. Some extra Ronon Dex just for you, plus half of SG1 (a la Teal'c and Mitchell)
Relationships: Natasha/Clint like whoa
Warnings: Family secrets. Truly epic levels of swearing.
Notes: Thanks to websandwhiskers for the beta. This is it, folks, when all those lingering issues hit the fan. This chapter is set in 2008 just after John's father Patrick dies.
Follows Widow's Weeds, Widow's Flight, Widow's Son.
<< Part Six
Feb. 2, 2008
Into the air of the wrecked apartment, a ping sounded. Natasha sighed without opening her eyes. "I have to get that."
"No, you don't," Clint said, his face pressed against the pillow.
"It might be important."
Clint shifted his weight, effectively pinning Natasha in place. "If it's important, SHIELD will call," he murmured into her ear. "Go the fuck to sleep."
Natasha blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the soft light in the room. She wasn't a great organizer in the first place, but now the room looked as if...
...as if two perfectly matched assassins had battled to the death.
Well, a little death, anyway.
Natasha smiled against Clint's hair. She ran her hand along his spine, feeling the muscle and bone beneath his skin, warm and very much alive.
"You're not sleeping," Clint said, voice slurred. "Sleeping is the part where you do nothing for like, hours at a time."
Natasha slid her thigh down Clint's side, noting with satisfaction how he tensed against her. "Do you really want to sleep?" she asked, putting smug doubt into her tone.
Clint sighed. "You're not going to leave me alone until you check your email, are you?"
"No."
With another sigh, Clint rolled off Natasha, taking the sheets with him.
Unencumbered by one hundred and seventy pounds of archer, Natasha tried to remember where she'd left her SHIELD laptop. She thought it might have been on the desk, which had been upended at some point in the evening.
She was going to be feeling those particular bruises for days.
A quick search in the dim light unearthed the laptop. She slid back into bed, a momentary tussle with Clint for custody of the blankets, then settled in to check her inbox, brimming as usual with work emails.
This one was different.
Feb. 2, 2008
Dad's dead.
-john
Natasha may have made a sound, because Clint was suddenly wide awake. "What happened?" he asked, sitting up.
Natasha just looked at him, mouth open.
"Tasha?" Clint asked, his alertness softening into alarm. "What's wrong? Is it John?"
Natasha shook her head. She let Clint move the laptop around so he could read the message.
"Oh." He frowned. "Are you okay?"
"Of course I'm fine," Natasha said. Her head was empty, but that was because John had lost Patrick, wasn't it? "I'm worried about John, I'm fine."
Clint cupped her cheek in one strong hand. "Tasha--"
Natasha pulled away from him, crawled off the bed, stood. She couldn't be still, she had to do something, she had to keep moving. "I'm fine," she insisted.
Clint came after her, caught her by the arm and pulled her into an embrace. She only tried to get away for a moment before her brain caught up with her body and she went still, letting Clint hold her, skin on skin, in her darkened apartment.
"Patrick's dead," she whispered.
"I know."
"I don't understand."
Because she didn't, not at all. Intellectually she knew Patrick Sheppard was, had been, nearly seventy, but whenever she thought about him over the years, he'd been the brilliant, vibrant thirty-year-old man she'd married, on a bright Mayday in a long white dress with flowers in her hair.
The man who had once been the Widow's husband was dead.
Clint held her for a long time.
Feb. 3, 2008
John, I am sorry for your loss.
-N
Feb. 4, 2008
I'm back for the funeral. It's tomorrow.
Don't take this the wrong way, but maybe you shouldn't come to the funeral. You know. Because you've been dead for nearly forty years.
-js
Feb. 5, 2008
Fuck. My. Life.
You know what's fucking awesome? Having every single fucking person who ever knew your dad look at you like you're some kind of fucking pariah when you walk into the man's funeral.
Best one yet? Dave's the chief fucker here.
I'm sending you this from a mobile phone. I'm typing you email on a mobile phone that any civilian can buy. What the fuck is this, Star Trek?
I'm going to send you a horse. You remember we had horses, dad kept some around.
john
(why do I even sign these? you get any emails from your other mystery assassin spy children?)
(don't answer that)
Feb. 5, 2008
attachment: [img-432.jpg]
that's ronon by a horse. I work with ronon. gotta jet, work just interrupted dad's funeral why the everloving fuck can't I get a day off
Feb. 8, 2008
Stab me in the face.
Dad is buried in the cemetery in New Haven, right next to you. I thought he'd want to be buried next to stepmother Amanda, but seems she was cremated and is interred up with her family in Maryland.
I went to the gravesite. I mean, he's buried right next to you and I never told him you were alive, how could I tell him that? And now it's too fucking late to tell him anything.
I'm shipping out of Colorado Springs tomorrow afternoon. I'll talk to you when I get back dirtside, whenever that will be.
This time, when Natasha broke into the hanger, Coulson was waiting with the ignition codes in his hand.
"Tell Clint he's a son of a bitch," Natasha said, punching in the codes with more violence than necessary.
"That won't surprise him," Coulson said. "Tasha, be careful."
"What's there to be careful about?"" Natasha demanded. "It's Colorado Springs, not Beirut."
"You lose your objectivity around John Sheppard," Coulson said. Natasha didn't reply. "Don't do anything you'll regret."
"Too late," Natasha bit out, and closed up the plane door to start the taxi to the runway.
Using GPS and a gross abuse of SHIELD technology, Natasha tracked John's cell phone to a bar in Colorado Springs. The room was dim and loud, and the chaos didn't subside as Natasha walked through the doors.
Her mental alarms went off in ways they hadn't in years. There were soldiers and civilians, friends and spouses, and everyone in the room presented to her as a potential threat.
The hair on the back of her neck stood up as a man passed her, a large black man wearing a hat pulled low over his brow. He looked at her curiously, but she kept walking.
Part of her mind screamed not human and that wasn't possible.
John was seated in a booth at the back of the bar, a beer in his hand and a storm brewing in his expression.
Natasha stopped by the table but didn't sit down. "John."
"Natasha." John gestured at the door. "I see you met Murray."
Natasha looked over her shoulder. The large black man was talking with a sandy-haired military man, around John's age. "He doesn't look like a Murray."
"English pronunciation of his name." John took a long pull on his beer. "What do you want?"
"Can I sit down?"
John shrugged. "When has anything I've ever said stopped you?
So it was to be that sort of night. Natasha sat where she could keep an eye on the room, but close enough to John to speak without being overheard. "I'm sorry about Patrick," she said.
"Yeah, I got that from your similarly worded condolence email," John snapped, turning back to his beer. "Is that all you came out here to say? 'Cause if it is, I've got to leave early tomorrow. Can we wrap this up?"
Natasha took in a breath, defensive anger starting to stir in her head. "Why are you angry at me?" she demanded.
John drained the last of the liquid from his bottle and set it down hard on the table. "Do you know what Dave thought?" he asked. His voice was crisp and precise, a sign that this was not his first beer of the evening. "Why I came back for the funeral? The only reason I came back?"
Natasha shook her head. She had never met Dave Sheppard, only seen the boy from a distance when he was with John.
"He thought it was because of the money," John said. "Like the only reason I'd come to dad's funeral wasn't to say goodbye or any shit, but for money." He clenched his jaw. "You know, it doesn't matter, does it? Dad's still dead."
"John," Natasha tried, reaching for his hand. When her fingers touched his wrist, John jerked back, startled, then got to his feet and walked through the crowd to the bar.
Natasha let out a shaky breath. Couslon's words echoed in her head, you lose your objectivity and he wasn't wrong. Coming here to see John, so soon after Patrick Sheppard's funeral, had been a bad idea, and there was no way Natasha could have done anything differently.
John came back to the table holding three beers. He put two in front of Natasha and went back to slump in his chair.
"What's this?" Natasha asked, looking at the American beer with distaste.
"It's on special. Come on, catch up." John took a swig of his beer.
Because it gave her time to think, Natasha picked up a bottle and drank the entire thing without coming up for air. When she put the empty on the table top, she found John staring at her.
"I don't know if I'm impressed or horrified," he said.
"American beer is what we give children and the elderly in Russia," Natasha informed him. She picked up the next bottle. "Next time, get vodka. This is disgusting."
"Fine." John picked at the label on his bottle. "So, can we talk about anything else?"
"Like what?"
"What have you been up to?"
Natasha let her gaze drift to the dance floor, where Murray's sandy-haired friend was chatting up a dark-haired woman. "Nothing I can talk about."
"Sound exciting." John followed her gaze. "That's Cam Mitchell, I was in flight school with him back in the day. And," he added, a hint of amusement in his voice, "That's his C.O.'s daughter."
"He likes to live dangerously," Natasha observed.
"And you?"
"And me what?"
"Any 'living dangerously'," and John put finger quotes around the words, "In your life?"
Natasha glared.
"I see," John said. "I should have guessed it."
"What are you talking about?"
John took another drink. "You and Coulson. I can see it."
Natasha frowned at John. "No."
"Why not? I bet he's just as interesting out of the suit."
"I'm pretty sure he sleeps in the suit," Natasha said. "Not Coulson."
"So who?"
Natasha pursed her lips. John was asking an honest question, maybe she could answer and it not be a disaster. "My partner, Agent Clint Barton."
"Ah," and John's voice went back to that edge of anger. "Clint."
"Yes," Natasha said, her own irritation pushing her voice low. "Agent Barton and I have worked together for some time now."
"No, I get it," John said. "Cute little his-and-her spy outfits in the closet, that must be nice."
"Stop it," Natasha said, her words nearly drowned out as the music increased in volume. "Agent Barton is a good agent and a friend."
"I bet he's extremely skilled at watching your back," John said, heavy on the innuendo, and everything he said made Natasha more furious. What was wrong with John?
"He has saved my life more times than I can count," Natasha said, leaning forward so John could hear her under the music. "He's the only reason I'm alive."
"Oh, good," John said, sarcasm dripping off every word. "Tell me, what's this paragon of virtue and virility like?"
It was only because John was pissing her off that she snapped back, "He's cocky and a smartass and an excellent shot, and he never leaves anyone behind." She pressed her hand to the tabletop. "Sort of like you."
John sat up so fast he nearly overbalanced. His eyes went wide and Natasha didn't understand, tried to review what she just said to see what had set him off. But then John's eyes narrowed with anger. "I have a great idea," he snapped, and it took Natasha a moment to realize he was speaking in accented but perfectly understandable Russian, "You just stop bringing all this Oedipal shit down on my head. Stop comparing me to your boy-toy of the week, stop making me manhandle you around a circus ring and go back to pretending you're just anyone, stop it, okay?" He pushed his beer away. "You're my mother, can't you just act like it for once?"
Without waiting for a response, he stumbled to his feet and headed out the back door.
Natasha stared after him, unable to move, unable to think beyond what John had just thrown on the table. Was that what he thought?
The chaos of the room swirled around her, unidentified threats pulling at her attention, while John's words sunk in. She didn't understand. She'd always treated him as exactly what he was - her son, be it at three years old in Connecticut or at fifteen in a back-lot circus. She supposed the comparison to Clint might have been less than appropriate, given that Clint was younger than John by a year, but John couldn't know that.
You lose your objectivity.
No matter what, everything she'd tried to do with John was only to keep him safe.
She tried to remember what had happened in Oklahoma. At first, she'd been terrified John would discover know who she was. Whatever had possessed her to write a pen pal letter with actual details of what she was doing? Her time in the country was making her careless. But John hadn't made any indication he recognized her. She'd kept her distance for a few weeks, until the man in charge of the animals started making unsubtle sexual advances towards her son. John had only been fifteen and rather innocent in his American way. That was the only reason Natasha had asked the circus manger to pull John into the show itself.
Everything she did was to keep him safe. Everything.
John still hadn't reappeared. Natasha made her way over to the bar, waiting until the bartender had a moment to spare.
"What can I get you?" the woman asked.
"Vodka," Natasha said wearily.
The woman reached for a shot glass, but Natasha held up a hand. "Bigger."
Raising an eyebrow, the woman set a tumbler on the bar. "Ice?"
"No."
"Noted." The bartender poured two shots into the glass, took another look at Natasha, and poured in two more. "Twist?"
Natasha just dropped a twenty on the bar and took her drink back to the table. It tasted unremarkable, and Natasha missed the burn of cheap vodka she'd snuck as a teenager, drinking in the hills around the Department X compound, wearing someone else's black leather jacket and smoking cigarettes and listening to her only friend in the world read stories from the propaganda papers.
She'd been fifteen then, already a killer of men. They'd tried to make her into a weapon, their weapon, only somewhere along the way they lost control of her and didn't realize it for decades.
Objectivity.
After another twenty minutes, John came back inside. His eyes were slightly red, but other than that he appeared composed. Natasha looked at him over the rim of her glass and said nothing.
John sat. "I didn't mean to say that."
Natasha sipped at the tasteless alcohol, feeling tendrils of warmth slide down her limbs. "The fact that you said it in flawless Russian makes me think that you did."
John winced. "Some of the Marines on the project are Russian," he said by way of explanation. "We started talking after I got my field promotion, it went from there. I also speak Spanish, so what?" He paused. "And Dari. Some German. Bit of Arabic."
"No Korean?" Natasha asked. "You've just named off the countries you've been based in. Weren't you in South Korea for a year?"
John sighed. "This stalker mother thing is creepy, by the way. But no, I was only there for a few months and I was mostly supporting transport. Didn't get much of a chance to socialize with the locals." He looked at her glass. "Back on water already?
Natasha handed John the glass, watched him choke on a mouthful of vodka. "It'll do you good," she said as his eyes watered. "Hair on your chest."
John pushed the glass away from him. "You're a horrible mother." But he said it without the anger that had permeated the rest of the conversation.
"I'm sorry," Natasha said. "That you can't hold your liquor."
"Is that a challenge?"
"You think you can drink me under the table?" Natasha asked, opening her eyes wide. "You haven't been on a dry post for the last few years, have you?"
"Hell no, the botanists make something vile and disgusting and about 120 proof."
Natasha archived the data point of botanists on a secret military post, and reached for her wallet. "Vodka or whisky?"
John made a face. "Vodka. And you're calling me an ambulance if I go into liver failure."
"No child of mine will go into liver failure," Natasha said. "Don't go anywhere."
The bartender already had the vodka on the bar when Natasha made her way through the crowd.
An hour later, John's speech was starting to slur and Natasha was feeling a minor buzz. "And then I was like, no, McKay, you can't sell your subordinates on the intranet, I don't care how much they annoy you."
"How many times have they tried to sell him?" Natasha asked.
"They stopped after the first two times; other departments gave them money to keep him." John looked up as sandy-haired Cam Mitchell wandered up to their table, his large friend Murray in tow. "S'up, Mitch."
"Sheppard," Mitchell said with a smile. "We're heading out, see you tomorrow?"
"Yeah, probably," John said. "You're not giving Dr. Lam a ride home?"
"Dr. Lam has called a cab," said Murray, his voice low. Something about his precise diction sent a ping along Natasha's radar, something she didn't remember but should have. "This establishment is close to her place of residence."
"That's cool," Sheppard said. "See you tomorrow."
Mitchell hesitated, glancing at Natasha. It was about as unsubtle as could be expected from an American.
"He wants you to introduce us," Natasha told John.
"Why?"
Natasha kicked John under the table. She held out her hand to Mitchell. "I'm Natalie Barton, John's cousin."
In the background, John choked on his drink.
"Nice to meet you, Natalie Barton," Mitchell said, shaking her hand. "I'm Cameron Mitchell. John and I go back."
"So he tells me," Natasha said, smiling brilliantly. Mitchell flushed, and John just shook his head.
"This is Murray," Mitchell said, indicating the tall man behind him. The man inclined his head in greeting.
"So, um, we're leaving," Mitchell said, still smiling at Natasha.
"Not very fast you're not," John retorted.
Mitchell pulled his attention off Natasha. "Whatever, Shep, see you tomorrow." And with that, Mitchell and Murray left, pulling a couple of military men along with them.
"I hate you right now."
"You don't." Natasha patted John's hand. "You want another round?"
"Can we break it up with some water?"
"Amateur," Natasha scoffed.
"No, seriously, how aren't you on the floor already?" John asked. "Is it part of the, you know. The thing."
"What thing?" Natasha asked, waving down a waitress.
"The no-aging ass-kicking thing?"
Natasha waited until the waitress had left before replying, "That is... complicated."
"You'd be surprised what I can handle," John said. "Hit me."
Natasha smiled dryly. "Perhaps some other time," she demurred. She certainly wasn't about to start explaining Department X secrets in the middle of a bar filled with American military personnel.
"I bet not everyone's dead mother says that," John said. He rested his head on his hand for a moment. "It's just..." He looked across the room, taking in the location of certain people as he had been doing all night. Certain people, making sure at all times. Natasha would bet they had at one time been under his command. "Did you love him? Dad, I mean."
Natasha had been waiting for this question ever since she read John's email six days before; ever since he first emailed her when she started with SHIELD. She chose her words carefully. "I liked Patrick a great deal. When I met him, he was a different person than the man he became."
"That was a resounding 'no'."
Natasha picked up her new drink and contemplated the clear liquid. "No, I didn't love Patrick."
"Have you ever loved anyone?" John held up a warning hand. "And you know the kind I mean, none of this 'I love you like a son' crap."
Natasha slapped John's shoulder. "Stop being difficult."
"Make me."
"Don't think I won't."
John rolled his eyes. "Yes, Natalie Barton. Answer the question."
Natasha thought about lying to John. He probably expected her to give him some falsehood in place of truth anyway. But the vodka and the discussion of Patrick (who was dead, how had that happened? He had been her husband and she had liked him a great deal), pushed Natasha towards truth.
"Yes, there is someone I have loved."
John nodded. His face was shadowed. "Clint Barton?"
"No," Natasha said immediately. "That's not who I mean. Clint is..."
"He's got your back?" John suggested, knocking back the remains of his drink.
"He is my very good friend." Natasha tried to figure out a way to describe her relationship with Clint, which she herself didn't understand half of the time. "He is one of the best men I know."
John shrugged that away. "So who is it?" John asked. "Anyone I know?"
He'd said it as if it might be a joke, but Natasha must have given something away in her face. John's expression changed.
"Right. James Dean look-alike, talks to little boys on the playground?" John said, voice clipped.
"He needed to speak with me," Natasha said, defensiveness and justification forcing out her words. She was not rational at all, such a short time after Patrick's death. "Without you around."
"Please tell me this wasn't some punk hippie from the neighborhood you were screwing on the side," John said.
"No," Natasha said. She pushed her glass around on the table. "I knew him from before."
She let more slip in that one word than she had meant. John looked down at his hands, but didn't comment.
"What about you? Have you ever loved anyone?"
When John looked up, there was that pain and anger again, only this time Natasha wasn't the intended target. "No," John said, and that was all the answer Natasha needed.
John was still moving under his own power when Natasha pulled him out of the taxi in front of the row of base housing. He only seemed to notice what was going on when the cab drove away without Natasha.
"Don't you have super secret spy stuff to get back to?" he asked, weaving slightly as he walked down the lane. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."
"I have some vacation time saved up," Natasha said, keeping a hand on his back so he wouldn't tip over. "I'm not leaving until I know you're all right."
"Just like always," John said. "Where are we going?"
Natasha grabbed the key from John's hand and pushed him towards number fourteen at the end of the row. In spite of the fact that the townhouse was on military property (or perhaps because of it; Natasha could get in and out of a place like this without thinking), Natasha made John stand in the doorway while she checked the rooms for hidden occupants.
"I could have done that," John objected when Natasha finally let him inside. "I know about that stuff."
"You drank half a bottle of vodka, you know nothing," Natasha told him. She locked the door and turned the lights on. "Sit down, I'm going to make you some coffee."
"Don't want coffee," John complained, dropping onto the couch. "I want to go to sleep."
"Fine, water then." Natasha rummaged around in the depressing kitchenette, finding a glass that didn't look too disreputable. "You'll thank me in the morning."
"I don't get hangovers much," John said, addressing his boots, which he was trying to remove. "Except that time with tequila. Tequila sucks."
"Yes it does," Natasha said absently. She took the glass of water back into the sitting room and handed it to John. Seeing as how he was having little luck with his boots, Natasha sat on the coffee table to help.
"So why don't you get drunk?" John asked. "We're not anywhere now, you can tell me, I can keep a secret."
Natasha focused on untying a particularly difficult knot in John's bootlaces. "They experimented on me," she said. "I don't know what they were looking for, or trying to do, but they made me the way I am now." She pried the knot loose and let John's foot fall back to the ground.
There was a silence. "How old were you?" John asked after a minute.
Natasha lifted her eyes to meet John's. "Young. But I was old enough to remember a life before that. It helped me hold on." She pressed her fingers against her thighs, pushing back the memories of many lives. "It helped when things got bad."
John put his face into his hands, pushed his hair back. "Fuck, that sucks."
"It was a long time ago." She handed John the water. "You'll want this, even if you don't get hungover."
John took the glass and drank while Natasha prowled around the room, poking at the generic books on the shelf, the dvds sitting on the television. The anonymity of temporary housing at its most basic.
"You were the only one Dad ever loved," John announced into the quiet.
Natasha whirled around. "What?"
"It was only ever you," John repeated. He put the empty glass on the coffee table and leaned back, staring at the floor. "It's like, he married Amanda because he thought he was supposed to, and he kept me and Dave around because it was probably illegal to sell us on the side of the road, but I don't think anything really mattered to him after you died."
Ice squeezed Natasha's heart. "That's not true," she protested. "Patrick moved on--"
"He once asked me why I'd lived when you died," John interrupted. "He was drunk or something and I was eleven and shouldn't have been out of bed but I was, and he asked me why you were the one who died." He took a ragged breath. "And you know, for years I thought that meant that he'd rather me be dead if that meant you'd be alive."
Natasha had no idea what to say. That couldn't have been right, Patrick had loved John so much when he was a baby, had been so happy when he was born, had been so glad to have a son.
"And that's why I never told him about you," John continued, curling his hands into fists. "Because that meant I had you and he didn't, he didn't know you were alive and that was the only thing I had that he didn't."
He pressed his fist against his cheek, his knuckles white with the intensity of his grip.
"But while I was gone I realized that maybe that wasn't what he meant, maybe he just didn't understand why he had to lose you. Maybe he couldn't love me as much as he loved you but I couldn't do anything about that and now it doesn't matter because he's dead and I never told him you're alive and now he'll never know."
And John was crying now, hand pressed over his eyes. Natasha sat beside him, put her arms around his shoulders and rocked him. After a while, Natasha helped John into the bedroom, took off his boots and covered him with a blanket and sat on the edge of the bed until John fell asleep.
Only then did she go back into the living room, sink down onto the couch, and stare at the wall in exhausted silence.
Patrick was dead.
A knock on the front door the next morning brought Natasha out of the kitchenette. She glanced through the peephole, saw John's friend Ronon, very recognizable from his photograph, and put her dagger back in its ankle sheath.
"Hey," Ronon said when she opened the door. "Is Sheppard up?"
"Not yet," she said.
Ronon looked down on her. Natasha was used to the scrutiny from on high; Nick Fury could give this man some pointers. "I brought breakfast," Ronon finally said.
Natasha held the door for him to enter.
Ronon put the brown paper bag on the small table and crossed his arms over his chest. "Any idea when he'll be up?"
"No," Natasha said.
As if on cue, or more likely attracted by the voices, John stumbled out of the bedroom, holding his head. "The fuck," he said.
"I thought you said you didn't get hungover," Natasha said, raising an eyebrow.
"I don't usually have crazy Russians trying to give me alcohol poisoning," John said. He eyed Ronon warily. "I thought you went home yesterday."
Ronon shrugged, some of the aggression easing out of his posture now that he could see John. "Hung out, did some stuff."
"So why didn't you come over last night? You were right next door."
"Heard voices through the wall," Ronon said. "Knew you had company. I didn't think you'd want to be interrupted."
The comment was without animosity but the implication was clear. John glared at Ronon, then at Natasha. "Jesus Christ and Mary, why the fuck is this my life?" he demanded.
"Go throw up, you'll feel better," Natasha ordered. She turned back to Ronon. "Do you want some coffee?"
Ronon followed her into the kitchenette, looming while she poured coffee into mugs. "You and Sheppard didn't hook up?" Ronon asked suspiciously.
Natasha was very glad John didn't hear that one. "I'm his cousin." She handed Ronon a mug. "Natalie."
"You weren't at the funeral," Ronon observed.
Natasha tossed her hair over her shoulder. "I'm not close to the family," she said. "What's for breakfast?"
Down the hall, faint vomiting sounds came from behind the bathroom door. Ronon ignored them. "Breakfast burritos. Those are good."
Natasha went into the bag and pulled out five wraps. "Are you from around here?" she asked, curious as to the young man's speech patterns. He sounded American, but Natasha was having a hard time placing his mannerisms.
"No."
John stumbled out of the bathroom. "I still hate you," he told Natasha as he went for the kitchen tap. "Like, lots and lots."
"Your friend Ronon brought breakfast," Natasha informed him. "Breakfast burritos. Extra greasy."
John gave her the finger while he downed a glass of water.
"Manners," she reminded him.
"When do we have to be at the gate?" Ronon asked Sheppard. Natasha noted the way John winced at the man's last word. It was likely some sort of code word, she decided, and filed it away in her John Sheppard's Secret Mission memories.
"In a few hours," John said. "You staying for breakfast?"
That last was directed at Natasha. "If you'd like," she said cautiously. She wasn't sure if he wanted her to, after the previous night's revelations.
"Sure," John said. "You can eat Ronon's food."
"She's your guest," Ronon objected. He picked two of the burritos and took a seat at the table.
Natasha and John shared a glance. "Toss a coin?" John suggested.
Natasha rolled her eyes. "Sit down."
The burritos weren't bad, and judging from the speed with which John inhaled the food, he was none the worse for wear after the night's drinking.
"Are you two good?" Ronon asked after a few minutes of intent chewing.
"Why wouldn't we be?" John asked, his mouth full of food.
"You looked like you wouldn't be, earlier," Ronon replied.
"We're fine," John objected. He glanced at Natasha. "Are we?"
Natasha considered as she licked hot sauce off her finger. John seemed to be okay this morning, if faintly embarrassed as he always was after a show of emotion. She personally wasn't sure what to make of the previous night's confession, but there wasn't anything she could do about it. She nodded. "We're good."
John grinned at Ronon. "See? Fine."
Ronon appeared wholly unconvinced.
After breakfast, John walked Natasha to the door. "So, um, thanks for coming," he said. "It was good to see you."
"I am sorry for the circumstances," Natasha said, but John shook his head.
"Nothing we can do about it now," he said. "Any of it."
Natasha reached up to touch his chin. "I'm so sorry, John," she repeated. She went up on tip-toe to kiss his cheek, then the other. "Take care of yourself."
John smiled. "You too."
As Natasha walked towards the waiting cab, the lingering emotions of guilt and grief rose up into her throat. She'd focused on John for so long that she had been able to suppress her own emotions, but that wall had been crumbling ever since John had spoken last night.
In 1968, she'd had one mission, and one mission only: Make Patrick Sheppard fall in love with her. Be everything he wanted, laugh at his jokes, make interesting conversation, fulfill his sexual fantasies, give him a child, fit all his societal expectations of a wife so he would trust her and let his guard down.
After four years of marriage, Natalie Sheppard had to die. Because of that, Patrick spent decades grieving her, and John had a lifetime full of resentment and loss.
But they weren't the only ones affected. It had been Natasha's first long-term undercover mission, and after four years away from the constant control and indoctrination of Department X, for the first time, Natasha had disobeyed a direct order, the one that demanded she murder her baby son.
Some orders simply could not be carried out.
She did not regret her actions, but in leaving John with Patrick, she hadn't considered the repercussions of her actions, that John would bear the brunt of all the damage she'd left behind.
It wasn't fair. And there was nothing she could ever do to make that up to John.
end part seven