Chapter Text
Tell me if you think that's wrong
If I let you know I'm here
Cause I am falling down
"They say there's a diserter. I heard it's Romanova."
She made it. She's free.
"Yelena, nobody's coming. Not for us."
"What do you mean, I saw her, she's—"
"No, she's not."
She's not coming back for you.
"Our family was never real, so..."
Liar.
Is this real?
"It was real to me, too."
Go. Save the world.
"I'm sorry, Yelena. Natasha is gone."
No, I can feel her, she's still here—
She has to.
"Maybe you'd like a shot at the man responsible for your sister's death."
He is real. He can be killed.
"She made her choice. We just have to find a way to live with that."
Tell me how. Please.
"Steve went back for her. It finally worked."
No. No, It's been months. It can't—
"It's me. I'm really here."
—•—
Yelena's eyes snapped open as she awoke with a start, the breath caught in her throat threatening to suffocate her.
Her head was floating, as the words wrenched from carefully tucked-away memories rang out again and again in her ears. She felt paralyzed. She felt numb.
The telltale signs that she had just come back from a nightmare.
No screaming, or crying, or full-out panic, no, a life spent withholding any sort of emotive reaction had taught her better than that. But this didn't mean her heart was going at a nearly regular pace, or that she could hear anything above the whispers crowding the empty room enveloped in the dark, her eyes scanning wildly what little she could see of her surroundings.
As soon as she recognized the outlines of the small apartment she had settled in, almost a week before, she forced in a deep, shuddering breath, slowly letting it out while squeezing her eyes shut again.
Not this again. But by now she knew what she needed to do.
She started going through what she knew for sure; she was in a temporary safe house in Berlin, some sort of fancy one-room apartment that Mason — she supposed — had somewhat got for her last-minute. She had stopped by Melina's farm for a few days to check how things were going down there, in Russia. She was on her way to go back to America — she couldn't recall exactly why she had to make her way back there of all places — but she guessed she could leave that for later. Natasha was...
"I'm sorry, Yelena."
A sudden twinge made her chest constrict. She tried to wade through the fog occluding her mind, frowning deeply in concentration.
Her sister was...
"Natasha is gone."
She could feel her breaths starting to come out faster. One of her hands went up to press on her forehead and eyelids, pushing away strands of messy hair as she tried to focus.
"It worked."
She was hearing many voices, but she found herself unable to put a face to most of them. They were fragments scattered all around her mind, each one telling her different things and conveying many conflicting emotions. Some were teary and excited, others mournful and filled with remorse. Some were angry. Some she recognized herself in.
The point was, as it had always been, what was true?
Ever since she could remember, most of her dreams and nightmares had been a blurred merge of memories and fantasies. After being subjugated to the chemicals of the mind control, she had started to find more and more difficult to tell the difference. She would wake up with images burned into her brain of missions she didn't remember taking part to, fragments of a life she hadn't lived, and scenes of a life she wished was hers to live.
She was free now, but she was still subjected to her own mind.
When she had been told that five years had passed with her frozen in time in that bathroom, and that Natasha was dead, all of it had worsened. She would wake up believing that it had all been a figment of her own imagination, just for reality to harshly hit her all over again shortly after.
She had dreamed that Melina, with her science that could control lives, could control death too. That her sister's friends — so called earth's mightiest heroes — could actually bring her back. That they could've done something. That she could've done something.
"It's me."
Her jaw clenched as she fought the tears threatening to well up in her eyes. She had imagined it so many times.
And yet...something still felt off.
She lowered her hand and stared at the ceiling in contemplation. She was going to America. She had made a stop in Berlin.
But why was she still in Berlin?
She had always tried to avoid staying in the same place for more than a couple of days while on the move, and that habit had sticked with her over the years.
Tentatively, she pulled herself up to a sitting position, studying the room around her and drawing in some steadier breaths, her hands shifting to firmly grasp at the sheets.
She couldn't remember.
The fabric was rough, and felt real under her touch.
She racked her brains searching for an answer that wouldn't lead her thoughts back to Natasha — because Natasha was dead, and she was so tired of hoping for something different and be let down each and every time. She came up empty.
It was like there was a dark hole in her mind, and the more she tried to dive in to reach for the missing pieces, the more she risked being drawn in the darkness and dragged to the bottom, with no way out. Trapped.
Panic started to rise in her chest, creeping into her mind. She clutched at the sheets harder.
If she was forgetting things...
No. She couldn't think like this, she couldn't handle it. Not now.
With one sharp motion she hastily pushed the covers away, swiftly making her way to the door separating the bathroom from the rest of the apartment. Her feet padded lightly on the floor, but the soft noise was enough to momentarily quiet down the voices in her head.
She focused on that until the door slid closed behind her, her knuckles turning white gripping the door handle, her thoughts directed on maintaining her breaths steady.
Dragging herself to the sink, she quickly turned the faucet on, reveling in the feeling of cold water running down her hands and flowing between her fingers.
Her stomach tightened uncomfortably when she closed her eyes to splash some water on her face, and she couldn't help the little sigh of relief that escaped her when she opened them and found that nothing had changed — she ignored the part of her that felt slightly disappointed.
Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her as she leaned forward, hands open and safely resting against the countertop, and she tried looking through her own image, searching for answers.
"It's me."
The words kept ringing in her ears, and there were those scenes, flashing right before her eyes — the avengers all gathered in one place, Natasha's body colliding with hers and the familiarity of arms tightening around her, the feeling of not wanting to let go — making her feeling like she was going crazy.
It didn't make any sense. Of every scenario she remembered having ever dreamed of, this felt different. Brighter.
More dangerous.
She forcefully shook her head and reached out to the drawer under the sink, hastily pulling it open. Mechanically, her hand went for the handcuffs she kept stashed there — she always brought a pair along wherever she went, for any eventuality — settling them on the counter. Staring down at them now, she wanted to throw up.
She inhaled deeply, curling her fingers against the sink's edges and pressing her palms and fingers down.
In the few times she had seen Natasha after taking down the Red Room, they had tentatively addressed the subject, the redhead sharing her own personal experience and some things that had helped her get through it at the time. She had made Yelena promise to call her if she ever felt like resorting to them again. That she would have answered her phone at any hour, no matter what, or that she would call her back as soon as possible.
Yelena almost let out a wry laugh at the memory, while her chest kept constricting painfully and her mind screamed something she didn't want to hear.
The first time she had felt the need of having that cold metal around her wrist again, to let it dig into her skin, had been the first time she had really tried to sleep after the blip. She had used them also the following night. And the night after that one as well.
The handcuffs had returned to the bottom of her bag only when she had left to hunt down Clint Barton.
She didn't remember how much time had passed since she had last used them, and she really, really, didn't want to reset that count. But, right now, they felt like the sole, familiar thing around her — or anywhere, for that matter. They were the only tangible connection to her past that she could rely on. A past that was very much fucked-up, no doubt, but that was hers, something nobody could ever take away from her, and of that she could be sure.
She didn't want to go back to sleep. She didn't want to do anything, really. But she needed this.
Yelena remained in the bathroom a few more minutes, until something caught her attention above the sound of water running down in the sink, making her movements pause.
It had been just a fleeting moment, but she was sure she had heard it — a muffled clattering, coming from outside.
Slowly turning the water off, she wiped her hands on the towel nearby and reached down under the drawer, grazing the gun taped there, all her senses heightened. If someone was trying to break into the apartment making this much noise, she was sure it couldn't be too much of a threat. But there were no windows in the bathroom, and if they were already in, that meant she was stuck in there. And while she was confident that she could easily take them down even with limited space, she didn't particularly like the feeling of being trapped, especially when she was already struggling to escape her own mind.
The only thing she could keep thinking of, was that she had to get out of there.
A minute passed by, in which she kept completely motionless, barely breathing, her whole body tense and ready to strike. But no noise other than her own heartbeat was reaching her ears.
Her free hand slid on the counter to grab the handcuffs, holding them tightly and drawing them at her side.
Maybe they had gone away. The apartment was supposed to be empty, maybe it was some naive burglar that, upon seeing traces of her presence, gave it up and ran off. Or maybe, they were outside the bathroom door, waiting for her to come out.
Maybe she had just imagined everything.
But then, she heard a quiet shuffling coming from the direction of the front door, not quite near enough to mean that someone was close to the bathroom, and her body reacted in a matter of seconds.
Her hand darted and grabbed the gun, the other shoving the door open while her legs moved of their own accord, rushing outside, and in no time she found herself standing at the furthest corner from the entrance, just beside the bed, the gun ready and aimed at the doorway.
She was about to pull the trigger, waiting just as long as she needed to find a non-lethal spot on her eventual opponents' bodies, but her hands freezed around the weapon.
Her heart, that had been hammering in her chest since she had woken up, felt like it had now completely stopped, replaced by a huge weight twisting and growing inside of her, compressing her lungs.
On the doorway — geared up as if she had just gotten back from a mission, one hand on the door handle and a duffel bag in the other — there was Natasha. Or at least, she was seeing Natasha.
With her eyes locked onto the figure standing right in front of her door, the memories of the nightmares came rushing back to her, flooding her mind with renewed force, pressing more urgently.
She couldn't breathe.
Natasha had let a slightly startled expression slip on her face, but once she realized it had been her who had just stormed out of the bathroom, her shoulders visibly relaxed, and her lips curled into a gentle smile, one of her eyebrows slightly raising in light mockery, and it was all so painfully familiar—
"Ah, there you are."
Her ears had started ringing again, and it took her a moment to notice that Natasha had started to talk. Yelena managed to draw in a shaky breath, and could simply watch as the redhead gave her a small grin and turned to shut and lock the front door.
"Sorry, I didn't want to scare you. I know, I know, I said I would arrive in the morning, but we finished early, so I...thought—"
Natasha had turned around, her voice trailing off. She was now staring at the gun still pointed firmly toward her, Yelena's grip not loosening in the slightest. The blonde could see her eyebrows furrowing in confusion and her gaze shifting down to the handcuffs that, she realized just now, were still in her hands and dangling from her hold on the weapon.
Natasha's eyes briefly met hers — making her feel uncomfortably exposed and suddenly aware of the heavy and labored breaths coming out of her — before moving to the bed, taking in what she could see of the room and the crumpled state of the sheets in the dim light coming through the window.
Yelena tried to swallow, but she noticed that her mouth had gone dry. She felt like paralyzed, her mind split into multiple parts, each of them telling her mixed versions of the same story.
She wanted to believe the one that was trying to remind her all that had happened in the past few months, remind her that Natasha was indeed alive and now standing here with her. But that would have meant believing in resurrection, bring magic and space and gods into the picture. And she just couldn't do that.
She believed in death. She believed in deception. In the red of blood that would inexorably spill out, if you just cut deep enough. In the cold of Russian winters, and the cold of lifeless hands. In bad jokes. In torture. In pain. She believed in not to trust anyone, not even herself. And she didn't know what to do.
When Natasha raised her gaze again, it was filled with worry and uncertainty, and Yelena felt a pang of guilt settle deep into herself. The redhead took a hesitant step forward, letting go of the bag at her side.
"Yelena—"
"Stay there!"
Both of them slightly jolted at the hoarseness and harsheness in her voice, but Natasha did stop immediately, cautiously raising her hands in front of her.
Yelena stepped back, but she bumped against the wall. Her finger was still grazing the trigger.
Natasha tried again, softer.
"Yelena..."
"Please."
This time, her voice came out smaller, weaker, a pleading tone and words that she didn't seem able to control.
"Please, stop."
Natasha went quiet, and they stayed like this — seconds that seemed hours — searching each other's gaze, until Yelena's eyes flicked briefly to look at a particularly dirty and frayed spot right under the shoulder of the black suit.
She had already seen Natasha in similar conditions a few times, on her way back from missions that left her covered in dirt, blood and scrapes. Her mind wouldn't have had to make up that image from nothing, it would have been easier than that.
The redhead followed her gaze and took a moment to consider her own appearance. She then looked at Yelena, seemingly lost in thought. Then glanced down at her bag on the floor, and at the bathroom door between them. Finally, her eyes shifted back to Yelena, a new resolve now settled within them along with the still evident hesitation. She made sure to let the words out slowly.
"Yelena, I'm not sure what's going on, just...just listen to me for a second."
Maybe it was something about the way she had said it, a coaxing tone that was meant to convey safety. Maybe, deep down, she wanted to listen to her, an involuntary desire to cling onto every word the other might utter next. Maybe she just couldn't bring herself to do anything else. Either way, Yelena found herself listening. Natasha took it as her cue and went on, talking softly.
"Now I'm going to come closer and go into the bathroom, so I can get rid of these clothes, ok?"
As she had said it, she slowly lowered her hands to pick up the duffel bag from the floor. Yelena didn't move a muscle, didn't say anything as the redhead gradually started toward her, never breaking eye contact.
"It'll be okay, I promise. I won't be long, and when I come out we'll figure this out together."
Natasha stopped when she reached the bathroom, stretching out her hand toward the door left ajar from the previous outburst, and pushed it open.
She then stared intently at her one last time, opening her mouth as if about to say something else, before thinking better of it and disappearing into the other room.
As soon as the door closed, Yelena felt like she could finally breathe again. She waited a few seconds more, and then forced herself to start taking long, deep breaths, allowing her eyes to slid closed.
It had never been like this. Usually she could snap back to reality before succumbing to any self-induced illusion, and to the pain or hope they brought with them. She didn't know if this was real, or if it meant that she was too far gone now for even fight her way out of her own mind.
Yelena lowered her gun only when she heard the shower starting, and the apartment filled with the sound of water falling.