Budapest

Natasha - HYDRA rises

Ivan.

That's all she could think about. Ivan, over and over.

Ivan, who stayed by her side when she was little as she cried for her dead parents until she fell asleep.

Ivan, who was the first person she saw upon her graduation from the Red Room, terrified that she had lost every speck of her humanity during training. And then he smiled and called her his "little one" and her heart sang.

Ivan, who had insisted she allow herself time to grieve properly for Alexei rather than drowning herself in her job.

Ivan.

Just as Alexei found his way into Natasha's dreams, turning them into nightmares as he died in her arms over and over, Ivan did the same. There was blood, so much blood, too much blood. How many times had she dreaded Ivan getting hurt because of her? How many times had she woken up in a cold sweat after imagining Ivan dead when she couldn't save him?

Now it was true. The nightmare was real.

Slowly, painfully, Natasha woke. There was no escape now, not in sleep, not in waking. Piece by piece, her surroundings came into focus. The pale, chipped ceramic surface of a bathtub. The slightly damp fabric of a t-shirt against her cheek. The comforting warmth of a hand pressed to the bare skin of her back...

....bare....skin....

Realization flooded through her mind all at once. She'd fallen asleep, tangled up with Barton in his bathtub. Her shirt was gone and she was curled around him in a way she most definitely should not be.

Natasha jerked upright, driving her elbow into Barton's ribs only partly by accident as she scrambled out of the tub to the far side of the room. She crossed her arms over herself, shivering without Barton's body heat to stave off the chill air. Barton rubbed at his ribs, alternating between casting awkward glances at her then looking away.

"Out," she said.

"I didn't mean to..."

"Get. Out."

Without a word, Barton obeyed, studiously keeping his gaze averted. As soon as the door was shut, she covered her face with her hands. She should have known better than to let her emotions take over like that. She had put Ivan above everything else, the job, her training, her own well-being. It was only sheer luck that had saved her from getting killed because of it.

Well. A little luck and a lot of Barton's help, as much as she hated to admit it.

Natasha braced herself against the sink, refusing to look in the mirror. The last thing she wanted was to see how wrecked she was. She forced herself to focus, to regain her footing and get back on track. Ivan couldn't take up space in her head right now, she had to figure out who took that shot first.

A light tap on the door made her flinch.

"Sorry to bother you," Barton said in a muffled whisper. "But I thought you'd like to know there's a clean shirt out here on the chair whenever you need it."

Natasha said nothing, waiting for his footsteps to recede before she inched the door open and peeked out. Barton was in the small kitchen, his back turned to her as he worked at the stove. Mila lay curled up in the armchair on the far side of the apartment, a blanket tucked around her shoulders.

Natasha snatched up the shirt and shut the door. Barton had taken care of Mila. Another mark against her. Natasha should have been the one to look out for Mila, not Barton. She sighed and rubbed her forehead, frustration blooming into a throbbing headache. Not only had she put herself at risk for totally losing it in the field but she had put Mila at risk as well. The thought only poured more fuel on the already raging wildfire of guilt and anger in her chest.