bakerstreet | The Compulsive Truth Telling Meme.

There are moments through-out my life I want to forget, to wipe clean.

Then there are moments I want to remember. The thrill of the chase, the adrenaline of the kill, being in control of a situation, reversing the roles, putting men in their rightful place.

Under my boot.

This was not what Clint expected to hear, not that he really knew what he expected. Natasha had been rather quiet after the mission had rapped up with few complications, or so he had thought. Now they were in the safe house and had a few hours before extraction and her sudden confession had come seemingly out of nowhere.

"That's, uh..." he started, brow furrowing in concern. "You okay, Nat?"

"No" She paused, biting her lip, stroking fingers over a bruise that was blossoming under her suit on her wrist.

This was concerning. The burning desire in her gut to tell the damn truth. The realisation hit her, and she tried to lie, tried to make something up. "I sleep with a light on because I'm scared of the monsters in the dark". No, it wasn't working. Eyes went wide, fingers locked over her mouth. This wasn't going to end well, at all.

When she admitted to not being okay, Clint's concern deepened tenfold. Usually she didn't own up to it so easily if she'd been injured, or if she did she's state the injury matter-of-factly, not just say 'no' and leave it at that.

"What happened? What did..." he started to ask when she suddenly blurted out that... she was afraid of the dark.

Clint just gaped at her.

"Are you..." no, he'd already asked if she was okay and she'd said no. Clearly that was true. "What's going on, Natasha?" She looked just as surprised as he felt at her own words.

Her fingers aimed to keep her lips from opening but she failed. Every question had to come with an answer and really, she couldn't stop it.
"I don't know what happened" That one was easy to answer, if she knew she'd be taking steps to stop it, to reverse whatever was going on.

She however stiffled a laugh between her fingers, a nervous one at that, muffled against her own skin. "I have an overwhelming urge to tell the truth to whatever question you throw at me." She dropped hands, finding it easier to just clench her fists and dropped to lean her head back against the wall, grinding her teeth together, looking up at him half concerned and half annoyed. Annoying, sassy assed snarky Clint would most probably use this to his own advantage, she could see it coming a mile away. Damn him.

Edited 2012-09-16 23:59 (UTC)

The room went so silent they could have heard the proverbial pin drop. The overwhelming urge to tell the truth? That was very unlike her. She must have gotten into something, a chemical in the lab they had raided maybe, something that was making her say all of this.

“You’re telling me... you can’t lie?” Clint asked unsurely, eying her warily. “That if I ask you anything you’ll tell me the truth, and if I say nothing you’re just gonna keep blurting out random confessions like some strange form of Tourettes?”

Now that was... interesting. And intriguing.

"I can't lie" She nodded although her face was screaming pure anger. There was no concern for herself there anymore, just anger, anger that she'd been stupid, that maybe she had picked something up in the lab. Although if it was airbourne he'd be in the same situation as her.

"Yes I have to tell you the damn truth, and no. I was testing the waters. I felt funny when you posed your first question." She ran hands over her face, groaning into her palms. "Can you please just put an arrow in my head or stop staring at me as if I'm going to explode". She really didn't want to be stuck in a room was snarky Clint until extraction arrived and she could source some kind of 'cure' for this infliction.

Edited 2012-09-17 00:17 (UTC)

Part of Clint wanted to just leave her alone until this whole thing wore off. It would be safer that way, mostly for him, because she was looking really angry right now and he wasn’t sure she wouldn’t lash out at him if he kept talking.

A louder part of him wanted to take advantage of the situation. It was a horrible thought, taking advantage of her like that, but wouldn’t she do the same in this situation? He had no doubts she would take great glee in finding out all his intimate little secrets.

Maybe if he just didn’t dig too deeply...

“I didn’t kill you years ago, why would I do it now? I’m sure it’ll wear off eventually,” he said, still looking ready to bolt at any second. “But in the mean time maybe we should keep testing it, see what it is we’re dealing with and how long it’ll last.”

Right, the scientific excuse. She couldn’t argue with that, right?

“Besides... just think of the opportunities! You can say anything you want with no repercussions because you can’t help it.” Spin it so it’s a good thing for her, that’s right. “Like I could ask ‘do you think I’m a jerk?’ and I can’t hold your answer against you.”

Would she have done the same? Yes, she'd have teased him by keeping her mouth closed for minutes at a time before asking her questions, hell Natasha wouldn't have even cared about the answer, just the simple thought of him being powerless to lie would have made her smirk.

But the shoe was on the other foot and she hated it.

"You won't do it now because you know you can't take me on without getting very hurt" She glared at him from under her fingers, moving to fist them in her hair. "Don't turn Stark on me, you need to stop hanging around with them in the labs."

She couldn't think of one good oppertunity for herself here. All the intimate details of her past were on the cards here, details she hadn't told him, details she'd skirted over. Hell details that weren't even in her files per her request. She pursed lips, tried to stop her mouth opening because for one she didn't want to offend the one man she trusted. "You're a jerk most of the time." She shrugged a shoulder, picking at a loose thread in her suit. Watching him to see the reaction.

Clint’s amusement faltered and his brow furrowed as she answered the question he hadn’t even thought about when he’d asked it.

“That’s why you think I wouldn’t kill you now? Because I don’t want to get myself hurt?” He hadn’t expected that at all. He thought it was pretty obvious that he cared about her and would try to take out anyone that tried to hurt her, but clearly she didn’t see it that way. He trusted her, one of the few people he truly trusted, and he had thought they were friends. Maybe she didn’t feel the same at all.

“Yeah, well, most the time people deserve it.” It was easier getting under people’s skin then actually being nice to them all the time. More fun too.

"Not just that but it seems I can get away with one answer rather than an essay" She sighed, this wasn't going to be easy and probably wasn't going to be as amusing as it could have been. She stood slowly moving over to him, her friend, her partner. She saw the look on his face and the stab of pain in her heart struck her harder then the blow of a knife.

"You wouldn't kill me because you give a damn, one of the only people who ever did or will probably. You didn't kill me back then because underneath that purple and black you have a heart. You passed some of that light from yourself to me so I could fight away the dark. You pulled me out of a place that was so dark it was suffocating and no matter what I do it would never be enough to repay you." She shrugged. There was no remorse after what she'd just said, nothing to suggest she was uncomfortable with telling him how she felt. Just her watching him with darkened eyes.

She shrugged, moving to sit on the cot bed, curling knees up to her chest. "Yeah, some people do deserve it."

Clint looked up at her when she approached him and he tried to hold a flat yet defiant look, but she managed to destroy the mask and the shield he had been trying to erect when she elaborated on her thoughts. He knew how she felt, or at least he thought he had some idea, no matter how different their situations. He hadn’t been under Loki’s control for long but it had been long enough to do some major damage. A lot of good men died that day and Clint would forever blame himself for every single one of them, no matter how many people tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault.

“It’s already enough, Tash,” he said quietly, using the nickname he only used in these quiet moments. Out in the field, around the others she was Nat if not Natasha; only when they were alone was she ever Tasha or Tash.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he forced himself to turn in his chair so he could still face her in her new position. Things had gotten too deep too fast and he didn’t feel right about it, getting her to reveal these things when she had no choice. Some things he would rather hear when he knew she was of sound mind, when he knew she was saying them because she wanted to, not because she had to.

“Alright, easy question. What’s your real favourite movie?” Clint asked, trying to lighten the mood again.

Natasha had been one of those people. After the attack on New York they'd had a heart-to-heart. Or as much of one as they could have with her keeping her lips closed. She'd told him about the manipulation, the blackouts, the lapses of time. She hadn't told him what they'd done, what they'd made her do, how many times she'd woken up in a puddle of blood, sometimes her own but more often not.

"It's never enough" She shot back, face impartial. It would never be enough, she would never feel like the debt was fully paid. Clint had been the first person to give her a spark of hope that there was something more to life then being picked up and used like a ragdoll.

The question threw her, not only because her gut was twisting to answer it, but because she'd expected something else, either something intimate or sarcastic. Not something as simple as her favourite movie. "Stars of the Russian Ballet" She felt her face flushing, biting her lip and staring at her gloved fingers, wiggling them slightly. "Yeah it's a soviet film, but I don't know, when I first watched it I couldn't help thinking that it could have been me in that film. In another life." She swallowed the sickness rising in her throat, turning her attention to him. "I hate James Bond by the way, please stop making me watch them, they're so tacky"

Clint knew not to argue. He knew she carried this debts around like a weight and would probably carry it to her grave. He didn’t want her to owe him, more than anything he wished she would forget about it. He could just never be sure if she did the things she did because she really cared about him or if it was just because she felt she owed him her life. He didn’t want her debts or her gratitude, he only wanted her honest affection.

Even his light question seemed to gain a meaningful answer; maybe tonight wasn’t meant to be amusing and fun, maybe it was truly a night for truths and full disclosure. He wasn’t sure what to think about that.

“Aw, come on, they’re meant to be tacky on some level, that’s part of their charm,” he protested. Of course Clint made a note that the next movie night the Avengers had he would try to get one of the other guys to pick a James Bond film.

Shifting in his seat, Clint stood and slung one leg over it so he could straddle the back of the chair, folding his arms over the top of it and resting his chin on his arms. “I’d like to see you dance sometime,” he commented softly. It was only fair he give a bit of honesty in return.

“Now what did you really think of your mission as Natalie Rushman? Don’t worry, I won’t tell Tony.”

There was the problem. The fact of the matter was she did care about him, probably too much and it terrified her. Scared her more than anything she'd been through because Natasha had never been taught to care, to trust or the extreme to love. She'd been taught to kill, to seduce and to manipulate. It was foreign ground for her to tread on, and even more of a hardship to admit.

"I hate them. The fighting is all wrong and the women are so..." She gave him a look, "they're used as tools, I don't need to watch a film where women are used.." She didn't need to see it, not when she'd lived through it.

She watched him move, heart palpitating at the mention of him watching her dance. She pursed lips and shrugged. "Maybe, although I don't know why you'd want to watch me. I dropped ballet shoes for a punching bag".

Natasha curled an eyebrow, a peculiar question and once again she'd been caught off gaurd with his interrogation skills. "I hated it. Babysitting a loud mouthed, egotistic bastard." She paused, huffing out a sigh. "And yet it was thrilling. After all these years it was, well, nice to feel, I don't know, desired maybe? Like I was a brand new toy he wanted to play with but knew he'd get his fingers burnt if he touched" Leaning her head back she half closed her eyes, even though she was here pouring out her secrets she still felt comfortable to relax around him. Although that could have just been because it was Clint.

"I don't care if you tell him, really. I still think he's an egotistic piece of work, even if his heart is in the right place."

Hearing her explanation of just why she hated the Bond films, Clint made a mental not to scratch his last mental note. He’d never make her watch another one.

“They’re definitely ‘guys’ films,” he conceded. He figured any women that watched them probably only did so because they thought Bond was hot anyway. Natasha wasn’t that superficial.

Rubbing his chin along his arm to scratch it, Clint considered her words. “Just a different form of dancing,” he stated, because wasn’t that all fighting was? To be truly great at it one had to be graceful and fluid, just like dancing. The idea of watching her dance without the violence, though, to just see her move with such grace and peace... it was something he would very much like to see some day.

The description of Tony got a bit of a chuckle, though her wanting to feel desired threw him off guard. She was desired by every man she met, Clint had seen it. He had never been a fan of it.

“I doubt he’d be offended anyway,” he replied, watching her relax. It meant something knowing that she could relax around him while knowing he could get her to tell him anything. He could ask her deepest, darkest secrets and she would have to tell him, but clearly she trusted him enough to know he wouldn’t do that to her. It caused a pang in his chest that was both pleasant and painful.

“I feel like I should offer you the chance to ask me something,” Clint said after a moment. It only seemed fair, even if he still had the ability to refuse... at least as far as he knew.

Tasha nodded in response, she had nothing more to say. James Bond didn't do it for her, nothing about those films ever did. After a fight, after a mission she didn't want to watch guys getting shot, contrary to what most believed Natasha would have preferred the calm of something light, a comedy, a romantic comedy, hell even something from Disney.

She nodded at his words, he was right, it was a form of fighting. Although she doubted she could get away with it when faced against guys with guns. Maybe one day she'd give it a go and see how far it would take her. "The tutu might get in the way though" She made the effort to smile although it was strained and cracking around the edges.

The deal with desire was once again a grey area. Natasha had always been desired and wanted, to be collected like a trophey. And the men who made that fatal mistake weren't here to tell the tale. There was a reason. Because it had been a job, making men believe she desired them in return was just a job and a lie. Becoming Natalie Rushman had made her realise the beauty in her own desire, how she could let a silver tongued millionaire question what she believed, what she'd been taught. To be desired and to desire in return.

"He'd probably find it strangely erotic" Fingers rubbed ather wrist, carefully moving to unstrap her Widows Bites from her wrists, leaning to carefully place them on a nearby table.

She thought for a moment, eyes closed, carefully considering all the questions she could ask, and ones she really wanted to know the answers to. "I've got two, but you have to promise you won't laugh at the first one and that you won't lie at the second." She half nodded, opening eyes and casting her green gaze on him.

"Firstly, when we get back will you rent every Disney movie you can find and can we watch them all in one massive spree?" She half smiled, the prospect of seeing what these films were all about had enticed her, having missed out on the collection as a child. "And secondly, why? Why didn't you end it? Why didn't you just take me out when you had the chance?"

Edited 2012-09-17 23:41 (UTC)

“You wear a tutu?” Clint asked, eyebrows raising. “Okay, not that I have to see. It can be a private show, nobody else has to see.” He was positively grinning with delight at the whole idea of it. The deadly Black Widow in a tutu? If it was pink he might just die.

Watching her remove her weapons, he moved to do the same. Unstrapping his glove, he pulled at the ends of the fingers with his teeth until he could remove it completely, tossing it back over his shoulder to the small table behind him. He could feel his nerves beginning to rise as she considered his offer. He had never been the most open person in the world, neither of them were, so he knew she knew the importance of the offer, just as he knew the importance of her current circumstances. He wouldn’t take advantage of her while she was like this but he knew he had to try to be truthful in whatever she asked of him.

It wasn’t starting off good when she began with stipulations.

“I can promise to try,” he said, which was as good as he could give. He definitely couldn’t promise not to laugh at least without knowing what it was. Working off his arm guards, Clint stopped short at her first question. In a million years he would never have guessed it.

At least the shock kept him from laughing.

“Seriously?” he questioned, not knowing what else to say. She had to be joking. “You do know there’s about fifty of them, right?” Not that he’d really had an opportunity to see many of them himself. Movies hadn’t really been a thing he’d done growing up. Most normal kid things hadn’t.

The second question he should have expected. Maybe he had hoped she wouldn’t dig so deep, but it didn’t come completely by surprise. Tossing his guards back with the glove, he slowly removed the gun holster from his leg as well, taking the time to consider his answer. Folding his arms on the chair again he buried his face in them so only his eyes were visible.

“There was a fire in you I couldn’t extinguish,” he started slowly, casting a quick glance at Natasha before dropping his eyes to the floor again. “I saw someone who didn’t want to be doing what they were doing, someone who wanted out but didn’t know how to break free. I thought... Maybe you wanted me to kill you?” He looked at her again. “I knew what rock bottom felt like and SHIELD managed to pull me out of it. I saw... I guess I saw a bit of myself in you and thought they could do the same for you.”

It was hard to put it into words, everything he had felt in that moment, in that split second decision.

"No." She caught the grin on his lips and couldn't help matching a smile of her own. "I used to, back then." Her brows furrowed in concentration, eyes slipping shut. "It was black, edged in white lace, red bows". The images flickered through her mind like an old film projector, the reels skipping every so often. "I don't own a tutu anymore. I still have the pumps. They were black too. It seems to be a trending colour".

Stipulations kept her alive. More often than not she broke the terms of her own stipulations in the face of interrogations merely because she could, or she guessed she took a sick pleasure in watching people suffer for their sins.

She huffed a sigh past her lips, staring at him, any hint of a smile gone. "Yes seriously and no, I didn't know how many there are. I just want to watch them." It was Steve's fault. In a rare moment of downtime Steve had made her sit and watch Bambi with him. Natasha had feigned ignorance but deep down she'd enjoyed it far more than false explosions and gore. "I've seen Bambi, we can cross that off the list." He didn't need to know about that shared moment of understanding with Steve. Didn't need to know how she'd gone to bed thinking about all the films she'd missed out on, it had made her start to question her life choices, or her life in general considering she never had choices. "Disney wasn't readily accessable in the Red Rooms Clint." She'd sighed it out even though her fist had clenched. They'd robbed her of a childhood she should have had.

Natasha had diverted rull attention at the answer, never blinking and seemingly never taking a breath until he was finished and she took a breath and closed her eyes. "At that moment I wanted you to kill me. The come down was nasty. I'd become a traitor for putting faith and trust in a man who'd been sent to destroy me. I deserted the motherland. I deserved to die in their eyes." She reached out, tentively placing a hand on his arm, fingers stretching along the fabric of his jacket. "Now I'm glad you had some resolve."

Shield had become a home for her. Even if she wouldn't admit how much she enjoyed the company of them. There were no ulterior motives to their kindness, no hidden agenda's for wanting her company. It had taken her so long to get used to it, the feeling of being wanted for her, and not just because her body was the worst weapon, deadly yet seductive. They didn't treat her like some fragile flower that was stunted in her growth. They just accepted her and her demons.

She realised she was still touching him and slowly recoiled, fingertips burning as if she'd burnt them. "Thanks, for you know, not killing me and all."

Clint couldn’t help but picture the outfit Natasha was describing and it was sexy as hell in his mind’s eye. “That’s a damn shame,” he said when she claimed to now be tutu-less. Maybe he should get her one for Christmas. If he wanted to live to see New Years he probably shouldn’t.

Watching her oddly as she got all defensive about wanting to watch Disney films, he wisely kept his mouth shut until the end. Ah, of course. He hadn’t had much of a childhood for different reasons, but it hadn’t been stolen away like hers had, he hadn’t been forced to grow up and become a machine, an instrument of death. “I’m sure I can find a list somewhere. We can start at the top, go chronologically,” he gave in easily. If it made her happy he’d concede; besides, she’d said ‘we’. She didn’t just want to watch the movies, she wanted to watch them with him, and that was enough. They didn’t really get a lot of downtime to spend together, just the two of them anymore, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to the prospect.

Holding his breath after he had finished telling his own story of the day they met, he waited until she closed her eyes before finally looking away again. It was as he suspected, part of her had had a death wish, but to hear her confirm it tore at his heart. He had killed many people in his lifetime but he reasoned that they were all bad people, that it was for his country, for the world, that he did it. The thing he never let himself dwell on was the one question: how many of them had been like Natasha, redeemable if given the chance?

Eyes drawn to her hand on his arm he once again told himself it didn’t matter. He had saved her and that was enough; she was worth ten of anyone else, a hundred even.

Everything.

“Yeah, well,” he said with a shrug, unsure what else he was supposed to say in reply. Leaning to one side he reached down to untie the laces of his boot and slip it off, the other quickly following. Getting to his feet and stretching, he pulled off his jacket and hung it on the chair. Standing at the side of the cot he motioned at her. “Now scootch over a bit.”

The idea of unwrapping a garish tutu would have made Natasha chuckle, a lot. Not her usual Widow chuckle, but an actual Natasha laugh, the rare emotion that only seemed to rear it's head around Clint.

"It sounds good, maybe we can convince Fury to let us have a couple of days off. Then at least we could sleep in between the marathon." Natasha rolled shoulders, releasing the tense muscle that was starting to ache in her position.

She knew the idea of her back-story unsettled him. Hell the mere idea of it unsettled her and she often wondered what she'd become, how she'd got to the point where she cared so much about the demons. Maybe it was becoming a Shield agent, or maybe it was just the care that Clint had shown her.

She breathed a sigh, watching him with intense concentration as he removed the boots, the way his deft fingers worked at the laces. It was alright for him, there were no strange buckles or straps that kept his boots connected to his clothing. The idea of taking her own shoes off passed through her mind, but she shook it off, not really caring.

She moved, shuffling along, drawing knees up to her chest to make more room on the cot, resting her head back against the wall. "I mean it." She mused, rolling her head to watch him carefully. "I appreciate the honesty, even though you're not the one with the inability to hide anything. If you have a burning question I'll let you have a free pass to ask it."

The idea of asking Fury for a few days off so they could do a Disney marathon got a chuckle out of Clint. He could just imagine the director looking back and forth between them with his one good eye, trying to figure out if they were putting him on or if the last mission had finally broken them. It was almost worth asking just to see his reaction. “Good thing he’s unlikely to ask just why we want the time off, unless he’s already got another job lined up for us.”

When Natasha moved over, Clint settled himself on the cot beside her, stretching the length of his body along it. There was another cot in the room he could have just as easily taken but for whatever reason the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Lying flat on his back, his head on the pillow, he turned his head slightly to the side and raised his eyes to her. He knew it wasn’t an offer to be taken lightly, this opportunity to ask her anything he wanted. It was a show of trust, a show of gratitude and... he couldn’t take it.

“I wouldn’t feel right asking anything... real knowing that you can’t refuse to answer,” he admitted quietly. Then he smiled. “Just be glad you’re here with me and not with someone like Stark. You know he’d be asking things like do you think I’m sexy? or have you ever wanted to just jump my bones?” Clint laughed, completely oblivious to how he’d phrased the words.

She hadn't even gave a thought to Fury's reaction, thinking about it now she couldn't help but plaster a grin on her face. "I think he's past the point of asking anybody why they want time off, although the look on his face would make my day complete."

The fact he'd chosen to bundle himself up on the same cot made her smile lightly. She knew in the comedown of the adrenaline hit that she liked being close to someone. It was a habit she'd picked up since working with the good guys and especially being around Clint. Mainly because she trusted him with her life and any concern about letting her guard down was overshadowed by the bond between them. Having him in close contact as the comedown struck was something she'd grown to understand and somewhat enjoy.

That was until he'd unknowingly pitched those two questions and her eyes instantly grew wide. Dark of her pupils dilating in the stunted light and she slammed her head back against the wall, gritting her teeth, fisting her hair until her scalp stung. It was really no use and she almost let out a glutteral scream, attempting to escape by stumbling over his legs and falling flat on her face on the floor. "Yes. Yes".

Time stood still, she took a ragged intake of breath, pressed her cheek away from him aware that she'd bit her lip on her tumble down and made herself bleed, drops rolling down the side of her face as she laid on the cold floor and squeezed eyes closed. Not offering anymore information considering she thought she'd said enough and made her jaw ache from teeth crashing together with the fall.

"Fuck" she mumbled weakly, spitting out a trail of blood, covering her head with her arms, tugging on her hair to distract from the self-inflicted split lip.

Clint had been completely unprepared for the violent reaction that followed his joke. He had just been relaxing further into the pillow when Natasha suddenly slammed her head back into the wall. Sitting up with a start, he stared wide eyes when she crawled across him as if to escape, almost like her life depended on it. The dismount looked painful and he visibly winced.

“Jesus, Tasha, are you alright?” he asked, confused and shocked and concerned. Throwing his legs over the side of the bed to the floor, he was just reaching for her when it registered that she had answered before he had even asked the question. She had said yes first, before he had asked if she was okay. She had... she had answered the questions he hadn’t even meant to ask.

“No. No, no, I wasn’t really asking anything! I didn’t mean... I was just... wait... what?”

She had said yes, yes to both questions, yes she found him sexy and yes she wanted to... oh man. Cringing at the blood he tried to shake his head clear. He hadn’t meant to ask her anything else and now... he kept asking question. “You don’t have to answer,” he jumped in quickly, though he was pretty sure it didn’t work that way. “I mean... shit.”  

The amount of blood pooling around her mouth had her rolling from her cheek to her forehead, still crumpled in an untidy heap on the floor. "No". She winced, banging her forehead lightly against the floor. "Stop."

She heard the floor creak, stiffened her body in case he tried to touch her. Right now she couldn't decide if she was actually ashamed or angry. She decided on the latter emotion, mainly because it was such a fond, firm favorite of hers.

She shifted her leg at his words, kicking him hard in the shin, another question deserved a kick. She just wished she could have aimed higher to his crotch.
"Stop. Please." She coughed out a choked back scream. "Yes I think your sexy, hot, all of the other alternatives you can think of. Yes most days I feel like jumping on you and clawing you out of that suit" She whimpered, bashing her head again.

She kicked him again in response, it didn't matter that he'd told her to not answer. Because it just seemed to fall out her mouth anyway. She really wanted to clamp her mouth down and stop talking, but this bad case of truthful verbal vomit had her saying things she'd have never told him otherwise. A small fragment of her was glad it was out in the open, maybe now she could get over it and move on. A larger part of her was mixed between wanting to strangle the life out of him or walk back to the Tower on her own, screw the extraction. She could get a ride when she found a road that wasn't in the middle of no-where.

Natasha Romanoff | MCU

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