Chapter Text
"i try to let whatever has to pass through me pass through
but this is staying a while, i know
it might not let me go"
-lorde, what was that
There’s a strange tinge in the air– something sharp, almost metallic, carried by the wind as it snakes around your collar and settles into your bones. The chill isn’t just cold; it’s the kind that lingers, that makes you feel watched even when you’re alone. And you are alone.
The only sound is the brittle snap of twigs beneath your boots, echoing too loudly in the stillness of the graveyard. No birds. No voices. Just you, and the crunch of dead leaves, and the low whisper of the wind threading its way through bare branches overhead.
The sky is that dull, unbothered grey it always seems to wear this time of year, neither threatening rain nor promising light and a part of you is almost nostalgic for the holiday season again, because you miss the sounds of other people around you. The bad music, the overcooked food, the warmth of bodies packed too tightly in too-small spaces. You miss being annoyed. You miss not being this quiet.
The grave isn’t far now. You know the path by heart, each crooked step, each twist of stone... and still, walking it makes your stomach twist. It never feels less surreal. Less wrong.
Walking alone to your sister’s grave always makes you feel a little... squeamish. Like you shouldn’t be here. Like any second she’ll step out from behind a tree with that tired, knowing look on her face and ask why you’re being so dramatic or maybe to ask why you're back.
But she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.
The headstone was simple. Natasha Romanoff never would’ve wanted anything more. No statue. No grand speeches. Just a name, a date, a place to rest.
You stood there for a long time. Longer than you meant to. The wind tugged at the collar of your coat like a restless ghost, but you didn’t flinch. The flowers laid near the grave were fresh, as they always were–tulips, carnations, even the occasional sunflower. People remembered now. People cared. Because your sister had died a hero.
She was always your hero. Long before the red in her ledger faded, before the world saw what you already knew. But now, with her sacrifice carved into history, the gratitude came pouring in, from places it never had before. From strangers who spoke her name with high regard, from governments who once labeled her dangerous. From a world she saved without asking anything in return.
You let a soft whistle carry itself through the wind, gentle, almost hesitant. The melody drifted like a memory: the tune the three of you used to hum under your breath, a secret song passed between sisters. You waited. Listened.
But no one whistled back.
"Hello, сестра," you said quietly, offering a small smile to the gravestone. You knelt, placing the white daffodils gently by the others. Your fingers lingered on the cold stone for a second too long. "I know you’re probably wondering why I’m back so soon.”
The smile faded, slow, into something softer. Sadder.
“I thought I was doing better,” you admit, eyes trained on the name carved into granite. “But something about this time of year... I don’t know. It makes the quiet louder. And I just needed to hear your voice. Even if it’s just in my head.”
Your voice cracks at the end, but you keep going, because stopping would mean falling apart.
"I don't know where Melina is. She doesn’t answer. She never did like goodbyes. Alexei’s off being... Alexei. Probably trying to start another revolution in a country that doesn’t need him. Anything that gets him out of being a father. And Yelena–" your breath stutters, "–I haven’t seen her in almost two months. She won’t say where she’s going, just that Valentina has sent her off on another mission. She won't stop working for her and she keeps saying she’ll be 'fine.' But she’s not. She’s not fine. And I hate that I can’t fix it. I hate that you’re not here to fix it."
You pause before you continue speaking, "Sam's doing a lot of big things, one of them being fighting Hulk Ross who somehow became the fucking president. Don't ask me how that happened but trust me, I did not vote for him. I hate that guy."
You wipe at your cheek with the back of your glove, but the cold has already turned your skin raw. You don’t care.
"And James... Bucky is a congressman now." The words are strange on your tongue, like they belong to someone else's story. "I know, I didn’t expect it either. But he’s good at it. I think he is good, at least. He seems... steady. Like he finally found something to hold onto that isn’t pain."
You pause, letting the weight of that truth settle.
"I haven’t reached out to him. I know I should, but..." Your voice drops to almost nothing. "His life is going well. He’s moving forward. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged back into this. Into me."
You glance at the headstone again, your eyes stinging. "You’d tell me I’m being ridiculous. You always did know the right things to say."
The wind rustles through the trees again– gentle, insistent. As if someone’s still listening. As if you're not really as alone as you feel.
"I miss you, Natasha," a lone tear finds it's way, trailing down your cheek, "More than you'll ever know."
You linger a moment longer, fingers brushing over the edge of the stone like maybe, just maybe, some of her strength might find its way back into you. But it doesn’t. So you turn to go.
You’re halfway down the path when your phone rings. It's sharp, shrill, unforgiving. It slices through the stillness of the graveyard like a gunshot. You want throw it into the trees out of spite. But you don’t.
You answer it.
“What?”
“Well, hello to you too, Miss Romanoff,” comes the unmistakable voice. Slick, smug, laced with the kind of casual arrogance only one person could deliver so precisely.
Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for the past hour.”
You sigh, already regretting answering. Valentina was ruthless and you had hoped, in vain, that she would finally leave you alone. “I was visiting my sister’s grave. You know, my twin, who died to save the world you're currently exploiting.”
“Oh.” A pause. Not quite guilt, but a moment of calculation. “Touching. Truly. Now–”
“What do you want?” you snap, already walking toward your car. You slam the door shut behind you, cutting off the last of the wind.
“One last task, a small one, really,” she says, smooth as silk, “and then I–”
“I told you I’m done.” Your voice sharpens, cold and clear. “You said I could be done.”
“Yes, I did say that,” Valentina agrees, maddeningly calm. “But consider this... a final offer. Complete this mission, and I’ll wipe the slate clean. Your record. Your name. A new identity. A real one. Quiet, private, peaceful.”
You say nothing.
“Wouldn’t you like that?” she asks, almost gently now. “To disappear. No more running. No more orders. The Avengers are over. You are not getting that life back. You can start over.”
Would you?
Yes.
Of course you would.
But you also know it doesn’t work that way. Not really. Your ledger still bleeds. Your past clings to your skin like oil. You’re not sure there’s a version of peace that doesn’t taste like guilt.
Still... maybe this is the only way to try.
“Fine,” you say, the word cutting like a blade. You can almost hear her smile from the other end. She knows exactly what she’s done–what she always does.
A beat of silence, then:
“Who do you want dead?”
[ flashback ]
They told you not to look him in the eye.
“He’s not a man,” your sister had warned, tightening the laces of your boots with hands that trembled. She wasn't allowed to meet you before your fight but she had sneaked into your dormitory, almost as if she was unsure if she will ever see you again. “He’s a machine. You hesitate for a second, he’ll break your neck.”
So you didn’t look at him when they shoved you through the door.
You stepped into the training room with your head down, fists clenched, heart hammering in your chest like it knew something you didn’t. The Red Room was always cold, but this was a different kind of cold– the kind that settled under your skin. Made you shiver from the inside out.
He was already there, standing in the middle of the mat like some silent shadow carved from ice and steel. The Winter Soldier. You’d heard the stories, but seeing him in person was worse. His presence swallowed the room. His metal arm glinted beneath the lights. The other trainees whispered that he didn’t speak. That he didn’t think. That he only obeyed.
Ruthless, Natalia had said. So be faster. He uses strength. You use speed. Survive him. That’s enough.
Madame B barked the order, a knowing glint in her eye. You moved before you were ready.
You struck first, quick, sharp, controlled. You aimed for his side, hoping to catch him off guard, but he caught your wrist mid-air with terrifying ease. He didn’t even flinch.
And then the training began.
You ducked, weaved, twisted, used every ounce of agility you had to stay one step ahead, but it didn’t matter. He was stronger, yes, but worse– he was precise. Every move calculated, every blow thrown with cold detachment. It was like fighting gravity, you were never meant to win that fight. You couldn’t stop him... you could only try not to fail.
But even as he knocked you to the ground again and again, your mind couldn’t stop studying him. The way his brows furrowed ever so slightly before each strike. The way he never went for the kill, not yet. The way his blue eyes, so chilling at first, flickered with something strange.
Like he was remembering.
You wondered, between gasps for breath and bruised ribs, if those eyes had ever been warm. If there was ever a time he smiled. If he once had a name that didn’t sound like a weapon. The only thing that let you keep your humanity was yours.
You landed a hit to his ribs, not that he reacted. But something in you still burned with the smallest flicker of pride. He was faster. Better. But you were still on your feet.
Barely.
By the end, blood trickled from your nose, your lip was split, and your entire body screamed. You were sure that you had a broken rib. He stood across the mat, barely scratched. Breathing steady. Face unreadable.
“Out,” one of the guards barked, and two more came to drag you by your arms.
You stumbled, but as they yanked you toward the door, something inside you refused to let go just yet. You turned your head, your eyes locking with his.
And before you could stop yourself, you whispered, low and broken, just one thing. Your name.
It was nothing. A breath. A flicker of defiance in a place that punished hope. But it mattered. Because for a moment, just one tiny one, the Winter Soldier paused.
His head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing. Not cold, not empty, but... confused.
He stared at you as if the word–your name–had struck something deep inside, some locked door shaking on its hinges. Something not programmed. Something real.
As if you were the first one to treat him as someone more than a weapon. His eyes were really pretty and you wondered what they would have looked like if they were happy.
And then the door slammed shut behind you.