𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒 | 𝘕𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘢 𝘙𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘧𝘧 [✓]

Ch. 13 Retro-fiction [𝔢.]

Word count: 1.19k

Nat's POV:

I don't say anything for a while. I only sit, staring at the wall ahead of me as the others surround me in a chaotic mess of sound. Nothing makes sense anymore. She was my responsibility - Eliza - she was the only thing I didn't think I could fuck up any more. A second chance was surely out the window now. Hell, she was dating Wanda. I can't say it was unexpected, but I don't like it all the same. Yet, I'd say I deserve it, after pushing Eliza away again and again, plus Wanda tried to warn me. I suppose this would be the right time to use the phrase, 'Karma's a bitch.' Seems reasonable.

The file is sorely inaccurate. It's damaging how S.H.I.E.L.D decides to write things, not intentionally trying to hurt anyone, but succeeding to do so without the littlest bit of sorry. It's infuriating.

I can't take anymore noise so I get up and leave quietly, leave the insanity. It takes me a while to stumble back to my office, shutting the door behind me. Slumping down to the floor, I wrap my arms around my legs, resting my head on knees.

Everything hurts. I lost my chance with Eliza, no matter how much I want to deny my feelings, I can't relax; my head is pounding and I can't help but feel useless for not being able to protect her from the damn thing that is now infecting her blood, contaminating her purity and destroying her chance at normality. I'm drowning in so much self-doubt that I can't think straight.

I let my legs lead me to the garage and my hands slip my car keys from their peg. My finger finds it's way to the open button and the lights flicker range on a red Aston Martin. The door opens slowly, lifting up enough for me to slip in. I turn the engine, revving it a couple times before the door closes back on me, confining me to black leather and illuminated buttons.

"Friday, be a dear and open the garage." I sigh. The A.I replies by lifting the garage door to let me edge my way out of the underground. I pull out onto the main road of the compound, driving along the road back into towards the city. My breath fogs the window slightly, so I turn the AC on to avoid steaming up the vehicle. I rub my eyes, resting my head on the cushioning behind me. Grimacing, I keep driving and somehow, probably thanks to the soft hum of the electric and the vibrations, my headache masses and disappears. A sigh of relief falls from my mouth and I groan. Everything still hurt.

Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me!

How do I always manage to be such an idiot? I promised my family once that I would take care of myself and give myself the ability to trust and to love, but I just fucked everything up. Nothing new, really. Nothing unexpected. A tear falls from my eye and I let out a cough. My life has fallen apart before, what makes this time any different? Why do I deserve what I have? Nothing makes sense anymore.

I think back to what Wanda said about Clint. How did I manage to lose him, out of everyone I know? The one person who showed me a little mercy when I didn't, when I couldn't show it to myself? My tears have turned into sobs.

How do I manage to let my friends down constantly?

Why is all ways me who can't give in to the littlest thing, like love?

What makes me so incapable?

Is everything so fucked up that fate has now decided to give up on me as well?

I lost Yelena. Then Clint. And I'm losing Eliza. I shake my head, as if it would get rid of the thought. Maybe I should just let her be happy with Wanda, because it seems to me that Maximoff won't harm her. That I'll only do her damage where Wanda can bring her happiness. I doom her to darkness where Wanda gives her light.

Suddenly, walls of concrete and glass surround me. New York. Great.

I pull up near Stark's tower building, looking up at the 'A' that still shines brightly on the side. I give up looking because the sun is now blinding me, so I squint and look away. I lock my car, waiting for it to flash and click before walking away, but not downtown. In fact, I walk towards the park and the fountains, and the peace and quiet. It's so quiet, what with everyone at work, and the kids at school. And now I think about it, somewhere Peter should really be. He must have gotten a sick note or something.

I sit on a bench over looking the water, surrounded by trees, by green, by silence. Other than a elderly man passing with his dog, who comes up to me, sniffing my ankles, no one else is around. Leaning back, I take a breath in, fiddling with my fingers. I sniff, running a free hand through my hair.

But through the peace, a sudden cry of hysteria rings out. A scream, a shout of agony. I jump to my feet, scrambling to pin point the sound. The screams come again and I spring into action. My hand grabs the gun in my thigh holster, finger immediately to the trigger, though the safety cap remains in place. I follow the river of sound, which now gushes brightly with imagined red. Red for love, and red for blood.

I scour the horizon as far as I can see, waiting for movement to show up on my radar, and that's when I see a flooding of blonde hair, up and away from the face. It's a woman, younger than me, but still a woman. Two men, either side of her, grapple at her arms, their faces covered by hoods. Though Russian merges with their shouts, their failing threats. I laugh out of bitterness at the struggling two. Its almost pathetic. I grin as I stride over, gun now with the safety cap off-loaded. I shoot at their legs and my bullets hit home. The two men crumple to the ground clutching their legs, blood leaking through their fingers and the holes in their shins. I'm all ready on the phone for an ambulance, so by the time I'm close enough to recognise my red symbol - of which I use to show my freedom - tattooed to their bare skin. I grit my teeth as I realise I sent an ambulance for two shitheads who caused me nothing but grief and pain. I'm about to yell "Run!" at the woman, but my heart skips a beat and I freeze.

I'm barely strong enough to speak, but noises fall from my mouth anyways. The word, the name, feels soft on my lips, though kind of safe. Familiar. A breath hitches in the back of my dry throat and I struggle to swallow the shakiness in my voice.

"Yelena?"