Lover's Pursuit

6. Knowing

Your POV.

The following morning I found myself in the blacked out interior of a HYDRA jet, mid-flight to my destination. Bucky had stopped by my room before I'd left. He hugged me for the first time before waving goodbye.

I sat, slouched in my seat with my mask and a small cut out of Clint Barton's ID resting on the pull out table. Probably much to Rumlow's disgrace, I didn't read up on him. Like I'd said, it's a force of habit. I don't like to know.
I'm aware that his weapon of choice is a bow and arrow, he's quick and never misses a shot. Though, the extent of my knowledge ends there.

I spend the journey staring into the clouds out the window. I don't think about much. I rarely think about anything. It's odd - I have no memories to recall. Nothing to reminisce on. I know something's there to be retrieved, I just can't tell what.

We land and I'm escorted from the jet to my apartment. Rumlow informed me that he'd be directing my missions remotely, so I'd be left here for a while. Apparently there was much to be done in Budapest.
It didn't bother me so much to be alone, though I feared for Bucky and I knew I'd miss him.

I set up and immediately got to work. The heat had me suffering, rather intensely, though I'm unsure whether the general public of Budapest would turn a blind eye to the pale, suspicious character lurking the streets with a metal arm. Therefore, the option of anything short sleeved was completely out the picture.

I switched from my usual padded gear into a thin, long sleeved shirt. It covered the entirety of my arm and the scarring that came with it. I just hoped that people would assume my hand was a prosthetic. I gathered some things, strapping a pocket knife to my ankle and hiding a Glock 42 in my belt.

"Clint Barton...Clint Barton..."
I spoke aloud while roaming the town, quickly gathering my bearings as I searched dubiously for my target's position. He was last spotted leaving the centre and has been staying in a secluded, abandoned apartment block. Oddly, this kill seemed far too easy.

I walked the streets quietly, avoiding as much of the outer population as possible. I found myself quite swiftly slipping through the gates and into the rural outers of where it had been reported that Clint was staying. The grounds of this barren residential town were hard to navigate, which soon became a tedious characteristic of the area. I could see why he chose here. It's impossible to locate anything.

I stop behind a worn down, beige toned pillar, holding my back against the stone after noticing a small female figure tracing my footsteps. She'd been caught in my peripheral vision twice now, yet I doubt she's noticed that.

Natasha's POV.

"Clint...it can't be."
I whispered quietly after noticing she'd ducked out of our view. I can't quite tell, but I'm assuming she's noticed us.
"Nat, don't you see? It's her."
I shook my head, screwing my eyes shut as I quietly deny my own ravenous thoughts.
I turn to Clint and force him to return to our apartment. He's completely refusing to begin with, but slowly caves as I enforce my inability to take 'No' as an answer.

As he sneaks away, I stand and walk sheepishly through the landing of this derelict block. I wait at the corner before advancing, noticing she's since moved from where I last saw her. There's a heavy anticipation filling the air. I stand momentarily still, waiting for whatever moment is about to rear its head.

I turn and I'm suddenly hauled by my neck, sliding up the wall as her metal fist contracts round my throat. I gasp desperately as she slams me against the surface once more, my head undeniably bleeding. She pulls me from my position, twisting me and holding me in a choke.
Her scent, her style, her mannerisms, the damned metal arm. It's her.

"Why are you following me."
Her accent is still thick and spewing Russian. I can't say the same about mine, these 7 years sanded it completely.
"I'm not." I sputtered, my voice barely above a whisper as it struggled to creep up my constricted throat.
Her arm tightened another notch, the mechanical sound of it's intensifying grip terrified me.
"Y/N! Y/N!" I gasped desperately as she held me in place, my throat seconds from collapsing.

Her grip loosens, barely. She's shaking her head, averting her vision from me.
Suddenly, she drops me, staring me down with widened eyes and a fearful demeanour. I fall to my knees, holding my palm to my throat whilst clawing for a fulfilling breath.
I look up slowly, watching her as she holds her right hand to her forehead, her face screwed as if she's wincing. She's dressed somewhat casually and doesn't seem to be weaponed.
Her appearance is everlasting. If I'd saw those eyes that day I fought 'The Winter Soldier' I'd have known it was her. She looked just like she did, back when she was just Y/N - though now she's pale, tired and harboured a multitude of pain behind her eyes. She's familiar, yet so altered.

"What did you call me?"
She speaks down at me, pinching the space between her eyes as if she's in pain.
"Y/N?"
She groans, holding her palm to her forehead and shaking herself from the grips.
"Why are you calling me that?"

I clamber onto my feet, holding both my hands up as she quickly reveals a gun, clearly loaded in her right hand.
"Th-that's you're name."
"That's not my name."
I raise my brow at her, feeling my eyes well with tears as I comprehend the extent of her brainwashing. She can't remember - they've taken away her memories. She's like a newborn, bewildered by my voice and completely debilitated.
I want to touch her, to reach out and pull her in. She's my mission but she's also so, so much more.
"Who are you?" She questions me with a little breakage in her voice, scanning my appearance with her dilated eyes.
She's clawing to get out. I can see her ravaging behind her own bars. She knows me, I'm sure she does.
"It's me, Natasha."

She hides her face in her hand, still lifting the other, holding the gun to my body. She shakes her head, hitting it a little with the heel of her palm and whining in torment.
I move ever so slightly, extending my hand a little towards hers. Just to touch her, to remind her that I'm not a stranger.
She retracts completely, holding the gun with both hands and facing me - tears completely staining the faded skin of her cheeks. Her eyes are lethargic and bloodshot, yet she stares. She pushes the gun into my chest, the speckles of dirt on her face amalgamating with her damp sob.

She knows me. Or at least, some part of her still knows me. I just need to find it.