The lost Widow - Natasha Romanoff x Female

Chapter V

It is late, please pardon any mistakes...

Happy second december though :)

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Days had passed.
Not much had happened in those days. The next morning, she had stared in the mirror for a while. At the reflection of her body, at the bruises and haematomas. Some of them were more purple, others more blue. None of them were yet in a green-yellowish colour, they were still too fresh for that.

The day before, she had barely noticed them, probably due to the adrenaline that had been pumping through her veins since the stranger had appeared - he wasn't really that strange, the Winter Soldier. The explosion triggered by her little bomb must not only have destroyed the technology, but also torn apart parts of her and the room itself and flung them through the now slightly wider door. The shock wave had thrown her out of the room and onto the floor, against the opposite wall, where she could not protect herself from the flying parts. But what could she do about it? She had already suffered far worse injuries in her life and had learnt to cope with them.

She took a piece of coal from her cold fireplace. The fireplace was never actually warm, she couldn't remember ever having lit it, what was the point? It wasn't often all that cold and when it was, she put on a thick jumper and another pair of socks. Taking the coal with her, she went into the bathroom, where the small bowl of cheap porcelain was already waiting. Left in a cupboard by the previous tenant, who obviously didn't want to spend as much money on such things as she did, she had found the bowl. In the bowl, she broke the piece into smaller pieces. It took some strength, maybe just a little anger. And of that she had enough, accumulated over years, spread over various bottles and all over the shelves and drawers, storerooms of her subconscious.
 Within a short time, there was nothing but black dust in the bowl. Using her hand, she scooped a little water into it, it ran between her fingers and dripped onto the shiny floor. With the bowl in her hand, she climbed into the old bathtub. She sat down, pulled her knees up and placed the bowl next to her. Then she pulled the hair tie out of her hair and ran her fingers through it. After she had left S.H.I.E.L.D., she had cut her hair quite a bit shorter so that it now ended at about shoulder blade level. It was much easier to keep it in check and she hoped to be a little less recognisable.

The mixture of charcoal and water seeped over her shoulders, quickly soaking the straps of her shirt black. Her hair was no longer a striking light blonde, but an ash-black colour after she had massaged the charcoal into the roots. How healthy this procedure was for her hair, she didn't know, but at the moment it was the least of her worries. If she lost her life, no one would really be interested in her appearance; interested in her.

The face in the mirror made her cringe. The darkness of her hair made her skin look even paler, even sicker. The circles under her eyes could no longer be glossed over and the redness around her eyes looked as if she had been crying snot and water for weeks or had smoked a vault full of weed.

She did feel a little stiff as she slipped her suit on again, her belt resting just above a particularly bruised spot on her hip and lower back.
Thus clad, once again with her bow and all the other weapons around her, she made her way, yet again, to a base. It could be the last one, she thought. She could take a little break, leave the country.
Run away. I can run away. But was that the only thing she could do, that she ever could, or not? When had she not been on the run. If there had been such a time, it had been without memories remaining. But wasn't there always something left?
But if she were to flee again now, how long would it last, how long would she be able to go into hiding before the inevitable caught up with her once more. Probably not long enough. And, even if she did make it for a while, the problem would still be far from solved.