𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗡 | 𝗡. 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗙𝗙

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𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧, 𝐄𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝

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It was pouring rain when Truth stepped out of the Carter Estate. The sky was overtaken by a dark, dreary gray, so different from the bright clouds the sun had hid behind during the day. Immediately she was drenched, her hair sticking to her cheeks, her leather boots splashing into growing puddles. She coddled the jacket in her arms as her eyes scanned the driveway for a shade of red that she had grown so familiar with.

"Natasha," she exhaled when she spotted her, stalking toward the car without a care for the weather. She said her name, yet it wasn't her calling out to her, to try to get her attention. It was a mutter of reassurance, of finding her after just a split second of losing her, an apology for the pain she carried, the pain that Truth could feel from across the manicured lawn like a knife twisting in her heart.

Yet, as though Natasha had heard her—or, maybe she just felt her in that way that she always seemed to know that the other woman was there—she faltered in her step, a slight pause even as that hurt continued to drive her forward.

Natasha reached the car first, of course. She went to open it only for it to remain closed in her grip, her body jerking from the attempt to pull on a locked door.

With a placating breath, she rested her arms against the hood of the car, her head angled down, watching the rain hit the gravel as she waited.

Truth didn't unlock the car until she was just a couple feet away. Once she heard the click of the lock, though, Natasha wasted no time in opening it, moving to sit in the drivers seat when Truth grabbed her arm.

"Wait," she said, pulling her towards herself a little roughly so she could push the door close, only Natasha's hand stopped her from closing it fully. Natasha didn't fight back, though her body was tense beneath Truth's grip, her eyes focused on the path to her right that led down to the main road. "Natasha, where are you trying to go?"

Natasha glanced down, the rain soaking her boots and seeping into her socks.

"I'm going to the Red Room," she told her, determination lacing through her.

"We don't know where it is," Truth pointed out.

"I don't have to," she said. "They'll come for me."

It was similar to what Anfisa had told Truth before she'd left. Yet, Natasha had been long gone by the time it had been said.

"How do you know that?"

"They're looking for you to get to me," Natasha amended, though the careful monotone voice she'd donned wavered slightly. "Anfisa told you, didn't she? Baranova wanted to hire you to either kill me or turn me in."

It was obvious, at least to Natasha, who had worked closely with the Madame during her studies. She knew how the older woman operated, how every decision made was a step further in her carefully meditated plot.