UNKNOWN GUEST

#13 She Admired Him.

As Fury's car disappeared from sight, having my dad inside, a heavy silence settled around me. The agents who had surrounded my father and me began to disperse, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the street. 

It was a strange feeling, knowing that I had come from a future where I had some insight into what was supposed to happen next, yet still struggling to navigate this unfamiliar world, trying to survive and keep my cover intact. And then there was my father—Captain America—who had just woken up from what felt like a nap, only to find that the world had skipped ahead 70 years.

I tried to imagine what must be going through his mind, how lost and terrified he must feel. I remembered the overwhelming sense of disorientation I felt when I first arrived in this timeline, how the only thing that kept me grounded was Uncle Clint. My father didn't have anyone like that right now—no familiar face, no one to anchor him to this strange new reality. The thought of him, completely alone, made my chest tighten.

I blinked, suddenly aware of the stinging sensation in my eyes. It wasn't tears—I told myself that firmly—but the itchiness persisted. Blinking a few more times, I tried to clear my thoughts and focus. The SHIELD facility wasn't where I wanted to be right now. The walls of that place felt too confining, too full of eyes that might see through me.

Eventually, I found myself at the park. The greenery and the sound of children playing in the distance provided a small measure of comfort. I made my way to a bench tucked away under a large oak tree and sat down heavily, letting out a deep breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The world around me felt like it was moving at a different pace, and I was struggling to keep up.

I stared at the ground for a while, watching as a few fallen leaves skittered across the path in front of me. My thoughts were a jumbled mess—worry for my father, regret for how I had treated him and my mom in the past, and fear of what the future might hold. But there was also a flicker of determination. I had made a promise to myself that I would help my dad navigate this new world, that I would make up for the lost time.

As I held my phone to my ear, I could hear Uncle Clint's familiar, relaxed voice breaking through the tension. "Hi, kid!" he greeted.

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my emotions in check. "Hi," I replied, my voice slightly strained from the overwhelming feelings I was dealing with.

Uncle Clint's tone turned more serious as he continued, "I heard from Hill that... he's up and running."

I sighed heavily, feeling the weight of the day's events. "Yeah. If Fury was late for another minute, you would have heard two men with super soldier serum in their blood beating the shit out of 20-odd SHIELD agents."

Clint chuckled, his amusement evident even through the phone. "What?"

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. "Hmm. They aimed their rifles at him when he ran out of the facility. And we both were so ready for a showdown in the middle of Times Square."

The absurdity of the situation made him laugh, and I couldn't help but chuckle along. It was a moment of levity amidst the chaos.

After I asked, "How did she take the news?" Uncle Clint's response came with a hint of amusement. "Your mother? She just shrugged it off, like it doesn't matter."

I chuckled softly, feeling a little relieved to share a lighter side of things. "You guessed it wrong, Uncle. Deep down, she is so excited. When she was a child in Russia, she had a Captain America costume—female version."

Uncle Clint burst out laughing, his mirth ringing through the phone. "Really? How do you know that?"

I smiled, the memory bringing a warm sense of nostalgia. "She told me once. She was so excited to meet Captain America after he wakes up."

Clint's laughter continued, and I could almost picture him shaking his head in disbelief. "Alright, kid. Thanks for giving me something to tease her with until we go back. I owe you one. Peace out."

We hung up, and I sat there, the smile lingering on my face. The story Mom shared about her childhood was a touching reminder of how Captain America's legacy had reached even the most unexpected corners of the world.

As I thought about it, I remembered Mom's excitement about her Captain America costume—a cherished Christmas gift from her childhood. It was a symbol of her admiration for a hero who had sacrificed so much. That story had always intrigued me, how a hero from another time had inspired her so deeply. To her, Captain America wasn't just a distant legend; he was a figure of hope and courage, someone who had made a difference even beyond the boundaries of time and geography.

Author's POV-

In a quiet motel room in Milan, the atmosphere was a mix of calm and tension. The room was dimly lit, with the muted hum of the air conditioning providing a constant background noise. The single bed was neatly made, and a small table with two chairs occupied one corner. A single couch, worn but comfortable, was pushed up against the wall.

Clint Barton walked in and saw Natasha Romanoff sitting at the table, absorbed in a file. The dim light cast a soft glow over her focused expression. He took a seat beside her on the couch, the worn fabric creaking under his weight. Clearing his throat, he tried to break the silence.

"Tasha? What do you think of Captain America?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her attention barely wavering from the file. She gave a noncommittal hum before continuing to skim through the document. Clint, not deterred, pressed on, trying to provoke a reaction.

"I mean, everyone portrays him as a hero, says he's a legend and all."

Natasha sighed deeply, her fingers pausing momentarily on the file. She finally looked up, her gaze distant as she considered the question.

"He... sort of is," she said quietly. Another sigh followed, more weighed down than the first. "Although it's ironic that coming from someone like me—a killing machine—I learned that your own life is the most precious thing in the world. But... that man... he didn't care about his own life. He saved lives, unlike me. So, of course, he is a hero."

Clint's eyes softened at her words, the playful teasing he intended now feeling misplaced. Her tone was heavy with something deeper—regret, perhaps, or an aching sense of inadequacy. He sighed, his voice gentle.

"You're not a killing machine, Tasha."

She scoffed at his reassurance, the edge in her voice sharpening. "Really? Tell that to those who begged for mercy but got none."

A smirk touched her lips, though it was tinged with bitterness. She moved to the bed, a habit she had long embraced for comfort. Natasha laid down, her movements deliberate and controlled. She tucked her gun under her pillow, a ritual that seemed both practical and deeply ingrained.

Clint started to speak again, but Natasha cut him off, her tone firm. "Don't bother me. Tomorrow is an important day for this mission."

She adjusted her position on the bed, her back straight and her eyes closed, signaling that the conversation was over. The soft rustle of the sheets and the subdued click of her gun settling beneath her pillow were the only sounds that filled the room now. Clint sat quietly, his earlier intentions of lighthearted banter replaced by a contemplative silence, as he respected her need for solitude before the important day ahead.