[AN: First, I apologize for the long wait between chapters. I got hit with a lot of school work and a severe case of writer's block which prevented me from working on this as much as I wanted to, but, to make up for it, this chapter is a little longer than most of my others.
Second, rather than putting in Russian characters and dealing with translations, I decided to put English in brackets [...] to signify when Russian is being spoken. Enjoy!]
We loosen the straps of the chair, allowing Artyom to slowly stand. He takes stock of the wounds I've inflicted, each of them gradually scabbing over. He fruitlessly attempts to fix his shirt as he glances down to the severed buttons scattered across the floor.
"Sorry about that," I grimace slightly. "In my defense, I was unable to predict this turn of events at the time."
"That's alright, I hear showing off your chest is currently fashionable," Artyom laughs awkwardly. "And if I roll my sleeves up far enough, no one will be able to tell it's been ripped, right?"
"You're lucky, kid." Clint wraps up my knife kit in the corner. "Most people don't get to walk out of here on their own, and far fewer leave as allies. Whatever you do, don't piss either of us off. You're only valuable as long as you cooperate." Without looking back, Clint strides out of the room.
"I thought he was supposed to be the nice one," Artyom half-whispers, eyes trained on the swinging doors.
"Trust me, he is," I reply, unsure what's gotten into my husband. "And he's right. But let's not dwell on the possible outcome he alluded to right now. We need to leave."
Artyom follows me down the stairs through winding corridors back outside to the car. Clint's already in the passenger seat and talking quietly into his phone. After removing anything that could potentially be used as a weapon, I usher Artyom into the back.
"For safety purposes," I say sheepishly, pulling zip ties tight against his wrists. I climb into the driver's seat and start the car.
"Yeah, yeah. I know. Listen, I've gotta go... We'll be back in like twenty minutes... Yes, we're basically packed and ready to leave... Alright, see you soon. Bye." Clint hangs up the phone.
"Steve again?" I ask.
"Hmm? Oh, yeah. They've narrowed down the list a bit further, but had to stop once Nick ordered everyone to pack. They've found another hotel a few miles away, but it's not going to be terribly nice."
"Low profile, good. Has Nick arranged anything for him?" I tip my head back somewhat, gesturing to our surprising new ally.
"He said he's our problem. Got us a room with two beds so we can keep an eye on him."
"Are you alright? You kind of stormed out, and you don't exactly sound like yourself."
"Let's not get into this right now." Clint looks out his window, hiding his face from me.
"Why not? Honey, what's wrong?" I rest a hand on his arm, my fingers trailing down to find his hand.
"We can talk about this later. We don't need an audience," he sighs, gently squeezing my hand as he entwines our fingers.
He's upset about something, but the anger's not directed at me. Is it this bizarre situation? No, he was a bit off yesterday, too. And both times he ended up calling Steve, then hanging up rather abruptly when I showed up. What is he hiding?
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Return to Russia
Fanfiction[Sequel to The Mission] Natasha's years of training never prepared her for the things she's experienced lately. Despite her initial resolve to stay home, she finds herself being called back to Russia, only this time, she won't be going alone. With a...
