Spiderson Oneshots

Refugee--Nick Fury and Natasha

Warnings: Mentions of torture and death, language

Natasha's P.O.V.

The first crime I committed against S.H.I.E.L.D. was on my first night there when I broke out of the locked bedroom (for 'safety reasons') and broke into their library. For a top-secret government agency, they do not have good security. I mean their password was seriously 'password' and their pins were '1234.'

I wake up from nightmares within an hour of falling asleep. I have no grip on where I am but for the tiny light that makes its way cautiously into my 'bedroom' that's really more of a cell. At least the bed's comfortable.

It takes a moment for me to realize that I'm not handcuffed to the bed. Nothing rubbing my wrists raw or being an unnatural weight. But when I feel my wrists, the familiar scabs and scarring are carved bumpily into my skin.

I know I will not be a companion to sleep for a while. I refuse to let my mind wander because that will lead to horrors that I wish not to know right now. I decide to do a bit of exploring, regardless of the consequences because right now, I just need to escape.

I push off the blankets gently, trying to make as little noise as possible. They are smooth against my fingers, and I let the fabric slide through my fingers, never having felt something so soft in all my time at the academy. Agent Barton had been the one to request my accommodations. I know they were planning to lock me away, but he convinced them to give me a bedroom. It was kind of him, but I spent much time tossing and turning knowing I don't deserve this.

I shake the thoughts away and press my hands into the bed, not allowing it to creak under the loss of my weight. I let go gently, and it doesn't squeak. I allow a hint of a smile to flicker across my face before letting it go.

The room is furnished only with the bed. Even with Barton's request, they appear to not trust me. But as I find that I can reach my hand to the doorknob on the other side of the door through the window, clearly they were smart in only about one thing applying to my situation.

The locks on their door are as simple as a home lock. All I have to do is turn it, and the bolt slides back. I turn the knob gently, opening it a crack to see if anyone is out at this time. When I see no one, I move quickly out the door and close it.

Judging by the staircase near my cell, I'm on one of the bottom floors. I tentatively begin to walk, rolling my steps so I don't make a sound. There are a few windows down here, but I don't make a move towards them. A part of me wants to see what their intentions are for me. If this truly is a safe place like Barton said, then what use is there for me to run away?

It isn't long before I've explored the whole floor. There are only bedrooms like mine that are empty. No one is here, which I find odd. Do they really trust their easily-openable locks or do they have faith I will not escape?

I scale the stairs to the third floor, leaving the second floor that appeared to only have cells. The third floor is one that differs from the others. Some signs point out a kitchen and a library, among others.

It is in a haze of tiredness that leads me to open the door labeled 'library.' When I enter and close the door, I flick on the lights.

The library is not big by any means. Barely larger than about two of my cells put together. But it's the fact there is one that is calming. It's like greeting an old friend to see this many books. It occurs to me that I haven't been in a library since I was about five. That just makes this discovery all the sweeter.

I begin to walk about the perimeter of the room, scanning the titles for the familiar sight that I know won't be here. Besides S.H.I.E.L.D. being completely stupid, it is also an American agency, meaning that for no reason would they stock books of my native Russian language or origin. Although my training--I shudder to think of it--has trained me in many languages including English, I cannot read them well. Speak, yes, read, not so much.