Date: July 22, 2023
Words: 1773

~ Author's Note ~

Lyrics belong to David Kushner, Daylight

Would anyone believe me if I say if a valid excuse this time? I was grounded. Like seriously - my phone was taken away and everything. And I still have restrictions, lol... (I did kinda deserve it too... but anyways, enough about me.)

I was finally able to finish this chapter!

And do any of you watch Criminal Minds?

Time Skips: There will be a lot of time skips in part three. We have two years to cover after all. But it should still make sense... and it's nothing huge.

There's darkness in the distance
I'm beggin' for forgiveness
(Tryna wash away all the blood I've spilt)

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Oh, fuck.

Fuck - fuck. Her hands are shaking, the air struggling through her lungs. The blood is soaking into her hands, staining them a bright red. It's all over the floor. Though she tries frantically to clean her mess, it's no use. Her thoughts are too scattered to concentrate, and she can feel the panic blooming through her soul.

She remembers the moment clearly. The moment that everything changed and she snapped. His hands were wrapped around her baby's throat. He was shoving her against the wall, cutting off her air supply. And she had to make him stop. She's warned him before – by saying it was trauma related – that he was not allowed to touch any of the girls.

And ahh fucking course, he didn't listen.

He was too busy drowning himself in alcohol, too busy losing himself to care about the consequences. He has no sense of purpose. There're no missions to keep him on track. No Dreykov to order him around. He is losing himself. Hurting those around him.

Melina finally snapped.

And she has the blood on her hands to prove it.

XX

Netherlands
August 19, 2016

The redhead types frantically on the laptop, ignoring all the sounds echoing from across the counter. Steve and Sam are trying to agree on some type of pasta sauce – both claiming their mother's recipes are the best choice – and Clint had started to suggest using a foreign spice Laura loves, but the request was quickly forgotten once Natasha sent a glare.

Spices seem to make her nauseous. Really bad.

"I'm telling you, my ma's special pomodoro sauce is the best," Steve interjects, interrupting Sam mid-rant. He is mixing garlic into a saucepan filled with olive oil, before turning his attention to the whole peeled tomatoes. The younger man watches, his arms crossed over his chest and a frown resting across his face.

Sam clearly disagrees.

"No!" Sam exclaims, "And why are we debating this? It is clearly my Mama's marinara sauce."

His dark irises glance around the room for support, but no one comes to his aid. Scott's stares eyes wide – like the scene before him is astonishing for some reason, or it's the fact the bickering is over something so simple in the first place. Clint is struggling to hold back the laugh threatening to slip past his lips, as he cuts strawberries into little pieces before placing them into a bowl.

Natasha shakes her head fondly, before switching her attention to her emails. She's updated Isaiah – and has been informed about three clients interested in her skill set. Though she hasn't taken many side jobs since the start of the Avengers, there're a few that still manage to grab her attention.

Mainly child trafficking.

Though she knows with the baby coming, she won't be able to finish the jobs herself, but she can send the info off to a trusted contact. And she needs to keep a watch on the status of her bank accounts. They'll be fine for a while, as long as they're careful with expenses, but it is a risk she's not willing to take.

And of course, Wakanda is an option.

T'Challa has been very generous with his offer. He has offered protection and medical supplies. Clothes, food, shelter, etc. And eventually, they will probably take the offer. But for now, the very thought of accepting it and not having to give anything in return is making her sick to her stomach.

She has always had to give something...

Her skill. Knowledge. Body. Always something.

Natasha shakes her head, startling suddenly as Clint settles down on the barstool beside her. He raises his eyebrow in question, smiling gently, while shoving the bowl of strawberries in her direction. The redhead huffs slightly, but does indeed grab a berry, before returning her attention to the guys bickering.

Sam is playfully pointing a wooden spoon at Steve, the argument over pasta sauce is best is still going strong, and doesn't look like it's going to stop soon. Not unless someone else steps in. And ah fucking course, Wanda chooses this moment to join them.

Natasha smiles softly, whispering, "Hey."

Wanda nods hesitantly, clenching her sweater tightly, while wrapping her arms around herself. "What's going on?"

"They're arguing over pasta sauce," Clint replies.

Scott frowns, "Which is basically the same type."

His comment grabs both of the men's attention, their eyes wide, as they frantically shake their heads. And the word "No" is flying out of their mouths. This seems to be one thing they can agree on at the moment and it's that the sauce is not the same.

Pomodoro and Marinara sauce are not the same.

Sam huffs, "Marinara sauce includes red pepper flakes, basil leaves, and garlic cloves. It has a velvety texture and a rich kick from the olive oil."

"Yeah," Steve agrees, "And pomodoro is thicker, using crushed tomatoes as its base. It's a fresh, bright flavor with a hint of sweetness from the tomatoes."

Natasha smirks, raising an eyebrow at Steve. And the blonde shrugs, giving her a fond look in return. Wanda is holding her hand over her mouth, struggling not to let any laughs slip past her lips. But Clint and Scott aren't even trying. They are doubling over laughing, as tears begin to leak out of the corner of their eyes.

It's nice. To be able to laugh for a change.

"Okay," Natasha interrupts fondly, "Why don't you guys just make both sauces? And that way, everyone can try the sauces." She notices the agreement on Wanda and Scott's faces, them nodding along in agreement. Clint's reaching for another berry, a smile wide across his lips, as he raises his hand in the air.

"I second that," Clint agrees.

Steve huffs, walking closer to the counter. His sky-blue irises stare into her captivating emerald green. "I guess we could do it your way, though I really do think my ma' has the best sauce recipe."

"Mhm," Natasha nods, placing her elbows against the counter, while leaning her body in his direction. A smile appears along the corner of her lips, she smiles, "And could you make—?"

"Alfredo sauce?" Steve asks, smirking slightly, "I have already laid out all the ingredients."

He tilts his head toward the other counter, where he's indeed already laid out all the ingredients. She ignores the blush flooding her cheeks, "Thank you."

Steve smiles, and suddenly, it is as if they are the only ones left in the room. He leans farther over the counter, pressing her lips against his, inhaling her rich lavender scent. And they lose themselves in each other, hands brushing each other's cheeks. It's not until someone else clears their throat to grab their attention, that they pull away from the other.

This time Natasha can not ignore the blush burning her cheeks or the way Clint is giving her the side eye. He's not even bothering to hide his smirk. And Sam bursts out laughing, which causes Scott to burst out laughing in return. Then Wanda. Clint. And suddenly, they are all laughing and doubling over in their place.

They spend the rest of the day laughing and bickering in a way they haven't in a long time. It's like the weight has finally been lifted off their shoulders, at least for the moment. They watch a movie, play a couple games of cards, and eat a nice meal. There are no worries about Ross or the government.

It's nice. To laugh and chill. Be free.

Of course, that's until it all goes to hell...

There's a sharp ring cutting through the darkness. And Natasha groans, reaching for her phone through blurry emerald irises. It is nearly 3:20 in the morning and only a handful of people have this phone number, and most of them would only call if it's an emergency.

"Hello?" She questions hoarsely.

And Steve shifts from his side of the bed, barely awake enough to make out anything in front of him. He wraps an arm around her waist, mumbling, "Who is it?"

"Natasha...?" Yelena trails off, her voice raspy. "Umm, you need... you need to..." The blonde trails off, the air trapped in her lungs, and rubs a hand along her aching forehead. She feels the tears rising in her already puffy hazel irises, and she can barely make out Lerato's form by the door, watching over her.

"Yelena?" Natasha questions.

"Yeah, yeah, it's me. You... need to come to Melina's," Yelena pauses, taking a deep breath over the line. "It's bad, Natasha."

The blonde glances at the woman on the couch before her. Her eyes are staring out into space, zoning herself out of the world. She's still covered in blood. And does not look like she's moving anytime soon. Yelena hasn't even seen Melina like this – this scared. Broken.

She doesn't know what to do. She needs help.

Needs her big sister's help.

"It's really bad."

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.
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Oh, I love it and I hate it at the same time
You and I drink the poison from the same vine

XX

~ Author's Note ~

Any questions? Ideas?

XX

Next Chapter:

You are broken on the floor
And you're crying, crying
He has done this all before

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.
.

"Melina?" Natasha asks hesitantly, tightening her hand around the door handle. And out of all of the scenarios she had thought was possible, none of them prepared her for the sight in front of her. Melina has this wild look in her eye, sitting in an ice-cold shower, scrubbing her bloody hands raw.

"Melina?" She asks again and again.

But still, there is no answer. Nothing. The woman, who's always composed, in front of her is completely out of it. She is muttering words Natasha struggles to hear, and scrubs over and over. Again and again. Until her skin is raw and blistering.

"Melina?" Natasha asks tearfully, "...mama?"