Date: August 4, 2023
Words: 2073

~ Author's Note ~

Lyrics belong to Isak Danielson, Broken

WARNING: Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse

Do you need, do you need someone?
Are you scared of what's to come?

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She's staring out into space, her surroundings foggy, as her knee bounces nervously. They are almost there, almost at Melina's house. And they don't know what to expect when they get there. Yelena had said it was bad over the phone. And she sounded scared. Lost.

Did something happen with the Widows?

With Melina? Or Alexei?

Natasha swallows, shifting restlessly in her seat. When suddenly, she startles, a familiar hand brushing against her arm. Steve tilts his head, his sky-blue irises shining with worry, as he silently prays for her to raise her head and meet his gaze. Some type of acknowledgment. To do something. Anything.

Shakily, she releases a stuttering breath, before slowly raising her gaze off of the ground. She's barely holding off the tears threatening to leak from her emerald orbs, and he doesn't hesitate to thread his fingers within her own.

"It's gonna be okay," Steve comments.

"You don't know that," Natasha replies numbly.

Anything could be wrong. Someone could be hurt. And it would be all Natasha's fault. She should have made sure to keep in contact. Her phone calls and texts with Melina twice a month aren't enough, and neither is her weekly check-ins with Yelena. She should have known better, should have made sure they were alright.

"We're here," Clint comments from the pilot seat.
He focuses on landing the jet as smoothly as possible, trying to give the couple in the back a little privacy. He will keep an eye on his best friend – always - but for the moment, she is getting all the support she needs from Steve. The Captain is good for her. And she's good for him. They complete each other.

The Captain and the Spy. Yin and Yang.

They would burn the world down for one another.

The archer shakes his thoughts away, noticing a crowd forming in front of the house. Almost like a shield. Most of their faces hold no emotion, as their hands rest over their weapons. But a few of the young ones allow their fear to slip across their faces. Their uncertainty.

Natasha releases a slow, even breath, taking the time to compose herself. She closes her eyes, shoving the emotions behind her marble walls, before crawling into the familiar Black Widow skin. And it takes every bit of Steve's training not to flinch at the unusual sight of her cold emerald orbs. She's distancing herself – protecting herself – from the situation ahead of them. It has been a long time since she's had to do that.

The whole time she was confronting Dreykov, she had been running off the rage circling her veins. Years that rage has spent growing, itching to be released. Then it was, and the blood on her hands proves it. Plus, Shuri has the surveillance video. And that moment is one of the most terrifying moments of her life.

She had no control.

Nothing else mattered except killing him.

Natasha straightens – sensing Steve, Sam, and Clint falling into step behind her – while she begins to move ahead and down the ramp. Wanda had chosen to stay in the safe house, her anxiety crippling at the thought of leaving, and Scott felt he wouldn't be of much use to them with the Widows. And didn't want to leave Wanda alone.

They approach the group slowly, carefully. And Lerato stands in the middle, eyes narrowed in suspicion, while observing them each. Her dark black irises meet a cool emerald gaze. And something akin to respect begins to settle through her orbs. Slowly, one after the other, the Widows began parting like the sea.

Respect or awe in all of their faces.

And it's not about them. It is not about the rogue team, for they have yet to earn the Widow's respect. But she has... Natasha has their respect. Because she got out of hell, and that's no easy feat. It's hard to defy the one person who's broken them over and over. She was his favorite. He expected things from her that others were not worthy of offering. But she did it.

She got out. And no one else was as strong as her.
They respect her for it. Lerato remembers the weeks following Natasha's leave vividly. She might not have killed Dreykov at the time or found the second location of headquarters where they transferred all responding Widows. But she did injure him.

Badly.

And freed over 300 dolls and Widows.

She tried. And that's what matters.

So the widows split, providing a path in the middle for the team to walk. Lerato falls into step beside Natasha, glancing over her shoulder at the men, before sending a look to one of her fellow Widows. She nods, knowing what the older Widow is commanding. The men will be watched.

"Where's Yelena?" Natasha asks quietly.

"Inside," Lerato replies. She uses her best mask, fully aware of the Widow in her presence, giving Natasha a side glance, "What all do you know?"

"Yelena said it was bad, and I needed to be here."

Lerato swallows subtly, climbing the steps to the front door at an even pace. "Yelena will be alright, physically at least, though it might be better if she gets away from here for a little while. It's Melina that we need to worry about."

The world around them falls silent, as they continue on toward the door. Natasha follows behind stiffly, noticing the stench of bleach immediately. But the figure laying on the couch draws the majority of her attention. There is a familiar blonde, twisting her fingers anxiously, while her feet bounce on the floor.

"Yelena?" Natasha questions softly.

The blonde startles, glancing up through her tear-filled hazel irises. But it's the bruises lettering along her neck that capture Natasha's breath. They are a nasty shade of purple and black, with very distinct markings from a handprint. And there's a terrible bump on her forehead, leaving a trail of blood flooding down her face. Clearly, that hasn't been looked at or treated with any medical supplies.

"Natasha," Yelena breathes out in relief.

And that's all it takes for her sister to start moving. The redhead takes a steady breath, raising her hand gently toward her sister's face, and it's only after Yelena gives consent, that Natasha allows their skin to make contact with the other. She presses the skin along the hairline, feeling gently for any broken bones. Luckily, there does not seem to be any, but the most of Natasha's concern stems from the vivid bruises on her neck.

"Who did this?" Natasha asks sharply.

Yelena frowns, shaking her head, as her eyes begin to burn with tears and her bottom lip trembles. Her hazel orbs travel the distance between Lerato and Natasha, as if begging the other widow to tell the events. Words are stuck in her throat, weak cries slipping past her wet lips.

Natasha frowns, glancing toward the hesitating Widow in question. And she wonders what could have broken her sister this badly. It's not the injury itself. She made it through basic training, where a bruised throat was the least of their problems. No, it's definitely not because of the pain. It has to be something else.

"Lerato," Natasha commands, "What happened?"

"It was Alexei," The Widow begins, slowly. Calmly and measured. "By the time anyone was alerted to anything happening, Alexei had Yelena pinned along the kitchen cabinets. Melina was the first to react. She was able to force him to let Yelena go."

"Force him" was putting it lightly.

But Natasha could find that out later.

Natasha swallows deeply, "And where is he?"

"We have him locked up in the shed," Lerato continues, observing the woman before her for any reactions, but so far, there is none. Natasha's expression is perfectly controlled. The perfect Black Widow. And the brunette is reminded again why Madame had deemed Natasha the best. "And several Widows have been positioned to guard the entrance."

"And Melina?"

"She has locked herself in the bathroom upstairs, and has refused to allow anyone else inside." Lerato takes a deep breath, her composer fracturing at the memory of Melina stumbling through the halls with tears burning through her irises. The Iron Maiden. And Lerato's never seen her look more human – lost and uncertain – before that very moment.

Natasha nods, measuring out her breathing to keep the rage from surging to the top. She spares one glance at Steve, her emerald orbs imploring into his calm, steady blue irises. And he nods, reassuring her, that no matter what happens, he will be by her side.

Always.

The redhead nods, before returning her attention to her sister. She grasps the blonde's wrist lightly, drawing her focus. "Hey," Natasha begins, "I am gonna go check on Melina, okay? If you need anything – anything - Steve's gonna stay with you. Let him know what you need, he will send Clint or Sam to come and get me. Okay? You need anything, tell him."

Yelena nods, whispering hesitantly, "Okay."

Natasha smiles tightly, resting her forehead against her sister's. She releases a deep breath, pulling herself out of the hold, before her emerald irises meet Steve's blue orbs across the room. "Go," he whispers knowingly, as he nods at the stairs. "I've got her."

"Thank you," Natasha smiles tightly.

She quickly makes her way up the stairs, focusing her attention on the last door to her left. And it's almost as if the weight of the world rests on her shoulders. She's trying to ignore the nerves threatening to take over her system, but the closer she gets to the door, the worse it is.

"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?"

The brunette's body tenses, her hands freezing, as she suddenly glances at her daughter. Her dark black irises are filled with tears, the air strapped in her lungs. And it is as if the words are dying before they get a chance to breathe – she wants to say something or anything. But it is no use.

Melina switches her attention back to her hands, while ignoring the water pouring down her back. She doesn't notice the woman stepping closer or shifting beside her in the shower. Or the hands closing around her own to stop the frantic scrubbing. The young redhead pulls the shaking body against her chest, attempting to whisper soft reassurances.

But they do nothing.

"I shouldn't have made him angry," Melina whispers, "It is all my fault – all my fault – I should've known better... I can take it. I can take the pain. I bare it so you don't have to. My babies shouldn't have to."

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But you're broken on the floor
Still asking him for more

XX

~ Author's Note ~

Any questions? Ideas? Opinions?

XX

Next Chapter:

I watch the fathers with their little girls
And wonder what I did to deserve this

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Ale— no, Dad. He's still the same. Dad watches Mama the same way the guards watch the widows. And if she concentrates hard enough, the redhead hears her dad screaming through the walls or throwing a glass at her mama. But she's not supposed to know this. Because if she was the perfect daughter, she would be asleep and not disobeying orders.

Natalia watches them closely. And she notices the way Yelena's yelling aggravates their dad, the same way he gets angry every time Natalia tries to avoid touch. She tries to keep the three-year-old calm and forces herself to relax anytime he comes near, but the calm only lasts for so long, and then the storm strikes.

Alexei hits Yelena.