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Far Too Young to Die

Summary:

“Natasha Romanoff,” the man said. His American accent surprised her, and his voice sounded vaguely familiar. He ran the flat side of the blade in his hand against Natasha’s cheek, and her stomach turned as his lips curled into a menacing smile. “You’re a difficult woman to find.”

“And yet, here I am,” she replied, her voice even toned.

“Here you are, indeed,” he sat back in the chair, crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, and spun the knife through his fingers. “You’re probably wondering why.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow, but her face remained impassive, “The thought did cross my mind.”

“You have access to someone I want,” he said, flashing the knife again. “And you’re going to tell me where I can find him.”

Notes:

This was originally meant to be a later chapter in my “Who’s Going to Tell Them?” series, but I got a bit carried away, and it ended up not really fitting with the overall vibe of those one-shots, so I’m publishing it as a stand-alone story that takes place shortly after Captain America: Civil War.

The story is quite a bit darker than what I’ve written previously. Please see the tags for trigger warnings.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Beirut, Lebanon
2016

Natasha came to suddenly, blinking several times as her eyes adjusted to the dark. She was immediately aware that her hands were bound behind her back, and her feet were zip tied to the legs of the metal chair she was sitting in. She tugged on the binds, testing their hold, but they were solid. She glanced around but saw nothing but blackness surrounding her, not even a sliver of light to indicate where the door was.

“Fuck,” she whispered under her breath. She tried to keep herself still, knowing the more she moved, the tighter the zip ties would get. 

She tried to think back to the last thing she could remember. She, Sam and Steve had been running stealth missions for Fury off and on since going into hiding. Most recently, he sent them after a group of Russians who’d gotten their hands on a bunch of old SHEILD weapons and tech. 

The trio was briefed immediately upon their arrival in Lebanon and Natasha and Sam left Steve behind on comms at the safehouse while they scouted the enemy turf.

They’d barely gotten into position on a rooftop near the group’s base of operations when Natasha felt a sharp jab in her neck, then a large hand pressed against her mouth. The assailant’s other arm wrapped around her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. Steve’s voice in her ear, calling her name, sounded miles away, and she looked over to see Sam unconscious on the ground just before the world around her went black.

Natasha could tell the comms link had been removed, and she was now barefoot, so the tracker in her boot was almost definitely destroyed. A laundry list of questions flooded her mind. Where was she? How long had she been there? Who had her and why? Did they have Sam, too? Was he ok? 

This wasn’t the first time Natasha had been captured during a mission. It was the first time, however, that she’d been captured on an off-book op with no resources, extraction plan or guaranteed back up. She could only hope Steve had a trail on whoever had grabbed her. 

Then, from behind her, she heard the scraping of metal against concrete, and a slight shadow across the floor told her someone had entered the room. The door shut, and her captor approached slowly, circling her twice before stooping in front of her so they were eye level. He was wearing a dark-colored ballcap, pulled down over his face. 

She steeled her expression and bore her eyes into his. He said nothing for several minutes, until he finally stood, walking to one corner of the room, where he retrieved another chair. He placed the chair directly in front of Natasha and sat down, pulling a small knife from a sheath on his belt. 

“Natasha Romanoff,” the man said. His American accent surprised her, and his voice sounded vaguely familiar. He ran the flat side of the blade against Natasha’s cheek, and her stomach turned as his lips curled into a menacing smile. “You’re a difficult woman to find.”

“And yet, here I am,” she replied, her voice even toned. 

“Here you are, indeed,” he sat back in the chair, crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, and spun the knife through his fingers. “You’re probably wondering why.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow, but her face remained impassive, “The thought did cross my mind.”

The man narrowed his eyes at her and sat forward suddenly, planting both feet back on the ground. His elbows rested on his knees, and he leaned into Natasha’s space, so his face was just inches from hers. His breath smelled of whiskey and peppermint, and her stomach turned again. As much as she’d love to vomit on the man’s expensive-looking loafers, she pushed the nauseous feeling down, refusing to let him know she was even the slightest bit afraid. 

“You have access to someone I want,” he said, flashing the knife again. “And you’re going to tell me where I can find him.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” she replied.

Without warning, the man slashed the knife across Natasha’s face, and she winced in surprised as warm blood trickled down her left cheek. 

“Let’s try this again,” he suggested, wiping the blade on a cloth. “You’ll tell me what I want to know, or you’ll get a matching one on the other side of that pretty face.”

She pressed her lips together and said nothing.

“Tell me where Nick Fury is.”

“Nick Fury is dead,” Natasha replied, not missing a beat. 

“You and I both know that isn’t true,” the man said, standing from his chair and stepping back into her space. He held the knife’s blade against her cheek and asked again, “Where is Fury?”

Natasha realized she was going to have to change tactics. Whoever this man was, whoever he was working with or for, they knew how to get to her, and they knew Fury was alive. He needed information that Natasha had, so she knew he wouldn’t kill her. She needed to slip him up, maybe trick him into revealing his endgame, and she’d taken enough beatings in her life to know just how far she could push.

“Did you honestly think I’d just tell you?” Natasha said, ready for pain to follow her lack of cooperation. The knife slashed across her right cheek this time. She grunted and inhaled deeply, pushing the burning of the cut away.

“All right, Widow, if that’s the game you want to play…” he turned his back to Natasha and took a few steps toward a small table she hadn’t noticed before. He picked up a small object and strode back toward her. Natasha’s eyes widened when she saw he was holding a syringe. Pain, she could handle. But unconscious and losing time, was a whole different type of torture. 

She tried to wipe her face of all emotion, but as the needle plunged into the space between her neck and shoulder, the man flashed her a twisted grin. Natasha fought against the drug to stay awake, but it was a losing battle, and she fell into darkness once again, as the door slammed behind her.


“What do you mean, she’s gone?” Steve shouted, pacing the safe house living room. The panic in his voice was something Sam had never heard before.

“I don’t know what happened,” Sam hung his head and scrubbed a hand down his face, “We were getting into position on the roof, and the next thing I know I’m waking up with this huge lump on my head, and Natasha’s nowhere to be found.”

Steve stopped pacing and turned to face Sam, taking him in for the first time since he returned to the safe house. He was rattled, and his expression told Steve he felt responsible for Natasha’s capture.

“This isn’t your fault, Sam,” he said, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Kinda feels like it is, Cap.”

“No. We scouted the entire area beforehand. We knew when they were coming and going and who would be where,” Steve began pacing again, “I don’t think this was the Russian mercenary group. This was organized, planned. They knew exactly where we’d be and how to hit us, and they left you behind.”

“Who, then?” Sam furrowed his brow. “Who would be after us?”

“I don’t know, but I think I know someone who might,” Steve pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed one button. It rang twice before he heard a familiar voice on the other line. “Hill, I need to talk to Fury.”

“Steve, you know you’re not supposed to contact him directly,” Maria said, her voice was laced with confusion.

“Natasha’s been taken.”

Maria paused, shocked at the revelation, and then said, “Hold on.”

Not a minute later, Nick Fury’s voice rang over the line, “Cap, what the hell is going on over there?”

“Someone grabbed Nat in the middle of the op,” Steve explained. “We don’t think it was the Russians, and we were hoping you might have some idea of who would come after her.”

The line was quiet for a moment, and Steve could hear the pace of Fury’s breathing increase slightly, “Hydra.”

“Hydra?” Steve repeated, unsure he heard Fury correctly. Sam’s head shot up and his eyes locked with Steve’s. “How? We dismantled them, SHIELD dismantled them.”

“Not all of them.”

“Now’s not the time to be discreet, Fury,” Steve ground out through a clenched jaw. “Tell me what you know.”

“We’ve been following a small Hydra cell that’s been operating underground for a few months now,” Fury said. “We had an agent working on the inside up until last week, but her cover was blown, and we lost contact.”

It was typical for Fury to keep things close to the vest. When SHIELD had been official and above-board Steve could understand, even if he disagreed. But now, when they were running shadow ops, off-book? No. Absolutely not. 

“And you didn’t think that was information we needed to have?” Steve could feel his anger bubbling up. “You continue to put us in life-or-death situations without telling us everything we need to know to stay alive, and now Hydra has Natasha.”

“All right, Cap, just take a breath,” Fury said, calmly. “I’ve got Hill tracking her movements.”

“We already tried that,” Steve said. “Her tracker turned off at the spot where she was taken.”

“C’mon, now. Do you think I’d send you out there without a fail safe?” Fury chuckled, and when Steve didn’t respond, he continued. “You’ve all got secondary trackers woven into your suits. We’ll find her.”

For the first time since Nat’s comm link went dark, Steve breathed a sigh of relief, “Just get me that location.”

“Hill’s sending it your way now,” Fury said, and not a second later Steve’s phone beeped with an encrypted text message. “Bring her home, Rogers.”

Steve flipped the phone shut and shoved it back into his pocked. He turned to Sam with renewed determination, “Gear up.”


Natasha had no idea how much time had passed when she awoke again. She realized after a moment that she’d been changed out of her Widow suit and into a pair of hospital scrubs. She was no longer bound to the chair but cuffed instead to a pipe that ran across the low ceiling. Her feet were cuffed together and hung about six inches from the floor. 

Seconds later the pitch-black room was filled with light so bright, Natasha had to close her eyes. She blinked a few times, letting her eyes readjust, and looked around. The room was now completely empty. 

Just as she began adjusting to the sudden light, a deafening screeching sound filled the room. It blared for about 30 seconds then fell silent. This cycle continued for at least an hour, and by the time the noise stopped for good, Natasha’s head was splitting. 

She had about five minutes of reprieve before the next round of sensory torture began. When the scent of chocolate chip cookies wafted through the vents and into her nose, Natasha became acutely aware of how hungry she was. There was no telling how long it’d been since she’d last eaten. Next was the fragrant aroma of bacon and eggs, enough to make anyone’s mouth fill with saliva, then freshly brewed coffee, and she was immediately thirsty.

Then the room was thrown back into complete darkness, and Natasha suddenly knew exactly who was holding her captive. She’d had run ins with a lot of less-than-savory people and organizations over the years, but only one used these non-violent torture methods again and again.

“I’m impressed,” she said to the empty room, assuming they were listening. “I thought we’d taken out all of Hydra’s trash.”

A few seconds went by before she heard the scrape of the metal door on the floor, and she smiled to herself. They always were so predictable. 

The same man as before approached her, and though his face was hidden in the darkness, she could see a ghost of a cruel smile on his lips and smell the whiskey and peppermint combination on him. He stopped a few paces in front of and turned his back, then pointed to the ceiling. When the lights came on this time, they were at a bearable level. 

Natasha studied him. He was tall, 6’2”, maybe, with short, dark hair and tanned skin. He wore black faded jeans, a black collared shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and the same expensive black loafers as before. When he spoke, the familiarity of his voice washed over her, but she still couldn’t place it.

“You know, I told them you wouldn’t be easy to break,” he said, placing his hands on his hips but still not turning around. “I knew our usual tactics wouldn’t work on such an experienced operative, but they insisted on doing it their way.”

Natasha swallowed hard, searching her memory for that voice. She knew him. She knew she did. “And how’s that working out for you so far?”

“Well, you’re still tied up, and I still don’t know where Fury is,” he started, sliding the knife from his pocket. “So, now we’re going to do things my way.”

Finally, the man turned around to face Natasha, and she blanched. A slow smile spread across Grant Ward’s face as she realized his identity. “What the hell… You’re supposed to be dead.”

“And you, last time I checked, were supposed to be in federal custody,” Ward let out a hollow laughed and closed the space between them. They were eye to eye and about a foot apart. He pushed her chin up slightly with the flat end of the knife. “Come on, Romanoff, let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be.”

Natasha could feel rage bubbling up inside her. Grant Ward was part of the reason Hydra had been able to infiltrate SHIELD in the first place. He was the reason so many of agents had died. She’d always vowed to put a bullet in him if they ever came to face to, but up until a few minutes ago, she was under the impression that Phil Coulson had already done that.

“Go to hell, Ward,” she ground out between gritted teeth. 

He flashed her that perfect smile, the one that always made trainees giggle and whisper and stare as he walked through the halls at The Triskelion. What she wouldn’t give to punch him right in the teeth. 

“It’s a shame you and I never got to work together, Romanoff,” he said, dropping the knife to his side and winking.

Natasha tipped her head back and away from him slightly and swallowed the disgust she felt creeping into her expression. God, what an asshole. But she needed him to keep talking. She needed him to come just a little bit closer…

And he did. Ward couldn’t help himself. As great an “agent” as he had been while undercover for Hydra, he was also arrogant, and Natasha knew exactly how to exploit that. 

He moved so that just six inches separated their faces. “You’re probably too busy fucking Steve Rogers now to do any real spy work anyway.”

If Natasha’s hands had been free, she would’ve strangled the last breath out of his traitorous, egotistical body. Instead, she reared her head back and slammed it forward into his nose, knocking him off balance and onto his ass. If he wasn’t at least mildly concussed she’d be shocked.

“You little bitch,” Ward spat out, sitting forward with the heel of one hand pressed to his nose to stop the blood from pouring down his face. He pulled a cloth from his back pocket and pressed it to his face. Rage burned in his dark brown eyes. “Enough foreplay.”

Natasha didn’t try hide her smile, “Is that what this is?”

Ward stood, and Natasha could tell he was still slightly off kilter. He moved to her, grabbing a fistful of her hair, and forced her head back. She grunted from the sudden pain and watched as he slowly dragged the tip of the knife down the side of her face, along her jaw and across the length of her throat with just enough pressure that she could feel the blade, letting her know he could cut her at any moment.

Natasha stared straight ahead, locking her eyes on a dark spot on the far wall. She suspected it was dried blood, but at that point, she didn’t care. She needed to disassociate, knowing Ward’s patience would run out eventually. 

And then the blade of his knife was sinking into the spot just below her shoulder. Natasha cried out in pain as Ward pulled the knife out. He circled her, slicing casually along her exposed arms as he went.

The wound in her shoulder was pulsating and Natasha knew she was losing blood quickly by the lightheaded feeling that began to creep in. She glanced at her arms – seven shallow cuts total, each about three inches long. Blood from the cuts dripped down her arms onto the floor, soaking into her shirt in the process. The warm liquid quickly turned cold against her skin, and she shivered.

“Had enough?” Ward asked, cracking his broken nose back into place with a loud grunt.

“Have you?” Natasha shot back.

He sighed heavily, slid the knife in his pocket and pulled a gun from the waistband of his jeans, “You’re really pissing me off, Romanoff.”

Natasha knew what was coming next, and she closed her eyes just as the back of his hand connected with her cheek. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and against her better judgement she spit it directly back onto Ward’s face. 

That earned her a fist to the face, this time, “Have I mentioned what a bitch you are?”

Black spots formed behind Natasha’s eyes, and her head lolled to the side. She groaned and looked at him defiantly, “You may have mentioned it.”

“Where is fury?”

“Go. To. Hell.”

“I’m done fucking around,” Ward clicked the safety off the gun and shot a round into her right thigh. “Tell me now, or the next round goes in your brain.”

Natasha shouted in pain, clenching her jaw to keep from crying out again, “You’re getting sloppy, Ward.” 

She could see the veins in his neck bulge and knew she was getting under his skin. Grant Ward was known for keeping his cool under pressure, so the fact that he was becoming more chaotic and careless meant he was getting desperate. Natasha could use that.

He took several steps back and paced the floor in front of her. He was just distracted enough that he didn’t notice when Natasha began to gently swing her hips and legs forward. If she could gain enough momentum, she might be able to kick into him with enough force to pull the pipe loose. 

She didn’t have the chance to put her plan into action, though. Just as she began to swing harder, the clang of metal and gunshots rang out somewhere in the facility, echoing through the heavy door and into the room.

They’d come for her. 

Ward turned to face Natasha. They locked eyes, and ghost of a smirk spread across her lips when she saw a moment of panic in his face. He knew it, too. 

He didn’t give her a chance to speak. She barely had the time to realize what was happening before the butt of the gun slammed into her temple, knocking her unconscious once again.


Natasha tried to open her eyes, but they felt heavy, almost like they’d been glued shut. Her head throbbed, and every part of her ached. She could hear someone calling her name, but it sounded so far away.

“Natasha! Natasha, wake up!”

There it was again. She groaned, still unable to open her eyes but realized she was no longer bound and dangling from the pipe. She was laying on something hard and lumpy. A bed? No. Definitely not the floor. 

Finally, Natasha forced her eyes open and realized it was Steve’s voice she’d heard, willing her to wake up. But he wasn’t far away. He was right there, and she was laid across his lap.

“Steve?”

“Hey,” he whispered, pushing her hair back off her face. “There you are.”

With some help, Natasha was able to sit up. She looked around the room. The pipe she’d been cuffed to was hanging from the ceiling, the cuffs from her hands and feet broke apart on the floor next to them. She glanced to her left and saw Ward lying unconscious. His face was covered in blood from the headbutt to the nose and what looked like blunt force to his head.

“You do that?” Natasha asked, gesturing to Ward.

“Yes,” he said, glancing toward him then back at Natasha. “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

Steve stood and hooked an arm around her back, gently pulling her up. The knife wound in her shoulder throbbed, and she tentatively put weight on her right leg, where she’d been shot. She looked down and saw that Steve had tied the wound off then realized he’d patched up her shoulder, too. 

“Sam, are we clear?” he asked, pressing his fingers to the comm link in his ear. “Good. Get the jet fired up and get her ready for takeoff. We’re headed out.”

Natasha leaned into Steve as they headed toward the door, stopping when she saw Ward’s gun on the floor near her foot. She picked it up and limped the few steps back toward him, clicking the safety off and pointing the weapon at his chest. 

“Nat, what are you doing?” Steve asked, taking a step in her direction. 

“What should’ve been done a long time ago,” she replied, not taking her eyes off Ward. She could feel Steve behind her, but not even the steady hand he placed on her good shoulder was enough to stop her from pulling the trigger.

She shot three rounds into Ward’s chest, waiting until he stopped breathing before turning back to Steve, whose face was etched with concern. 

“Now we can go,” she said, dropping the gun and collapsing into Steve’s side.

“Can you walk?” he asked, wrapping his arm tightly around her waist and pulling her to him.
Natasha took a few steps, and her right leg buckled. Without a second thought, Steve scooped her into his arms and carried her to the jet. He set her down across a row of seats, then sat down beside her, shifting her head into his lap.

“Go, Sam.”

Sam looked over his shoulder at them and the color drained from his face when he saw Natasha, “Jesus.”

“You should see the other guy,” she said, chuckling lightly and leaning into Steve as he ran his fingers through her hair. She turned her head slightly and looked up at him. He was staring down at her, worry still fixed across his face. “I’m ok, Steve.”

“I know you are, but God, you scared me,” he said, lacing the fingers on his free hand through hers, and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. It was an intimate gesture that felt both familiar and foreign at the same time. 

The talked quietly during the trip back to SHIELD’s underground headquarters. Natasha told Steve everything she could remember about the abduction and her torture, and Steve revealed that she’d been missing for three days before they were able to pinpoint the Hydra bunker’s exact location. It was another two days before they could breach and extract her safely.

All the anxiety and fear Steve had been pushing down during those days flooded up to the surface. He tried focusing on Natasha’s voice. He focused on the warmth of her hand in his, how her hair felt between his fingers. He pushed a few strands off her face, trying to ignore the dried blood in them. 

He studied her face, then grabbed a clean cloth from the go-bag at his feet, wetting it with water from a nearby bottle and set to work cleaning dried blood and dirt from the twin cuts across each cheek. Then he did the same for the ones on her arms. They all looked to be shallow, and thankfully, not infected.

Natasha watched him in silence as he worked on her wounds, grateful it was Steve who found her and Steve who was there with her now. “Thank you, Rogers.”

He dropped the soiled rag at his feet and looked at her. Seeing Natasha like this made something inside Steve snap. His anxiety gave way to anger, and he realized he was glad Grant Ward was dead. “That bastard deserved worse than you gave him,” he whispered.

“Ward?” Natasha raised her eyebrows, surprised to see that his usually vibrant blue eyes were dark like a storm, “I’m willing to bet you’re not the only one who feels that way.”

“He deserved to feel the same pain he inflicted on you,” Steve said through gritted teeth.

Natasha wasn’t used to seeing Steve this rattled. She scooted up to a half-sitting position and rested a hand on his chest. He leaned into her touch and closed his eyes.

“Hey, look at me,” she said, pushing against him gently until his eyes met hers. “Ward died alone, shot with his own gun. He got exactly what he deserved.”

Steve held Natasha’s stare for a beat longer, searching her eyes for any indication that she might not be as OK as she claimed. No one would blame her if she wasn’t. But Steve knew better. He knew she’d been through worse long before he’d come into her life. 

“I just…” he paused, swallowing hard. “I thought I was gonna lose you, Nat.”

Natasha felt a blush creep into her cheeks, and she looked down at her hand, still on Steve’s chest, “I’m offended that you think I’m that easy to kill, Rogers.”

Steve rolled his eyes. Of course she’d make a joke. He hooked a finger under her chin, tipping her face back up to his, “Don’t be a smartass. You know what I mean.”

Natasha smiled broadly at him, then slid back down, so her head was resting in Steve’s lap, and closed her eyes. He reached into the go-bag for a blanket, draping it over Natasha’s body. She turned into him and mumbled something unintelligible, and Steve grinned, dropping his head back onto the seat behind him.  

A few minutes later Natasha was asleep, and for the first time in days, Steve relaxed. The even rhythm of her breathing quickly lulled Steve into a dreamless sleep, of his own. Finally, they could rest.

Notes:

And, yes, I know Agents of Shield isn’t technically MCU canon, but I love the idea of him interacting with these characters, so we’re suspending canon and using our imaginations. 

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