clandestinement | Early release

Early release - for worthallthis

They survive, in the end. That much is a miracle in and of itself. They survive, mostly intact, still themselves. And then comes the parting. There is no option to stay, to make a real life - so long as they remain, the connection to the place they came from remains, a flaw in the walls of reality that could be pried open or slipped along, the whole cycle restarted on new ground. There is no option to choose a new world to settle on. It's home, or death.

They promise to find each other on their own worlds, so like one another as to be nearly indistinguishable. It will not be the same. It's the best they can do with the hand they've been dealt. Yelena, the one who had walked two years in another world, who had faced monsters and the awful temptation of power, has the easier task in 2023.

Yelena, the one in his time, is still a tool of the Red Room, still under the thrall of a poison that will not have a certain cure for years. The serum distilled from her older counterpart's blood and cerebral fluid may work. There had been no sure way to test it. "It will take years for the neural pathways to repair themselves, if this doesn't work," the older Yelena had warned. "At least two, probably closer to three."

But even before that comes the problem of tracking her down. There is no intel on where the Red Room is, in his time. It moves, and the Widows are drugged both coming and going, aware only of their entry and extraction sites. The older Yelena can only tell him where she will be. It's nearly three months between his date of return and the date on which a suitable mission will present itself - one on which she will be alone, without the risk of other Widows, victims all of the Red Room's poison, interfering. Without the red dust, there is no guarantee of freeing them, and she's not willing to sacrifice them to secure her own early release.

And so: Bern. Yelena, younger, still the Red Room's plaything, is set up in a small apartment, paid for under the alias of one of her handlers, under the pretense of being a young mistress. One with a minor admin role at a scientific institution that is hosting a large conference, at which - regrettably - one of the speakers will suffer a fatal heart attack tomorrow. Tonight, she is running through the plan one last time, accounting for last-minute scheduling changes - nothing that speaks to any interference. Her target's schedule remains the same. Her exit window will just be a little tighter than she'd prefer.

In the living room, her handler is watching television. He'll have nothing to do tomorrow; it's two days before she'll be extracted, if all goes to plan, time built in to go to ground and take down the trappings of this identity.

No one is expecting any visitors.

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That isn't the name she'd been using, and she jolts upright at the sound of it, quick enough that the seatbelt catches hard against her chest, and she expels a breath in a short little oof of surprise.

"How do you know me?" she asks.

And then the rest of his words process, and they are - somehow, impossibly - true. She knows it because the only urgency to escape she feels is that of a young woman who's been drugged and carted off by a man who isn't as much a stranger as he should be, because there's no compulsion to return as soon as she can to her handlers, or to take her own life if prevented.

"How?" she asks, more quietly this time, something raw in her voice. And then, "A knife. I need a knife."

He pulls into a parking space in the motel, puts the car into park, and immediately produces a small combat blade, flipping it in his hand to offer to her hilt-first. Because this is not America and the car's steering wheel is on the right, that hand is the left, metal one.

"For a tracker. Right? I didn't know where it was, but I knew you probably had one. There is a signal jammer active in my bag, so you can wait until we get inside to take it out, if you want."

None of that is an explanation. He'll get to that, but first he needs her to know the basics, and to feel safe. Well, safer.

She takes the knife, fingers brushing the chilly metal of his hand, and it's then that she recognizes him, remembers the feel of articulate metal guiding her.

"You taught me..." she murmurs, mostly to herself, and gives her head a sharp shake. And regrets it immediately as stars burst behind her eyes and she struggles to keep her expression even.

"I'll wait. Untile we're inside." And she's sure her hands will be steady, and that there will be clean towels to soak up the blood if she cuts too deep.

Or if she doesn't. The chip's shallowly embedded, but there will still be blood.

He watches her face a moment, looking for whatever signs she gives of her feelings, then smiles faintly and nods. "Okay. I'm going to go pay for a room. If you really want to run for it while I'm in there, you can, but. I would rather you didn't."

He undoes his own seat belt and climbs out of the car, heading into the motel lobby.

At the very least, it'll give her a minute to make sure she's composed. And he won't stop her if she runs... but he hopes to hell she doesn't.

In the end, she doesn't run. Maybe later, once she's cut the tracker from her leg and slipped it into the trunk of some poor fellow guest, the better to throw anyone looking off her scent. Maybe once she has answers about how he'd broken Dreykov's control, something that might be - she doesn't let herself think beyond that. Answers first, then a plan to follow.

She slips out of the car, paces a circle around it, then prowls down the parking lot to peer at the other license plates. She can guess how far they must have driven based on the time she'd glimpsed on the dashboard, but that doesn't tell her in which direction. The plates, at least, give her something of an idea.

They've driven far enough north and west that they're now in France, though not far in, as there are still a few Swiss license plates. The car her former teacher drove in has German license plates, though there are new ones in the trunk to change to in the morning.

He comes back out and goes still at the sight of the empty car, until he spots her still standing not far off down the lot. His shoulders slump with relief, and he continues to the car to collect his things. Their things, since he has a few changes of clothes for her in his duffel, too.

He waits there for her to come to him, rather than calling out or following after her.

France. It's not, in the grand scheme of things, that far from where she'd fallen unconscious. At the same time, it's a world, a lifetime, a universe away. She shudders slightly, wrapping her arms tightly around herself to ward off a chill that's entirely internal, and remains where she is, back to him and to the car for a long moment.

Once she's rallied her control - clinging to it by her fingertips - she finally turns back, stride brisk and businesslike as she moves to join him.

"What happened to Sasha?" she asks quietly. Her handler, presumably, late and unlamented.

"Bullet to the head," Winter says without apology. "Come on, I got our room. Second floor, this corner." Good sight lines and two potential escape routes (three, if they blow out the wall). Also close to where he's parked. There's a staircase to swing down right there.

He turns to climb said staircase, duffel in one hand and the other, gloved, on the rail. "I'll explain when we're inside. I promise." He glances back at her. "How much do you remember. About me."

"Too bad." There's a slight, vicious twist to her voice that indicates the part she regrets is that she wasn't the one to supply the bullet.

He had not been the worst of Dreykov's monsters. He'd still been one of them.

She follows him up the steps, gaze roving restlessly, though she keeps her steps measured and nerves in check. He'd said he had a signal jammer to mute her tracker. She still half-expects a kill team to pop out of the shadows at any moment. She's long since learned to have little trust in any equipment she hasn't prepared for herself.

She's silent for a long moment, trying to ignore the throbbing in her skull as she sifts through her memories. "You were patient," she says finally. "Gentle. I remember thinking you seemed sad sometimes. You never beat me for making a mistake. And then you were gone."

Because the girls were too fond of him? Because he'd been reassigned to something more important that training tiny murderers? She's not sure, and asking questions had been heavily discouraged.

He takes that in, adds it to his own recollections of that time. "I remember mixing up your names sometimes, but not why they reassigned me," he admits, coming to the top of the stairs and unlocking the door. He sets the duffel down just inside and prowls the room, checking all the corners, behind and under the furniture, and especially the windows.

"You can take your tracker out in the bathroom," he adds as he does so. "I'll be done in a minute and bring in some first aid supplies."

She watches him check the room, and some measure of tension seeps slowly from her posture. She doesn't quite trust him - not yet, not really - but he's thorough, and that means whatever else might come, they are not likely to be captured by her masters tonight.

She heads for the bathroom, the knife a comforting weight that more than balances out the anticipation of pain. "Just knock before you come in. I have to take my pants off to cut it out, so it might be awkward if you don't."

"You're not going to be putting them back on before I bring you the first aid kit," he says, from where he's running metal fingers around the window frame, but also: "I'll knock."

He takes the time to lock and lightly trap the door and windows before he does knock, though.

"I know where they've been," she says, and there's a hint of brittle humour there, the nascent version of the deflective shield he must be used to seeing her older self deploy against those she's not willing to trust with her deeper feelings.

She disappears behind the bathroom door. There is the brief sound of running water - and then silence. When he knocks, her voice is carefully controlled as she replies, "You can come in."

'In' smells like blood, not thick enough to suggest she's done herself undue harm, but thick enough to, perhaps, be a little disconcerting. Her clothes are folded neatly on the counter - pants, yes, but shirt as well - and she's seated in the bathtub where the blood will be the easiest to clean up after, face tight with pain as she pries the small metal capsule holding her tracker from the gash in her thigh.

He settles down on the toilet seat, holding the first aid kit on his knee until she's ready for it.

And he holds out the metal hand for the capsule once she has it removed. "I have spare clothes for you, when you're done," he says. "We'll get you some more tomorrow. And tonight I'll answer any question you have." He pauses, then adds, "You might not like all the answers, though." He's already decided he's going to tell the truth, no matter how fantastical it is. He's no good at lying.

She sucks in a sharp breath as the capsule comes free, and leans over to place it in his waiting palm. It's small, no longer than the nail on her pinky finger and less than half the width, and streaked with blood.

"If you only gave me answers I like," she says, voice a little rough, "I would know you were lying."

She holds a hand out for the kit, studying him closely. After a moment, she asks, "Why?"

He closes his hand, plates whirring, and crushes the device. The remains he drops into the trash. While leading the Red Room astray has its merits, he'd rather not subject some poor ordinary person to their scrutiny.

Then he hands over the kit, it's small but complete with antibiotic spread, surgical thread, and plenty of small bandage strips. "Because for two years, in another world. You were my family. And when I came back to this world, I couldn't leave my family with the Red Room."

"Another world," she repeats flatly. She studies him for a moment, eyes narrowed as she searches his face for any hint that he's mocking her, or otherwise lying.

The absence of any such thing is disconcerting, and she finally drops her gaze away to rummage through the kit and begin the unpleasant process of tending the wound on her thigh. It will, she decides, need stitches. She hates giving herself stitches.

"I don't know if you're a very good liar, or if you're just crazy. Maybe you went to Asgard, but I've been here. I have only ever been here."

"You haven't yet. You will in 2023." He pauses, then shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe our universes are slightly off from each other, and it is another Yelena who goes to Gloucester. They will be off from each other now, because that Yelena did not escape for almost two more years. And never met me again, that she told me."

When she goes for the thread, he offers, "Do you want me to do it? The stitches. I know how." He half-expects a refusal. She doesn't trust him yet. But he can't not offer.

"Two more years," Yelena repeats, then snorts quietly. "I didn't think it was possible to escape at all. I thought Natalia was the first and the last."

She stares down at the med kit, expression going blank for a moment, and lifts a hand to rub her temples. It does nothing to chase the headache back down.

"He could make us kill ourselves. Did she tell you that, your Yelena? If we were captured, or if we were too injured on a mission. But only then. Any other time, it was unthinkable."

Winter's mouth shuts for a moment, grim, but he finally yes, "She mentioned it. Yes." He waits on her decision for the sutures, but adds, "There is an older widow. One not controlled the same way you are. She finds a cure. A block against it. I didn't know how to find her to help, and you were my priority because I had a cure that might work for you. But together we might be able to find her. Protect her."

With the former Winter Soldier on her side, he's confident they can keep the Red Room from killing her before she can free the rest of Yelena's team. Going up against the Red Room without that cure isn't possible, even for him, but with it... he's sure they can.

"If one of us found a cure, we would have been sent to kill her. It fits Dreykov's sense of irony." Or, more accurately, his sadism. "She must not have rebelled yet."

She's silent for a moment, then offers him the medkit with a quiet admission of, "My hands are not steady right now."

Her vision isn't steady right now. Light wobbles around the edges of it, lingering effects of either the sedative, or whatever he did to break the control she's lived under for the past several years.

"He did. That's how the other Yelena got free. I know her name, a rough description, and where she'll be," Winter promises her, taking the kit and unwinding the thread and tape. "We'll find her in time. And get all the other Widows out, too."

He looks briefly at her face, before back at her wound, putting on the stabilizing tape at either end before threading the needle. "I don't want anyone to be under anyone's control. Not like that. Never again."

She studies him as he makes his preparations, brow knitting slightly.

"They did it to you, too." It's not a question. It explains too much, both his insistence on freeing her, on not just waiting for his Yelena to make an appearance, and the half-remembered oddities of her youth, things buried deep beneath the relief that here was an instructor who would not brutalize her or her sister trainees for failure, would not look for an excuse to inflict pain.

He answers anyway, voice flat and expression fading out to nothing, though his hands are steady as he starts carefully stitching her flesh together. "There are words. I know some of them. Not all of them. If someone says those words. I do what they want. Whatever it is. They took my memories, too, every few days. I only have some of them back."

He's gotten more since his return here than he ever did in Gloucester, in fact, which isn't really saying that much, considering how little he got back in that other world. He thinks it might have to do with having the serum back, healing connections, but he's sure he's still nowhere near at full recall. He doesn't think he ever will be.

And that's okay. He's got new memories. And he'll make more.

"If you hear someone yelling non-sense words at me in Russian," he adds, "you should shoot me. Or run. Or probably both."

The Russian phrase she mutters in response to that is not nonsense. It is, however, indescribably filthy, and conveys an anger that is almost enough to distract her from the feeling of needle through flesh. Almost.

"Will shooting them in the throat interrupt the sequence?" she asks, voice a little too rough for it to be purely practical concern.

Anyone who would violate another person in that manner deserves to die.

Early release - for worthallthis

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