Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He’s five when he first meets Yelena.

It had been an absolutely sweltering summer, miserable as all the others had been, and his parents, sick of dealing with him – and of the extra demands his still-healing arm placed on them  – decided to ship him off to his aunt in Ohio for the summer. 

His protests of “I’ve never even met Aunt Carol!” fell on deaf ears. 

“Of course you have, dear, she was at the hospital when you were born.”

He couldn’t help the way his face had screwed up with frustration then. “But I don’t remember her at all, and I’ve never been to Ohio, and I don’t know anyone else there, and – and what if I need something?”

“Don’t.”

His father’s low voice brooked no argument and so that, as they say, was that. 

He’d held back tears all throughout packing, fretting over what he might need, and fighting a rising fear that maybe he’d return to find everything he didn’t take with him had disappeared, along with his parents. But they won’t. They can’t. …right?

His glasses have been broken at the bridge for some weeks now, the exact same time his arm has been in a cast, but his father’s words were final after the bike accident, so Bob makes do with what little he has at hand: adhesive tape and industrial glue found in the garage.

Bob’s not old enough to find issue with his dad yelling at him, “It’s either your arm or the glasses, I won’t pay to fix both!” but it still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Must’ve been from the embarrassment of the whole ER stopping what they’re doing to direct him looks filled with sorrow. 

He makes sure to pay special attention to said glasses when boarding the plane by himself, letting the cabin crew fuss over his Power Rangers backpack and the Animaniacs stickers sprinkled unceremoniously over his cast in amazement. This has to be a fancy airline if the staff treats troublesome kids like him with such care. They’re even nice enough to place his damaged glasses in his pocket after he falls asleep ten minutes into the flight. 

That simple act of kindness makes the landing and the waiting in the lounge bearable once Bob arrives in what he hopes is Ohio. Airports all look the same, if you ask him, but he can tell the temperature isn’t as high, and even the humidity has dropped considerably. For the first time in Bob’s life, his skin isn't clammy and sweaty. 

Aunt Carol seems… nice, in the way that adults often are. He knows better than to trust that, though. 

He watches her reactions to everything he does, looking for signs of growing annoyance, just as he does with his mother and father. He knows many of their tics, but not hers, yet, and that means he needs to be careful. By dinner time, her cheerful smile hasn’t dimmed at anything, even when he bumped into the TV cabinet and one of her little glass unicorn figurines had wobbled so much that it almost fell, which means she must be really, really good at hiding when she’s annoyed. Lika mama, which is fitting, he supposes. 

Dinner consists of dino nuggets, tater tots, and apple juice. The TV only has ten functional channels because “in this house we prefer to read,” and Aunt Carol’s dog is even older than Grandpa Robert. 

That’s to say, Bob is really fucking bored. 

Sorry, freaking bored. He’s not supposed to curse. Although those are his dad’s rules, back home. Maybe Aunt Carol won’t mind. 

“Fuck,” he blurts out, looking in every direction and preparing himself for the reprimand that never comes. “Shit!” Bob tries again, louder, but the only reaction he gets comes from the geriatric dog trying to nap on the couch next to him. 

Beverly has been following him around since he arrived, but refuses to interact directly with him. Only child jealousy, says Aunt Carol. 

“I don’t know any other bad words,” he admits to the half blind Cocker Spaniel, who only offers him an almost toothless yawn. Well, that’s not true. Bob knows plenty of curse words, but he’s not sure about their meaning. His dad never explains them. What if he says one out loud and it’s so bad that his aunt sends him back to his parents?

He slumps down even further onto the couch, tossing his head back. There are splotches on the ceiling, and he busies himself with counting them, just for something to do. 

Before too long, Aunt Carol pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Bob, darling, would you be a dear and take Bev around the block for a walk?”

“She can walk?”

“Barely, but the vet says it’s good for her joints. Come on, before it gets dark.”

Bob wonders if forcing Beverly on a walk counts as animal cruelty. It has to be illegal to drag the poor dog outside the door with a leash that’s too tight and not enough snacks for her to chew on. But obedience is a survival virtue that’s been hammered into him, quite literally, so he swallows his complaints and lets Bev guide him through the neighborhood. Houses are different in Ohio, Bob notices. Back home, Mom says they all look the same: equal level of decadence and depersonalized facades. Whatever that means. Here, people paint their houses in bright colours, and the flowers in their gardens bloom in different shapes and sizes. There are treehouses in some backyards, so that means at least one kid lives here. 

Hopefully, they’d like to play with him. 

Bob’s vaguely aware he needs to use the bathroom when Bev catches a smell that makes her ears perk and tail wiggle. She makes her best effort to quicken the pace, but all she manages from Bob is a power walk that leads him into the backyard of his dreams. 

The light breeze of the late hour sways the swings gently, chains rattling in a comforting rhythm. There’s a slide with rusty bars that looks way too tall for him, but maybe the kids who live here can help him up if he asks. Bob notices a flattened soccer ball lying on the grass next to a pair of pink goalkeeper gloves and two bikes thrown unceremoniously on top of each other. The tree in the corner has a half-built treehouse in its lower branches, with green walls and what one day will be big windows. 

Beverly is contentedly sniffling at some rose bushes when the urge to pee becomes too strong. As someone who has peed his pants in front of many people on many occasions, Bob decides that there are worse places to relieve himself than some inconsequential plants. It’s a little tricky to do it with a broken arm while holding the leash, but he manages. Letting go of Beverly for a second won’t harm anyone. 

Wrong! 

He still hasn’t mastered the art of whistling while taking care of his business like the older kids at school, but his attempts are not all fruitless. Bob manages one single whistle in the middle of all that hissing and is too busy congratulating himself to notice that the dog is gone and it’s gotten dark. Oh, no. 

Suddenly, the tree in the corner is no longer a harmless leafy thing but a monstrosity, gloomy in the shadows the streetlights cast. The swings are now banging against each other, loud and erratic, startling him in every crash. There’s howling coming from somewhere and Bob fears for Beverly’s life. Are there wolves in Ohio? 

Is this how he dies? He can’t die without learning how to whistle first…

“Why are you crying?” says a voice above him, and Bob’s first thought is ‘God?’ 

But it’s not God. An angel, perhaps. She looks like the paintings that cover the walls of the only church he’s ever visited. Cherubs, his grandma called them. With blonde princess curls and big, curious green eyes. Rosy cheeks noticeable even in the dark, and rosy lips parted in a wide smile. The only difference between the girl and the paintings is the two missing teeth in her grin. 

Bob’s cheeks start burning immediately. Has she been there the whole time? While he was…

“Are you hurt?” she insists in a whisper. 

“Did you see me peeing in your plants?” he asks instead, mortified. 

The girl makes a face and sticks out her tongue. 

“Ew. Gross. Why are you peeing in my mama’s roses?” she gags, taken aback. Bob feels his lip tremble. 

“T’was that or my pants, sorry,” he says looking at his shoes. 

“Don’t you have a bathroom in your house?” The girl keeps asking him stuff and all he wants to do is hide under his bed.

He takes a deep breath. He’s a big boy. It’s just a girl. 

“I was walking the dog,” Bob starts explaining, hating the way his voice catches on the last word. He stops and clears his throat, wanting to start again but the girl gasps and he has no choice but to look up again. 

“What dog?” she demands, eyes wide. Bob notices with a frown that she’s very cute. Great, now he’s both blushing and crying in front of a pretty girl. 

And the dog. Oh, Beverly. He’s already in trouble and it’s only his first day here. 

“The dog I just lost,” he mourns, looking around the backyard with fear. Why is it darker? That’s not how night works. Beverly must be scared too. 

“That’s why you’re crying?” she asks, again. Bob nods timidly. 

“I’m scared,” he says to the shadows. It seems they’re getting bigger by the second. Quietly, he steps closer to the girl’s window. 

“Wanna come inside?” she says at last, snapping her fingers to get his attention. It doesn’t make any sound but he still admires the intention. He wouldn’t dare try to whistle in front of others. She’s brave. 

“I’m on a mission. Maybe you can help,” the girl offers when she sees him hesitating. She’s opened the windows completely and the warm light emanating from her room illuminates the shadows that were threatening to swallow him. 

“I can’t… my arm,” he gestures to his cast and it’s like the girl is just noticing that it’s there. She frowns deeply and sticks her head out the window to assess how much he needs his arm to climb through the frame. It’s not a very high wall. Regardless of the conclusion she reaches, she just clicks her tongue and stretches her arms in his direction, making grabby hands. 

“No problem, give me your hand.”

Bob hesitates – can she really help him in, or is he just going to fall and hurt himself worse? – but she seems so certain that he places his hand in hers. He hears a huff of breath and then she pulls – and he falls though the reading nook and onto the carpeted floor. Without hurting his arm even more in the process, miraculously. Lands on his ass and it stings a little, but the girl is already kneeling in front of him and he only has time to try and shake the dust from his clothes. 

“You’re very light,” she says, pushing her hair behind her ears. 

“No, you’re just very strong,” he fires back, taking offence to her comment. “This is your room?” he asks after a beat of silence, noticing that she’s now looking at her arms and trying to flex them like Popeye the Sailor. Nothing happens. 

“Yeah, you like it?” 

Bob nods in amazement. He loves it. It’s pink, of course. Everything about her is either pink, green or golden. But it feels cozy. The rug has some stains that darken the fabric here and there, but the material is soft under his fingers. Clean. The walls must be freshly painted because they smell like it. It takes a lot but he’s able to resist the temptation of taking a deep breath. 

“I used to share it with my sister,” she says excitedly, sitting next to him, “but she moved out last week so now it’s only mine! And I got to keep the toys!”

Toys is an understatement. There are rows and rows of all sorts of dolls, stuffies, books and drawings. Over the dresser, in the reading nook, on her bed. Her pink comforter looks fluffy even from the ground, covered in matching green pillows. It reminds him of the rooms rich kids have on TV. She has to be rich as well. He counts at least three lamps. 

“Your sister?” he asks vaguely, still taking it all in. He spots a record player on top of the trunk by the foot of her twin bed. It’s new, his cousin has the exact same. 

Rich girl. 

“Yup,” she says, popping the word. The little gap in her teeth makes her words sound funny. “Her name’s Natalie and she’s super cool. Has green hair. I want mine to be pink but daddy said later.”

“I like your hair,” he says without thinking. His hand moves in its own volition, reaching for a golden lock, and the girl tilts her head in his direction to accommodate him. Feels silky. 

“Thank you,” she says in a small voice, looking at him under her eyelashes. “I like yours, too. Looks like mama’s.”

Bob lets go of the curl he was holding to run his fingers through his own hair, self conscious of its state.

“Thanks,” he whispers, tilting his own head in her direction like she did for him. Her hand is a bit sticky. “I usually wear it longer but some kids put gum in it on the last day of class. Had to cut it.”

The girl makes a face and puts her hand on her chest, outraged. Bob finds himself smiling. “That’s not nice! Did you hit them?”

“No!” he answers immediately, smile dropping. Hitting is for bullies and superheroes. Bob’s neither. 

The girl hums. “You have sisters?” she inquires after a second, scooting closer to him. Their knees are touching. 

“No, I’m an only child.”

“That sounds lonely,” she says, pouting. Bob’s chest hurts at the sight. She looks like a cartoon. 

“It can be,” he admits. Last time Bob asked his parents for a little brother he was given a lecture about how expensive it was to sustain him, let alone two ungrateful brats. 

She hums again. Out of the blue, the girl gasps and stands up, running to lock the door.

“I’m on a mission! I forgot,” she sighs when she flops back next to him. 

“What mission?” Is she a spy? Did he accidentally pee on the plants of a kid spy? 

The girl claps her hands, excited. She stands up again and Bob follows her, hypnotized. Kid spy or not, she’s really cool, and being around her makes him feel cool too. 

“I’m gonna catch the Tooth Fairy,” she whispers, making sure the door is really locked. “That bitch gave me fifty cents for my last tooth and now that the other one has fallen I’m asking for a refund.”

Bob stops in his tracks. 

“That’s a bad word,” he hisses at her, covering his ears. Bob’s partially mad at himself for not thinking of it when he was trying his luck earlier today. He knows what bitch means. 

Kind of. 

“Are you gonna tell on me?” the girl asks him, stepping into his personal space. Her eyes have small golden dots in them. 

Bob shakes his head vigorously. “I won’t. I said two bad words today,” he confesses, smirking a little. She immediately grins back. 

“Did someone hear you?” she questions, walking to her window and repeating the motion of checking the locks and curtains. Okay, no one is getting in, that’s for sure. But equally reassuring, Bob’s not going out. That… doesn’t sound that bad, actually. 

“Beverly, the dog,” he answers, feeling his stomach sink at the thought of Bev roaming the streets in the dark, all by herself.

The girl, however, rolls her eyes at him. 

“You lost Beverly?” she asks dismissively at Bob, taking the dolls lined on her bed and sitting them in the reading nook. He still follows after her. 

“You know her?” he asks in return, shocked. There’s no way she knows that. Kid spy, for real. 

She gives him a nod. “Yeah, she’s my mom’s friend’s dog.”

Oh, Aunt Carol still doesn’t know Beverly is missing. “My aunt’s gonna kill me,” Bob whines, helping the girl put a blanket over the dolls. Good thinking, they might get cold. 

“Your aunt is Ms. Reynolds?” the girl turns around to ask him, crashing into him. They’re now standing by her dresser. Another shade of green. 

“Yeah?” he hates that it comes out as a question, but Bob’s not actually sure of what her last name is. He’s not even sure what side of the family she’s from. 

“She’s not gonna kill you, you big baby, she’s nice,” she says with conviction and a bit of exasperation. It’s mildly off putting to have his worries dismissed like that, but the girl makes sure to look him straight in the eye with a pointed stare, daring him to contradict her, before opening a drawer in the dresser and taking out a little box. 

“I don’t know,” Bob insists, feeling the need to give her all the information and facts he possesses about this particular situation, which is not much or many but he has nothing else to offer, just so she understands Bob’s not being a big baby on purpose. “This is the first time I’m staying with her, and I need her to like me if we’re gonna be living together, and that’s not happening if the first time she asks me to do something I ruin it, and–”

“Wait, stop, you’re gonna live here now?” she interrupts him after placing the little box under her pillow. She’s not annoyed anymore but beaming at him, and he finds himself smiling back, not sure about what but swept up in her enthusiasm. 

“Just for the summer,” he answers her, only for her smile to drop immediately. Oh no, what did he say? How did he ruin this, so quick? 

“Oh,” she pouts, letting her head fall a little, curls bouncing in alignment. Even upset, Bob finds her so pretty, like a princess from a fairytale. He can’t stand to see her sad. Princesses should never be sad. 

“I can help with your mission now, though,” he says in a tiny voice, worried about her response. If she’s mad at him now maybe she’ll kick him out into the darkness. “If – if you want me to.”

She looks up at him again, pout intact on her face, but gives him a small nod and takes his hand, squeezing. Bob squeezes back, relieved. “Yes. We only have to stay awake until she shows up and then we bargain.”

He blinks at her, dumbfounded. “What’s that?” Another bad word? 

The girl shrugs, kicking off her slippers and motioning for him to do the same with his shoes. He doesn’t want to let go of her hand, but between his cast and his clumsiness, Bob figures it has to happen, even if he hates it. 

“I dunno,” she mutters, putting their shoes and slippers by the door, like fancy people do in the movies. His mom would hate her. Bob likes her even more because of that. “Daddy says it. Seems fitting.”

“Okay,” he agrees, giving her a thumbs up. Sounds logical, but then a thought darkens that reasoning. Ugh, he hates his brain sometimes, it always ruins the fun. “Don’t you have to be asleep for her to show up, though?”

The girl claps excitedly, like he just said what she was waiting for. “That’s why we’re on a mission! We just have to pretend to be asleep. Easy peasy. Get in here.”

Pretending to be asleep is maybe one of his only talents, that and climbing into the attic one handed when the adults are yelling, but he keeps that to himself. What if Bob mentions he’s really good at pretending to be asleep, and then he can’t follow up on that promise, and she makes that sad face again? And hates him forever for ruining her mission? 

Better to act dumb. 

“If you say so.”

“Come on, let’s get in bed.” He hesitates, and she beckons him again. He’s never shared a bed with anyone before. Not even his cousins. And he’s never been invited to a sleepover either. “Come on!” She tugs at his sleeve and Bob sighs, defeated. 

So, he clambers in beside her, and lets her sweep her comforter over the pair of them until it’s only their heads sticking out. It smells new, like the insides of a store. She, however, smells like peaches, and this time he can’t help but take a deep breath, like a freak. His cheeks feel hot. 

Bob swears he hears howling outside, again, and he has to look up, just for a moment, to glance towards the window – and she reaches over and pushes him down until his face is mushed into the pillow. 

“Hey,” he protests, his voice muffled by fabric. His glasses are pressing painfully into his face, bending. They’re gonna break again. 

“You can’t sleep sitting up,” she whispers, though her voice seems only barely quieter than it was before. Bob can, and he has before, right when he hurt his arm a few weeks ago, but at this point he’d rather go outside and sit with the wolves than contradict her. 

“I know,” he says, taking advantage of her attention being elsewhere when a sound comes from outside her door, and hiding his glasses under her pillow, next to the little box she put there before. A bad habit he can’t shake no matter how bad his eye doctor says it is for them, but she doesn’t have a nightstand. “But… Beverly is still out there.” He chews at his lower lip, worries swirling in his mind as he realizes just how dark it’s gotten. What if she’s lost forever? What if she’s hurt? What if it’s all my fault?

But she does not seem to share his fears. “Don’t worry about Beverly. She knows her way around the neighborhood.”

“She’s very old. And it’s so dark,” Bob tries one last time, sinking into the pillow. 

“I promise you, she’s fine,” the girl says with resolution, her tone indicating this is the last she’s hearing from him about that particular subject, but not in a mean way. She’s smiling.  

He wants to ask how she could possibly know that, how she’s so sure, but… something in her voice, soft and confident, makes him think that she is right, somehow. 

“Okay…” And that’s that, he supposes. The girl says Beverly will be okay, so she must be. 

Bob wiggles, scooting down further under the covers until they’re covering his nose, and shifts to look at her again. She’s also settling in bed, kicking the blankets a little and puffing the pillow before dropping her head next to him, just a few inches apart. 

Even in the dim light, he can see her mouth still curved into a grin.

“What happened to your teeth?” Bob asks her, thinking about how none of the kids in his class have lost any teeth yet, and even some older kids. He’s not really sure how old she is but doesn’t look that far from him. 

“Fell down the slide,” whispers the girl, gently poking the space in her mouth and wincing in pain. 

“It’s too tall,” Bob laments, remembering what his first thought upon seeing the slide was. She shouldn’t have been there all alone. 

“Nat usually helps me,” she says, reading his mind. “I was by myself and didn’t want to wait for her.”

“She moved out?” he asks in return, thinking back to her mentioning that she used to share this room with her sister, who has green hair. If her sister lives far away now, it makes sense that she got hurt trying to do stuff by herself without the help of a grown up. That’s how he broke his arm. 

“Only to the basement, she’s twelve,” she clarifies, reading his mind once more.  

He didn’t know people could do that. Don’t they have to be adults to move out? And don’t they stay moved out? 

Bob mulls this over, then casts his eyes around the rest of the room, taking in little details he missed before, although it itches a bit without his glasses. The lamps around them give the room a soft, golden glow, leaving it comfortably dim without dropping them into total darkness.

“I like your lamps,” he says, fighting a yawn. It must be way past his bedtime. And he really likes the lamps; they’re the only thing not pink, green or golden in the room: bright orange, with flower patterns in them, or smiley faces, or little devils. They’re fun, and he feels a pang of jealousy. 

Back home, Bob sleeps in complete darkness. He gets scared very easily, especially at nighttime, but his dad said only fags sleep with the lights on, and even though Bob’s not sure what that means, the way he said it sounded harsh. 

“They’re Nat’s, she let me keep them,” the girl says, and studies his face for a moment, looking pensive. “You can have one, if you want,” she offers, beaming again. Bob’s chest does a funny thing, beating really fast, yet his stomach is in knots, distrusting of the nice gesture. However, he finds himself returning the smile. 

“Really?”

“Yeah!” She nods decisively, moving closer to him. Her knees bump with his. “For helping me tonight.”

“Thank you,” he says with reverence. No one ever gives him anything, and he can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it, but she seems genuine. “I’m Bob, by the way. I’m five.”

All this time in her presence and they still don’t know each other's names. 

He wiggles again until he can free his arm and reach over the covers to hold out a hand. That’s what people normally do, right? 

Maybe not, because she looks at his extended hand with curiosity, then at his face, then his hand again, and does the unthinkable. 

She throws her arms around him and tries to squeeze him tight, which is an impossible task, seeing as he’s wrapped in covers and partly hurt, but it doesn’t bother her. 

“I’m Yelena. I’m almost five,” she whispers in his ear. Bob can’t help it; he hugs her back with his good arm, enjoying the warmth of her embrace and the smell of her hair. Peaches have just become his favorite fruit. 

“Almost?” he finds himself asking, wanting to stay like this forever but feeling his nose itch with all the hair he has on his face now. He reluctantly puts some space between them. 

Yelena frowns at this, but sighs happily when Bob sets his head next to her, sharing a pillow, and takes his hand in both of hers. She’s very touchy, but Bob’s already getting used to it. 

“Yeah, I turn five next Friday,” she giggles, thrilled. Birthdays must be a joyous affair in her home.   

“That’s cool,” Bob nods, thinking. Does that make her a Gemini, or a Cancer? What’s the sign with a crab? “My birthday is in December.” Makes him a Capricorn, like David Bowie. 

“Like Christmas?” Yelena gasps, eyes bright in the dim lights. Oh, yeah, like that too, sure. 

“Yup.”

“You must get a lot of presents then,” she sighs dreamily, probably picturing a mountain of presents that would never arrive at his door. 

“Not really.” Well, not anymore. Everyone’s always so excited about Christmas, and… so much less excited when they remember that they’re supposed to do something for him, too. 

Yelena frowns again, cradling his hand close to her chest. And pouting. Bob has a feeling that pout is gonna be the death of him in the future. 

“You can come to my birthday party next week then,” Yelena says, resolute. “I’ll share my presents with you, you get to pick.”

Bob feels like pouting himself. 

“...you don’t have to do that.” He says it because it’s the polite thing to say, not because he means it. If the toys Yelena gets for her birthday are half as cool as the things she already has in her room, maybe she’ll still take pity on him and he’ll get lucky anyway.

Also, this is the first time someone has invited Bob to a birthday party because they want him there. 

“I want to,” Yelena says, very quietly, reassuring him of an insecurity he didn’t need to voice. Her eyelids are drooping. “You’re my friend.”

The events of the day finally hit him all at once; the worrying from being sent to somewhere he doesn’t know without being asked first, traveling all alone with a broken arm, the fear of meeting his aunt and then ruining his chances to make a good first impression, and the amazement of meeting Yelena out of pure luck. 

He manages a “thank you,” and they fall asleep holding hands, faces pressed together. 

Bob wakes groggily to a sound, and the vague impression of movement – and fails to stifle a yelp when his vision clears and reveals a face a mere inch from his own.

The girl who has appeared is unmoved by the sound. “You're not supposed to be here.”

“What?”

And before Bob can do much else, she’s straightening and turning towards the open bedroom door to holler, “MOM! DAD! THERE’S A BOY IN YELENA'S ROOM”

“A boy?!” The resounding echo makes his heart drop to his stomach. Oh no, oh no, he’s in trouble.

“Nat, shut up,” comes the mumble from his side – Yelena is awake now. “He’s my friend.”

The girl who yelled out seems to consider this, then she looks down at Bob again. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Bob. I’m five.”

She nods with a dry chuckle. “You’re the kid the police are looking for.”

“...the police?” 

“You’re in biiiig trouble, Bobby.” The older girl grins a little as she says it.

Nat, from the looks of it. Green hair. Not that cool when she’s busting his ass. 

His dislike for the nickname – only his parents use that, anymore – breaks through his worry, momentarily. “Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t be mean to him! He’s shy!” Yelena throws her arms around him protectively, frowning up at her sister. 

Heavy footsteps ring out, growing louder and louder, and then – 

Yelena’s father is the biggest guy Bob has ever seen. The hairiest, too. He’s wearing a light blue robe and bunny slippers and it doesn’t make him any less intimidating. Bob might be dreaming still but he swears the door frame creaks under his hand when he locks eyes with him. 

“Yelena? Why is there a boy in your room?” Oh, he’s mad. Oh, fuck. 

“He climbed through the window,” Yelena says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world, vaguely shrugging with Bob caught in her hold. She still hasn’t let go of him. 

“Excuse me?” Her mother now, he guesses. Just like her daughters, she’s also devastatingly pretty. 

“After peeing in your roses,” Yelena says with mirth, and Bob wants to kick her. Is she not aware that she’s digging his grave by the minute? 

“What?” He doesn’t know what’s worse; the look of disgust in their mom’s face, or the look of amusement her dad shares with Natalie. 

Are they enjoying this? Bob’s about to go to jail and they’re enjoying it? 

He wants to die. He wants the ground to swallow him up here and now. 

“And losing his dog.”

Her parents simply stare at him. He can’t even stare back. Bob’s not sure he’s even breathing. 

“But it’s fine!” Yelena reassures him, shaking him gently. Her dad clears his throat and Yelena addresses him next. “I told him Beverly always finds her way home. She just likes to wander.”

And suddenly, something changes. 

“You’re Carol’s nephew?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He’d like to hide, but that’s not possible, not with Yelena still clinging to him.

Yelena’s parents exchange A Look – one of those adult things where they talk to each other with just their eyes. Then, her mother looks at him, sighs and offers him a small smile. 

“Okay, put on your shoes, come on.”

Yelena is reluctant to let him go, holding even tighter when he tries to squirm out of her grasp – until her mother gives her another Look. With a pout that doesn’t reach her eyes, she releases him, and he shuffles out and out of her bed so he can pull on his velcro shoes one handed. 

Once finished, he looks up at Yelena’s parents. “Is she mad?” he whispers. Are you mad? 

Yelena’s mom laughs airily, opening the curtains and letting daylight enter the room. Still, she makes a point of looking him in the eye when she talks. “No, darling, just worried.”

“Is she gonna…” Yell at him? Hit him? Lock him in a closet? For all the trouble Bob caused, he might even deserve that kind of punishment, but she seemed so nice and… 

A traitorous breath catches in his throat, forcing him to blink fast to avoid crying. Yelena’s father frowns, seeming worried, and crouches down in front of Bob, locking eyes with Nat and nodding a little. She nods back. 

“You’re safe here, kiddo. Let’s get this sorted out and then we’ll take you kids out for ice cream.” For his size, Yelena’s dad speaks surprisingly gently – though when he pats Bob’s shoulder, Bob jolts a little with the force of it. Not… unpleasantly so, though. Not like when his dad thumps his shoulder. Comforting. 

Nat yelps, hands on her hips, looking at her parents. When she talks, she sounds offended. “Yelena sneaks a kid into her room and you reward her with ice cream?”

Their mother answers that one, matching her posture. “What’s your point, Natalie?”

Nat grins, sending Yelena a look he can’t decipher and walking out of the room with a “no points made. Just information that’ll come handy in the future.”

He doesn’t care what Yelena says, Natalie is scary. But… still cool. Like rottweilers. 

Yelena’s father shepherds him out of the room once he has his shoes on, hand heavy on the back of his head, while her mother hangs back, instructing Yelena to get dressed as well. He can hear the beginnings of a lecture as he’s led away. 

“Yelena, you can’t trust every stranger you meet, I’ve told you this–” 

And then he’s out of earshot. Poor Yelena. 

Bob peeks around a little as he goes – the rest of the house looks just as nice as Yelena’s bedroom, though far less pink. For some reason, Bob can’t shake the feeling that there’s something off-putting about the distribution of furniture, but that makes no sense. He takes note of the many framed photos decorating the wall, from individual shots to family portraits. In all of them, he sees big, wide smiles. They look a lot happier than any of the pictures he has with his mom and dad. 

After a few moments, Yelena and her mother join them in the foyer. Yelena’s no longer in her unicorn pajamas, but in a peachy shirt with little ruffles around the sleeves. She bounds up to his side when she sees him, and links her arm with his. Her hair is up in two ponytails. 

“Come on,” she says, “let’s go, let’s go!”

She – and her parents – know exactly where to go, which is good because he doesn’t recognize any of their surroundings in the daylight. Nothing looks even the slightest bit familiar yet, but they seem confident as they lead him along, and he has to assume they’re right. Natalie follows him close behind, with their parents trailing after.

Despite their assurances, Bob’s stomach ties itself in knots about how much trouble he has to be in, how mad Aunt Carol has to be at him – right up until they’re marching up to her house and she stops talking to an officer to drop to her knees in front of him, throwing her arms around his shoulders. 

“Oh, baby, there you are! I’ve been worried sick!” And she sounds like it too; her breath is shaking, coming in in little gasps. 

“I’m sorry, Aunt Carol. It won’t happen again.” He kicks at the dirt, avoiding the police officer’s glare.

Aunt Carol steps back and takes him in; patting his cast gingerly and smothering his hair.  “I’m sorry too,” she says, sighing  in what he assumes is relief. “I didn’t realize it was that late when I asked you to walk Bev. You must’ve been terrified.”

“Just for a second. Yelena helped.” He’s glad he’s already looking away, because he can feel his face warm a little when he says it. 

Aunt Carol stands up but her hands are still on his shoulders. “You made a friend?”

“I think so?” He glances back. The police officer is talking to Yelena’s parents now, writing away in his little notepad; Nat stands in front of Yelena, shielding her from view, but Yelena peeks around her to wave at him, grinning. He waves back, less enthusiastic. 

“Oh! You were with the Rowleys?” Aunt Carol laughs, hand on her forehead. “I feel silly I called the police.”

Bob glances at the officer. He doesn’t seem upset, but… “Are they mad at me too?”

“No one is mad at you, darling.” Aunt Carol smooths his hair back with a tender hand, again, and offers him small smile. Bob finds himself leaning into her touch.

He’s not sure he really believes that, but he doesn’t know what to do about it, so he just says: “Yelena’s dad said he wants to take us out for ice cream.”

“Did he?” 

He nods. “Can we go?”

Bob knows he sounds slightly lame but he can’t help it; he’s not ready yet to let go of Yelena. 

His aunt sends him a funny look, a glint in her eye, but nods regardless. “Yeah, but let’s get you changed first.”

Oh. Right. He’s still wearing his clothes from yesterday. They’re smudged with dirt from Yelena’s mother’s garden. And wrinkled all over from sleeping in them all night. 

At his Aunt’s urging, Bob heads inside and up the stairs to the little bedroom that’s been reserved for him. Bob rifles through his suitcase, still unpacked and sitting on the bed. He takes out all the stuff he packed with such care and drops it on the floor, not minding where it lands. 

There’s no pink at all in there – unsurprising, since it’s not a color he thinks he has at home in his wardrobe at all, either. That’s never bothered him before – he’s more a fan of reds and blues, and his dad is very clear that certain colors are for sissies, anyway. Now, though, he kind of wishes he had something to match Yelena’s pink shirt. 

Instead, he picks out his favorite shirt – one with all the ninja turtles – and his comfiest shorts, the ones with the snap instead of a button to struggle with. For some reason the socks he finds don’t match but who’s gonna notice? 

When he comes back downstairs, Aunt Carol is still talking to the police officer in the front yard, along with Yelena’s parents. They all nod in unison to whatever he’s saying, exchanging looks here and there. 

He wanders over to where Yelena is currently engrossed in giving Bev two-handed belly rubs that make the old dog wiggle around, with Nat kneeling down and idly patting Bev’s head while watching the adults like a hawk.

“…is Aunt Carol in trouble?” He remembers all those stern lectures reminding him that he is never to call the police unless there’s an emergency – and upset feelings and a bit of yelling was never to be considered an emergency, and neither was being pushed around, so maybe misplacing a kid wasn’t, either?

“No, but my parents might be,” Nat says matter-of-factly.

This alarms him. “Really?”

“Sure. A missing kid showed up at their house after hours of active searching. Looks funny, doesn’t it?”

Oh, no, they’re never going to let him play with Yelena now, are they?

Yelena, however, is unconcerned. “Pshhh, you’re here now, they’ll understand! It's fine!

“It’s something,” Nat says, watching the adults intently. Then she looks at him. “You’re really concerned about getting in trouble for a kid who crawled through a girl’s window in the middle of the night.”

“It wasn’t the middle of the night,” he protests weakly. 

“Yeah,” Yelena agrees, still doting on Beverly, “it was barely dark.”

“And I was – scared. I didn’t mean to get anyone in trouble!”

“Well, you did. But it might be… better that way.”

“Better?” he questions. 

When she meets his eyes she smiles, softening a little. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine.”

Eventually, the officer leaves, and Aunt Carol comes back, hands on her back. She looks older, somehow. Still, she smiles brightly at them. Nat smiles back.

“Alright, you kiddos ready for some ice cream?”

That gets a cheer from Yelena. The dog barks too. 

“Come on,” Aunt Carol says, “it’s not far, and we can finish Beverly’s walk.”

Aunt Carol lets Yelena hold Beverly’s leash as they walk. He notices that she doesn’t try pulling away from her. He can’t blame the old dog, though. Bob doesn’t want to leave Yelena’s side, either. 

The adults guide their path, but hang back a few steps, just enough for Bob to feel safe talking to Yelena.  

“Are you okay?” he whispers, glancing back to make sure no one notices him asking her. “I heard your mom talking to you, earlier.” Did she get yelled at? He hopes she didn’t get yelled at. It would be all his fault if she did. 

“What? Oh! She was just telling me I can’t trust everybody, and maybe I shouldn’t be letting strangers in through my window.” Yelena laughs. “She’s silly. I know who to trust!”

And she bumps her shoulder against his. Her mom must be pretty nice, then. Good. 

The ice cream shop is small, but bright and painted in cheery colors. No one bats an eye when Beverly comes in; the girl behind the counter just waves at Aunt Carol. As they start picking out flavors, she puts a little cup of vanilla ice cream on the counter, which Aunt Carol sets on the floor. Beverly trudges over and laps it up with more enthusiasm than he’s seen from her the whole time he’s been here.

They let him take his time looking at the flavors – they even let him pick. He chooses blueberry. He’s never had blueberry ice cream before, but it’s his favorite lollipop flavor, so he should like this, right? And they let him get the big scoop, instead of the dinky little kid scoop his mom always makes him get, and then steals a spoonful of, anyway. They’re definitely rich.

Yelena wants a booth, but trying to fit into one is an exercise in disaster – mostly because Yelena’s dad is a mountain of a man and they can’t all fit into one booth. 

So they split up, adults in one, kids in the other. 

Nat takes the side closest to her parents – from the look on her face, she’s definitely listening in. And for the looks their parents send Nat, they’re fully aware of it. 

The adults mostly talk around them instead of to them, which is fine with him. Bob catches bits and pieces on occasion – ‘police trouble’ and ‘so sorry about all this’ and ‘at least the kids are happy’ – but it’s hard to concentrate with Yelena flitting around, moving from one side of the booth to the other every minute or so, wanting to be next to Nat but also next to him.

She keeps bumping him and nearly making him drop his spoon. He doesn’t really mind, though. 

This time, when she slides in next to him, she pokes his arm.

“Hey,” she says, voice muffled through a big mouthful of ice cream, “after this, d’you wanna play knights and dragons? Nat’s a really good dragon!”

He hesitates. “I dunno, I… I can’t do much with my arm like this.”

“That’s okay!” she reassures him. “You could be the princess and I’ll come rescue you!”

Bob frowns. “But I’m not a girl.”

Yelena shakes her head. “That doesn’t matter. Dragons only take princesses, everybody knows that.”

“Wouldn’t you be the princess, though?” She looks like one.

Yelena rolls her eyes. “If I was a princess, I couldn’t fight the dragon, obviously.”

“Oh.” That makes sense. “But then, wouldn’t I be a prince?”

“Mmm… Nat, can dragons capture princes?” 

Nat pauses, her spoon of chocolate caramel ice cream half-raised to her mouth. “Sure, they can capture whoever they want.”

Yelena nods. “Okay! So, you’ll be a prince, and I’ll come rescue you. But you still have to give me a kiss.”

Bob drops his spoon with a splatter, his glasses fogging a little. He hears Nat snicker under her hand.  “A kiss?!” 

“Uh-huh! Princesses always give the knight a kiss after they’re rescued, so princes must, too.”

“I can’t do that!” he protests, voice cracking. He’s pretty sure that’s against some sort of rule, isn’t it?

Yelena pouts. “If you don’t, then it means I didn’t do a good job saving you!”

“Oh.” And that would make her sad. Making Yelena sad might not be against the rules, but it feels like it. “I don’t know how to kiss, though?” Mama says it’s something he doesn’t need to worry about until he’s older. Or ever, his dad had added. 

“It’s easy! You just–” And she darts forward and presses a kiss to his cheek. “There!”

That’s not so bad. It’s… kind of nice, he supposes. He can do that. “...okay,” he says, resisting the urge to just scoot closer and kiss her cheek in return. “After you save me.” 

Yelena beams at him. “And, and!” she says. “Maybe we can have another sleepover!”

“You mean it?” She really wants him to come back? 

“Of course, silly!” 

His cheeks warm at her quick reassurance – and then a thought occurs to him. “Hey,” he says, “I’m sorry I fell asleep before we could catch the tooth fairy and, um, bargain.”

“That’s okay,” she says. “We got ice cream instead, and I can bargain next time.”

“Still…” If he hadn’t shown up, she probably would have been able to do it herself, without falling asleep. Sure, she can try to catch the tooth fairy the next time she loses a tooth, but that might not be for ages. There he goes, messing things up again. 

That thought is interrupted when she pokes his forehead. “Don’t look sad!”

“Do I?” 

“Yes. And–” Something mischievous passes over her face, and she squints at him. 

“...what?”

“You have something, there.” She points to the center of his face.

“Where?” Bob goes cross-eyed trying to see.

“Right here!”

And before he can react – Yelena reaches out and dots his nose with a smudge of watermelon ice cream, giggling when he scrunches his face at the cold.

“Not fair!” He scoops up a generous amount of blueberry ice cream and holds it aloft – and she shrieks and slides out of the booth, so of course he has no choice but to chase after her.

In the end, much of the rest of their ice cream goes uneaten, just smeared on their faces and dotting their clothes. 

And no one is mad at him, even a little bit. 

Chapter Text

The few remaining memories of the summers they shared together are the most precious possessions in Yelena’s fragmented mind. They are not many, and probably most of them were made up in a desperate attempt to make sense of the gaps in her recollections, but she holds them close all the same.

Some memories, a very small few, are sharp and clear. She can see them so vividly that they simply must be real. 

Her mother’s fingers in her hair as she fell asleep. Her father swinging her up into his arms, laughter loud and contagious. Handstands with Nat. Their whistle, a secret language only for them. These memories are detailed and of a rather elaborate nature, similar to the stories told by the false mother who raised her, filled with dreamlike characters and crazy situations, and clouded by a veil of bewilderment and irrevocable doubt. 

Others are… less lucid. But they feel real. 

Carrying a stool over to the counter to supervise… someone as they measured and mixed her mother’s cheesecake recipe  – which, for Yelena, really meant smashing up cookies into little bits and dutifully waiting to be handed a spoon to lick, or a bowl to put into the sink. That was real, right?

Still other memories are adrift in a haze of lost details. Did she ever really go on fishing trips? Or has she just imagined what that would have been like? She knows she took ballet classes, she knows it, but when she tries to remember the face of her instructor, Madame B.’s is the only one that comes to mind. 

So how can Yelena be sure that any of these memories are true? Perhaps they aren’t. Perhaps she dreamed of happier times for so long that she merely convinced herself that any of it was real. 

Either way, they are the only motivation she finds to keep her moving once she regains her freedom. They come to her without warning or announcement; falling over her most delicate moments and transforming her usually sullen afternoons into episodes of endless melancholy that always end, without a doubt, with her passed out on the bathroom floor. These snippets of a life that was never truly hers tend to wrap her in guilt and denial, and Yelena’s found that the only coping mechanism available for her to such conflictive emotions is straight vodka. She was raised Russian, after all. 

The thing that bothers her the most, and what haunts her nightmares nowadays, is the forgetting. The complete detachment that was forced into her psyche to separate the kid she used to be from the assassin they created. 

It’s been almost a decade since her mind was her own – since Dreykov decided conditioning wasn’t enough and started dosing them into absolute, unbreakable obedience. Nearly ten years since she could think clearly for more than a few seconds at a time. Reaching for foggy memories in the night as her own private acts of rebelliousness, turning over what she could recall again and again until she was remembering a copy of a copy of a copy and all the details were smoothed out. 

And now – well. Many of those memories remain foggy.  But… more return to her with each passing day; all thanks to that red dust, she supposes. 

It starts small – she laces her fingers together to pop her joints, and suddenly, she can recall the weight of a hand in hers, fingers interlaced, warm and certain and always following wherever she led. 

She dismisses it, then, but it’s like that one thought sparks another, and when the light in this busted old motel she’s taken temporary shelter in goes on the fritz, its flickering brings to mind all those nights of watching fireflies – and a boy, round-faced and bespectacled, looking at her in wonder as she held a firefly in her cupped hands.

It takes a few days more for her to recall his name, short and simple though it is. She tests it carefully, feeling the weight of it on her tongue: Bob. Yes, that sounds right. It seems… familiar. 

Bob, who was… sweet. 

Was he… real, though? Or is he something she dreamed up in her loneliness? Mind control is a hell of a thing; if she’d ever known the answer to that question, 9 years of complete obedience have stripped that certainty away. 

It’s laughable, how her handlers tortured her to forget one of the only souls who has ever been kind to her, and now that Yelena’s free of that hold, she’s torturing herself with all these what ifs. 

If he was real, it’s almost inconceivable that in the years that were stolen from her, she has not thought of Bob even once. Maybe when she was first taken, when the summers they shared as kids were still fresh in her mind, and she clung to those happy months in order to save some of her sanity between the walls of the Red Room, but sorting through those memories is like walking through mud. 

Uncomfortable, to say the least, and it always leaves a whole fucking mess she’ll need to clean after her blood is no longer made of pure alcohol. For all her thinking and overthinking, she has reached nowhere with these obsessions, and even when Yelena’s out cold lying lifelessly on whatever tiled floor she landed on, she can’t escape the ramifications of her brain finally being released from all those chemicals. 

Her dreams are plagued by scenes from a life that never belonged to her. Late nights chasing fireflies and lazy mornings where time froze still to allow them the liberty of plotting neverending adventures in their gentle ignorance. They were so young. So innocent. There were no warning signs, no clue to what the future would hold for them, or for Yelena at least, in all that time.

She remembers, and dismisses as disputable in a burst of nostalgia, the noble intentions of a boy who never learned how to treat her as a fragile thing, much to her delight, and the witty laughter of a sister who enjoyed being their guardian when she surely had more important things to pay attention to. Her own life was also about to be taken from her, after all, and yet all she cared about was making her baby sister happy. 

Yelena is banking on that heroic nature even now; Natasha the hero, who can surely do something with that red dust she’d sent her. More than Yelena ever could, that’s for sure. 

But what remains to decide then is… what comes next. Hiding from Dreykov until Natasha does… whatever an Avenger does is wisest, but – Yelena is not content. 

When Yelena decides to embark on the journey of her life, loaded with a suitcase half-full of gadgets that barely count as belongings and a passport courtesy of an invented person, she clings to one of the few things that she’s convinced is real. By process of elimination, she reasons that the image that came to her in dreams just four nights ago must be true, because there is no reason for her poor mind to conjure it even as a form of torture.

It’s just after her birthday, though which one, she cannot recall; still, she remembers that there were still bits of streamers taped to the ceiling that they hadn’t bothered to take down, yet. 

She’s wearing a borrowed white dress. There was something about it – where it came from? – that meant something, but she cannot recall yet what that was. Her mother is seated on a bench in the midst of armfuls of stuffed animals and furbies, camcorder in hand; her father waits by the glass door to the backyard, ready to walk her to where Bob is dressed in a red Power Ranger costume. She remembers… a gummy peach ring slid onto her finger, and hands intertwined as they grinned for the camera.

A wonderful wedding, by all accounts. 

In the fall of 2016 Yelena Belova, with her memories and will recently restored and with her heart blackened by anger and grief, decides that if she wants to stay alive she needs to find a source of joy similar to those she had before her life went to hell. The Russian spies who raised her as their own have vanished from the face of the earth, her sister is too busy saving the world to remember the little sister she left behind in her quest for greatness, and the widows she helped free from the Red Room want nothing to do with her. 

But somewhere out there in the world is someone who was kind to her, who held her hand and played pretend with her, and who didn’t drag her into 20 years of hell.

She has no choice. She needs to find her husband. 

It’s very puzzling how time and separation play tricks on your brain to make your memories seem brighter or shinier when you want them to be. When you so desperately need those memories to be reassuring instead of haunting, you force yourself to make them so. Yelena knows this in a clinical sense; she was taught to use longing in her favor if she needed to get some information linked with emotions that aren’t instant fear or anger. Knows that nostalgia, regret, and even yearning are powerful manipulation tactics, useful in most targets who still preserve an ounce of humanity. 

In her former line of work, some people wouldn’t bend for a well executed punch or the threat of imminent danger, but would easily fold after a precisely said comment, or a gently placed compliment. Whatever puts their minds in that sweet sentimental place where you need to babble, or confess, or deny. It was never one of her favorite ploys, favoring brute force over silly talk, but obviously she excelled at it. Yelena mastered it alongside other various methods of torture, and that’s why she can now admit with sorrow and even embarrasment that her mind might have played some games on her when she wasn’t paying attention. 

The memories of the happy childhood she had in Mount Vernon, Ohio, are perhaps a bit exaggerated. Obviously, Yelena knows that the mythical creatures that chased after her in those endless summer afternoons don’t exist, and that the battleships and haunted castles consisted of her tree house or a bunch of boxes covered with sheets, but there were things she was convinced were real. Or, at least, logical. 

Because when you resign logic, you end up with stuff like this. 

Who the fuck paints a house green? Alright, Yelena hasn't lived here in almost two decades and she has no right to complain about whatever the new owners do with the property, but that shade of green? With those roof tiles? Fucking millennials. 

She remembers soft white walls covered by purple wisteria, white rose bushes under the windows, and blue hydrangeas around the tree house. Her mother liked botanics, and all things pretty, so the house always smelled like a greenhouse during spring and decay during fall. 

The rose bushes she used to crouch down and hide behind should be growing halfway up the walls by now, but instead, they're cut back to stumps, ugly and utterly useless as a hideout. There’s not a flower in sight now; not here, at 412 S Mountain Pass, Mount Vernon, and not in the entire surrounding block, either. The houses are structurally the same, one or two story constructions with two to three bedrooms, open space for the social areas and one and a half bathrooms, but they all sport impersonal façades in pastel tones that give the neighborhood a sort of Pinterest moodboard vibe instead of the homey atmosphere it once offered. At least the doors stayed the same; handmade white oak, courtesy of her father getting really fucking bored in the summer of 1997 and picking up woodwork as a hobby. 

Wonder if they still display Yelena’s and Nat’s height measurements. And wonder, too, if someone was kind enough to save and store all the dolls and drawings she left behind. There’s no chance the new family that lives here now uses the drawer over the microwave as a snack hideout, but who knows? Maybe the restroom door still creaks loudly and wakes everyone up if someone needs the bathroom in the middle of the night. What are the chances that the new family dries their clothes behind the fridge when the dryer is too packed so no one runs out of clean laundry? 

Can they tell this house is haunted? Were they told about the sins and tragedies that took place in here? Would they like to know now? 

It’s a great show of strength on Yelena's part how she manages to stay put and not bang on the door of the house she once loved to yell at its new occupants about their shitty taste in paint and all the heartbreak its causing her. 

Instead, she parks around the block and lets the sight drill a new hole in her heart. 

No matter how angry it makes her to accept her house is no longer hers to be angry about, it’s even worse to take in Aunt Carol’s house and realize the home that once housed the greatest part of her childhood is now no one’s house. 

Yelena doesn’t need to be a genius to reach the instant conclusion that no one has lived here in years. Decades, even. What once was a beautiful garden, carefully curated to Carol’s taste in flowers – always the ones that attracted the most hummingbirds, like petunias and honeysuckles – is now just a piece of dry, matted land. 

Gone are the million little things that made this house so extraordinary to Yelena for reasons she still doesn’t fully comprehend. Her mind, in this particular moment, can’t provide her with more of a few images of whatever scattered memories Yelena made here, and the distinct feeling that it was not enough. In her yellow overalls, with patched knees and worn-out sneakers, she would cross the street, hand in hand with Nat, ring the bell and… what? She always had a good time here, but what exactly would happen is somewhat foggy. 

The only thing she’s sure of is that the magic that lived within these walls, once shiny in soft shades of blue and now neglected to a pasty grim grey, has been gone for… maybe as long as Yelena. 

Even so, she knocks on the door, just to be safe, dreading both alternatives. Carol was always sweet to her, from what she can recall. No need to give the woman a heart attack in case she is deciding to live this way. Who knows. 

Predictably, though, there's no answer, and after a minute Yelena begins to jimmy the lock. It’s a simple task; if Carol were here, she’d give the woman a gentle lecture about the importance of picking more secure locks. 

When she opens the door, she knocks over a mountain of mail that spills everywhere and raises a cloud of dust that makes her nose itch. She’s fully aware of where every little envelope and magazine and flyer lands, but lets herself get adjusted to the dim light for a second once the door is closed before starting to work. 

Tries the light switches, the lamps distributed around the living room, even a tiny domestic flashlight she finds by the fireplace, but whoever decides who gets power and who doesn't must have cut off the electricity long ago, enough that even the flashlight battery has expired. It’s clear outside, but opening the curtains is not an option. Doesn’t matter. 

Her training kicks in and Yelena lets muscle memory walk her through the steps that every location sweeping entails. She does it on automatic, checking every door and window, drawers, cabinets, the appliances. No groceries in the pantry or rotting food in the fridge. No dirty dishes by the sink or clothes in the washing machine. Every curtain is thick with dust and dead moths, and the occasional spider here and there. No danger. 

She passes the living room, and glances inside. 

Yelena wasn't supposed to watch much TV, but sometimes, when she slept over in the summers, they managed a few episodes of whatever show that was airing late at night on Cartoon Network before his Aunt Carol woke up and reminded them that she'd promised Yelena’s parents not to break their rules and made them switch the TV off. 

That’s also where Carol had kept her collection of little tchotchkes. Yelena had broken one of those glass unicorns by mistake. Bob had panicked, she remembers now. Always so worried about being good. Carol had just laughed and said that this was a wonderful opportunity to buy herself a new one – in fact, she’d seen a rather intriguing one at the swap meet the other week. Maybe she’d be lucky and see it again. 

Well, the glass unicorns seem intact, lining the shelves of the entertainment center, but they’re not going to help Yelena figure out where to go next. Yelena moves on. 

The square marks on the walls suggest a long absence of pictures and photographs, probably removed by the same person who left the house in these conditions, and the irregular presence of dust on the decorative tables and wood shelves indicates that Carol’s most valuable belongings must be decorating another house that’s not this. Some family member, most likely. Burglars would’ve taken everything, not just the good china and the photo albums. 

There were many of those, Yelena remembers now. On her free days, Carol would tag along and follow her and Bob around their backyards with a Polaroid camera, asking them to smile and please stop rolling in the dirt, she just planted those geraniums. The memory brings a smile to her face. 

Right. 

Well, if neither Carol nor Bob is here, Yelena's going to have to look elsewhere. There may be a clue within all that mail she knocked over. 

She returns to the doorway and begins to sort through it. Most of the top – or, rather, what had been sitting at the top, before toppling over – is junk mail. Easy enough to disregard. Who even sends physical mail, in this year of the lord, 2016? Everything is digital, but it seems like whoever was in charge of taking Carol’s belongings didn’t bother with canceling her subscriptions to… Fine Gardening? Good to know some things stayed the same. 

And below that is… bills. Lots of bills. Medical bills, primarily, addressed to Carol Marie Reynolds, charging her insurance for stuff as trivial as an IV bag to – Yelena’s not gonna bother reading all those medical terms. She leafs through the envelopes, noticing how none of the institutions listed as the billing addresses refer to treatment places, but instead palliative care. 

So Carol got sick. Terminally ill. 

Most likely dead by now. 

Yelena doesn’t recall sitting down but is grateful for the closeness of the sofa she lands on, dusty like everything else in the house, but comforting in its own right. She loved this couch once; lying on her stomach with Bob mirroring her stance, reading the same book but upside down, flipping the pages too soon for his liking. 

Of course Yelena knew Carol was gone, but she didn’t think she’d be gone for good.

But there’s no use in letting grief overtake her when she’s on a mission, so she quickly shakes the dust from her clothes and returns to the disregarded papers. However, there isn’t much that's useful in this massive pile if she wants to pinpoint Bob’s current whereabouts. 

She continues on, heading down the hall. 

The kitchen is pretty bare; a little dusty, like everything else, but tidy. There’s a few papers stuck to the fridge with magnets – and more than a few crayon drawings, signed with a simple ‘Bob’ at the bottom – but nothing useful. 

Yelena leaves this behind, and resumes her journey.

The bathroom isn’t helpful, and the hall closet is stuffed only with jackets and sweaters and various sporting equipment, much of which looks brand new. She doesn’t recall Carol being particularly athletic. Funny. 

Maybe she’ll have more luck on the second floor. 

The stairs creak beneath her weight and for a moment, she wonders if they're old enough to worry about them giving way. Perhaps termites have moved in in the meantime and begun feasting on the foundations of the house. But she makes it to the second floor without incident. 

She glances into the first room on the right – another bathroom. Exactly as she would expect it to look; no clues there.

She moves farther down the hall, to the next door, opens it – and nearly closes it right back up when she realizes that this is the room that Bob stayed in, when he came to visit, as fragments of memories beset her immediately. She remembers – 

Making blanket forts, challenging themselves to build each new one bigger, grander, more lavish than the one before, sometimes ending in piles of books meant to hold up a corner toppling over onto them. 

All those little plastic stars and moons on the ceiling, helping Carol add more to the walls – though, mostly she thinks they rolled around on the rug and stuck stars to each other’s faces rather than actually doing much helping.

And – a summer storm that caught them off guard, made them run in barefoot and muddy, leaving little puddles on the stairs as they fled to the safety of his room, both insisting that they weren’t scared, no, not a bit! And yet, shrieking when lightning split the sky and thunder rolled in a half-second after. Clinging to each other in fright – and then dissolving into giggles. 

No, focus. She’s here to find clues, not get lost in nostalgia.

But, though she scans the room carefully, everything here looks… pretty damn frozen in time. She can't say she exactly recalls how it looked 20 years ago, but if she were to hazard a guess, she’d say it was a lot like this. Like it hasn’t really been lived in since then. The decor is pretty childish. She can’t imagine not changing it if he stayed here much longer – Power Rangers might remain a nostalgic favorite, sure, so perhaps that poster is excused, but the dinosaur sheets? The Barney plush? Not exactly the sort of thing a kid would want to hold on to through adolescence. At the very least, she would have thought he would’ve swapped something out for the Ninja Turtles, with how often she recalls him gushing about them. Did those summer trips end not long after she – disappeared? …did Carol die soon after? 

A new pang of pain plagues her – and Yelena pushes it down. No. Best not to dwell on it. Though, is that–? 

Yes, that’s one of her old soccer jerseys, tacked to the wall near his bed. That’s right, she’d given it to him at the end of one summer, hadn’t she? The team always got new ones at the start of the season, so it was no trouble parting with it, since she’d soon outgrow it, anyway. Yelena had done something with it, what was it…? Wait. The memory is dim, but… some kind of plot to give him a belated birthday gift? Or an early birthday gift. One or the other. Something about the number was special, wasn’t it?

But. Irrelevant to her search. 

She backs out of the room, closing the door carefully, and continues down the hall to the last door. 

Ah. This one is Carol’s room. This ought to be helpful, at last. And… maybe a little less emotionally fraught. Yelena steps inside. 

The bed is neatly made – or mostly so, anyway; the right side is slightly mussed – with a pastel quilt made of mostly floral panels looking rather inviting. 

Yelena steps past this, and checks the top of the dresser first; there’s some papers here, a few pieces of chunky jewelry, a mostly-empty perfume bottle, and more little glass unicorns. But the papers are merely a collection of coupons, neatly snipped and arranged and more than a decade out of date. Damn.

Where else, then? 

Yelena scans the room once more. There, the end table; that looks promising. 

Yelena perches on the side of the bed and begins to look at the bedside table. There’s a few papers on top; Yelena picks these up and scans them.

More bills; one from a hospital, one for… more palliative care. The addresses they’re sent from are both local places, so that doesn’t help. She sets these aside – and pauses.

There, previously hidden by the papers, is a strangely familiar looking rock with a silly face crudely painted on. They used this in games of pretend, didn’t they? What did they call it, again…?

Ah. Right. Bob Jr. How inventive they had been. Still, she finds herself smiling. 

Yelena picks up the rock, mystified by the sudden rush of fondness that overcomes her when she looks down at this childish thing.

“Hello there,” she says, voice coarse. Fuck, when was the last time she talked to someone? Of course, Bob Jr. stays silent. “Long time no see. Have you been left behind, too?” She clicks her tongue. “We can't have that.”

It provides no further clues as to where to go next, and yet… she tucks it into her bag, giving it a little pat once it's safely stowed away. 

Then she opens the drawer and begins to rifle through it. Bills.. bills… god, how many bills did Carol have? A few spools of embroidery thread, a worry stone… also not useful. But she keeps looking. And there, among the little knick-knacks and assorted receipts, Yelena finds an envelope, and inside it is a birthday card.

It’s store-bought, Hallmark-brand, but beneath the generic message is scrawled ‘Happy birthday, Aunt Carol! I love you! I hope you eat so so much cake!!’

There's a little picture of… is that supposed to be a horse underneath it? A unicorn? Or some kind of blob monster with hooves? And a little white… dog? She thinks?

And underneath that – ‘Love, Bob (and Fanny).’

She checks the envelope again. Sure enough, there’s an address. 1515 Oak Way, Sarasota Springs, Florida, 34232. 

There. That seems viable. That’s where she'll go next.

Never mind the fact that it’s halfway across the country, never mind the fact that she really ought to go back into hiding, as Mason had urged her, even offering up some potential safe houses. But the isolation is driving her crazy. Assuming she doesn’t get herself killed in the process, she can always hide away again later. 

As she makes to stand, her fingers brush something underneath one of the pillowcases. She pulls it out.

It’s… a photograph. 

The boy in it – well, that has to be Bob, right? Older than when she last saw him. A teenager, here? But… similar enough to recognize him. Longer hair, slightly less round cheeks, different glasses. Still Bob, though. 

And… god, Carol.

They’re both smiling, but Bob’s smile looks weak – and Carol looks deeply ill, gaunt, with deep purple rings beneath her eyes. Yelena knows, again, that everybody dies one day.

But… death has been her domain for so long that in some way, it felt as though that sort of violence was reserved for her line of work. That those outside it would be granted some softer end. That isn’t how that works, of course. Hell, she’s blown up enough buildings that innocent collateral might outnumber the number of targets she’s had that actually deserved it in some way, so really, she should know all this extremely well. But it’s – hard to swallow, in this moment. That the woman who was a lovely neighbor for years, who oversaw their sleepovers and took them to get ice cream, would die such a drawn out, ignoble death. It isn’t fair.

How childish of her, to think the world cares about what she finds fair.

And –  because apparently she hasn’t had enough suffering to last a lifetime, her brain betrays her and Yelena finds herself thinking, then, of her mother. Of that fatal injury she had sustained during their… extraction, and of the way she’d gone so pale and quiet and still, all the life seeping out of her despite Natasha’s attempts to put pressure on the wound. What an ignoble death she had had then, too.

At least Carol never found out what happened. It would have crushed her. The two of them had always seemed so close. So – that’s fair, isn’t it? One pain she was spared of? Or… is that more unfair, actually, to go through life wondering, perhaps imagining that your dear missing friend was happy and safe somewhere, not knowing she’d bled out mere hours after you last saw her?

And it all hits Yelena at once. 

The sob bubbles up and out of her throat before she’s even realized it was building, and she claps a hand over her mouth reflexively – but who is there to hear, this time? No widows, no Madame, no Dreykov – why not let it out? Yes, tears are a sign of weakness, and yet, even so, perhaps she deserves to experience that again, soft though it may make her.

And… maybe she doesn’t actually have much of a choice in the matter. Even with both hands pressed over her mouth, her shoulders shake. 

So she lowers her hands, draws in a deep breath, and sobs.

She cries until her ribs hurt, and then she collapses onto the bed and cries some more, curling into herself as though making herself small will keep her safe, somehow. The unmade side of the bed is perfect for that, the blanket pulled back just enough to feel like there’s a barrier at her back, and she sinks into the space. She turns her face into the pillows – and pauses, ragged breath cut midway. Then she presses her nose to it and inhales deeply, though she sniffles a little as she does so. 

Is she imagining it? Or… is there a familiar scent there? Something powdery and a little bit floral and safe. She must be imagining that, though. Right? But it doesn't matter. She buries her nose in it and clutches the pillow harder, recalling Carol’s perfume and the hugs she would give – often when Yelena came to visit Bob, yes, but not always. She’d come to a ballet performance or two, she thinks, invited by her parents. 

She remembers the way Carol’s perfume mingled with her mother’s, sometimes, and now she thinks of her mother, again; false though she may have been, she was the only one Yelena ever had, and her comfort – her love – certainly felt real to her, back then. 

And Yelena weeps.

Not only for her mother, and Carol, and Bob, but because she’s allowed to. For the first time in forever, her heartbreak is her own, and all the grief and the anger, the betrayal and the madness, all the pain is no longer manipulated out of her so she cries and cries and cries. 

It's hard to say how long it takes to no longer be racked with sobs, but it feels like a good amount of time has passed. She feels… better, though. A little. Fragile and yet – more human than she has in a long time. She sits up and rubs at her eyes, giving herself a few minutes to regain her strength and force her breath to stop coming in small hiccups. Right. That’s all well and good, but she still has something she needs to do. Get it together, Yelena. 

She rises, photograph still in hand, and begins to make her way to the door, then pauses – and turns on her heel, marches over to the dressing room, and snatches up the mostly empty perfume bottle. She gives it a test sniff. It’s – a little different than she expects; perhaps her memories are simply wrong, or… perhaps the smell has changed with age. But regardless, it’s powdery, floral… familiar. 

“Sorry, Carol,” she murmurs, like she’s a misbehaving child, and then she drops the bottle – and photo – into her bag. It’s theft, sure, but who’s around to care about that? Not Carol anymore, clearly. And though the house has not fallen into ruin, it certainly doesn’t seem looked after. This will serve her better than just languishing on the dresser. She… doesn’t have much else that’s familiar.

In fact – Yelena leaves the bedroom and starts down the hallway, but does not continue on to the stairs, not just yet. Instead, she stops in front of the door to Bob’s room. She places her hand on the doorknob and hesitates, only for a moment, then opens the door once more. She isn’t searching, this time. She knows exactly what she’s going for.

She climbs onto the bed, mindful of the fact that it is child-sized and the frame might not be entirely up for holding her weight, then stands and carefully unpins the jersey from the wall. This, like everything else in the house, is a little dusty, but she pays it no mind. She simply folds it carefully and tucks it into her bag, then turns and hops down again. 

Yelena gives the room one last once-over, trying to dispel the faint flicker of discomfort that comes along with being surrounded by things that bring to mind memories she can only remember in part. And… hold on, what’s that?

On his nightstand is… a Polaroid, faded and a little discolored, like it didn’t develop quite right. Her and Bob, arms thrown over each others’ shoulders, grinning and flushed like they’d been running just before this picture was taken. 

She reaches for it – and pauses. What, she’s just going to keep snatching up any little object that reminds her of her childhood? She’s so starved for memories of better times that she’s reduced to theft, now? A rock, perfume bottle, a jersey, two photos… how much is she entitled to? But – the jersey was hers, once. Bob Jr. was once hers, too – in a way, she’s just… taking back custody. And she’s in this photo. It’s – the only proof she’s had that she was once… normal. Happy. A sign that maybe she can be again, one day. 

…the perfume she has less of an excuse for, but Carol always was quite generous with her gifts and, damn it, she never got to keep mementos. Wouldn’t this one be alright? And the other photo – she has no right to it, she knows it. But that feels like proof in a way, too. That these people that flicker in and out of memories were real. And… she can always give it to Bob when she sees him again. If Carol’s gone, then he’s its rightful owner. Yeah, that would make it right, wouldn’t it?

So it’s really not too much. Because if she's being honest about it she wants so much more than this. She wants – well. She wants to comb the house top to bottom, search for any other traces of the childhood that comprised the happiest years of her life. Put them all in her car and then come back for more, until her greed is satisfied. Pack the drawings and the unicorns and even the fucking medical bills. 

But… no. She can’t waste that much time on pure nostalgia. This, though… this she can accept. So Yelena plucks the Polaroid from where it lay, and puts it with the rest of her things. 

She closes the door with a soft click that nevertheless feels rather final. As she goes down the stairs, her next steps crystalize in her mind. She has her next target.

Florida. Sarasota Springs. 

She’s one step closer to finding Bob.