The Fire in Which We Burn (Natasha x F!Reader)

Chapter 4: It's Just a Fantasy

Warnings: sexual themes (groping, kissing, teasing over clothes), manipulation, handcuffs, betrayal

How does that old saying go? When things seem too good to be true, then they probably are. That was certainly circling your head today.

It was a few weeks since Natasha had let you run. You'd made your way through multiple countries, circled back round and ended up in France for no other reason than you'd always meant to come here on holiday and never gotten around to it. Being on the run from the government was basically the same as taking an extended break, right?

The weather was glorious, especially in this little town by the sea. You loved the ocean, never felt calmer than when you were near it. The gentle ebb and flow of the waves as they crashed against the shore, the cool splash of the water as it licked your ankles. It eased the fire inside your soul, helped keep your head level in these uncertain times.

No one knew you here. That was the best part of hiding out in a holiday town. People came and went and the locals hated the tourists so much that they never paid them any more attention than was needed to earn a quick buck. In a sea of ever changing faces, you were invisible. You paid in cash, never with anything above a twenty euro note, and never drew attention to yourself.

A small town, there was almost no crime and the locals, despite their hatred of the noisy holidaymakers, were trusting beyond anything you'd find back home. Twenty seven CCTV cameras in the entire town; you knew, you'd counted twice. So long as you stayed away from the highstreet and kept to the shadows on the beach, it was easy to stay off the grid and away from prying eyes.

And yet, somehow, Natasha still found you.

The envelope sat on your kitchen counter, a short note beside it. There was nothing traditionally elegant about Natasha's handwriting. Each letter was constructed with sharp lines and the bare minimum of deviation. A spy's hand, no doubt: very little of character or, more importantly, forensic worth; could almost have been printed on a typewriter and very difficult to identify to any one person.

Despite that, though, there was a fluidity to the letters. A carefulness in their placement showed the time she'd taken to keep the note neat. The final full stop which looked too much like an 'x' for you to ignore.

You traced the words for the hundredth time before crumpling up the paper in your hands and setting it on fire. The ashes drifted down onto the countertop in a neat pile. While the words were gone, the evidence destroyed and completely unrecoverable, you could still see them when you closed your eyes. It was as if they had imprinted themselves on the back of your eyelids, glowing brightly in the dark.

A quiet ticking filled the kitchen and you made your decision. Without another thought on the matter, you turned and swiped your purse, keys and phone from the table. You didn't need to pack a proper overnight bag; there was enough money in your various accounts after the Hammer job to be able to afford some new clothes when you got there. The very thought of shopping for a new dress in the home of fashion filled you with a childish glee.

Waving down a taxi, you asked the driver politely: "Pouvez-vous me conduire à la gare?" He nodded and you slipped into the cab, nerves bubbling up for the first time in years. This was dangerous, beyond stupid. And yet you couldn't quite bring yourself to care because the possibility that this was real, that Natasha genuinely wanted to see you was beyond words.

You paid the man when you arrived at the station and gave him a healthy, but unmemorable, tip. The station was uncomfortably busy, far too many people - and too many cameras - but thankfully there was no queue at the ticket office. Tapping your fingers anxiously against the counter, desperate to get out of sight, you said, "Un billet pour Paris, s'il vous plait."