The Unbreakable Code (a YJ fanfic)

Chapter Seven: Back Problems

"Even the sun sets in paradise."
Maroon 5, Payphone

"You hit me!" Dad yelled, clutching at his lower face, as I paced up and down angrily.

"And you," I retorted, "borrowed ninety hundred thousand dollars, from a bloodybcrime lord!"

"I know what I did," he mumbled ruefully, trying to see his reflection in the nearby dustbin.

"And I can't believe it!" I yelled, throwing my hands in the air. "Why the hell would you even so much as think of doing that, you silly twat?!"

"I was in a depression!" He tried to defend himself.

"So was Natasha!" I shrieked. "But I don't think she went around asking possible Mafia Gangs if she could borrow ridiculous amounts of money!"

"Soviets are different!" Dad whined, looking like a kicked puppy.

"And clearly, they are more sensible!"

"Hey!"

"Just put your nationalism in a bag, for once! Asshole!"

"I refuse to admit that a communist can cope with grief better than I can!"

"Natasha isn't a communist, you wanker!"

"I don't care what she is!"

"Well you should, 'cuz she did one hell of a job better than you did at raising me!"

"That is a personal attack!"

"That was the point!"

"Who said I raised you badly?"

"For one thing, you would take your ten year old daughter on missions or whatever you call them, that could potentially get her bloody killed!"

"It's all part of learning experience!"

"Secondly, you taught her how to use a gun, when she could have been in school learning things that couldn't kill other human beings!"

"Again, experience! And I am pretty sure that gun training became very useful when you were a sidekick!"

"For your information, I was not a sidekick!"

"Another thing: the American education system is a disgrace!"

"Is the Ukrainian one any better?"

"Obviously!"

"And I wonder why!"

We stood for a moment, staring each other down with furious looks and racing minds.
A cough interrupted us, and we both whipped around, to see Natasha. "I heard screaming," she offered.

"Of course you bloody did," I growled, glaring at Dad. He snorted, and folded his arms, giving the impression of a five year old that had been refused cake.

"I admit nothing," he paused. Then he decided to spit out rudely, "Soviet."

"Alright then," Natasha mumbled, whilst I whipped around at him furiously.

"What?" Dad exclaimed.

"Don't call her that!" I snapped.

"What do I call her?"

"Romanoff, would be preferable," Natasha said thoughtfully.

"Well then," Dad muttered, "Romanoff. What do we do?"

"You mean, what do you do?" I answered.

"Come on, Emilia!" He wailed.

"Shut up, male," Natasha sassed. "She doesn't want to help you."