Cloudy With A Chance Of Assassination

PAIRING: Yelena Belova x Reader

SUMMARY: My new girlfriend takes meeting the relatives to a whole new level.

It’s cloudy up ahead, but patches of sunlight leak through certain gaps like chinks in the sky's armour, and a warm silver lines the clouds as the sun sets behind them. There are no pink or orange hues in the sunset this cloudy evening, just tinted blue and cream with grey mountains in the distance and muted coloured trees at their bases. I have one hand on the wheel of the car Yelena and I just bought together, a sleek black Fiesta, and the other on my partner in crime’s thigh. She has her window rolled down, the high speed we’re going at blowing her golden hair everywhere. I drum my fingertips along the wheel as an upbeat song starts to play.

She’s lost in the clouds, I can tell. I ask her if she’s imagining pictures out of the white puffs, but either the roaring wind at one ear or the song at her other is blocking her from hearing my words.

I squeeze her thigh. She smacks my hand and glances sideways at me, mossy green eyes playful. I allow myself a single glance before looking back at the road. “I asked what you’re seeing in the clouds.”

She turns the radio dial down. “What?”

I snort. “Nevermind.”

“You wanted attention?”

I flip her the bird, earning a boisterous laugh from her. “You were!”

I mimic her accent in a high-pitched voice. “You were totally like, give me attention! Because I’m Yelena Belova and I’m so special!”

“I don’t sound like that,” she objects. “You once said, and I quote, ‘your voice is deep and sexy, like if a dressage horse could speak.’”

I frown. “I don’t remember that. Was I drunk?”

“You were trying to outdrink me.”

“Oh. Were you cheating? I don’t black out that easily.”

“No, I wasn’t. And yes, you do.”

I grumble and turn the radio up again. She hums along to the song, Snap Out Of It by the Arctic Monkeys. We drive until the sun goes down, or at least until I notice her energetic nature die down like a used battery. I search up the nearest motel on my phone and by the time I’ve pulled in, she’s asleep.

I switch the engine off and relax into my seat. I allow myself a few seconds to admire the girl beside me.

I met her through a friend of mine, who lived in the apartment beside hers. I’d visit frequently, and she noticed and eventually grew tired of me oggling her everytime I passed her on the way out. So she coerced me into drinking too much red wine and then sent me over to her door, drunk and giggling.

I didn’t know much about her past. She’s from Russia, and she sometimes jokes that she’s actually a trained assassin. She grew up in a foster home, got close with a girl named Natalia, who ended up living in the Big Apple as a high school teacher with a husband who renovates houses. She calls her every other week before bed, I think, when I spend the night and she thinks I’m asleep. I never hear what they’re saying, but I enjoy falling into slumber listening to the soft hum of her voice through the plaster walls.

I admire her small, round, button nose, the even slope of her jawline, her long lashes that brush against her subtly tanned skin. We’ve only been dating for two months, but I’m positive I’m im love with her. We haven’t exchanged those words yet, though. The car is actually our first and only big step.

I gently shake her shoulders to wake her up, and she grumbles sleepily as she shifts and peeks up at me. “Where are we?”

“Motel. Didn’t feel like driving home. Come on, lazy bones, let’s get you a pillow.”

Once we’re settled in a room, stripped of jeans and bras so we’re just wearing shirts and underwear, I drift off with my head on her shoulder and my hand wrapped around her stomach.

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is the dried drool in the corner of my mouth. I don’t think much of it other than the teasing I’d endure in the morning when Yelena finds out I drooled on her.

I pull her closer and then frown.

I am holding a pillow.

My girlfriend is not said pillow.

I rub my eyes and sit up. It’s still dark outside, and the clock on my phone reads three in the morning. I scan the room for her figure, but I can’t see her silhouette lingering in any of the shadowed corners. I frown and push the duvet off of my body, shivering slightly as I maneuver around the bed and into the bathroom.

No sign of her.

I’m starting to get worried.

Quickly, I grab my jeans — at least I think they’re mine — and force my legs through them. I slip my phone in my pocket and head to the door.

It’s locked, which doesn’t make sense, because my current assumption that Yelena had gone out for a quick smoke would mean that she wouldn’t have gone far enough to warrant locking the door.

I swallow down the bad feeling in my gut and step outside.

The upper wrap-a-round level of the motel showed no people in sight. I head to the stairs and down to the front desk, where a young man with purple streaks in his hair sits, droopy-eyed and scrolling mindlessly through his phone.

“Um, excuse me, sir?” I ask tentatively, rubbing the goosebumps off my arms. I hadn’t brought my jacket.

His eyes flick up to meet mine. “Sir? You’re friendlier than your girlfriend.”

“I’m assuming you mean the blonde, very pretty, homicidal-looking woman I came in with?”

He sighs, turning his phone down. “Look, this is a motel. Things like this happen a lot. My advice is to run before the wife sees you.”

I stare at him blankly.

He stares back.

“Uh, what?”

“A tall redheaded woman came by, stole your girl for a talk. They were squabbling about you. I assumed … oh. You didn’t know. Well, who knows, could be a relative or something.”

My heart hammers against my ribcage wildly. I have to keep reminding myself that Yelena loves me, that she wouldn’t cheat on me, or cheat on anyone else with me, or … I feel myself becoming pale. Her scars, I’d never thought much of them, but with her mysterious past, and this mysterious paramour? She was running away from the woman who had now found her.

“Where did they go?” I demand, anger rushing through my veins.

He shakes his head, looking sympathetic. "I’ve seen this play out before, trust me when I say you don’t want to confront—"

“Tell me where they went or I will make you swallow your own fist.”

He recoils. "Christ, fine, they’re in the parking lot. For the record, I hope you get a good slappin’!“

I speed walk out of the motel and around the back, adrenaline rushing. I stop when I spot two figures under a streetlight by my car, one taller and waving her arms around as she speaks and the other, unmistakably my Yelena, glaring up with her arms crossed.

I march over to them. Their heads snap in my direction almost immediately. The redheaded woman pulls out a gun and aims it at me.

I yelp and freeze, hands up in surrender. Yelena yells something in Russian and smacks the weapon out of her hands before rushing towards me. ”(Y/N), what are you doing?“

"We’re leaving,” I say, completely freaked out. “Right now. You run, tell the guy in the office to call 911. I’ll fight her off.”

“What? No! (Y/N), this is my sister! She’s just paranoid.”

I gape at her. “I thought she was a science teacher!”

“I told you we should have met somewhere else,” the redhead hisses.

Yelena spits back in Russian.

“No, no Russian! Explanation, now!” I turn to the woman. “You’re Natalia?”

“Natasha.”

“Okay, Natasha the science teacher who owns a gun, what are you doing here?”

Her lips tighten into a fine line. “I’m not a science teacher, I’m an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., and I wasn’t expecting Yelena to have company when I came here to drag her back home.”

Yelena starts spurting more angry Russian words that mean nothing to me as I try to process what’s happening. The two sisters argue for a solid two minutes while I decide I must be dreaming.

The lies. The scars. The mystery. The jokes about being an assassin.

This is a living nightmare.

I turn and walk away.

Yelena calls out, "(Y/N)! Wait!“

I don’t stop until I’ve reached our room, where I promptly grab my jacket and bra and shove them in my bag.

”(Y/N), don’t leave,“ Yelena begs when she catches up, blocking the doorway with her body. "Let me explain, love, please.”

“Get out of my way,” I snap.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t turn around as she closes the door and backs up against it as if to provide another barrier between me and the world she’s trying to hide.

“Yelena,” I warn.

“Let me explain,” she pleads.

I stare her down, but she doesn’t seem to be budging any time soon. I drop my bag on the floor and sit on the bed with my arms crossed, glaring at her. “Fine. Enlighten me.”

She slowly eases away from the door. “I didn’t lie to you about everything. I’m one hundred percent Russian, and I consider Natalia to be my sister, and we did grow up together. But we were trained together, too. As assassins.”

“Fuck,” I mutter.

She kneels down in front of me. “I got away from that life, I swear. And I met you and everything after that was the realist thing I’d ever had. I really love video games, and I really love your pancakes, and I really, really love you.”

My glare softens.

“Even if you can’t cook,” she says.

I give her a semi-playful, semi-annoyed shove.

“You said be honest, don’t hit me!”

I stand up and pace the room nervously. This time, she sits down on the bed. I mutter under my breath, gnawing on my thumbnail, until, finally, I sit down beside her.

“Okay, deal breaker. Do you know Captain America?”