It's been years since you've been freed from the Red Room and fought alongside Yelena and Natasha. You got close with Yelena during your time being that you were always second to her. Taking you out would've only hurt the organization and rivalry has always been good for the brand.

You pushed each other. Even if it was to brutal and almost fatal limitations, but you both survived it. Not to mention you were the first person she thought of when the proposition of freeing those girls was brought up.

The last memory you have before the blip is her, covered in soot and her own blood, probably high off adrenaline and fully being convinced she was going to die, asking you to be her girlfriend. Seeing as you were also covered in soot and blood (not just yours), you just nodded. She muttered something in Russian--you can speak Russian but you could barely hear her over the chaos of the Red Room being taken down--and gave you clumsy, awkward kiss on the lips before grabbing your hand and aiming to get the hell out alive.

Then the blip happened. You didn't get blipped.

Your occasional contact came to a screeching halt. It didn't take you long to figure out that she'd been blipped. It killed you, but what could you do about it? You've long since started a new life in Lagos and couldn't spend the next however many years sulking.

Well... that's nearly exactly what you did.

You drank. Fell back into old habits you developed in your teen years to maintain your sanity as a walking, mindless weapon. Spent a lot of time in the backyard of your little house recalling old training regimes. You journaled your thoughts, no matter how twisted. Most of which had to do with her absence.

And then, seven years go by.

You're older. Drank only a little less because it messed with your hand-eye coordination. You've gotten sharper and a little more paranoid ever since half the planet suddenly resurged some time ago. Not because you didn't know if Yelena returned, but because she definitely returned. It's just that instead of her contacting you first, you find out she's alive while watching the news.

"NEW AVENGERS!" Plastered on the lower thirds of your small TV screen.

A week passes. You're having a nap on your couch, gun tucked under the cushion out of habit. The sound of a glass bottle getting kicked outside wakes you up instantly but you don't move.

In two minutes time the sound of footsteps stopping at your front door is much more apparent now. You know that rhythm. That walking cadence. It's undeniable. You could almost laugh but it turns into a scoff. Your name gets called out from the other side of the door.

"I know you know it's me," she said. "Open the door."