не прихо́дит одна́

Setting: Post-Natcicle, three weeks in, Wanda never showed him the dream.

Wake up, it's time, little girl, wake up

All the best of what we've done is yet to come

Wake up, it's time, little girl, wake up

Just remember who I am in the morning 

There had been mostly darkness, and nothing before that. She heard voices more recently, masculine, feminine, but she didn't know them. Some seemed familiar, but she didn't know why. Maybe a voice she'd heard in a movie or on the radio, or someone passing in the street that was particularly loud, but it didn't attach to a face. None of them did. Consciousness, true consciousness faded in slowly, like the sun dawning and very suddenly there was a flurry of commotion because her vitals shot through the roof and it brought the entire medical team running. Waking up encased in glass had been something like a nightmare, like being buried alive, except now she wasn't buried...the glass was removed and she was being sat up and had no idea what was going on. They were telling her to breathe slowly, asking her how she felt. She heard someone say, “Get Cap down here, and someone call Barton.” They were names she didn't know. Maybe they were other doctors?

 Speaking of doctors, why were there so many? She looked down at herself. Everything looked fine, perfect even; the jagged scar where she'd been hit by the Winter Soldier and had kept her out of a two piece ever since was now missing. Every little scar that had ever been there to remind her of her old life was gone. Including, it seemed, her memory of the situation that got her here. But obviously something bad had happened or else she wouldn't be here surrounded by medical staff and they kept calling her a name, Natasha, Natasha, Agent Romanoff? They must have the wrong woman. But how did she get here? “Chto proiskhodit?” she asked, what was happening, but then she was startled by her own question. A hand came up to her mouth. “I speak Russian?” she asked. When had she learned that? Maybe she'd studied it in college, but she didn't remember college, or anything she would have wanted to do with her life that would require her knowing Russian. The room went silent except for the sound of the monitors that were keeping up with her rapid pulse. She looked between the faces—including the two new ones in the room, but instead of recognition and warm welcome there was confusion and fear. “What's going on?” she demanded again in English. The silence lingered and the nurses glanced between each other and then looked to Bruce. Natasha followed their eyes, but the blue remained steely cold. “Who are you?”

 “Agent Romanoff, that's--”

 “Stop calling me that! I don't know who you're talking about but I'm not her. How did I get here? Where am I?” The monitors were beeping wildly, she was panicking, and Clint had been ready to tell them to back up except she didn't attack them. She cowered from them as though she couldn't defend herself. When the realization hit him, it was only Steve standing next to him that kept him from running to her and shaking her and demanding that she remembered who she was, who he was, his family, their team. This couldn't be happening.

 “Nat...” Clint started, his voice heavy, and strained. “Do you know who you are?”

 The realization hit her then when he asked her the question. She looked down, thought hard about it and then looked up again, first to him, and then to Bruce, and then Steve, then back. “No...do you?”