The Red Room — you don't stay a kid for long. (That kind of thing, it gets bled out of you; maybe Nathan might have given it a moment's pause if Natasha hadn't gone through it too. But these things, these bonds, they come in pairs, and if Natasha goes through it, if she's okay with it — so is he.)
They're on a flight bound for US soil. Their names are still Natan and Natalia (soon it'll be different; Nathan and Natasha) and it's more cell than private cabin. But that doesn't stop him from reaching across the little raised arm between their seats to take her hand in his. Their hands might differ in size and shape, but in a lot of ways, they're mirror images: the gun calluses are in exactly the same place.
Quietly, in Russian: ]
Okay?
[ Not a request for confirmation. A genuine question.
[ it's not something the agent who brought them in had wanted or bargained for, but she'd refused to come without her brother and in the end, the agent had still been unwilling to kill her. he'd said they were more useful to their organization alive, that killing them would be a waste of something great. she doesn't know if he's lying about his reasons for wanting to keep her alive, and frankly, she doesn't care if he is, especially since he'd agreed to take natan, too.
they can always kill him, if it turns out to be a hoax. and if it turns out it's not, their stay doesn't have to be permanent.
her hand slips into his without so much as a twitch from any of the muscles in her face or a shift of her gaze from the back of the unoccupied seat ahead of her. their fingers entwine, but she doesn't respond for a long while, not until the wheels start to lift from the pavement and tuck themselves into the body of the plane. ]
Yes.
[ and then she does look at him, mouth pressed but eyes concerned. questioning. ]
[ It's a chase scene straight out of an action flick. Except, Clint thinks wryly, shit usually works out in the end for Bruce Willis.
He's chasing her down an alley somewhere in Lisbon, Portugal. His portugese is improving, at least, and running across rooftops is a good cardio. Or, it was — right now, it's a stalemate, except that he's got his finger on the trigger of his gun and if these last three weeks tailing each other (like some game of spy-upmanship) mean anything, it's that Natalia Romanov (Romanova? Russian grammar is a son of a bitch) knows that his aim isn't the best with a gun. (And besides, guns make noise. Bows don't, and in a public area like this, he's sure that goes directly against S.H.I.E.L.D's orders of quickly and quietly.) ]
C'mon, Natalia. You really gonna let this come down to a stand-off?
[ 48 hours after Bruce Banner is placed into the conditioning chamber, Natasha — Natalia, her name is Natalia but for now, it's Natasha, a fact she knows in her heart but forgot for the last handful of years (sleeper protocols work like that) — takes him. He's been in there for who knows how long, it's different for every operative, a week or two weeks or maybe only a handful of days. But when it's done she puts him back into her rental and they drive, through dusty deserts and long stretches of highway with nothing but radio silence to keep them company. (He's sedated, but with the Hulk — who knows.)
It's close to midnight when Natasha finally speaks to him. It's cold out, the side windows milky with fog from the heat trapped inside and for the first time in a long time, there's Russian on the tip of her tongue before she thinks english instead. ]
[ The tranquilizer cocktail has to be strong, his metabolism burns through anything else too quickly - has him moaning and groaning midtransport and his keepers cursing as they grope around for more vials. What finally works has him drifting through a haze in his own head, soft maroon instead of gamma green. Out enough that he's easily transferred from one pair of hands to the next, aware enough to know there's nightmares if he wakes up anymore, numb enough to not care. The way the car rocks and rumbles on the highway doesn't help him wake up, just keeps him floating on red waves and sinking back down, down, d-
Her voice snaps him out and he blinks to get drops of water that aren't there out of his eyes. The haze lingers behind his eyes, clogs his throat, and it takes a moment to figure the answer, longer to get it out even if the question feels branded on the inside of his skull. ]
Uh. [ His mouth feels gritty and dry, tongue rubbing at the roof of his mouth to try and work some filmy sensation off. There's a faint but definite nausea, made worse by the rental's lack of shocks now that he's no longer so out of it, and his stomach doesn't feel tight yet, but he's gone without enough to tell it won't be long until it does. ] Won't say no.
[ It's early enough that the sun's starting to peek through the clouds, sharp shards of pink skittered across the sky. Somewhere, a bird chirps, and when Elliot turns her head, there's water on her cheek. No; dew on the grass. (It's too cold to be blood.) When she looks up through the web of her lashes, it's only so that she can reach for Rose's hand, slim digits looking for a place between her fingers.
It's cold in that way mornings are so when Ellie exhales, there's mist on her breath. The back of her clothes are damp from dew and her skin prickles but there's no sign that it bothers her — instead she just stares, eyes following the profile of Rose's nose.
A beat, then two. Ellie is happy like this, but maybe Rose isn't. ]
Not in a superficial way, not in a how're you doing; I'm fine sort of way, but in a way that Rose can feel deep inside herself. A calm that touches every nerve ending and vein, that settles in her marrow and steeps her blood, making her feel normal and human, like a girl. (She likes moments like these. They're nice.)
The less she's around other people, the better it is (people are so fucking stupid, what did they know anyway). But the more removed she is, the lonelier she gets, and the frustration creeps in a different way. That's why Rose needs Gerry and his big strong hands and his lovesick heart all puppyish and crying whenever Rose is bad; it's why she needs Elliot too, but at least the other girl understands. (Rose wonders if Elliot knows how to cry at all.)
She's watching her breath steam upwards against the lightening sky when Ellie finally talks — the first time in an hour. Rose feels herself smile. ] What kinda game, cutie?
[ Her fingers curl into Rose's, slotting neatly hand to hand. It's not a particularly tight grip, less anchoring and more touch, the kind Elliot doesn't need but is happy to give to her sisters (to Rose). Her hair's been freshly dyed red. It's come out darker, like the color of old blood on yellow sheets, and across the grass they look like worms, slithering, some of it matted to her temple by morning dew.
(Another pause, like Elliot's not in any hurry to speak. The day's only just beginning, after all.) ]
Have you ever played two truths and a lie?
[ Somehow, the intonation of the question comes out strangely, like dialogue lifted from a mid-day soap. Elliot knows that neither of them are particularly girlish, but this seems like something normal girls might do. ]
[ There's a saying, that one about bicycles and getting back on the proverbial horse again. It makes everything sound — easier, more streamlined, when things can be expressed in just a commonly known sentence, but it never is quite like that, is it? The fact is, nothing's easy, but Dominique's learning that the struggle is the point, not the destination. (Shirley says that, in the Life Skills class she goes to every two weeks, and the thing is is that Shirley's not wrong.)
The first thing she dreams up, afterwards, when she promises and unpromises and finds out what she wants, is an office building. They're on something like the 8th floor and it's a straight view down into the lobby, the building spiralling around and around like a coiling tunnel. ]
Well, [ she starts, idly itching her elbow. (Woolen Christmas sweaters, no matter the where or the how, always seem to be pretty itchy.) ] I guess that's a start.
[ For the first time since — well — ever, it takes a considerable amount of negotiation to get Arthur on board. Hypocritical maybe, given that he's still on the job, but his entire involvement in the Dreamshare business was built on a foundation of doublespeak and backtracking. A military man turned professional thief, now suddenly taken by long-time-coming change of heart. Maybe it comes as no surprise that Dom's the reason behind it; she was the one who brought him round to the wrong side of the tracks in the first place, in a way it's only fair that she should be the reason he'd even consider turning back.
The first thing she builds is an office building — nothing special, sure, but far from nondescript. The space curves around the empty shaft of the courtyard of the lobby, organic in a way that he finds painfully familiar and there are a lot of things he could say in response (you've still got it or could be worse or I can't remember if I fell in love with you or your dreams first, but I remember why).
He doesn't say any of it, of course, because while some things change, other things remain the same. Pressing his lips together he looks up, towards the skylight overhead. ]
We don't have to do this, [ Arthur says, but he already knows it doesn't matter. Dom's made up her mind. ]
Yes, we do. [ It's not a reminder so much as a statement, a I've pulled you this far so we'll see it through. Arthur had been the first person she asked. It hadn't seemed— right, to ask anyone else, after the way she'd asked him to run and then stay and then run again, caught between the way she'd missed dreaming and that voice that told her to miss it was doing Mal (Mal, Mal, Mal, I miss you every day) a disservice.
But it's not, and Arthur had followed her down and so here it is. Dominique rolls her sleeves up to her elbows and glances up at the skylight, one hand cupped around her eyes. Maybe a little snow might be nice—? ]
I'll never be able to look myself in the eye again if I give up now. [ She rolls her shoulders. ] No point stopping mid-flight.
[ A day or so afterwards, Steve sends flowers. He'd have liked to visit her himself — anything else seems a little disconnected — but there's trouble in Latveria, so they send Captain America as some kind of diplomatic envoy. It doesn't really work out in the end, because Latveria is — kind of crazy, so he has to end up tasking the flowers to the delivery company, Thank you for helping the other day. - Steve.
It's that transition period between day and night, when the evening air gets a little cooler and the smell of asphalt turns a little less sharp. Joan Watson is a Mets fan and, coinsidentally enough, so is Steve, and with a spare ticket it had seemed like a waste not to ask her along, and after that it had seemed — rude? Is it still — not to walk her home. ]
I think hot dogs used to taste better, [ he says, though it's more of a thought than an observation, hands tucked neatly in his pockets. ]
[ If there's one particular drawback to knowing Steve Rogers (and Joan has been looking for one, make no mistake), it's the fact that Sherlock has — unsurprisingly — been unable to shut up about him ever since he sent Joan flowers. He's courting you, Watson, had come the immediate declaration. And not being particularly subtle about it either, might I add. But Joan had dismissed that just as readily (they did things differently back then, Sherlock), and accepted Steve's invitation nevertheless.
They're still a distance from the brownstone, the two of them having opted to take the subway only halfway and walk the rest. Adjusting the baseball cap on her head, Joan makes a thoughtful sound, peering into the shop windows they pass. ]
I bet a lot of things used to be a lot better than they are now.
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NATHAN.
no subject
The Red Room — you don't stay a kid for long. (That kind of thing, it gets bled out of you; maybe Nathan might have given it a moment's pause if Natasha hadn't gone through it too. But these things, these bonds, they come in pairs, and if Natasha goes through it, if she's okay with it — so is he.)
They're on a flight bound for US soil. Their names are still Natan and Natalia (soon it'll be different; Nathan and Natasha) and it's more cell than private cabin. But that doesn't stop him from reaching across the little raised arm between their seats to take her hand in his. Their hands might differ in size and shape, but in a lot of ways, they're mirror images: the gun calluses are in exactly the same place.
Quietly, in Russian: ]
Okay?
[ Not a request for confirmation. A genuine question.
(Tell me you're okay.) ]
no subject
they can always kill him, if it turns out to be a hoax. and if it turns out it's not, their stay doesn't have to be permanent.
her hand slips into his without so much as a twitch from any of the muscles in her face or a shift of her gaze from the back of the unoccupied seat ahead of her. their fingers entwine, but she doesn't respond for a long while, not until the wheels start to lift from the pavement and tuck themselves into the body of the plane. ]
Yes.
[ and then she does look at him, mouth pressed but eyes concerned. questioning. ]
You?
CLINT.
no subject
He's chasing her down an alley somewhere in Lisbon, Portugal. His portugese is improving, at least, and running across rooftops is a good cardio. Or, it was — right now, it's a stalemate, except that he's got his finger on the trigger of his gun and if these last three weeks tailing each other (like some game of spy-upmanship) mean anything, it's that Natalia Romanov (Romanova? Russian grammar is a son of a bitch) knows that his aim isn't the best with a gun. (And besides, guns make noise. Bows don't, and in a public area like this, he's sure that goes directly against S.H.I.E.L.D's orders of quickly and quietly.) ]
C'mon, Natalia. You really gonna let this come down to a stand-off?
natasha. (natalia??)
no subject
It's close to midnight when Natasha finally speaks to him. It's cold out, the side windows milky with fog from the heat trapped inside and for the first time in a long time, there's Russian on the tip of her tongue before she thinks english instead. ]
Are you hungry?
no subject
Her voice snaps him out and he blinks to get drops of water that aren't there out of his eyes. The haze lingers behind his eyes, clogs his throat, and it takes a moment to figure the answer, longer to get it out even if the question feels branded on the inside of his skull. ]
Uh. [ His mouth feels gritty and dry, tongue rubbing at the roof of his mouth to try and work some filmy sensation off. There's a faint but definite nausea, made worse by the rental's lack of shocks now that he's no longer so out of it, and his stomach doesn't feel tight yet, but he's gone without enough to tell it won't be long until it does. ] Won't say no.
( E L L I O T )
no subject
It's cold in that way mornings are so when Ellie exhales, there's mist on her breath. The back of her clothes are damp from dew and her skin prickles but there's no sign that it bothers her — instead she just stares, eyes following the profile of Rose's nose.
A beat, then two. Ellie is happy like this, but maybe Rose isn't. ]
Do you want to play a game, Rose?
no subject
Not in a superficial way, not in a how're you doing; I'm fine sort of way, but in a way that Rose can feel deep inside herself. A calm that touches every nerve ending and vein, that settles in her marrow and steeps her blood, making her feel normal and human, like a girl. (She likes moments like these. They're nice.)
The less she's around other people, the better it is (people are so fucking stupid, what did they know anyway). But the more removed she is, the lonelier she gets, and the frustration creeps in a different way. That's why Rose needs Gerry and his big strong hands and his lovesick heart all puppyish and crying whenever Rose is bad; it's why she needs Elliot too, but at least the other girl understands. (Rose wonders if Elliot knows how to cry at all.)
She's watching her breath steam upwards against the lightening sky when Ellie finally talks — the first time in an hour. Rose feels herself smile. ] What kinda game, cutie?
no subject
(Another pause, like Elliot's not in any hurry to speak. The day's only just beginning, after all.) ]
Have you ever played two truths and a lie?
[ Somehow, the intonation of the question comes out strangely, like dialogue lifted from a mid-day soap. Elliot knows that neither of them are particularly girlish, but this seems like something normal girls might do. ]
( D O M I N I Q U E )
no subject
The first thing she dreams up, afterwards, when she promises and unpromises and finds out what she wants, is an office building. They're on something like the 8th floor and it's a straight view down into the lobby, the building spiralling around and around like a coiling tunnel. ]
Well, [ she starts, idly itching her elbow. (Woolen Christmas sweaters, no matter the where or the how, always seem to be pretty itchy.) ] I guess that's a start.
no subject
The first thing she builds is an office building — nothing special, sure, but far from nondescript. The space curves around the empty shaft of the courtyard of the lobby, organic in a way that he finds painfully familiar and there are a lot of things he could say in response (you've still got it or could be worse or I can't remember if I fell in love with you or your dreams first, but I remember why).
He doesn't say any of it, of course, because while some things change, other things remain the same. Pressing his lips together he looks up, towards the skylight overhead. ]
We don't have to do this, [ Arthur says, but he already knows it doesn't matter. Dom's made up her mind. ]
no subject
But it's not, and Arthur had followed her down and so here it is. Dominique rolls her sleeves up to her elbows and glances up at the skylight, one hand cupped around her eyes. Maybe a little snow might be nice—? ]
I'll never be able to look myself in the eye again if I give up now. [ She rolls her shoulders. ] No point stopping mid-flight.
( S T E V E )
no subject
It's that transition period between day and night, when the evening air gets a little cooler and the smell of asphalt turns a little less sharp. Joan Watson is a Mets fan and, coinsidentally enough, so is Steve, and with a spare ticket it had seemed like a waste not to ask her along, and after that it had seemed — rude? Is it still — not to walk her home. ]
I think hot dogs used to taste better, [ he says, though it's more of a thought than an observation, hands tucked neatly in his pockets. ]
no subject
They're still a distance from the brownstone, the two of them having opted to take the subway only halfway and walk the rest. Adjusting the baseball cap on her head, Joan makes a thoughtful sound, peering into the shop windows they pass. ]
I bet a lot of things used to be a lot better than they are now.