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Polytrix gift exchange fic written for my beloved @kayr0ss. Designed to make her laugh and also the closest thing to crack I've ever written!
Read it on AO3
Rumi would love to throttle their younger selves for allowing the architects free rein on the penthouse design, because it turned out to be impossible to babyproof.
Or: Rumi finds out her homeschool curriculum wasn't exactly comprehensive.
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We cannot live in a world that is not our own, in a world that is interpreted for us by others. An interpreted world is not a home. Part of the terror is to take back our own listening, to use our own voice, to see our own light.
This is - legitimately - my favourite delivery of Shakespeare I have EVER seen (and I have seen some good-ass productions yo, in the Globe Theatre itself even). Like seriously, even though the words are unchanged, he’s stripped away ALL of the archaic pretense and assumed grandeur of ~presenting the bard~ that makes even the most wildly talented of actors and innovative of productions inherently inaccessible to a modern audience. Like, they’re still great, they can still communicate the message and (some) of the nuance, but they’re still always a step removed from being identifiable to any viewer’s lived experience. They’re still always reciting 15th century poetry. But this guy? This guy is like, screw iambic pentameter, to hell with being precious about the material, HOW WOULD AN ACTUAL PERSON SAY THIS SHIT?
Like this. And it’s beautiful. It’s beautiful to hear a soliloquy I loved so much already, and have it come to life in a way it never, ever, did before. I feel like I grasp his motivations, his twists and turns, no longer on an academic level but on a visceral, instinctive one. Because he’s presenting his mental and emotional journey in a way that speaks honestly, like a real person.
So yeah, this shit post? I love it. Deeply and sincerely.
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Tony’s private plane is quiet. He loves that about it. He loves the leather seats and the way he can get into private airspace’s under the guise of a billionaire, but right now, what he loves about his plane, is that it helped his friend.
Natasha is asleep on the makeshift chair bed, still in her black widow suit.
Clearly exhausted, she’d been able to make some small talk, but he’d seen her eyes drifting shut. So he’d handed her a blanket, and said he was going to fly the plane.
A plane they both knew could fly itself.
By the time he returned she was asleep.
He takes it a a mark of trust, one that he prides really, that she’d reached out for help; and then when she’d fallen asleep.
Flying low, the private airport in Ontario they’re low enough to fly over trees, the woods changing colour due to the season.
“It’s beautiful,” comes the quiet voice.
She’s standing near him, and he hadn’t even realised she’d moved.
“You like autumn?” he asks in surprise.
He loves finding more out about her, little secrets that are held close to her chest.
“The leaves,” she nods, “the way they change, the colours. I don’t know it feels important.”
He nods.
He moves to the front of the plane, and she follows. He changes the coordinates, and they fly over again.
She scoffs at the indulgence but leans back into the chair for the ride.
“What else do you like?” he asks, tentatively, not wanting to push her too much.
“I like making apple pie,” she admits.
“Making it from scratch. The dough. And there’s a recipe, I’ve pretty much perfected.”
Tony looks over to her.
She still looks tired.
But as she speaks of autumn and the magic of baking, there’s a whimsy that holds his attention.
“Do you like autumn?” she asks, turning to him.
Tony isn’t sure what to say. He does and he doesn’t.
“I like the wind,” he answers cryptically, “the way the wind moves the leaves and pushes things forward.”
She nods.
“I don’t like change, but autumn makes it feel like not all change is bad; you know?”
Tony agrees wholeheartedly.
“Not all change is good,” he says slowly, “but all change I think is hard.”
He says it staring, and sets the plane off again, not landing.
She rolls her eyes.
“We are gonna have to land sometime,” she informs him.
“And then what’s going to happen?” He asks, genuinely curious.
“Maria will get me, I’ll be debriefed, and then I’ll go to the safe house nearby and await my next mission.”
Tony doesn’t like that answer.
“I’ll wait,” he offers.
“You don’t need to go to the safe house, I’ll wait, I’ll take you wherever.”
She shakes her head.
“I’ve already put you out by making you come get me, you don’t have to wait, I’m sure you’ve got many things to do.”
He smiles.
“You’re mistaking me for Pepper,” he teases.
Natasha leans back.
“You ever just feel tired?”
Tony copies her action.
“Yes.”
The answer is resolute.
“Yeah,” she says, staring at the trees again.
“You don’t have to keep working for Shield, you know?”
He ventures the question, not sure if he’s overstepping but feels like it needs to be said.
“Think about it,” he finishes quietly. “You don’t owe them anything.”
She closes her eyes.
“I’m so tired.”
He thinks she’s going to fall asleep in the chair as he sets the plane to round a forth time.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she watches intently, waits for the plane to complete the track of the trees, and then slowly gets up as the plane descends.
“Thanks Tony.”
Maria is waiting for her at the airport, just as she predicted, and the way she looks back towards him makes him feel like taking her back up in his plane.
Hours pass.
He’s never been to a debrief that he’s hasn’t worked his way out of before.
He wonders what it’s like for her. He imagines, questions on questions, boredom, fact checking and tedium.
It makes him bored.
So bored, he starts doing work.
At around the four hour mark, he sees them before she even has to call.
He lets down the stairs and greets them both at the door.
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