cold. efficient. ruthless.

independent, selective, mutuals-only    NATALIA  ROMANOVA

* primarily earth-616 based, MCU adjacent (not compliant with Black Widow movie and not very familiar with MCUs phase 4)                       * post-endgame summary here * multi-fandom friendly * faceclaim used - Olga Kurylenko * slow and tired * written by Anna, 30+, CET+1 * using Legacy Editor, but willing to learn the new ways

(theme heavily under construction so refer to links below for all your needs)

a crack of an uneven grin. a measuring, curious stare above the glint of a pair of silver wire framed glasses. silver and black curls, wild as the wind, bob with the breeze as he shoves his hands further into the pockets of his woolen coat. scruffy chin tucks into the soft layers of a scarf wrapped around his neck, hanging freely down his front and back. left to sway with the breeze along with that untamable hair. his brow jerks up. 

ceasefire? 

“wouldn’t ceasefires require us to be in some sort’ve war?” withdrawing one of those hands, a gray and black wool glove with the flesh tip of a thumb jutting out the very end is used to nudge up his glasses. rhey’ve not moved much. it’s a habit. along with the sniff that’s unnecessary and seems to jar his tongue into working order again. “far as I know? it’s never been about fighting. only about finding some other way of protecting people without destroying the very thing that’s being protected. but, skipping back to the beginning here—because that spiked my curiosity the most. the rest is well known between you and I and everyone else. boring, old news. don’t you think?”

seance bends at the waist, relaxing enought hat his elbows brace himself against the metal. long lines of rust from every heavy screw bolted into place stream down it’s sides. pittsburgh is old. It’s seen better days. but it’s been home for a long time. beautiful in spite of it’s tear stains and moans and groans of old battered and worn steel. it still holds strong. exactly like the opinions of it’s inhabitants. present company to Natasha included. 

gaze aimed at one of the large shipping vessels passing underneath them, he frowns in thought before aiming the question up at her without standing straight. “i’d like to think my honesty makes me believable first. haven’t ever done much to hide my opinions under my cuff. regardless of who’s asking the questions. much to the many years of woe my publicist reminds me she suffers through,” again–that grin appears and he’s not at all guilty, “my writing’s a close second to what i’d like to think is next in line. far as pierogis? you’re gonna need a local to show you were the good ones are..

…guess we can toss the side of ceasefire in there? or is this just because you’re hungry and you need a tour guide?” what? him? joking? who would have thought? a smile follows. damn near close to devilish by the way his teeth glint in it. 

still doesn’t answer the question of why now? why her? but maybe that will come later.

HE  WOULD  BE  MUCH  EASIER  IF  HE  WAS  MORE  UNREASONABLE.  She’s seen a fair share of writers, most of them for tabloids, who were only trying to stir the pot for a couple more quarters in their pocket. Now it’s all about clicks and digital content, and if anything —— things become much more accessible and therefore much more believable. And so, if he was in the same circle of writers and their laughable opinions, this would’ve been a much shorter conversation.

It’s not a threat but a promise.

Fingers grasp metal and she slides the zipper up until harsh winds meet resistance and she is slightly less disappointed with her choice in clothing. One should be more gentle, it wasn’t as if that trip was fleshed out before it came to life. But that is also a part of a story that no one really is privy to, just like the rest of her life. It is difficult, navigating the public whilst still trying to clench some pieces to herself. Natasha wonders whether that also makes him just a touch uneasy —— the fact that her life is not fleshed out in the pages, essays not written about good and bad she’s done. 

Well no, that’s not right. She’s sure there is still something floating around about how she married a man just for his money back in Russia and then he disappeared without a trace. 

When in fact there were at least thirty, and no, she didn’t marry either one of them.

❝ Well then, how is your way of protecting people without destroying them going? Should I give you a call next time something crashes into the earth? Hope you have your suit and guns ready. ❞     It’s easy to let bitterness seep into such a sentiment, but her tone of voice remains free of it. If anything, she quips an almost chipper one, verging on hopeful. Like a lectured kid that is so power-hungry he adores the professor and tries to drink every word in. Like a college student only now learning about life and it's intricacies, and said professor is the only person who can inject knowledge into that open and hopeful mind. Maybe bitterness would be far less unsettling that this faux bright smile as if he’s cracked some kind of a code all of them couldn’t for years.

Truth is, those whose hands are bloody know best what to do to avoid it.

Expression drops back into calm indifference and she pushes herself off of the metal railing, takes one step closer to him. Just to make it less threatening, her hands are buried deep in her pockets. That is the universal sign of peace, right?

❝ I’m starving. ❞     She’s not, but all unravels better when inside, somewhere warm and safe. Truly he’ll feel much better when surrounded by witnesses. Though he doesn’t look too scared now either. But just in case...

HOW MANY TIMES WOULD THEY MEET THIS WAY?  Threats only so idle as long as the one who felt they were in charge remained that way.  Their egos spoke leaps and bounds here, as neither admitted the truth - it was usually her in charge.  He’d lost count over the years of how often they came together and were ripped apart so casually, both by themselves and others.  But there was one mistake James Barnes never made - and that was to underestimate her.  Which is why he kept his distance now - because if it came to blows, he’d walk away with a headache, and he just wasn’t in the mood for it.

“I’m good.”  He says, somewhat gruffly, and though he makes no move to put the gun down, he does pull his finger away from the trigger, resting it against the side of the barrel.  Its minuscule in the grand scheme of things, they both know if he wanted to put her down, the movement would be of little effort - but it still speaks leaps and bounds - easing out the leash, to see if she will hang herself with it. “Nor did i think there was much left to talk about, after you left me chained to the floor for MI6 to find in Pitcairn.”

ONE  CAN’T  SAY  THEY  DO  NOT  HAVE  MEMORIES  TOGETHER.  Some bittersweet —— if they were to travel that lane together, inevitably their hands would be, once again, colored crimson. She’s heard plenty of him, sleepless nights colored by Steve’s voice whenever he felt that the burden in his chest was too heavy to bear. It was all Bucky this and Bucky that, she wonders if she would ever know the man he did.

Her stories of him are more bleak, almost monochromatic in their tendencies of going the same way. Natasha can’t say she’s big on surprises, so maybe the way it works is the way it has to be. Timid animosity hiding something else underneath.

❝ Remind me, was that before or after old friends from Hydra followed your breadcrumb trail and almost blew my mission up? ❞     She thinks they shouldn’t stray, but but there they go sharing those memories that are more bitter and not at all sweet. And if it continues, maybe they will share tales of wounds and scars, some her fingers would unconsciously ghost over if Natasha wasn’t standing there oh so still. Even with his finger off the trigger the Black Widow knows what they are capable of. Painful stalemates, probably ; but painful nonetheless.

˖ ࣪⭑ …         The pilot rolled his shoulders back and stretched his neck, listening to the way his bones clicked as he settled back on the ground. His muscles ached from the fight, The suits were intuitive and designed beyond anything that should be possible, but they were still metal costumes that smacked against his body when they took a hit. He wondered how many different colours the bruises would be tomorrow. His t-shirt appeared from under the last of the nanobots and he held his hands up in defeat,   ‘ yeah yeah I get your point, c’mon, we can probably just grab a cab from here if we head down to the ground floor. ’

His jaw dropped in his own version of fake offence and he pressed his palm to the centre of his chest, over his heart,   ‘ me ? Clumsy ? I’m truly hurt. ’

IF  ANYTHING,  THESE  DAYS  SHE  SORELY  MISSES  THE  GOOD  OLD  TIMES.  Humans in their skin fighting other humans; it was not pretty, but it was easier. She catches up with times quickly, it doesn’t change the fact that when everything else evolves, some things still feel stagnant. Goods and aliens, and super soldiers... Gone are the days of simple espionage. Even her suit and toys tiptoe on being too smart. A thought otherwise irrelevant, only rising up to existence after she’s been carried in someone’s arms, all thanks to a nanosuit.     ❝ I’ll call a driver. ❞     Just for the sake of remaining anonymous, not found, it’s best to tap into those vast resources she has at the tips of her fingers.

˖ ࣪⭑ …         Trust was complicated and dangerous, but Frank didn’t have anything left to lose these days. Anything he had to protect was safe from him ; either no longer in his possession or dead from the last time he trusted the man fighting next to him. He scrubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw and his nose wrinkled at the feeling of blood crusting in the hair, not yet dry enough to flake off into his hand. Frank didn’t care if the Widow didn’t trust him to keep this a secret : He trusted her to do her job and get out alive, the rest didn’t matter. His hand spasmed, the muscles protesting the nasty graze his wrist had taken and Frank mourned the lack of his bat in his palm – he had left it at home – too messy for a job that required a gunman’s eye. The man scoffed,   ‘ you know any therapists who wouldn’t call the FBI when I showed up, you call me. ’ 

Dark eyes turned, watching her for a second and Frank shook his head slowly,   ‘ same page Widow, don’t worry. ’

TENSION  SETTLES,  SLITHERS  DEEPER  UNDER  SKIN  AND  UNDER  MUSCLE.  Aches pushed aside in favor of danger finally surface and take over. She feels a flinch in her upper lip, white teeth bared for just a fraction of a second before those emotions become glossed over once again. Heat licks skin in a thirty degree angle from her lower rib to her back, but as far as successes go, this one had a small price to pay. Gaze lingers on him just to make sure he’s not missing a limb, to make sure he’s not holding a conversation regardless of blood and guts spilling free. God knows, he has a track record of ignorance.     ❝ Buy me a drink next time, maybe I will listen without informing the FBI. ❞     Something lighthearted whilst the gun slips back into the holster and lukewarm bracelets on her wrists are rubbed as if trying to put that fire down.

˖ ࣪⭑ …         There would never be real peace. For Matt, the world would be full of terrible things for as long as he could hear them. His senses would never really stop being so magnified and it was something he didn’t know how to be at peace with though ; If he didn’t know he’d be dead a long time before then, Matt would be terrified for the day he could no longer put the suit on and go out to fix it himself. There were, however, reprieves : Foggy Nelson’s laugh, Kirsten McDuffie’s breathing when she finally relaxed, and then there was Natasha Romanoff and all the ways the world disappeared when she spoke. 

‘ A lifetime of you being the only person in the world who could possibly surprise me ? ’   The vigilante offered and laughed at the wording. Matt had no doubt that she would find a way one day. He imagined his senses reaching out and wrapping around the space between them, assessing the woman the same way a dog sniffed out a new person in its house. 

‘ I’ve heard the view is beautiful, ’   he nodded, hand tightening around his cane as his legs crossed at the ankle. His lip ticked up into a grin at the compliment,   ‘ you look better than ever, Natasha. ’

HOLD  STIL,  OH  TREACHEROUS  HEART.  Urgency but a faded trace for now —— buried underneath what ifs and whens. She is not here to reminisce ( not just because of that, at least ), but he mustn’t know that, not yet. Long ago Natasha learned how to still that heartbeat into one of unsuspicious bliss; back there in the winter-kissed woods it was, when her own heart forgot it belonged to someone. And even if these are different times now, those habits still linger, cling onto skin, like scars.

Maybe later she will tell him of business she’s here to attend. But right now let that heartbeat ease his worries, let that breath fill her lungs with fresh air and blissful avoidance of the unavoidable.

   A humour-filled quirk of the lips and a glance in her direction. They’re both teasing, light-hearted and relaxed: a veneer to cover what lies beneath, a way of pretending there are no feelings present, while in reality concern and care sit in the spaces between each word. They both know; they both understand. “Careful, or someone might think you care.” Voice is low and soft, tone light, both speaking of the meaning he – and she – would never put into words: thank you.

   “In that case, when we get to the motel you can check me for whatever you think you need to,” Erik answers, smile audible within the gentle flirting, content to let Natasha take whatever meaning she chooses from such an offer. He trusts her – at least enough to check him for injuries he may not be able to reach or treat himself – and the two of them are familiar enough that flirting and teasing between them are common occurrences. Oddly enough, this bond they share – whether they decide to call it friendship, allyship, or something else – comes the closest to domestic that the mutant has experienced in his adult life. Leaning into it feels like warm mulled wine, like heated apple pie, like safety.

   He mentally tracks Natasha’s route as she winds through residential areas, a shopping district, back into the residential area, and then out of the city. Any pursuers have long since been left behind by their speed and deliberately circuitous route; now just the two of them remain amid the dim light and clouded sky, comfortable in the anonymity the cool darkness provides. He doesn’t speak again until they pull into a parking spot outside the motel in question, tyres quietly grumbling to a halt alongside a small silver sedan that’s parked at a slight angle, bumper teasing the leaves of the hedge in front of them. Grey-blue eyes flick towards the motel entrance, then back to his companion in crime. “Your choice of cover story, if you think we’ll need one.”

HER  ORIGINS  ROOTED  IN  BLEEDING  SOIL  AND  BONES  SIX  FEET  UNDER.  Partnership a fickle comedy merely there to serve the whims of her handlers or to eliminate every other girl deemed unfit because they had a sliver of a heart. And just like that, on by one, all of them fell and the heartless one remained; it wasn’t difficult to plunge a knife between someone’s ribs or to slit a throat just to watch that blood gurgle and seep back into the ground —— where all of them started, back there they went. It was how it was meant to be back then and this is an unfamiliar story that she, now woman grown, needs to navigate without any muscle memory.

❝ Just hold my hand and call me beautiful, ❞     there is no need for a story five layers deep —— all they care about is the money and the anonymity that’s measured in gratuity left. These are such simple exchanges that Natasha knows well, deals struck plenty of times before and most of them whilst following the very same path. The only difference is and will always be —— him him him...

The shadows outside greet them, only slivers of light come from the sign that blinks lazily and the streetlights that conveniently look away form the deeds that go on in the parking lot more often than not, she’s sure. Pebbles underneath the soles make the most noise as everything else around them breathes silence. She’s happy, means this night the motel is free of visitors that could possibly bring blue and red lights to their door. It’s a game of chance, but everything is these days.