then came... the black widow

clark was positively anxious about having to deliver the news, his hesitation reinforced by the completely unimpressed expression she wears on her face as his cape billows behind him while they're standing together on the rooftop. here is superman, confidence and arrogance wrapped up in a red and blue package ironing out his thoughts so he won't trip over his words. he turns his head to face the sun as it sets, a cascading of pinks and oranges blending into the space around them as it settles in the light that haloes nat that she's silhouetted in front of. ❝ he wasn't there this afternoon. ❞ he settles, his expression betraying his stoicism in favor of displaying his guilt when the line of his mouth pulls into a deep frown; it was, after all, arguably his fault, but that doesn't mean he's particularly eager to accept his role among the failure. the look on her face morphs a bit as his words undoubtably sink in, and clark crosses his arms across his chest and shrinks in on himself. he doesn't feel much unlike a petulant child being scolded for doing something wrong, even though she has yet to say anything. ❝ hey, don't look at me like that. i didn't think that would spook him. ❞ he blurts out, shaking his head while his gaze averts from the sunset to the stormy irises of her own. ❝ so, we need to come up with our next move before he completely falls off the radar. hunting him down was a bigger task than it should be, given i can hear everyone and everything. ❞ when he uncrosses his arms, he looks away from her to stare at the space behind her where the sun is beginning to dip behind the skyline. ❝ i've been thinking about that, how difficult it was for me; we might have to consider that wherever he's holed up might be coated in lead. if that's the case, i won't be entirely helpful. ❞ @romonva.

the black widow doesn't interrupt, doesn't sigh, and doesn't even blink at first. just allows the silence that follows to stretch — it's as fragile as a spider's web and she allows him to sit in it. one brow finally arches slightly; not in accusation, but in light expectant nature. "hm." the sound is almost thoughtful as her arms fold across her chest. "congratulations. you've successfully discovered people tend to disappear when a seven-foot-tall superhero drops in unannounced." her tone is as dry as saharan dust, but doesn't cross into cruel territory. [if anything, there's the tiniest twitch at the corners of her mouth suggesting she's restraining something resemblant of amusement.] "you need to stop announcing yourself like a high school marching band." she allows the jab to properly land before walking closer to the rooftop's edge, eyes surveying over the maze of streets below. no frustration resides within her posture, merely the habitual calculation of targets vanished, assets relocated, plans adapted. and it's only tuesday. "our guy's scared." natasha concludes plainly. [and she almost can't blame him for being scared.] "scared people don't think rationally, all they think about is surviving. if he thinks superman found him once, he'll think superman can find him again." a fingertip taps absentmindedly against her forearm as pieces of puzzle begin arranging themselves in her mind, every possibility slipping neatly into formation. "but what if he isn't hiding from you necessarily, though? what if he's hiding from being watched?" the distinction does matter, even if it doesn't appear so at first. "we need to stop looking like we're looking." words coming out matter-of-fact and certain, the redhead steps away from the ledge and moves away. "you need to disappear for forty-eight hours; no flyovers and no listening, and i mean it." though her gaze isn't glaring, the spy does send superman a pointed look. "i'll work my usual angles in the meantime; paranoia always leaves a paper trail if you know where to look."

purple mug pressed to his mouth, he continues leaning against kitchen counter. nonchalantly swallowing down coffee. entirely unfazed by the black widow's unannounced entrance. admittedly, clint would appreciate a good old fashioned hello, but he's used to this. ❝ so you're entering by door this time, i see. ❞ hawk's eyes sweep natasha over from the rim of his mug, catching her slide a folder across island table. waits a minute or two longer, until the cup is completely emptied, before tossing it at the sink. doesn't need to check to tell it's right on target. satisfied, his gaze flicks back on her. a small smile spreading beneath it. ❝ since when was i pretending to enjoy it? this is genuine, ❞ he says cooly, folding his arms. one eyebrow lifted. ❝ you could use some time off too, 'tasha. haven't seen you at game night for weeks. ❞ back rising off the counter, he takes one step to the table. grabs the folder and pries it open. ❝ yeah, yeah. i definitely remember that incident. ❞ he won't forget it anytime soon, either. talk about humiliating. ❝ please don't tell me you're thinkin' of making me your test subject again. ❞ clint groans, right index finger rubbing his temple, a note of a plea settling in the last few words. ❝ katie still won't let me live it down. ❞

"that incident?" she parrots with a soft scoff, already fetching the glass vial from the pocket of her leather jacket. "no wonder kate still talks about it — you've turned it from minor inconvenience into that incident." of all the lies natasha has told in her lifetime, that may take the cake as worst. [and she knows it, apparent by the ghost of a smile across her lips, gone as quickly as it forms.] gesturing toward the manila folder still open in clint's hand, the vial clinks softly against the kitchen island as she sets it between them. "please just read my outline. if everything goes according to plan, you should only be my guinea pig for thirty minutes." she remarks as if thirty minutes is perfectly reasonable; as if temporary paralysis is merely an occupational hazard. as if she isn't standing in his kitchen proposing another experiment after the last one rendered him unable to move for twenty-four hours. natasha's arms fall akimbo at her sides, completely unbothered by the transparent flaws in her own argument. chemistry has never been her profession; espionage is. but if she's going to carry neurotoxins into the field, they have to be flawless in their purpose and execution. [and what better way than testing them on her ex-boyfriend / best friend?] studying him for a moment more, she catches the trepidation still housed inside him and decidedly comes up with a proposition. "how about this: you help me with this, i'll start showing up to game night again."

bobbi’s gaze follows their target through the corridor. nervous. yes. his hand goes to his cuff twice in less than ten seconds. his eyes move toward the nearest exit before returning to the guards stationed by the door. not running yet. only measuring the distance. [ in her mind she repeats : let him think he still has time. ] ❝ ready, ❞ bobbi murmurs. she sets her untouched champagne on a passing tray, gold hair slipping over one shoulder as she turns toward natasha. the smile she wears belongs to the ballroom. soft, polished, harmless. her eyes do not. ❝ but you’re right. he knows something’s wrong. ❞ bobbi steps closer, near enough that anyone watching might mistake the conversation for intimacy instead of strategy. her fingers reach for natasha’s wrist, light and familiar, hiding the small blade she presses into her palm. ❝ so let’s give him something else to worry about. ❞ her gaze flicks once toward the east corridor. then back to natasha. ❝ you make him afraid. ❞ the corner of her mouth curves. ❝ i’ll make sure he has nowhere to run. ❞ the lights die before either woman can move. one moment, the corridor glows beneath crystal chandeliers. the next, darkness swallows the ballroom & the orchestra cuts off midnote. screams rise behind them. shoes scrape against marble. through the confusion, bobbi hears the east door slam and the sharp metallic turn of a lock. their nervous diplomat has stopped waiting for whatever he expects. he is running. bobbi catches natasha’s hand in the dark and pulls her toward the service passage as red emergency lights begin to pulse along the walls. ❝ change of plans — ❞ she says, already reaching beneath her dress for the batons strapped against her thigh. ❝ you take the stairs. i’ll cut him off at the garage. ❞ a gunshot cracks somewhere ahead. bobbi’s smile disappears. ❝ and apparently, he brought friends. ❞

there's a saying in hollywood movies: don't bring a knife to a gunfight. in this particular moment, natasha understands the sentiment better than ever. as the gunshot pierces through the sound barrier, her eyes fall to the blade in her hand — the blade bobbi had snuck into her possession right before the volcano of chaos erupted. "this will be fun." she mutters more to herself than anything. [and, underneath the smeared sarcasm, she does mean those words.] gaze returning back to bobbi, she nods at her previous commands and flashes a lazy two-finger salute in her direction. "got it. see you down there." with that, she leaves for the stairwell. as the heavy fire door groans shut, the ballroom's panic is swallowed behind it. where silence is formed, it often doesn't last. somewhere below the spy, hurried footsteps stumble over one another, accompanied by the cadence of men speaking in low voices. definitely not security. these men were pure improvising. slipping her heels off, natasha slowly and carefully begins her descent. once she's one level above the garage, the black widow casts her web into a blind spot and waits for her prey to get stuck. in a matter of seconds, they do. hushed and hurried voices frantically encourage each other to open the door to locate a vehicle and when they do, based off their reactions, mockingbird must be on the other side. the black widow's cue! descending down the final staircase, she rounds the corner and finds the exact scene she'd envision second priors. bobbi having them cut off, exactly as promised. natasha's gaze falls onto their target pinned between two mercenaries; one keeps his pistol trained on the garage door, where bobbi's batons have begun an argument against him advancing any further. beside him, the other mercenary finally notices natasha materializing behind them, an 'oh shit' rumbling out of him. closing the distance, her knife flashes once before carving into the gunman's forearm. watching his fingers spasm in pain, the pistol in his grip clatters to the floor as the black widow wrestles him to the ground. she's able to render him unconscious within three seconds before redirecting her attention onto their now scared shitless diplomat. he turns once before coming face-to-face with the blonde, turning once more to find the redhead — he's fucked trapped. "here's what's going to happen: you're going to tell us about the stolen intelligence you've collected on the soviet bioweapons you procured a few days ago and where you sourced it from. you do that, my friend over here won't beat you with those beautiful batons she's showing you right now."