not for sale

now to get on the boat ... they had no IDs — not ones that would match any guests . and while brute force could get them on , it wasn’t very 'undercover' of them . hmm … green eyes fall onto the boy checking names up ahead . young , fidgety , a stutter to his words . one look told her he wasn't a fan of confrontation and with his urgency to get passengers on board , they were on a tight schedule . perfect .

yelena had a knack for making people uncomfortable . an easy way out of a bind when everyday people were involved . flirting her way on with her husband’s arms wrapped around her wasn't a good look so ... she had other ideas . while they’re still a little ways back , she leans into him , back flush with his chest , head tipping to the side so she’s looking up at him . “ play along , pretend i’m drunk , i don’t care . just don’t stop walking when we get up there . ”

It helps, though, that the two of them seem to be on the same page, moving in step with one another without stumbling along the way. He wonders if it’s their personalities— but knows it’s more likely to be their training. Ghosts of HYDRA’s guidance instilled into a soldier, who was there to help streamline a training program instilled into a widow. Lines that don’t run parallel, but cross.

It’d be nice to take out the people hunting them before the two of them inevitably clash too much to work together as well as they are now. That’s the goal, anyway. 

The shape of her body is completely unfamiliar in his arms, but it takes nothing for him to hold her close like he’s known her intimately enough to get down on one knee for her. Her American accent makes him snort, and hiding his grin oh so affectionately into her forehead only helps their cause. It’s a good plan, playing the role of drunk insatiable newlyweds— and she plays it well enough to keep his attention the entire time they stumble through the half assed security and onto the ship.

“Oh, was that happy?” He raises a brow. Surely another emotion can be better described for that little show— you won't find him complaining.

He scans the hallways they’re in, lips pursed slightly in thought. He didn’t actually think much past ‘get on ship’. If he were by himself, he’d find a way to slip around and stow away without bothering with a bed. But there’s some deep ingrained gentleman in him that sends him looking for a way to get an actual room. Sure, he could kill her if he had to, but he’s not going to let her sleep below deck with rats.

“We need to bunker down,” He starts, taking her hand in his as a couple passes and holding on as he leads her through corridors. He doesn’t stop their wandering until he passes a cleaning cart, the crew occupied with linens. His free hand lifts the clipboard hanging from the side of the cart. 

Pencil and paper, so underused these days but so useful. There’s a printed column of room numbers and the names attached to them. Graphite straight lines along each one taken care of, ignoring the blank space under room #339 and #402. Empty rooms. It’s as good a lead as any. 

“Take your pick, sweetheart.”

ɪғ ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ʜɪs ᴘᴀɪɴ… ɪғ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʀᴀɴsғᴇʀ ɪᴛ ғʀᴏᴍ ʜɪs sᴏᴜʟ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ᴍɪɴᴇ. ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ. ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇsɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ. ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ’s ʜᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ғᴇᴇʟ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴛᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄʀʏ ᴀs ɪғ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ғᴇᴇʟ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴄᴜᴛ, ᴇᴀᴄʜ ʙʀᴜɪsᴇ, ᴇᴀᴄʜ ʜɪᴛ ᴀs ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ sᴜғғᴇʀɪɴɢ. ɪ ʙʟᴇᴅ ғᴏʀ ʜɪᴍ.& ɪɴ ᴛᴜʀɴ, ʜᴇ ʙʟᴇᴅ ғᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ.ғᴜɴɴʏ, ʜᴏᴡ ʟɪғᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇs ғᴜʟʟ ᴄɪʀᴄʟᴇ”

"i stopped being me such a long time ago, 

        i can’t even remember who that was."

He moves at a dizzying speed. Something dangerous. Something inhuman... There's hardly enough time for a sharp breath in before impact, lungs collapsing with the force of him, breath spilling out in a desperate plea.

"Wait! Wait, please! Don't-"

Both hands fly up to protectively cover her mouth and nose as if expecting something more, leaving the rest of her sentence to dissipate into the pulmonary space somewhere between her ribs and his imagination. It's muscle memory that feeds her instinctive reaction; something indicative of the fact she's been in this situation before... Can already taste the ether-like odor of a chloroform-drenched rag she presumes will greet her senses in moments following.

But it never comes.

There's no chemicals to disconnect her from her consciousness. No hand on her throat's pulse points to sever oxygen to the brain for compliance. Only questions.

And they make absolutely no sense.

"What?" An almost whisper. "What are you talking about?"

Her hands slowly slip their shielding, falling from her face to push roughly against his shoulders. Once. Twice. It does nothing for her. "Get off me!" A third push in vain. What is this guy made of, stone? "You can't take me," pausing, softer now, "I won't go..." Violet flattens back against the door, making herself as small and unthreatening as possible. Those wide doe eyes speak volumes to her fear and her attempts at peace.

but even the gentle deer lashes out when cornered.

It’s not just that, anyway. People react strangely when threatened. It’s her eyes.

He swallows, staring into them as her pushes don’t move him an inch. They don’t even jostle, he’s firmly put. Investigating, hold on. There’s fight in her, clearly, but beyond that is genuine fear. Enough of it that it becomes the part that matters. Her words fall to the back burner— he’ll get back to those— but her fear sends a chill down his spine.

It’s not the first time someone has looked at him like this. He has all those memories burned in his mind, usually the last thing he saw in a pair of eyes before life is snuffed out of them. But he doesn’t do that anymore. That kind of look directed at him elicits emotion in him now, and not anything good.

His hands start to loosen at the exact same time she takes a swing. He missed it coming— it doesn’t hurt. There’s not enough force behind it, only enough to push his head briefly to the side. 

He takes a breath, “Don’t do that.” Spoken in dismay as his hands let go of her arms, but land on either side of her, still cornering. “I’m not taking you anywhere. You came to me.” His eyes bounce over her face, left to right like reading a book— attempting to, at least. 

“Chasing or running?”

My daughter and I - (2025)