#cipherova

★ same sky, different angles. aka endless edits of cap'n speirs.

« @cipherova  :   it's   still   warm   -   take   mine.. »

If  she  thought  she  was  going  to  take  her  warm  share  ,  she  was  sorely  mistaken.   It  wasn't  a  matter  of  pride.         (  even  though  they  had  been  taught  by  the  Red  Room  for  that  to  be  the  reaction.  )   It  wasn't  like  that  for  Nat  ,  ┈┈  not  when  it  came  to  Yelena  anyways.   It  had  been  called  soft  ,  and  maybe  it  was.   Natalia  had  made  peace  with  that  part  of  herself.   She  knew  who  she  was  now.   No  ,  she  didn't  want  to  take  it  out  of  a  sentimental  need  to  know  Yelena  was…okay.

If  she  could  do  that  ,  maybe  Yelena  could  have  it  better.

There  was  a  long  pause  from  the  red  head  ,  ┈┈  eyes  moving  first  from  the  warm  soup  to  Yelena.   While  she  didn't  want  to  take  the  food  ,         (  she  knew  Yelena  was  stubborn  when  she  wanted  to  be.  )   Persistent  in  a  way  that  they  wanted  to  take  and  form  into  a  weapon.   Her  best  bet  ,  ┈┈  find  a  middle  ground  so  Yelena  felt  like  she  was  helping.   Which  she  was…The  rations  they  got  were  never  quite  enough  when  you  took  a  beating.

kissing them to shut them up.

▐║  ᯽  ┊  𝐇𝐄  𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒  𝐈𝐓'𝐒  𝐀𝐍  𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋  𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐅𝐎𝐑  𝐇𝐄𝐑.  Following  their  best  leads,  tracking  down  this  new  version  of  the  Red  Room,  only  to  find  nothing.  No  sign  of  the  girls  that  are  being  kept,  brainwashed,  turned  into  weapons.  Only  whatever  ghosts  hang  around  this  emptied  facility.  It  wasn't  empty  until  recently,  that  much  is  clear.  It's  too  clean.  There  are  fresh  scuff  marks  on  the  floor,  like  everything  was  rushed  out  of  here  in  a  hurry.  They  may  not  have  found  them,  but  they're  getting  close.  If  only  she  could  see  it  that  way.

ㅤㅤ  ㅤㅤYelena's  rambling.  More  than  that;  it's  almost  a  frenzy.  Muttered  swears  and  venomous  disappointment  all  directed  at  herself.  She,  of  all  people,  is  allowed  to  be  angry  about  it.  But  what  John  won't  do  is  let  her  get  in  her  own  head  again,  disappear  into  those  words  and  write  herself  off  when  they  can  still  turn  this  around.  He's  her  partner  in  this,  not  her  captain.  He  can't  give  orders,  and  he  sure  as  hell  knows  better  than  to  talk  down  to  her.  That's  not  what  she  needs.  Instead,  he  captures  her  with  hands  mindful  of  their  strength,  one  cupping  behind  her  neck,  fingers  lacing  through  her  hairline.  And  with  one  less-than-smooth  motion,  he  brings  his  lips  to  hers.

ㅤㅤ  ㅤㅤIt's  probably  the  softest  he's  ever  kissed  her,  he  thinks.  Every  other  time  was  more  .  .  .  haphazard.  Two  people  searching  for  an  escape.  But  this  time,  it's  all  for  her;  to  ground  her,  to  remind  her  that  she's  not  here  facing  this  alone.  ❝ We'll  find  them,  Lena,  ❞  John  says  after  a  moment  in  a  hushed  voice,  his  forehead  resting  against  her  own.  ❝ We  got  close  this  time.  They  know  we're  onto  them.  Look  around  you;  there's  so  much  proof  that  they  were  here.  ❞  His  hand  pulls  away  from  her  neck  to  press  his  gloved  palm  against  her  cheek,  exposed  thumb  tracing  a  line  across  her  cheekbone.  ❝ This  is  your  mission.  You  get  to  make  the  call.  You  wanna  keep  going?  We  keep  going.  You  wanna  take  a  break?  We  take  a  break.  And  I'm  not  going  anywhere.  I'm  following  you.  ❞

@cipherova. i  don't  care  what  happens  to  me  now.

BROW  FURROWED  AT  THE  ADMISSION.   The  regrets  she  had  regarding  Yelena  were  things  she'd  never  fully  forgive  herself  for  ,  ┈┈  nor  did  it  stop  the  guilt  over  how  that  might  have  influenced  such  a  statement.   She  should  have  gone  back  for  her.         (  she  should  have  given  her  a  home  when  she  needed  one  the  most.  )   She  should  have  known  better.   She  should  have  done  more.

Then  again  ,  ┈┈  dwelling  on  mistakes  she  had  made  never  did  her  any  favors  in  the  past.   Jaw  clenched  tight  ,  trying  to  push  down  any  lingering  feelings  of  guilt  that  wanted  to  bubble  up.         (  saving  it  for  later  when  eyes  weren't  able  to  see  her  break.  )   “  You  should.  ”   Voice  was  plain  and  blunt  ,  pulling  out  the  items  needed  to  stick  her  sister  back  up.   A  brief  moment  while  she  prepped  the  gauze  allowing  her  to  look  up  to  the  younger  assassin.

matt had cut down an alleyway. if anyone asked, he would have told anyone it was a shortcut… but he'd had ulterior motives. he knew there was a man lurking there, the sort of man he usually expected to try & help himself to any passerby's wallet. a blind man was a fine target, in many circumstances. just not this one.

he ignores the chill wind creeping up on them & he ignores the blatant truth as well. he had needed to blow off some steam & this low-life had done the job. he hadn't expected anyone to stumble upon the scene before he fled it.

" it's the truth, " he lies, confidently. in one of his bloody hands is his cane, in the other are the pair of glasses that had been knocked off of his face. a bruise already blossoms on his cheekbone, which might have seemed nasty if weren't compared to the unconscious body at his feet. it's clear the other isn't a fool, his lies may as well be falling on deaf ears. he puts his glasses back on before digging in his heels.

❛ how long has it been since you've slept? ❜ @cipherova

that sounds like a loaded question, one he's not quite sure he's ready to answer. sleep comes and goes for him, focusing on the going part at the moment. it's a little hard to get any rest when there's a world of enemies breathing down his back, and a mind of ghosts screaming louder than the ringing in his ears. clint's not doing well. it's true, but he's not going to admit that to anyone, let alone natasha's younger sister.

no. he's going to lean against his kitchen counter, elbows pressed down, and pour himself another cup of coffee. it doesn't matter that it's well past midnight now. it doesn't matter that every muscle, and bone in his body ache begging for him to rest for even just a moment.

not happening.

" nat never mentioned you were nosey, " she absolutely did, " keep those worries for yourself hear me? i'm fine. " he's not.

They sway slowly in the dim light-music humming low, but not low enough to drown out the beat of his heart. Yelena manages to lean in, teasing but edged with a softness, she asks: "Did you take acting classes growing up?"

Joey raises an eyebrow, eyes scanning hers like he’s trying to find the trap in the question. There's a coyness in his silence as he merely looks into her eyes, his own practically dancing, a certain debonair glow to his hazel irises. There's a saccharine expression much like the honey-hues settling in flecks of gold within his expression.

He's admiring her. And taking his time to do so.

The silence lingers, but doesn't ask to be filled. It feels as though it is pulling words from somewhere deep, without uttering a single phrase.

Every so often his index finger brushes the edge of her hand, curling along it, slow and deliberate, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. But, he does. Very much so. A gentle revelation, a way for him to touch without breaking the spell.

"I could consider myself a bit of Cary Grant." he chuckles. He'd be lying. "Not a single day of acting in my life, however." He offers.

Though they are still pretending, still dancing, in a lie they agreed to, their hands hold each other just a little tighter, as if both of them have forgotten where the act ends.

For Joey? - It's really rather simple. There is no act.

He looks at her as if she were the world, because she is the world. And she deserves to know it.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about, Shorty." He pokes with a wink. Joey tips his head back with a low chuckle, cigar tucked between his teeth, smoke curling lazily from the corner of his mouth.