#devi1ism

“Thanks. I’ll be here all night," she says, voice lilting up as her teeth flash white in a smile. It's casual — his stance, her tone, the snippet of conversation. But she feels the tension snapping in the air like a rip cord. Yelena rocks on the balls of her feet, gauging.

She could run. Her body is already prepared for flight: muscles wound tight, pulse elevated in the base of her throat. But that would feel like an admission of guilt (somehow, she thinks he already knows. It's the way he tipped his head, the lift in the corner of his mouth).

And besides, that would be so, so much less fun.

old habits are hard to die, but then again natasha likes to think she has learned better and can do better - by all means, she is so over this push and pull. empty glass of wine put on countertop, paired empty bottle already left in the sink; matt's glass still in his hand, natasha has the impression that once again words don't match actions.

"—It's nothing. Let's go."

Frank doesn't miss a beat, loading his gun, wiping the blood from his forehead, checking the alleyway they both sheltered in, ducking whatever pack of assholes Fisk has convinced to go after them.