ota; three more shall take its place

[vdova]

WHO: Natasha Romanoff
WHERE: The Town Hall
WHEN: November 14th into November 15th
OPEN TO: Everyone! This is a mingle log.
WARNINGS: Description of injuries/probably descriptions of violence.
STATUS: Open to All


Natasha is up at sunrise, scrounging down in the inn for spare scraps of cloth and some charcoal, enough of it to write three, brief, notes. One for Clint, one for Tony, and one for Sam and Steve, because the last two live together and it would be a waste of time for her to leave them separate notes, even if she probably should. Nicer, that way. But she has somewhere to be and she wants to be there and back here before sunset, and she also doesn’t want any of them following her. Clint won’t; he knows she’s capable and if she’s gone off on her own then it’s something she needs to do on her own. Tony also probably won’t -- in fact, she’s only telling him as a courtesy, because despite everything, he still believes they’re friends and she’s in no position to dissuade him from that notion just yet. She assumes Sam will feel the same as Clint, but Steve-- Steve is stubborn to a fault, and if she told him face to face where she was going, he’d insist on coming with her. And she can’t. Whatever it is between them, this re-kindling of their friendship, is still on tenterhooks, fragile and possibly easily broken. It doesn’t really occur to her that this might have a negative effect on that; she’s too concerned with getting her note written and handed out and then leaving.

The deed itself takes her fifteen minutes. All four men live in different areas, and she slides the cloth under their doors and heads right for the woods. She doesn’t have a map -- map making isn’t her skill, but she memorized the general location and direction of the ruins, and she picks her way through the timber, using trails when she finds them and strutting through the underbrush when she can’t. She doesn’t worry about tracks. No one is going to follow her. It takes her less than the day to get there.

It takes her another two days to return, limping and injured and sick as she is, but sheer determination has kept her going before. She’s been hungrier than this. She’s been worse than this. A bloody stump is a flesh wound, she thinks. She limps into the village at sundown, leaning on the spear like it’s the only thing keeping her upright (because it is). Her left eye is the central piece to a violently purple bruise blossoming around it and her cheekbone, and she’s favoring her left leg. Her first stop is the inn to find Miss Kate; she can tell everyone at lunch that Natasha wants to talk to everyone as soon as possible, so if they could please meet up at the town hall tomorrow afternoon after lunch, that’d be great, thanks.

Her next stop is her room, where she sheds the backpack, her clothes, and after she’s curled up into her bed, her consciousness, too.

The doesn't wake up until the sun is high in the sky, her head pounding less hard, and while she still can't put weight on her left knee, she can at least stand up without wanting to vomit because the world is spinning like a top around her. She makes it to the town hall with her backpack on one shoulder, the spear resuming it's post as her crutch, and when she arrives, she hoists herself up on the table. The backpack she unzips and pulls out a large gold disc, setting it on the table beside her. The spear is laid across her lap, and she gazes out at the crowd before her.

She's a spy; public speaking has never been something she's been fond of unless she has the upper hand, but here, she's as out of her depth as the people before her. She's certain she's not going to have the answers these people are going to want. But she has to try.

"I ran into a hydra in the ruins. The floor is open to questions."


(( OOC: I'll have a comment for mingling/questions for Natasha below, but feel free to leave your own toplevels/etc. I'll have a separate header for closed threads if anyone wants to do one on one discussing with Natasha about what she found! ))

Comments

[paragon]

Sam had found the note under their door, and handed it off to Steve, who'd read it, nodded and pocketed it before heading out the front door for the day. Not to go after Natasha, because he may not be a spy but he can still read between the lines just fine: he wasn't wanted or needed on this expedition. Maybe it's for the best, he told himself; he'd really only been a dead weight at Peggy's back, all muscle without the strength to back it up, and he'd put her life in danger. For the best doesn't make him any happier about it, though.

Sam had seemed more sanguine, and that made some sense to Steve. He'd never worked with Natasha before coming on board, doesn't know that they were supposed to be past this. Like hell he'd let her run missions on her own. He's never kept anyone on a short leash, has always let the people he's leading spread out, extend their strengths to where they're needed, and if that means they sometimes spread far, well, they none of them need Steve looking over their shoulder to do what needs to be done. There's a world of difference between that and Natasha deliberately putting herself beyond his reach or backup, in a place they've yet to comprehend, with nothing for Steve to show for it except a goddamned scrap of fabric in his pocket with what amounts to a 'bbl, don't follow me' in charcoal.

He doesn't care what she wants by the time the third night falls and there's still no Natasha. It's well past the point where he could live with himself if anything's happened to her, and whatever he'd hoped to tell her by following what she'd made implicit is lost even to him. He'll set out the next morning, but he walks to the inn in the dark to gather some food, and it's there Kate tells him Natasha already returned at dusk and is asleep in her room. He nods, thanks her and leaves the inn.

He arrives early to the town hall; he's forgone lunch entirely and so wasn't there for the announcement, but Kate told him about that too, last night. He's hoping to speak with Natasha before everyone else arrives, but is glad he doesn't get to, because when he does see her it drives him to distraction, staring at her long before she focuses the rest of the room's attention so thoroughly on her with the news. Steve speaks up when he has something to contribute to the flow of discussion and fear that follows, but it's her room, and so he mostly listens. He keeps his distance, too, while she and Peggy speak, looking away on a swallow when Peggy touches her cheek.

"You should get back to the inn," he says as he approaches her afterward. His eyes only don't move to the bruise over her eye — and won't go to any of her injuries now — because he'd taken such thorough stock of them while her attention had been on the room.

[vdova]

He's angry. She can see it in the set of his jaw and the crease in his forehead when he sets sight on her in the town hall. If she were a cowardly person, she'd have refused to look at him the entire time the discussion was taking place, gaze skipping over that part of the room like it didn't exist at all. Natasha may be a lot of things, but a coward isn't one of them, and she treats him like she does Sam — acknowledges his look, accepts that she's going to get some kind of talking to later, and focuses on the matter at hand. The discussion goes on long enough. By the time she and Peggy part, she's tired, but she's not letting it show, because there's still Steve to contend with.

And, with the way he's standing, contend is the right answer. He won't show his anger, not here in public, and she's grateful for that, even as she isn't. She's not in the mood for a lecture, and she doubts she ever will be. But he's stubborn and won't let her alone until he's said his peace. Besides. His suggestion really isn't one. Natasha slides off her perch, zips the disc up into her backpack and plants the spear like a crutch, slipping her pack onto her shoulder.

"That was that plan," she says, her tone carefully neutral in a way that says she knows what's about to happen. There's no need to ask if he's going to come with her, and she doesn't wait to see if he follows her when she starts moving. She knows him. He will. The walk is a lot farther than she should probably going on her knee (although she's thankful for the little things, like the fact it's not broken, just bruised and swollen, because a break would be almost impossible to heal properly here), so it takes her longer than it should and the air between them grows more tense with every step. By the time they make it to the inn, she's about ready to turn on him and tell him to spit it out, but she stays silent, making her way up the stairs towards her tiny closet of a room.

The spear she puts next to the door frame, the pack set down next to it, and she limps her way over to the bed, sitting on it, leaning forward to untie her shoes. There's pain in her ribs. She ignores it, in favor of speaking to him.

"Out with it."

[paragon]

She doesn't need to show that she's tired for Steve to know it. He's been in plenty of scraps in his time, and the last time he looked like her — well, thankfully she doesn't have a bullet in her gut, but that hadn't been the only thing he'd needed a good three days to sleep off before he'd gotten out of that hospital bed. He'd watched her on the television mounted on the wall, though, seen her protect him and, in Sam's words, tell the government exactly where they could shove it. Now here they are, and he can't figure out for the life of him what changed.

He broods on this and more as they walk, Steve slowing his pace for her but not offering to help because she sure as hell hasn't wanted it so far. By the time they make it to her room it's all kind of bottlenecked in his throat, not moving past it but too hard to swallow down. He doesn't know where to start. He doesn't imagine there's anything he has to say that she can't anticipate, and far from a comfort it's just as helpless a feeling as he's known since she took off. So for a few seconds after she sits down and speaks he can only cross his arms in a futile effort to contain some of it, watching her take off her shoes. Voice low, he finally says:

"Just tell me what you were thinking."

[vdova]

She huffs out a small laugh that ends in a sharp intake of breath as she sits back up. She doesn't move, otherwise — somehow she's pretty sure that if she were to grab her side like instinct demands, he'd just get more angry, and he's already angry enough. Instead, she smirks a little, tilts her head to the side in thought, and doesn't look at him, kicking her shoes off towards the chest near her bed.

"I was thinking I'd be back by nightfall with a funny story to tell," she says dryly, reaching up to touch the bruise on the side of her face. She winces a little — not that she's surprised it's still tender, but. She'd been hoping. She looks up at him, the smirk on her face fading when she sees him. Damn.

[paragon]

He meets her eyes when she looks up, and no, he's not laughing, though he thinks she should've known better by now if she'd expected otherwise. His back is to the door, the strip of floor where he's standing between it and the foot of the bed the only real room for him. There's nothing else to do with the hurt of that but to hold it tightly in his posture, in the tension in his arms and spine, not ameliorated by the way the light coming through the window behind her sets her hair ablaze, shadowing the rest of her face to match the bruise, softening the edges of it. She shouldn't be laughing either, and he's not really fooled that it's anything but a brush-off specifically for his benefit.

"You were gone for more than three days, Natasha." He doesn't tell her that he knows exactly how much more than, that he can figure it down to the hour he'd guessed she had left. The strain only doesn't show on his face because it's too pushed out by the anger. Or maybe it's not; he doesn't know, and he's three-plus days past caring. Apparently it doesn't matter either way if he gives a damn about her. "You want me to ask for help, but it doesn't go the other way around, huh? Because it seemed pretty easy to tell the rest of us we could go to hell."

[vdova]

She glances briefly to the closed door behind him, partly to escape the intensity of his gaze (though it's been pointed, like this, at her before; at least he's not slamming her into a wall repeatedly this time), partly to double check. He'd been planning for this, that she's not going to take what he's said lying down (so to speak), and while her first instinct is to tell him to leave, that she's very rarely in a mood to be lectured, she knows he won't and it'd just add another layer to the argument that already has too many. This isn't going to be a discussion like last time. He's angry and it's palpable and it's also contagious.

Because now? Now she's angry, too.

She can't stand, but she can sit up straight, and she looks him in the eye with the cool fury she'd had beaten into her long ago — never let them see you angry, Natalia, unless you need them to use that. She waits before responding, not because she's trying to figure out what to say, but because she wants to make him sweat a little while he thinks about what he just said. He's right. She's not happy about it. And it has nothing to do with his hypocrisy.

"If that's what you think this is, then clearly there's still things you don't understand about me," she says quietly, carefully. "I was wrong to assume you did. I apologize."

[paragon]

He lifts his chin a little at that, but he also looks away, less a show of his anger than just— taking the hit. It's reeling back from an uppercut to the jaw, and he's sure she can read it; what he doesn't know is if she meant to be cruel, or if she'd just gotten lucky, and that's part of the problem. He's afraid she's right, as badly as he doesn't want her to be. As much as he can't find it in himself to accept that defeat.

Still, he needs to take those couple seconds. He swallows and lets his eyes go back to her, passing briefly over the wallpaper, her trunk, the water basin without really seeing them. Fine, she got in a hit, but he won't look away from her again.

"Then explain it to me, and don't be smart about it this time," he says. "From where I'm standing it looks like you think you're on your own again. You're damn lucky you aren't worse off than this, 'cause I could've brought you back, but—" Admitting helplessness in any situation isn't exactly Steve's forte, and now is no different, so he just drops his arms to his sides instead.

[vdova]

Natasha takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, more to stave off the budding headache she can feel radiating from behind her bruised eye. The light streaming in through the window is only making it worse and she doesn't answer right away, just does her best to stand up and limp the half foot to the window to get the curtains mostly closed before she all but collapses back on the bed. Which is probably doing her no favors right now, but she's made it, now she's gotta sleep in it.

She hadn't been trying to be cruel. Cruelty was an unfortunate side effect of her pointing out what seemed to be base fact, that he clearly couldn't fathom why she did this, without weighing the risks, because if he did understand her, he'd know she had, had deemed them nothing she couldn't handle, and went. There's always the chance something you don't or can't plan for will happen. Natasha has never let that stop her from undertaking dangerous missions before. She's not going to let it stop her here, not if she can find the answers everyone is desperately seeking. She gives herself a second to readjust and then opens her eyes to look at him. Her cold tone is gone, replaced with the defeated embers of the fire of anger extinguished. She isn't conceding either-- but she is still exhausted.

“I'm well aware of the extent of my luck,” she says. “You can prepare for anything but that doesn't mean you prepare for everything. I wasn't being smart — I genuinely had no indication that anything other than being gone for the amount of time I told you and coming back with nothing more than the exact same information we've had before would happen.”

She pauses for a moment.

“Am I not?” Alone, she means. In the end, she'd sided with neither of them — in the beginning she'd sided with neither of them, despite their assumptions. The Black Widow was probably always meant to be alone, in the end.

He does understand her, though. It's small comfort.

[paragon]

Steve doesn't try to stop her from standing, or help her pull the curtains closed. She can do it on her own if that's how she wants it, and it's not a petty thought. She knows her body and how it can be hurt, she knows the risks of trying to get around on her knee like it is, and in spite of all of this he'd be the last person to tell her she has to mind them.

There's a strip of light still running the length of the room from the window, crossing the panels of the wood floor. He's standing mostly to the side of it but steps into it to move closer to her, sitting down on the truck across from her. He doesn't give any thought to whether it can bear his weight; things like this were built to last a lifetime. His own fire's pretty well banked by her answer, as well as it ever is, just leaving behind something ashen in tribute to the last few days. He hasn't exactly been sleeping well, and apparently that's something that shows now if it's been long enough. The light stripes her knees, and he leans his forearms on his own.

"You could have asked me. Or Sam, or Clint. Hell, Thor." He knows it's not exactly what she's asking, but true to his word, even if it was only in his own mind, he holds her gaze for as long as she'll hold his. "I'll always be there if you need me, Nat."

It sounds too final, too accepting of the position they're in, and it's not what he means. He wants so much more from her than this, what she thinks of his own regard for her, that he almost laughs. Some of it's still there, a wryness to his next frustrated breath, and he links his fingers, presses his palms together so he's able to feel the callouses that have started to form on his right hand. "I'm grateful that you sent the decryption for the Raft. I would've liked it better if you'd been with me. If that's not where you wanna be back home because you think I'm going about it wrong, fine, I understand. But you're still my friend."

[vdova]

Her face moves from confusion to astonishment and back again as he speaks, because while it doesn't surprise her, it does. He'd do the same for anyone, and she knows that, but for her, for her— it's different. Because she doesn't need it, has never needed the approval of the people in her life (wanting it is an entirely different matter but the fact remains the same), she's only ever needed approval from herself. Ever since Bruce and Ultron, she's decided she's going to keep on the path that gives her that. Even if it means she walks it by herself. And here he is, telling her that even if she's walking alone, he's not far. That he will respect whatever distance they have between them, but whatever bridge she needs him to cross, he will. It's a little daunting.

She reaches forward and puts her hand over his clasped ones.

“You're a good man,” she says quietly, like the entire world is listening in on them but for this, only he gets to hear.

[paragon]

He shakes his head, less a denial of that than of how much it's really got to do with anything. It's the truth that he's always wanted to do what was right, and he's just been lucky that the things he wants for himself, the parts of him that are selfish, have more or less run parallel to that path. That's all it is; he'd do the same for anyone, but Natasha isn't just anyone, so his reasons go far beyond what's good or right. "Not really, no."

He only answers her in kind, so he hopes she takes it that way rather than the revelation it would be otherwise. He wants to unclasp his hands under hers, open them and let her palm settle against his. He knows it would feel as natural as breathing (if she let him), which is why he doesn't.

"But you're one of the only ones I've got who knows that."

[vdova]

She wants to kiss him.

She won't, of course — it'd be senseless and foolish and it'd probably hurt, not to even mention the fact that Steve has someone now, a piece of his life he thought he'd never get back. He's got stability and the potential for family and whatever feelings she's got growing inside of her can't compare to that. The moment she feels it is brief, a blip so fast it almost doesn't register, but not quite fast enough for her to ignore. She at least manages to trap it and tuck it away before it shows on her face and in the way she sits.

Natasha is grateful for his friendship and wouldn't ask for anything more. She squeezes his hands and gives him a small smile, reluctant to pull away even as she does so.

“Still,” she says wryly, straightening up and tucking her hands together on her lap.

“You are. And I'm not going to promise I won't want to go off on my own again,” Natasha continues, holding up a hand to stave off the protest that she's knows is coming. “But. I will give you time to talk me out of it and into taking someone with me.”

There's a small pause, and she lowers her hand, glancing away from him for a second.

“I've been broken worse than this. I will get broken worse than this. I have and will always survive.”

[paragon]

Steve looks down when she takes her hand back, lips pressed together. He doesn't intend to look at his own hands, where hers had been, but he does and it feels apropos. She's no longer touching him, yes, but it's more that it had seemed just as easy for her to pull away as to reach out. He wishes he knew how to read any of this. Her body language gives nothing away, and he's not about to go down the path of hoping that maybe not seeing what he wants to just means that she doesn't want him to see it.

At least his consternation segues easily into the protest that had indeed begun to form, his mouth opening and shoulders straightening before she continues, and he deflates a little comically, if he still doesn't seem too happy about it.

"Yeah," he replies, looking at her again after that. "But you don't have to do it on your own." He doesn't want to argue with her anymore, not really. But he's gonna at least try to get in the last word if that's her conclusion. The truth of it isn't the important thing; it's how they come by it, and whether they're sacrificing the right things along the way. He won't let himself be one of those things, whatever he is to her. He'll always fight her on it, if that's the how, though he can't help but wonder if she'd think that he's got no right to say it after everything, which is why he doesn't.

"You should go to the spring," he says instead. "You'll heal faster if you do." He pauses, for just a brief moment. "I've gotta head back that way, actually. I can take you to the spring first, then swing back around to you after I finish up. Shouldn't take me too long."