[ the accommodations could have been better. but, when you were trying to lay low and blend in, you couldn't really check into some overpriced hotel and give the man at the front desk your credit card or large amounts of cash. both would draw suspicion so you went to the next best thing: a motel outside the city limits that looked straight out of the seventies.
it wasn't quite as old as steve but it definitely needed a new coat of paint. it was perfect. it wasn't like they were going to stay for long and even with the one big bed, neither of them would probably sleep. they'd argue about it, go over the consequences of exhaustion but maybe someone would fall asleep sitting up or maybe not.
the bed's a risk anyway. he doesn't even know what color the comforter is and he doesn't want to pull it back to see what's underneath.
no, steve's just going to bring in their vending machine dinner and toss it onto the small table. there are weapons spread out across the bed and his shield is against a wall but they haven't needed anything lately.
it was quiet. that meant very little besides that they'd hidden well. it wouldn't last. ]
I got Cheetos.
[ dinner of champions? who didn't want a dinner that turned your finger orange and permanently stained your teeth? fritos were more steve's thing but the bag had gotten stuck and shaking the thing till it spit out what he wanted hadn't been a possible.
not with the motel's owner standing right there, trying to talk to him about his life and his career aspirations. he'd only escaped by faking a phone call and talking to dial tone.
Cheetos. [ the word echoes in the small room, dry syllables trying to be stern betrayed by the faint hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. ] I hope you got the Extra Hot, at least.
[ would it be enough to satisfy them both? definitely not. but it was something to take the edge off, not so much in terms of hunger but in nerves, a pattern of hand to bag to mouth that provided some focus for their overactive minds. it was, at least, something to tide them over while they waited for whatever delivery service she's managed to convince owes her a credit brings something more akin to actual food to the door. or a door. a few rooms down, a fake name, some credit card she found left in a lost and found box, an exceptionally good promotion code... all in a day's work.
but from her perch in the middle of said king bed, natasha gestures at the space beside her. there's enough room, even if he doesn't plan to sleep. he doesn't need to just stand there all night. ]
Lucky for you, I got Chinese. ETA's maybe twenty minutes if the driver doesn't get lost.
[ he tosses the orange colored monstrosity her way before pulling his jacket and rolling his shoulders. tension is nothing new but sometimes he feels it more than others. tonight, everything feels tight and coiled as if preparing for something.
steve really hopes it's not a harbinger.
he's going to decidedly not think about that as he comes over and drops down beside her, blowing out a breath and leaning back against a thin pillow that's no doubt been laundered once since someone had tossed it on the bed.
[ she shrugs. the laptop's tucked in her bag, phone on the nightstand; for once, she hadn't been doing much of anything at all. ]
Meditating, actually.
[ or she was. a good way to pass the time while steve went on his so-called snack runs, the ones that were really an opportunity for him to scout out the place once an hour on the hour. he never could just... relax. ]
[ he's barely closed his mouth from making the offer when her reply sounds in the air between them. ]
Steve. [ she's meditated in the middle of one of tony's long diatribes about technological throttling by international arms committees, she can meditate in front of 'overly accommodating by default' steve rogers. ] It's fine.
[ she's not using her pillow because she's not laying down. there was a logic to this. ]
[ sitting and just being still worked for a bit but then he started feeling that ever encroaching feeling of wasting time. like he could be up and walking, planning, plotting, doing something that would benefit them in the future.
yes, he knows that every person needs to rest but he doesn't want to rest too much. especially not with the situation as it is currently. ]
[she doesn't make it back to earth often. not when there's too much to do and too many people to save. carol wasn't lying when she said that there was a whole universe beyond the blue green planet she once called home which needed help. normally she's jetting from one far away planet to the next. heroes never rest.
but this is one of those rare visits. carol's currently in san francisco, handling a little skirmish between rival gangs with some souped up weapons courtesy of the chitauri. it's not something that specifically needed her aid, but she was there so it made sense.
intel about other issues was quiet for now though, by some small miracle, leaving her with a little spare time on her hands. it's why she's currently flopped on a less than comfy bed, complete with scratchy wool blanket in some old s.h.i.e.l.d. safehouse and firing off a text without any regard to time zones. it's not that late on the west coast, but it's certainly beyond the time for polite conversation.]
[ does she sleep? in theory. does she sleep well? no. rarely. every so often, bruce or rhodey bring her supplies — souped up sleeping pills, muscle relaxants, things to help take the edge off. but she never takes them. she keeps them for emergencies, for a day where someone might need them more than her, a day that she hopes never comes. the stockpile grows, and so too does natasha's sleep debt.
so when she gets a message, she's awake enough to respond. ]
i am. feeds say there was some light show in sfo. i thought we weren't seeing you for a while.
yeah. plans change. i go where i'm needed and you seemed like you might have had your hands full.
[ which is to say that she knows nat doesn't sleep well if ever and if she can shoulder some of the evils in the universe she will. it's the least she can do. ]
it's nice out here, surprisingly. makes me wish i could've come for different reasons. [ five minutes of typed and erased messages pass before carol's real reason for the late night text becomes clear. ] i miss you.
i've never been. i kept meaning to check it out, but my social calendar's been a little busy lately.
[ that's all she sends, at first. but then, minutes later, carol's addendum comes, and natasha has to pause too. not because she's editing, but because she's just not sure what to say.
natasha doesn't do emotions. not well, anyway. what she feels for her team is complicated at best — loyalty, guilt, a debt that needs to be repaid. she trusts steve with her life, leans on bruce and tony to provide the skills she could never hope to add to her belt; she's expanded, in the last few years, to trust rhodey and okoye and others when she has to.
but missing people is dangerous. emotions are messy, complicated things; they make it hard to see clearly, to do the job that has to be done, to survive. she's tried not to let anyone under her skin enough to miss them.
and yet. i miss you, plain as day, from a woman a million times stronger than she could have ever hoped to be. it hits her like an anvil. ]
[carol knows the statement is an inconvenience, that it probably threatens natasha's careful compartmentalization of everything in her life, a necessity in her line of work, a necessity during times like these.
she'd considered not sending it, of setting her phone down and turning on the tv to drown herself in a dumb sitcom or anything that might get her mind off the loneliness that came with being out there in the vastness of space, but there was something about having her feet on solid ground, about being home that always made her more contemplative and made it harder to ignore the pull of connections with other people.
in the years since the decimation and despite their very different backgrounds, carol had found plenty in common with natasha. secrets shared over drinks, sometimes spiked, though more often not. cold meals because neither had managed to pick up cooking as a life skill. the bond they'd forged wasn't enough to stay grounded forever, but was certainly enough that leaving got a little harder each time.]
considering, but it's late, isn't it?
[she's already mapped out the distance to the compound, knows that if she rides the currents just right she could be there in maybe an hour.]
i'm waiting on okoye. they're due to hit a weapons shipment in gibraltar at 0800.
[ two am east coast. natasha would be awake until then, at least. she had to be. someone had to be awake in case of emergency, and considering there was no one else in the compound, that someone just had to be her.
does she know what carol's offering? in a sense. companionship's a heady drug to seek after a long stretch of isolation, but it's also addicting — no less so than anything illicit, if you weren't used to it. getting used to another person's company and then going without wasn't an easy thing to cope with.
it also meant it was a lot harder to say no. ]
rocket hooked up space cable on his last visit, but i can't figure out this weird remote. i can pay you in pbj sandwiches if you feel like fixing it.
[she does the math, figures that nat should still be waiting on a status report by the time she touches down. it'll give her enough time to wash up, get comfy and maybe lure nat away from the mind-numbing nature of space reality tv shows. it sounds better than that itchy blanket and a night alone. just like that the decision's made.
carol pulls on her flight suit while trying to fire off a reply. it's only somewhat successful.]
mmm. i see how it is. you only want me for my ability to translate obscure alien languages. but don't worry. i'll fix your tv problem. just don't forget to cut the crust off this time.
[carol makes one last sweep through the safe house, gathering the last of her scant belongings. once outside, she pushes skyward, a long contrail marking her path all the way to nat's base of operations. and within the hour she's touching down on the roof.]
knock knock. hope things haven't gone sideways while i was airborne. and do you mind grabbing the roof access?
[ Steve finds Natasha at dusk down by the lakeside, watching from the dock as a family of ducks floats by. His first instinct is to come up with an opening line to announce his presence, something witty or even sarcastic, because that's just how they communicate. Most people assume they're not allowed to tease Captain America, but Natasha never had any such compunctions. He's sure it has something to do with growing up in Russia, in the Red Room, without ever seeing him as an unimpeachable authority figure in the national mythology, but that doesn't make him appreciate it any less.
Maybe he should crack wise; he knows she could use a laugh. But the more he grasps for something to say, the more his wit escapes him. There is no humor to be found in the enormity of what they're preparing to undertake tomorrow. Steve has felt the weight of the world on his shoulders before and it was nothing compared to this, now: the fate of the universe in their hands. Despite all of the research and planning, there are still so many shifting variables. Nothing is a guarantee on this mission, least of all their safe return back after everything is said and done.
It doesn't escape him that this could be the last night that he and Natasha are ever in the same place at once. Even if they both survive—and he hasn't allowed any other possibility to sink in; he isn't sure he could go through with this if he did—they could end up stranded in different years, quite literally across the universe from one another. A part of him wishes he had pushed to have Natasha on his team, but they chose this configuration for a reason, and even if Natasha could have switched places with Scott or Tony, she wasn't about to let Clint out of her sight. Steve understands that, having felt similarly about Bucky when he finally got his best friend back. It's just... challenging to accept when it stands in direct conflict with his desire not to let Natasha out of his sight.
But the plan is set, team assignments have been made, and he's not about to waste precious time with regret. Instead of cracking a joke, he knocks on the nearest wooden post as he steps onto the floating platform, his weight causing the dock to sway in the water. ]
[ the words come easy, posture relaxed and voice soft, a sharp contrast to the tense lines of steve's shoulders and the stiff plane of his spine. he feels the tension she should be feeling. after all, tomorrow is an inevitable step towards an outcome natasha's life has been drawn to since day one in the red room; it's a fate that seems a kinder closing chapter than she had ever thought she deserved.
death becomes her, an instructor had once said. a bad translation — they'd meant killing, not being killed; they'd found beauty in the careful twist of piano wire around a neck, in the fluid slice of knives into arteries, in the graceful bend of a body flipping another into the ground. but the instructor hadn't been wrong. in accepting her duty in this mission (in the mission), natasha had found a peace that had long since eluded her.
last night, she'd slept well for the first time in years. nine hours, clocked. no tossing, no turning, only acceptance and quiet and — perhaps most damning of all, relief.
was that wrong? natasha had only been hurtling towards an inevitable death since she'd first picked up a slim baton. she'd fought it and evaded it and leaped out of the way too many times to count. death had sought her, but natasha had been wiser. so now, to choose it, on her own terms? was it so wrong to feel relieved that the chase was coming to an end?
more importantly, was it so wrong that her only regret seemed to lie in the could have beens of the man interrupting her thoughts? maybe so. doesn't stop her from tipping her head back, or from gesturing at the spot beside her with a too casual gesture. ]
Water's nice, by the way.
[ she lifts a bare foot, kicking up a small splash below the surface of the dock, as evidence. her shoes still lay somewhere near the shoreline, long since abandoned. ]
[ fifty minutes three times a week. an hour and fifteen minutes twice a week. or, the ultimate test in patience and attention span: two and a half hours once a week. it mattered, and yet, it didn't. either way, an ass was in a class for one hundred and fifty minutes a week, precious time allotted to a subject that may or may not have any practical application in the future.
the dilemma was: how often and for long did she want to be harassed into performative learning, forced to show up with a cup of coffee and a sleek laptop ready to take notes that she would never read, voluntold to make small talk in between lectures with people she honestly cared very little about?
well, except one. she's not sure how it happened, but it did. steve rogers, the all-american fraternity boy, the charmingly handsome yet surprisingly intelligent — all signs had pointed to "you'll hate him", and yet, she didn't. an assigned group project their freshman spring had gone surprisingly well: she'd handled the more complex data links, the intricate polisci logistics, while he'd handled with ease the public presentations. they'd worked well together, and though the first partnership was mandatory, seeking each other out in projects to come had been anything but.
that partnership had grown, too, as the years went on. group assignments became commonplace, but so too did study sessions, essay workshops, exam week reviews. meeting for class purposes expanded to quick bites after class or seat saving at the on-campus coffeeshop during the pre-lecture rush, which in turn morphed into two-for-one tickets to the spring speaker series or impromptu meetups at volunteer events.
but they weren't together. not in the way that people asked, anyway — not in the leering, brow waggling way his frat brothers assumed, even though she'd never attended a single one of their parties or mixers; not in the politely approving way their professors implied, even though they'd sat together by default in every class since their sophomore year; not even in the friendly, encouraging way their classmates seemed to group them together, you two shortened to you as if the other was assumed even out of earshot.
they weren't together, though. they weren't a couple, weren't even a casual fling; they were just friends who lived separate lives that happened to intersect approximately one hundred a fifty minutes a week... give or take a few hundred more, depending. the number varied: sometimes they took alternative lectures (due to interest or class size limits), sometimes they (he) had social obligations, sometimes they just didn't have time. but class registration? that was minutes they set aside.
a text goes out mid-afternoon, just as natasha watches a vaguely familiar ensemble of cargo shorts and flip-flops hand out flyers on the library steps downstairs. ]
you should remind your clones this is a green campus.
[ and then, a moment later, a screenshot of two class options. INR 3141: Global Security Policy, offered once a week on wednesday evenings; INR 3202: International Human Rights, offered twice a week on tuesday and thursday mornings. ]
i'll make sure he knows it's his fault when we screen the inconvenient truth sequel next movie night.
[ Steve is still grinning down at his phone when someone clears their throat behind him. He doesn't know how it's possible to imbue a guttural huff with so much disdain but impatient Starbucks customers have perfected the skill. He mumbles a half-assed apology—he can never spare too much sympathy for the impatient; anyone that pressed for time could have just skipped the coffee run—and steps up to give his order. On a whim, he orders a second drink and a salted caramel cake pop. They're much too rich for his taste, but Natasha likes them.
By the time he moves over to the counter to wait for his order, he has a new text. The silly grin makes its way back onto his face, and he knows he should be more careful—it wasn't even that exciting of a text—but he can't help it. He'll save his effort for when he's actually in front of Natasha; she's the only one he needs to worry about fooling, anyway, since his friends are already well aware of his hopeless crush.
The question of class registration shouldn't be difficult: he's far more interested in human rights than global security, not least because the latter is often used as an excuse to limit the former. But Global Security Policy is offered in the evenings, and he can't help the way his brain instantly makes the jump from evening class to casually inviting Natasha to dinner after said evening class. Good thing he already knows he's pathetic. ]
i might be tied up on tues & thurs mornings, i still have that last math credit they won't let me waive.
[ He could (and probably will) just take that class online, but he's technically still undecided, and that class is offered in the same block. ]
i don't understand why there's a sequel. is the truth now more inconvenient?
[ the truth is always inconvenient: the mantra of modern comparative politics (and the white-haired professor who taught the course), and one that natasha had taken to heart. people liked to claim that they wanted the truth, that they "hated liars" and "didn't like drama" ... and those same people were routinely taken aback when someone (read: natasha) pointed out that they were the problem all along. telling people the truth wasn't what they wanted. they wanted what they hoped was the truth.
she's midway through a serious contemplation on morality in business and the ethics of being honest when it's more efficient to lie when an unfamiliar face drops into the seat opposite at her table; barely ten seconds later, and a ballet flat kicks outward, shoving the seat back with enough force to send it tipping on its rear legs.
no, she scolds, tone deadpan and firm, and the unwanted sophomore with a stupid grin runs off to find his next victim. potential love interest. same thing. ]
secpol it is. [ a beat, her thumbs tapping against the side of the phone. ] you could take stats online. i still have the book.
[ she kind of assumed he'd want to take the latter. leave his evenings free, but also because he's a giant bleeding heart who cares too much about everybody else all the time. giving him an easy out seems like the right thing to do. ]
library. [ she doesn't need to elaborate. he knows where she goes. fourth floor, left side, four-top table in the russian history section. no one (or, more accurately thanks to the earlier interruption, almost no one) ventures up there. ] your espresso properly roasted today?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
post civil war-ish i guess? on the run shenans.
it wasn't quite as old as steve but it definitely needed a new coat of paint. it was perfect. it wasn't like they were going to stay for long and even with the one big bed, neither of them would probably sleep. they'd argue about it, go over the consequences of exhaustion but maybe someone would fall asleep sitting up or maybe not.
the bed's a risk anyway. he doesn't even know what color the comforter is and he doesn't want to pull it back to see what's underneath.
no, steve's just going to bring in their vending machine dinner and toss it onto the small table. there are weapons spread out across the bed and his shield is against a wall but they haven't needed anything lately.
it was quiet. that meant very little besides that they'd hidden well. it wouldn't last. ]
I got Cheetos.
[ dinner of champions? who didn't want a dinner that turned your finger orange and permanently stained your teeth? fritos were more steve's thing but the bag had gotten stuck and shaking the thing till it spit out what he wanted hadn't been a possible.
not with the motel's owner standing right there, trying to talk to him about his life and his career aspirations. he'd only escaped by faking a phone call and talking to dial tone.
he'd feel bad about that later. ]
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[ would it be enough to satisfy them both? definitely not. but it was something to take the edge off, not so much in terms of hunger but in nerves, a pattern of hand to bag to mouth that provided some focus for their overactive minds. it was, at least, something to tide them over while they waited for whatever delivery service she's managed to convince owes her a credit brings something more akin to actual food to the door. or a door. a few rooms down, a fake name, some credit card she found left in a lost and found box, an exceptionally good promotion code... all in a day's work.
but from her perch in the middle of said king bed, natasha gestures at the space beside her. there's enough room, even if he doesn't plan to sleep. he doesn't need to just stand there all night. ]
Lucky for you, I got Chinese. ETA's maybe twenty minutes if the driver doesn't get lost.
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[ he tosses the orange colored monstrosity her way before pulling his jacket and rolling his shoulders. tension is nothing new but sometimes he feels it more than others. tonight, everything feels tight and coiled as if preparing for something.
steve really hopes it's not a harbinger.
he's going to decidedly not think about that as he comes over and drops down beside her, blowing out a breath and leaning back against a thin pillow that's no doubt been laundered once since someone had tossed it on the bed.
he hates hotels. ]
What are you doing?
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Meditating, actually.
[ or she was. a good way to pass the time while steve went on his so-called snack runs, the ones that were really an opportunity for him to scout out the place once an hour on the hour. he never could just... relax. ]
The pillow's not going to bite you.
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[ hotel room pillows were not something he put much trust in. ]
I don't exactly see you using your pillow very much.
[ because she was smart. ]
I can leave if you want to get back to your meditation. There's some good walking space out there.
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Steve. [ she's meditated in the middle of one of tony's long diatribes about technological throttling by international arms committees, she can meditate in front of 'overly accommodating by default' steve rogers. ] It's fine.
[ she's not using her pillow because she's not laying down. there was a logic to this. ]
I think you've done enough pacing for this week.
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[ ...shut up. ]
Besides, it helps me think.
[ sitting and just being still worked for a bit but then he started feeling that ever encroaching feeling of wasting time. like he could be up and walking, planning, plotting, doing something that would benefit them in the future.
yes, he knows that every person needs to rest but he doesn't want to rest too much. especially not with the situation as it is currently. ]
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📧 you've got mail (no this ain't that kind of au) - set somewhere in that murky 5 year timespan
but this is one of those rare visits. carol's currently in san francisco, handling a little skirmish between rival gangs with some souped up weapons courtesy of the chitauri. it's not something that specifically needed her aid, but she was there so it made sense.
intel about other issues was quiet for now though, by some small miracle, leaving her with a little spare time on her hands. it's why she's currently flopped on a less than comfy bed, complete with scratchy wool blanket in some old s.h.i.e.l.d. safehouse and firing off a text without any regard to time zones. it's not that late on the west coast, but it's certainly beyond the time for polite conversation.]
hey you up?
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so when she gets a message, she's awake enough to respond. ]
i am. feeds say there was some light show in sfo.
i thought we weren't seeing you for a while.
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i go where i'm needed and you seemed like you might have had your hands full.
[ which is to say that she knows nat doesn't sleep well if ever and if she can shoulder some of the evils in the universe she will. it's the least she can do. ]
it's nice out here, surprisingly.
makes me wish i could've come for different reasons. [ five minutes of typed and erased messages pass before carol's real reason for the late night text becomes clear. ]
i miss you.
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i kept meaning to check it out, but my social calendar's been a little busy lately.
[ that's all she sends, at first. but then, minutes later, carol's addendum comes, and natasha has to pause too. not because she's editing, but because she's just not sure what to say.
natasha doesn't do emotions. not well, anyway. what she feels for her team is complicated at best — loyalty, guilt, a debt that needs to be repaid. she trusts steve with her life, leans on bruce and tony to provide the skills she could never hope to add to her belt; she's expanded, in the last few years, to trust rhodey and okoye and others when she has to.
but missing people is dangerous. emotions are messy, complicated things; they make it hard to see clearly, to do the job that has to be done, to survive. she's tried not to let anyone under her skin enough to miss them.
and yet. i miss you, plain as day, from a woman a million times stronger than she could have ever hoped to be. it hits her like an anvil. ]
you planning on stopping by?
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she'd considered not sending it, of setting her phone down and turning on the tv to drown herself in a dumb sitcom or anything that might get her mind off the loneliness that came with being out there in the vastness of space, but there was something about having her feet on solid ground, about being home that always made her more contemplative and made it harder to ignore the pull of connections with other people.
in the years since the decimation and despite their very different backgrounds, carol had found plenty in common with natasha. secrets shared over drinks, sometimes spiked, though more often not. cold meals because neither had managed to pick up cooking as a life skill. the bond they'd forged wasn't enough to stay grounded forever, but was certainly enough that leaving got a little harder each time.]
considering, but it's late, isn't it?
[she's already mapped out the distance to the compound, knows that if she rides the currents just right she could be there in maybe an hour.]
i wouldn't want you to have to wait up for me.
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[ two am east coast. natasha would be awake until then, at least. she had to be. someone had to be awake in case of emergency, and considering there was no one else in the compound, that someone just had to be her.
does she know what carol's offering? in a sense. companionship's a heady drug to seek after a long stretch of isolation, but it's also addicting — no less so than anything illicit, if you weren't used to it. getting used to another person's company and then going without wasn't an easy thing to cope with.
it also meant it was a lot harder to say no. ]
rocket hooked up space cable on his last visit, but i can't figure out this weird remote. i can pay you in pbj sandwiches if you feel like fixing it.
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carol pulls on her flight suit while trying to fire off a reply. it's only somewhat successful.]
mmm. i see how it is. you only want me for my ability to translate obscure alien languages. but don't worry. i'll fix your tv problem. just don't forget to cut the crust off this time.
[carol makes one last sweep through the safe house, gathering the last of her scant belongings. once outside, she pushes skyward, a long contrail marking her path all the way to nat's base of operations. and within the hour she's touching down on the roof.]
knock knock. hope things haven't gone sideways while i was airborne. and do you mind grabbing the roof access?
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during endgame, last night trope zone
Maybe he should crack wise; he knows she could use a laugh. But the more he grasps for something to say, the more his wit escapes him. There is no humor to be found in the enormity of what they're preparing to undertake tomorrow. Steve has felt the weight of the world on his shoulders before and it was nothing compared to this, now: the fate of the universe in their hands. Despite all of the research and planning, there are still so many shifting variables. Nothing is a guarantee on this mission, least of all their safe return back after everything is said and done.
It doesn't escape him that this could be the last night that he and Natasha are ever in the same place at once. Even if they both survive—and he hasn't allowed any other possibility to sink in; he isn't sure he could go through with this if he did—they could end up stranded in different years, quite literally across the universe from one another. A part of him wishes he had pushed to have Natasha on his team, but they chose this configuration for a reason, and even if Natasha could have switched places with Scott or Tony, she wasn't about to let Clint out of her sight. Steve understands that, having felt similarly about Bucky when he finally got his best friend back. It's just... challenging to accept when it stands in direct conflict with his desire not to let Natasha out of his sight.
But the plan is set, team assignments have been made, and he's not about to waste precious time with regret. Instead of cracking a joke, he knocks on the nearest wooden post as he steps onto the floating platform, his weight causing the dock to sway in the water. ]
Hey. Mind some company?
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[ the words come easy, posture relaxed and voice soft, a sharp contrast to the tense lines of steve's shoulders and the stiff plane of his spine. he feels the tension she should be feeling. after all, tomorrow is an inevitable step towards an outcome natasha's life has been drawn to since day one in the red room; it's a fate that seems a kinder closing chapter than she had ever thought she deserved.
death becomes her, an instructor had once said. a bad translation — they'd meant killing, not being killed; they'd found beauty in the careful twist of piano wire around a neck, in the fluid slice of knives into arteries, in the graceful bend of a body flipping another into the ground. but the instructor hadn't been wrong. in accepting her duty in this mission (in the mission), natasha had found a peace that had long since eluded her.
last night, she'd slept well for the first time in years. nine hours, clocked. no tossing, no turning, only acceptance and quiet and — perhaps most damning of all, relief.
was that wrong? natasha had only been hurtling towards an inevitable death since she'd first picked up a slim baton. she'd fought it and evaded it and leaped out of the way too many times to count. death had sought her, but natasha had been wiser. so now, to choose it, on her own terms? was it so wrong to feel relieved that the chase was coming to an end?
more importantly, was it so wrong that her only regret seemed to lie in the could have beens of the man interrupting her thoughts? maybe so. doesn't stop her from tipping her head back, or from gesturing at the spot beside her with a too casual gesture. ]
Water's nice, by the way.
[ she lifts a bare foot, kicking up a small splash below the surface of the dock, as evidence. her shoes still lay somewhere near the shoreline, long since abandoned. ]
› trope bingo says college au.
the dilemma was: how often and for long did she want to be harassed into performative learning, forced to show up with a cup of coffee and a sleek laptop ready to take notes that she would never read, voluntold to make small talk in between lectures with people she honestly cared very little about?
well, except one. she's not sure how it happened, but it did. steve rogers, the all-american fraternity boy, the charmingly handsome yet surprisingly intelligent — all signs had pointed to "you'll hate him", and yet, she didn't. an assigned group project their freshman spring had gone surprisingly well: she'd handled the more complex data links, the intricate polisci logistics, while he'd handled with ease the public presentations. they'd worked well together, and though the first partnership was mandatory, seeking each other out in projects to come had been anything but.
that partnership had grown, too, as the years went on. group assignments became commonplace, but so too did study sessions, essay workshops, exam week reviews. meeting for class purposes expanded to quick bites after class or seat saving at the on-campus coffeeshop during the pre-lecture rush, which in turn morphed into two-for-one tickets to the spring speaker series or impromptu meetups at volunteer events.
but they weren't together. not in the way that people asked, anyway — not in the leering, brow waggling way his frat brothers assumed, even though she'd never attended a single one of their parties or mixers; not in the politely approving way their professors implied, even though they'd sat together by default in every class since their sophomore year; not even in the friendly, encouraging way their classmates seemed to group them together, you two shortened to you as if the other was assumed even out of earshot.
they weren't together, though. they weren't a couple, weren't even a casual fling; they were just friends who lived separate lives that happened to intersect approximately one hundred a fifty minutes a week... give or take a few hundred more, depending. the number varied: sometimes they took alternative lectures (due to interest or class size limits), sometimes they (he) had social obligations, sometimes they just didn't have time. but class registration? that was minutes they set aside.
a text goes out mid-afternoon, just as natasha watches a vaguely familiar ensemble of cargo shorts and flip-flops hand out flyers on the library steps downstairs. ]
you should remind your clones this is a green campus.
[ and then, a moment later, a screenshot of two class options. INR 3141: Global Security Policy, offered once a week on wednesday evenings; INR 3202: International Human Rights, offered twice a week on tuesday and thursday mornings. ]
i'm torn.
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[ Steve is still grinning down at his phone when someone clears their throat behind him. He doesn't know how it's possible to imbue a guttural huff with so much disdain but impatient Starbucks customers have perfected the skill. He mumbles a half-assed apology—he can never spare too much sympathy for the impatient; anyone that pressed for time could have just skipped the coffee run—and steps up to give his order. On a whim, he orders a second drink and a salted caramel cake pop. They're much too rich for his taste, but Natasha likes them.
By the time he moves over to the counter to wait for his order, he has a new text. The silly grin makes its way back onto his face, and he knows he should be more careful—it wasn't even that exciting of a text—but he can't help it. He'll save his effort for when he's actually in front of Natasha; she's the only one he needs to worry about fooling, anyway, since his friends are already well aware of his hopeless crush.
The question of class registration shouldn't be difficult: he's far more interested in human rights than global security, not least because the latter is often used as an excuse to limit the former. But Global Security Policy is offered in the evenings, and he can't help the way his brain instantly makes the jump from evening class to casually inviting Natasha to dinner after said evening class. Good thing he already knows he's pathetic. ]
i might be tied up on tues & thurs mornings, i still have that last math credit they won't let me waive.
[ He could (and probably will) just take that class online, but he's technically still undecided, and that class is offered in the same block. ]
are you on campus? i got sbux.
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[ the truth is always inconvenient: the mantra of modern comparative politics (and the white-haired professor who taught the course), and one that natasha had taken to heart. people liked to claim that they wanted the truth, that they "hated liars" and "didn't like drama" ... and those same people were routinely taken aback when someone (read: natasha) pointed out that they were the problem all along. telling people the truth wasn't what they wanted. they wanted what they hoped was the truth.
she's midway through a serious contemplation on morality in business and the ethics of being honest when it's more efficient to lie when an unfamiliar face drops into the seat opposite at her table; barely ten seconds later, and a ballet flat kicks outward, shoving the seat back with enough force to send it tipping on its rear legs.
no, she scolds, tone deadpan and firm, and the unwanted sophomore with a stupid grin runs off to find his next victim. potential love interest. same thing. ]
secpol it is. [ a beat, her thumbs tapping against the side of the phone. ] you could take stats online. i still have the book.
[ she kind of assumed he'd want to take the latter. leave his evenings free, but also because he's a giant bleeding heart who cares too much about everybody else all the time. giving him an easy out seems like the right thing to do. ]
— college au tfln with options bc i'm indecisive
TWO. It went from a "chill game of beer pong" to "absinthe body shots and a tits parade" in literally two minutes.
THREE. I just watched Jersey Shore so I would know what rock bottom was when I reach it.
FOUR. Don't read too much into what I just sent. I love you, always have, but I'm drunk and sorry for the confusion.
four, please.
[ denial, party of one, two long island iced teas down. ]
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what bar did your cavemen coalition claim tonight?
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