open | you got the story all made up inside your head.

[debts]

CHARACTERS: natasha romanoff debts and you.
LOCATION: kitchens.
WARNINGS: n/a.
SUMMARY: natasha romanoff drinks tea. some people sit. some people don't.
NOTES: will edit for future warnings.

[ Natasha misses the tea back home. It's not a strictly Russian sentiment, either. She misses teas, her little collection in one of her safehouses where it was readily available at a local market, the ones she could mix and blend together depending on what she felt; sharp citrus and rose teas for mornings, soothing green for nights. Not, exactly, the way Natasha likes to start her day -- the reality is that she misses sun the same way people miss summer, memories with sentimental touches that include drinking tea on a Brooklyn fire escape, warmth on her back. She's sitting at one of the tables and maybe the picture she paints is dramatic, bordering on poetic; her glock, disassembled in front of her, next to her mug (coffee, not tea). Next to that are her holsters, two small flat discs and in her hands is a spool that she slowly unwinds, checks the tensile strength of.

All of this is gear she hasn't had to use in months. She polishes it up anyway, in a public area, in her tac-suit and boots up on a chair. Her hair is still sporting the remnants of how choppy it used to be when she sheared it off with a knife, sitting at uneven angles at shoulder-length as she respools her garroting wire.

So, you know. Come over if you want to touch some shiny things or whatever. ]

Comments

[loveordeath]

[She comes over to drink, too, but her mind's on a different beverage. Something she doesn't necessarily miss from home, but something's that always on her mind. Drink milk every day to stay healthy - it's one of Leon's precious lessons. Being kidnapped to space isn't going to stop her from following the same routine he taught her to.

Stepping into the kitchen, heavy black boots and shorts that cut off at her thighs, Mathilda adjusts the sleeve of her jacket - too big around her shoulders, with a dull color - and takes a seat after she's fetched what she came here for. One look around and she sees another woman, bright red hair, weapons on display.

She stares, for now, without saying anything, wondering just what someone like her could have to do with something like that.]

[debts]

[ It carries on for a while, like Natasha hasn't noticed (or just doesn't care). Her fingers are slender, tapered and precise as they work their way through, respooling her kit. It doesn't take long, just repetitive until she can tug on it a few times. She's looking down the barrel of one of the pieces to her glock when she says, mildly: ]

Staring is rude.

[loveordeath]

[Something about the way she arranges those pieces reminds her of Leon, how he'd sit away from the window, always aware of his precious plant, quiet and lonely until Mathilda finally persuaded him to let her help, let her learn. She recognizes some movements, some methods. Part of her wants to interfere and try them, too.

She isn't startled, but she does blink tellingly when Natasha finally speaks up. After a pause, trying to show nonchalance,]

Does it bother you?

[It isn't the setup for an apology; rather the hint of a dare.]

[debts]

No.

[ She says, because it doesn't. Her eyes are still locked on her hands, on what she's doing in assembling all the pieces together with neat little clicks as they slide into place. ]

But you're drinking milk.

[ It reminds Natasha, a little, of Stalingrad. ]

Girls who drink milk don't want to be rude.

[nutsaboutscans]

[John's stopping by to grab something to eat. He glances at her as he walks into the kitchen. He grabs some cereal and pours himself a bowl, then pours in some milk.

He walks over to the table and hesitates at the chair across from her.] Do you mind if I sit?

[debts]

[ There's a pause. It comes across as a little standoffish, but Natasha just ends up shrugging. Her boot shifts and extends, pushing the little chair across the floor with a little noise. ]

Help yourself.

[ such conversation much wow ]

sorry for the late! feel free to ignore

[nutsaboutscans]

Thanks.

[He's not much better. He grabs the chair, pulling it closer to the table and sitting. He doesn't bother to talk to her for a while. Eventually, his curiosity gets the best of him.] I'm John, John Kennex.

[he says as if he expects her to introduce herself in return.]

[starbuckslord]

[ Peter, on the other hand, happened to be a man for coffee, no matter the hour. By this point in his life, it was more psychological than anything - it was magical and perfect and kept him sane when it seemed like the universe was threatening to fall apart at the seams; it didn't do squat for his actual alertness levels. He didn't even pause as he walked into the kitchen and saw Natasha working on her weapons - he was way too used to seeing Gamora and Rocket doing similar things over the years. Coffee was the main concern.

He quietly dug around through shelves until he found a package of coffee and he sauntered over to the coffeemaker. He got that all set up for himself and let it start dripping away into the pot. That done, he turned back toward Natasha and leaned against the counter. ]

Nice stuff. For Earth-based, I'm guessing.

[debts]

[ Without missing a beat: ]

2010. Earth.

[ She's been around long enough that that kind of thing doesn't phase her as much as it used to. Alternate lines and worlds and futures that she can't give a fuck about rather than won't. There's a specific kind of hierarchy to the way she prioritizes -- some call that compartmentalizing and that would be fair, considering exactly how big the ship's gotten in her stay here.

A pause, and Natasha looks up. ]

Alien, android or other?

[ That's a joke. Probably. ]

[starbuckslord]

[ Peter grins faintly at the question. It's one with an answer that's simple and not, and when Peter finds himself in such a situation, he usually chooses to not take it too seriously. ]

Half an alien. Used to have cybernetic implants a while back, so I guess that put me in the range of "cyborg" for a bit, but a techno-plague kinda meant I had to ditch those quick. [ Glib is Peter on a good day, and aside from the lack of caffeine in his system, today wasn't bad. He's glancing at Natasha, as if the recognition is finally starting to dawn on him from his universe. ]

Widow? [ Though secret identities aren't much of a thing in space, he at least understands that's the way things work on Earth. This way, it's just an awkward and out of place question should anyone be overhearing. Peter's been known for stranger. ]

[debts]

[ To her credit, Natasha still doesn't miss a beat. She blinks at him, measured, slow, and it's impossible to tell what's going on there. Maybe her blink after the knowing Widow? gets half a second of resistance, but even then. Well. ]

You're from the other place.

[ Observation, rather than question. She leans forward, elbows crossed on the table. ]

That's how you know me?

[timeisluck]

[ at some point, gwen, in her attempt to explore the ship, comes across the kitchens. it's the perfect time to use some of the cocoa powder she's been carrying around with her.

she pokes her head through and notices the woman sitting at a table with an assortment of ... okay. are those weapons?

... anyway.

guns are nothing new to her. she used to see one every morning, strapped to her dad's hip. the rest of it, though, is a little new to her.

gwen comes in, offers the woman a smile, before she starts to look for hot cocoa things. like a mug and a kettle and a spoon. ]

[debts]

[ Natasha gives a smile that, if everybody is being honest and watching for it, comes across as nothing but polite. It's-- muted, the kind that doesn't reach her eyes but plays out for appearances only. ]

It's in the cabinet to your right.

[ Helpful, even if not strictly warm about it -- Natasha doesn't look up, just continues to make the methodical motions to wind the wire back. ]

[timeisluck]

Oh. Thanks.

[ she had been looking a bit lost, and also not sure how free they were to use anything in the kitchens.

so the woman's sudden direction is helpful.

there's a moment when gwen just gets set to make her hot beverage, boiling the water and scooping two spoonfuls of cocoa powder into a clean mug. while she's waiting, she glances over at natasha's belongings again.

politely: ]

Do you need all of that here? The weapons.

[trusted]

[Oh, shiny things. Bucky's not in the kitchens looking for tea, but they have similar tastes elsewhere. So he was never born with a father (or a trainer) who taught him to shoot: the man who raised him never ruffled his hair for knocking ten tin cans in a row off the rail of a Brooklyn fire escape (though he could). But the army gave him a gun and Bucky found the missing part of his hand, and a focus he'd never quite had before that aligned itself down the sights of the barrel.

He wanders in looking for whatever someone's abandoned that still looks good - with plans to pick up enough for Steve, out of habit (though Steve eats one hell of a lot more than he used to, and it's not so easy anymore).

But his focus is pulled by those sleep black parts.

And the disassembled gun, too.

So he stops, and takes a walk across to her table, pressing his hands to the wood as he leans down.]

Funny looking jigsaw.

[debts]

[ She doesn't look up. But it does, at least, earn him a sound that's halfway between an exhale and a laugh. Her fingers thread the filament around her digits, tugging and straightening until it fits back properly in its little case. ]

You say that to all the girls?

[ A beat, then she slides the spool she's working over to him. If he's going to stay and chat, he can help rewind it too. ]

I can start you off with something easy.

[trusted]

[He can do that, though it was the gun he had his eye on. He follows her movements, winding slow, testing the strength of it against the back of his hand.]

I'm good for the tough stuff. Had a few old ladies used to need help getting past the corner pieces, back in Brooklyn.

[He smiles, and then he sits, giving the wire another twist, looking down at it.]

What's this one for?

[overthought]

[Cortana's fine motor skills have improved dramatically over the course of her time here. She sits on the ground, legs crossed (odd, despite the fact that they have chairs) sitting and working on ... something or the other.

She's finding it harder and harder to pass the time, considering that she was so used to working, then waiting for so long in space to dying; something about it seems fatalistic and she refuses to indulge it.

There's a moment when she's working and her hand slips as she screws something in and she just gives a frustrated ARGH before staring at it.

She might need some brawn to help her with this.]

[debts]

[ No kidding.

Natasha kind of-- rearranges herself. Her leg on the chair lands back on the floor with a heavy thud, straightening so she can peer over the table and to the woman on the floor. ]

Hi.

[ Amused and not really bothering to hide it. ]

[forgodssake]

[ There is someone foraging.

That someone is probably Charles Xavier, but with the way universes overlap without rhyme nor rhythm, trading faces and names like collectable stamps, anyone would be forgiven for assuming that he isn't. He is vaguely unkempt where Charles Xavier was neat; he is quiet in his negotiation around kitchen space where Charles Xavier liked to possess the room inasmuch as someone of his stature could; he doesn't approach Natasha Romanoff when Charles Xavier probably would have, by now.

Instead, he focusing on inspecting what fresh ingredients have been funnelled into public kitchen, selecting what he thinks he can afford to take without it being noticeable. Leafy greens are stacked on top of one another. Some bread someone's gone ahead and made. These things are bound together.

As he works, he betrays a look up and across the room towards her, too knowing in recognition of her to be chance. ]

[debts]

[ He looks up.

That's enough. Natasha is good at people, and sometimes that means she has to be good with people, but it has been a long, long time since she's had to do anything. So she recognizes Charles Xavier. Doesn't bother to lower her gaze once it's caught, just stares, keeps staring.

She thinks one thought. Loud, focused, layered over and over one another:

WAS IT WORTH IT?

Whatever happened, to make this the reality he lives now. ]

[forgodssake]

[ He can hear her.

Unwillingly, for the most part, and his gaze breaks from hers as he continues to fuss with and arrange his haul of food. But underneath the silence-- ]

you don't know what you're talking about

[ --is the oddly echoing, broken-sounding transmission of telepathy, sounding like each word has to be crafted individually before its bounced like a coin through Natasha's skull.

But it's there. ]

[the_other_eight]

[Pepper's been running through the motions since she got here. Arya had honestly been a godsend when she gave her the job of organizing the department and since she'd gotten that handled she'd really become more of a wondering spirit in the halls of The Tranquility.

The incidents in the halls only built on that. Seeing Phil was painful, but not as much of an encouragement to jump into the glowing portal as the ship must have thought it would be, and the scenes in the hallways still haunted her - as did the lack of visual evidence even though she'd clearly recorded and photographed it. She needed to talk with Inato Jones, to better understand what had happened in the past before she was here, but she'd been stalling.

So instead of looking for the man she was making her way into the kitchens to find a hot cup of coffee and maybe a beagle or a croissant or something. That's when she notices Natasha with her coffee and out spread gun. She'd never actually seen something like that before. Stark Industries had made weapons of course, but she never really saw those weapons. Not unless she was present for a demonstration (which she rarely was).]

[debts]

I've been thinking.

[ Natasha doesn't so much as look up. She spares a single glance from the corner of her eye, and even then it could be dismissed as nothing, just the natural way a head turns when you put down one piece and put together another. Natasha slides the pieces of her glock together, neat and precise, slow enough so she can look for grooves in places where they shouldn't be. ]

You might need lessons.

[ Her head tips, a look shot over her shoulder as she quirks a brow. ]

What do you think?

[the_other_eight]

[Pepper pauses when Natasha starts to speak. Their interactions have been a bit scattered since their first meeting. At her assessment that Pepper needs lessons it's not hard for Pepper to determine what she's talking about. She means fighting doesn't she? They were all just in those hallways, and Pepper had only really made it through by hiding and running. With Extremis not manifesting here on the Tranquility she's pretty much defenseless and she knows it. May had offered once and she'd declined. She didn't want to learn to fight, but Natasha was right if that was what she was talking about now.

Still, she presses her lips together slightly and questions rather then confirms.]

Lessons?