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

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. ]

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[ 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.

[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.]

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.

[Girls who drink don't want to be rude? Well. Girls who don't want to be rude don't swear or smoke, either. The thought makes Mathilda want to scoff, but she remains as quiet as a mouse, as observant as a hawk.]

I'm not like other girls.

[A cliché of an answer, but it rings true to her.]

[ Natasha hums. ]

Somebody told you that it was important. It must have been someone you cared about. [ Parent, sibling, other. ] It's a guess. Maybe you're more like other girls than you think.

[ She slides pieces together. The glock assembles itself with a definitive click, and Natasha sets it down on the table, its heavy weight making a dull kind of noise. She finally looks up, then. ]

What's your name?

[She makes a face, visibly unimpressed. Any child with a loving mother or father would agree, but Mathilda had someone else. What he meant to her is something she doesn't think anyone could ever understand, so she doesn't comment on that.]

Bumblebee.

[The first name she thought of during the jump, thinking she'd rather keep her real name to herself. Who knew what kind over power they could hold over her, over who she really was? Especially if someone unwanted so just happened to show up and ask around for her.]

You?

[ Natasha smiles. ]

Widow.

[ Her head tips a little, like she's seeing something not strictly amusing, but-- worth noting anyway. ]

[Another codename, however grim. At least this one's smart.]

Whatcha got there?

[ Her head tips. Just enough to suggest that she's inviting her to sit at the table, if she wants. ]

Come see.

[There's a pause, but she doesn't hesitate - Mathilda picks her up glass and arranges her jacket before making her way over, taking a seat across the table. Her eyes are down on the weapon before flicking back to the woman's face.]

Never seen one like it before.

That's not surprising.

[ Which is more of a comment about worlds and universes than it is her age, her potential scope of experience. Natasha sets the pieces apart further, easier to differentiate, the spread of her hand like pianist's fingers poised delicately over keys. ]

Garroting wire. Stun disc. This one is smoke.

[Mathilda listens, paying close attention. There's a marked interest in the topic, seeing as she's actually learning something new, something Leon never taught her, even if this time around she won't get to make use of that knowledge - unless Widow is feeling generous, that is.

A curious finger spins a piece, without intention to take it into her hand.]

What do you need them for?

[Is she going to kill someone?]

[ Natasha doesn't bother to ask things like can you keep a secret. Doesn't move closer, keep her voice hushed. Instead her voice is mild, simple. ]

I don't need them.

[ Honest, at least in part. ]

But it's good to have them, and it's good to be prepared.

[She likes that. It's as thought she's being treated like any other person, regardless of their age. She's stopped being a child a long time ago.

(Not true. She still misses her plush doll, she still wishes she could wake up to watch her cartoons. She still wraps small fingers around a glass of milk, like Leon told her to.)

And so far this woman's managing a good first impression. Mathilda's never had a lot of female role models to go on - if any. Her mother was a mild-mannered, uneducated woman; her stepmother a vain bimbo, her step-sister an arrogant bitch. Seeing a woman handle weapons so coolly is impressive, to say the least. It makes Mathilda curious, rather than provocative.]

Are you a cleaner?

[ Look close, and Natasha might almost be smiling. ]

That's an old term.

[ At least, a term that doesn't run in the circle she does now. Cleaner sounds-- too simple, too good, for the things Natasha Romanoff used to be. But the question is aimed in the present, so Natasha responds that way. ]

Yeah. In a way.

[Not an old term for Mathilda - but then the woman and the child are twenty years apart. She'd be thirty-two by the time Natasha's living now.]

In a way.

[Explain, she wants to know all about it.]

[ Natasha lets the silence stretch. Not out of some brand of unkind maliciousness, but it's happening all the same. ]

Cleaners, [ she says. ] Work for people. They're a last resort. I used to do that, and I still do that, because I understand what that work is.

[ A shrug. ]

I work in information now. How to get it, to store it. To keep it. [ A little dryly: ] Sometimes, I have to stop aliens.

[Sometimes, I have to stop aliens.

It's what really sticks to her and somehow breaks the atmosphere she was building up with all that talk of killing and gathering information for hire. Mathilda's lips break, only a little, like she wasn't expecting or hoping to show that bit of emotion.

Well, they're in space. Aliens are happening.]

So you're working against them or something?

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