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

[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. ]

[debts]

[ Some call her cold-hearted; it's true, at least, true enough for any given moment that it has to be. Natasha stares at him even as he physically turns away. Her knuckles tighten around the filament of the wire, only with some effort seem to relax and still as the words echo inside her head. It would take effort to split something open, here, to somehow figure out how to let herself be open to receiving a message so it doesn't sound tinny, dull.

Natasha's boot pushes the chair opposite her across the floor. It scrapes, loud, metal against metal. ]

Sit.

[ A beat, then Natasha finally seems to blink. You know. Metaphorically. ]

I haven't had lunch yet.

[forgodssake]

[ There is a pause, before Charles slows to a gradual halt in what he's doing, and then picking up his current foraging spoils with a ruffle of leaves and moving towards her table. His clothes are on the comfortable side of casual, jeans and Tranquility issued T-shirt and a cardigan from before thrown over the top. An effort made for venturing past his den.

He sits. ]

That seems a little negligent. Did you want some space kale?

[ The good humour that generally makes his tone rich is scrubbed away, reduced to barer bones. ]

[debts]

Not really.

[ She shrugs. Natasha's knuckles brace the thin thread as she winds it, loops it between and over her fingers. ]

You just look like shit.

[ Her eyebrows lift, something dry pitching up the corner of her mouth. ]

You looked better with your hair cut.

[forgodssake]

That's unkind.

[ But he doesn't seem particularly offended, in the way people who have hit the bottom and found it a good resting place tend to be a little immune anymore to obvious observation. There's some small amount of humour reflected back at her, subtle but warm.

Gone again, swiftly. ]

You don't care what I look like, but you know something's changed. And you're wondering now where it fits in.

I'm sure no one's told you that. Red hair.

[debts]

[ Funny, how she looks at him now. She doesn't bother with steel or emptiness; if anything she's calm about the way she respools the little thread, curls it up, puts it to the side. She starts on a piece of gunmetal next, watching the way the light flicks over the surface.

A beat, then: ]

Do you want me to be honest with you?

[ As if it's as easy as yes or no. ]

[forgodssake]

[ His attention tracks her hands, glint of steel and silver, wondering vaguely if its improper to clean your assassin spy weapons in a public kitchen. There's no room to be very intimidated.

The soldier had already scared the piss out of him earlier. He looks back up at her. ]

Yes.

[debts]

I think you feel lonely.

[ Telling, probably, that 'be honest' equates to an observation that's not about her. Natasha looks at the piece she's holding, then shrugs it off; sets it to the side, leans back in her seat instead. ]

Self-neglect means that you've slipped into something. This isn't a look someone like you overinvests in, unless you've skipped time and changed, and I know that happens here, so I can't rule th tout. You work in the Science department, so I know you're intelligent, but I don't think this is about academic failure — you're not Dedalus.

[ As if to-- be kind, she shrugs. Lets the corner of her mouth tick upwards. ]

I don't know. I care a little about how you look.

[forgodssake]

[ There's a shift where he sits, discomfort made physical, as if Charles is already regretting his request that she be honest at him, but no other move to interrupt her. His blunt fingernails set against the table, where his gaze has lowered for the moment.

That last part gets a vocalisation -- hmm -- that never graduated to an actual laugh, but exists in the category of 'mirth'. Understated. ]

I did skip time, and change.

[ He sits back in his chair, as if he can make himself relax if he wrenches himself into the obligatory positions to do so. ]

Fairly significantly in both cases, I suppose. Thing about being lonely is that it's a lot easier to put up with when you decide to be.