ersatzdivinity | Open Musebox Post

She doesn't mean to attack him. It was just a natural progression of things. Eliminate one target, move on to the next, whirling and ducking and delivering blow after blow. None of these supposed soldiers so far have been able to block more than two of her strikes at most. She's an efficient killer, always has been, thinking three or four or seven steps ahead. But they've been at this for long enough that she sinks into that haze where there's nothing but the fight and the pounding of her heart. The target goes down, and she turns to the next one, but the next one blocks, and blocks again and counters and moves in a way she knows. She knows this dance, and it continues in vicious silence interrupted only by the sound of one of her batons clattering to the ground, knocked from her grasp, broken only by the sound--

The sound of laughter. Laughter, warm and surprised and more alive than anything around them, laughter that travels from her ears straight to her heart, stopping it. His hand, that deadly metal grip is closed around the delicate bones of her wrist, and she is frozen as he looks at her in a way that he's not supposed to, anymore. Beautiful eyes, she thinks, she's always thought, those beautiful eyes moving across her face, always coming back to rest on her lips. Her own clear, the haze of battle fading. There's confusion in those eyes, anger, a spark of longing just as strong as his own.

Her Romanian is a little rustier, but the meaning of the word comes easily enough.

"The man I kissed is dead," she says, and her voice should be sharper, and not this low, husky whisper. "They murdered him. Tore him apart and buried the pieces. You aren't supposed to be here. You weren't supposed to be here--"

And yet she isn't pulling away. And yet she's still close, so close to him. And her eyes keep moving from his lips to his eyes, searching. For what, even she isn't sure anymore.

"They tried," he admits, and they were almost successful. Almost. What he suspects is that since Zola happened first, everything after that is a part of who he is, a composite of these unfeeling monsters and men drowning in what feelings he could still grasp onto. They're broken, rough-edged and constantly injuring each other and his whole by rote. They shift, like patterns of leaves in the midday sun back in Brooklyn, but each is no less of him. Here he runs into an intersection - Bucky's affection for redheads, the Soldier's affection for this one, in particular, his current desire to be, feel, real again.

What is more real than wanting someone right in front of you?

"I've dreamed of you." He refuses to be ashamed of that. "I would never have chosen to forget." The hand on her wrist caresses her pulse point idly. It's not an attempt at seduction; he doubts he's capable. But the energy, the electricity it takes the heart to pump feels different under the fingers of his metal arm. "The man you kissed died, and was reborn." Into a confused fool, he thinks, and smiles a little wryly. "But he would like to kiss you again."

He would never have chosen to forget, he says, and again those are words that are sharp, cutting without him even knowing. He would never have chosen. But she had chosen to let him, hadn't she? Chosen to let him forget her. Chosen to not try and remind him. Because even then, she'd known she wasn't going to stay in that Russia, working for the dying arm of a body of government that didn't realize the deathblow had already been received. There was no coming back. And she wasn't going to die with it, so if she just let him forget...it would hurt him less, killing her. It wouldn't hurt him at all, if he didn't remember, because there was no way they wouldn't send the Soldier after the Widow. She's always been practical to the point of ruthlessness. Necessary decisions are often painful. But never has one lingered so much like an open wound.

She shakes her head at his words, but it isn't a no, just an expression of frustration. A way to clear a head that should be clearer than it is. "I'm not that woman anymore," she says to him, and the switch back to English is deliberate even as her voice stays soft. "I'm not Natalya, I'm not that Widow, even if I'm still the Black Widow. You don't know me." And he had, once, she realizes, she remembers. He'd known her better than any of them. Not just physically. He'd understood in a way no one else did what all the different pieces of her became together. But it's been so many years. So many bodies. How can he want to--even if he remembers, even if she remembers everything (she'd never forgotten) how can they both forget the time and the distance in between? But it's still not a no, and her free hand has found its way to his chest, fingers flexing as her palm flattens and finds a heart racing almost as fast as her own.

"Neither of us are the same as we were then." He isn't sure how to explain the rest, how it's easier to let the passage of time be just that when time itself has been a friend, enemy, nothingness. Everyone he grew up with, save one man, has been dead for decades. Here he is, frozen in time. The future is here, and the past haunts him anyway. How does he explain that no two people should remain the same just as they started out, be they civilians or otherwise? "I know who you were, once. You know who I was, once. Is that really so terrible?"

He would not blame her, for letting him forget. He was in no position to decide to leave with her.

More importantly, she survived.

"I would like to know you," he says quietly, and now is bad timing, now is the worst idea, but he feels alive for once, and vaguely unafraid of the future. Time to capitalize on that feeling, the blood in his veins, her hand on his chest.

Is that really so terrible, he asks, and she almost laughs. Is it? It is, if you ask most people. The things she's done, the things he's done. What they've done, both together and apart. And still he says I would like to know you. He doesn't know what he's asking. He can't. He doesn't remember. Not enough.

But for all that she's a calculated person, always thinking, always planning, she's reckless, too. She's always taken risks, counting on her own skills, her own certainty to help her make it back out. She wants to be angry, she wants to be upset, she wants one of these faceless men around them to still be alive, so she can have something to make her pull away, something else to spend all this adrenaline on. Because right now, she isn't sure what she wants to do more, hit him or kiss him. Her hand slides up his chest, fingers at the base of his throat, touching the pulse there, hand sliding higher still to brush through tangled hair.

"Knowing is dangerous," she says, and she's closer still, almost close enough to kiss. "Knowing me could kill you," she says, and her lips are brushing his. It's not quite a kiss, not yet. He should know what choice he's making.

"I could kill you."

He wonders which end of the equation she finds so impossible if it's even an aspect he's considered. Doubtful. He's working on limited knowledge and a great deal of questionable instinct in the moment. but her comment brings him to a question of his own: does he want to die.

Not right now, is the answer that comes to mind first, so it's the one he goes along with. The WIdow could kill him, yes. He knows that. He trusts in that. It makes her a much safer option than literally anyone he knows, because while Steve is physically capable he is not emotionally. He could bet money on it.

His pulse ramps a little as her fingers glide across his skin, into his hair. He breathes, long and slow, trying to clear his head but it really just means that he breathes more of her in. "I know," is his answer. What else can he say to that?

I know, he says, and what else is left to say? He's made his choice, and so has she. Maybe if she does this, she'll be able to regain perspective, clear her head and his of all the ghosts still haunting them. It's a thin excuse. She shouldn't need an excuse. She makes her choices and doesn't look back.

The words are barely out of his mouth before she rises just that tiniest bit higher on her toes and kisses him, heedless of the death and destruction around them. That doesn't matter. Bodies are just that, dead and gone and of no concern when he is warm and alive and right here in front of her. The adrenaline rush spikes again, and her lips move on his, parting to taste him. It isn't at all like it once was, but that's for the best. She doesn't want what used to be. She wants to know him, too.

His brain does an odd thing when she kisses him and goes quiet. Minimal chatter, a consideration for the gas that may still be rising through the building's subterranean floors towards them, an awareness of the hall itself but the rest? The awareness of his arm, all his various aches, and pains, concerns about the invisible minefield called his memory, fades to a murmur in the back of his mind.

So that's...interesting.

Opening his mouth to more of her is easy. Keeping his hands loose against her waist, breathing her in. She smells so similar yet different, changed over time and circumstance or perhaps because his memory is just worn thin in strange places and he wonders how much is different for her. Wonders, discards it. Wonders instead at the way she tastes, her lips against his own.

Wonders at how he woke up this morning with no idea he'd kiss anyone today. If someone had told him, he would have laughed in their faces.

Eventually one of them will need air, and he'll give her a small, lopsided smile. "I'll follow your lead." The hell out of here, at least.

Somewhere along the way, he let go of her wrist. Somewhere along the way, both of her hands ended up on his shoulders, in his hair, fingertips on skin and her body not quite pressed against his, just barely brushing. It's a long moment, an endless moment, although it has to end eventually. Eventually, it stops, although her mind still floats in that strangely calm silence, distantly cataloguing sensations. He tastes different. Feels different. But that could be her as much as him, couldn't it, and their bodies still fit together in a way that makes her wonder if they still fit together other ways. Considerations for another time, maybe, or for never. Or for now, because there might not be another time. Never a good time, she thinks absently, tongue briefly touching her lips, tasting him as her eyes slowly open. She doesn't want to move. She should move. They both have to.

"We should go. That gas won't stay downstairs forever." There's a town a few kilometers away, too far to walk for most people, but not for everyone. The dead men at their feet probably brought their own transportation. She'd hidden a bike in a small stand of scrub not too far away. "How did you get here?" She still doesn't pull away. That's probably not immediately necessary. A secondary concern. When they have a plan, then--then this can stop.

"Walked." He glances at said dead men. They could take one of their vehicles, but it's likely being tracked so it wouldn't really be worth it. Might be fun to dump it somewhere interesting, though; he'll consider it once they're clear of any possible death via poisonous gases.

Other things his mind would seriously like him to consider now versus later: the idea that she may be pretending. The idea that he may be hallucinating, dreaming, or dying. The idea that she is going to kick him to the curb the moment he becomes a liability, which, fair really.

The idea that he is going to disappoint her wholly by not measuring up to what he can only partially remember.

"How did you get here?"

"Bike's parked out back." More or less. A short hike, one they've both made before. She can see the hesitation in his face, uncertainty that's not exactly like it used to be, but enough so that she can't quite help the automatic response that still comes to mind. "I can give you a lift back to town. Or wherever." He could come with her. It's better, a time like this. They'd probably tripped some new security system that hadn't been in place the last time they were there. Hadn't known who was there. Next time, they'll be more prepared for their best weapons coming back to haunt them.

Stepping away and holstering her weapons, she checks the bodies quickly for any sort of personal belongings. Nothing. They're professional, at least.Finally, she stands again. "You coming or what? Maybe you'd rather stay with them?" A gesture towards the bodies on the floor as she looks at him, and the curiosity in her eyes is gone for the moment, replaced by practicality and the priority of living.

If he agrees, she'll lead the way out to her bike. There's only one helmet. She doesn't offer it to him, but then, he probably wouldn't accept it. It's about a twenty-minute ride back to town if you take the direct route, twice that if you cut cross country and confuse your trail enough to approach the city from the opposite side. They do the latter, of course, and at the very end of the ride she pulls up to a run-down apartment building, idling the bike at the corner. "This is me." For now, for the moment, for the hour. She's not sure yet. Things could change. "You want the bike? To get back to wherever you're staying." He has to have some place, right? Some plan. He always had a plan.

Open Musebox Post

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject