OOM: Natasha, regarding Nataliya

[hasthehighground]

It's been a day since their talk, and Clint still hasn't figured out what to ask her (or even what he's supposed to ask her).

He has, though, remembered something he needs to tell her.

Clint finishes wiping down the kitchen counter -- Natasha cooked, he can easily clean -- and tucks his hands into his pockets, walking out of the kitchen proper to lean against the bar, watching her.

She's on the sofa, reading some book, and overall looking pretty peaceful. He feels, briefly, guilty -- but this is important.

"Hey, Tasha?"

Comments

[redintheledger]

It takes her a moment to surface from her novel.

"D-yes?"

She shakes her head sharply at her near-slip, and sits up properly. Book-induced lethargy is never conductive to conversations.

[hasthehighground]

"I have something to tell you." He draws his hands out of his pockets, and crosses his arms. "About Milliways. It's--" Clint's jaw clenches, slightly, and he glances down, then half-way back up. He's looking at her, but his head's dipped. "It's kind of freaky," he settles on, voice softer. "But you need to know it. Want me to get it over with, or go slower?"

[redintheledger]

Natasha regards him for a moment, and than, carefully, she shuts her book and puts it on the coffee-table.





"I...prefer getting it over with," she says, slowly.

[hasthehighground]

"Okay." He breathes. "I met a woman named Nataliya Shostakova. Maybe 25. She's a linguist, and her husband -- Alexei -- is a military pilot."

[redintheledger]

Her expression flickers.






"What year?"

[hasthehighground]

"1952."

[redintheledger]

1952.

Of course it's 1952, he wouldn't be telling her if it was 1972.



And she never did tell Clint her married name.









Without quite being aware of it, Natasha's hunched into herself, staring at the cushion at the other end of the sofa. Her hand is pressed against the side of the sofa, and her hand is telling her that she's sitting, that the world is stable, that the hollow spinning sensation is entirely in her head.

It's not exactly the most reassuring of thoughts.

"I don't...Um."

She tries again.

"I don't...suppose you know that she's from a different world to ours, do you?"

[hasthehighground]

Clint swallows. He wants -- he doesn't know what he wants, except for Natasha to stop looking like that. But it's her right to know what he does, about this.

"No," he says, instead. "I don't know enough about your life back then to say she's not from our world. I'm sorry, Natasha."

Pause.

"Do you want me to leave you alone for awhile?"

[redintheledger]

"I want-"

For him to have not have said anything. For him to know everything so he could tell her everything. For someone with the ability to crank open her brain and hit restore memory so she doesn't have any of those fucking gaps that the bastards left behind.

She wants to scream.





And she wants to run into Milliways, and find Nataliya, and tell her that in March, 1955, Lyosha needs to check and triple check his plane. But she can't offer a date, because it was taken from her.

"I think it's against the rules for me to screw around with timelines that much," she says, as if she'd actually said anything aloud. As if she found it at all entertaining.

Then, "Do you mind if I just go and...sit in your bedroom for a bit?"

[hasthehighground]

"No," Clint says, quiet. "However long you need to."

[redintheledger]

Natasha nods, and slowly gets to her feet, moving like her body actually resembles its age.

She pauses, and then thinks better about speaking right now. She just makes her way over to his bedroom, shuts the door quietly behind her. Still moving carefully, she sits down on the floor at the end of his bed, leans against the wall, and remembers how to breathe.

Tries to remember.






Not too much later, her breathing with imposed calmness morphs into crying.

(She's going to be a while. But she reminds herself that's okay. It's not as if there is a deadline she has to pull herself together for.)

[hasthehighground]

Clint starts out sitting on the couch, trying to pretend things are okay.

He takes a brief nap (15, 20 minutes), then pulls out his laptop to respond to e-mails and get some paperwork done for Monday.

Around 6:30, he considers dinner. There're leftovers from lunch, but he knows Natasha wanted to save them for lunch tomorrow. He, to be quite honest, doesn't want to cook and disturb her with the noise.

He calls up a local Thai restaurant, and orders in food. Even if Natasha's not ready to come out to eat dinner, it'll be here when she is.

[redintheledger]

She hears the front door open and shut. He wouldn't leave without saying anything, and the lack of conversation means there isn't a guest.

Take-out, then. Logically.

It takes her another half an hour, roughly, to decide that maybe, food is a good idea. Or at least, she badly needs some water to rehydrate herself.

Ten minutes later, she carefully makes her way out of Clint's bedroom to find him.

"Hi."

[hasthehighground]

He's bent over a Sudoku puzzle at the bar, picking off pieces from his food with a plastic fork as he fills it in. He glances up, and sets the fork down. He caps his pen before standing.

"Hey," he says, trying to keep his concern out of his voice. "Your food's in the fridge, I can get it...?"

Get it, microwave it, put it on a real plate. There've been days when that many steps would've kept him from eating at all.

[redintheledger]

"Uh, sure," she says, after thinking it through. "Thanks." It's a fantastic idea of his.

"...could I have a hug first?


Please?"

[hasthehighground]

Clint nods, relaxing. He doesn't move to hug her -- he's unsure, still, of her emotional state -- but when she hugs him, he presses his cheek against the top of her head.

His right arm is wrapped around her mid-back, and the other looped around her shoulders. His uses his left hand to lightly cup the back of her head, to keep her hair from rustling next to his hearing aid and giving him static feedback.

He breathes, slowly, closing his eyes.

[redintheledger]

She wraps her arms around his waist, pressing in close and shutting her eyes. If she couldn't stand being close to another person before, now being held is calming. Comforting.

And he smells nice, which is a plus.

"I," she says finally, a dry note in her slightly hoarse voice, "am really glad I don't have to go to work tomorrow."

[hasthehighground]

His breath huffs slightly. He loosens his arms, but won't let her go until she steps back.

"Yeah," is all he says, because what else can he say? ... Oh. "Want me to get your curry?"

[redintheledger]

"I think food sounds like a sensible idea," Natasha says, only then stepping back a bit. "Thank you, Clint."

She's not only referring to the food.

She sits back down on the couch, tucking her feet up and letting herself relax back into the cushions. She's tired enough to sleep right there, curry or no curry, but she's not entirely sure she's going to get any sleep at all.

Partly to distract herself from that, and the knowledge that disturbed her in the first place, once Clint's returned, she asks,

"...What were your impressions of young Shostakova?

If you didn't mind saying."

[hasthehighground]

"Smart." Clint laughs slightly, sitting down next to her. "Too smart. Apparently other Westerners just got nervous around her and didn't tell her why," he says. "I think she thought she was being subtler than she was. But overall ... you know," he says, uncertain. "Nice. Talked about sci-fi."

[redintheledger]

Too smart and thought she was being subtler than she was are descriptions that don't exactly surprise her, and she looks somewhat amused as she starts to eat.

Nice, however, makes her look startled.





"She has that to look forward to," is what Natasha ends up saying. "So many sci-fi novels."

[hasthehighground]

Clint snorts, quietly. "How do you want me to handle it, if I run into her again?"

[redintheledger]

It's a good question. It's a useful, needed question.

Her mind goes blank with the effort of trying to think out options and consequences.

"Normally?" she says, eventually. "I mean, treat her like you would anyone else you meet there.

I think that's the best option," she adds, uncertainly.

[hasthehighground]

"Sure."

Clint turns on the TV, and after a moment settles his arm across the back of the couch behind her.

There's almost a month's worth of Iron Chef on the DVR. They'll be fine.

[redintheledger]

He doesn't even particularly like Iron Chef. He'll watch it with her, and laugh, and he'll mock and mock-complain, and he kept it on his DVR for her. Keeps it.

She's tired. She's tired, and shaken badly, and it was only yesterday she'd learned just how blind she'd been to how much he cared and, well.

It's a little hard to see the screen to start with, through the blurring of tears.

By the second episode, the world is a little more steady. She has her head resting against his arm, and is able giggle at the chefs' frantic creativity and Clint's low comments.

By the third episode, she's able to snark back, and she can practical feel Clint smile.