two points make a line, g, post CA: TWSsweetwatersongOctober 27 2014, 00:48:19 UTC
They call you change, they call you famous and accomplished and murderer, they call you with Greek codewords and English tongues. They call you every name you have ever shouldered and a few you would care not to know, a few fragments of white space where you led lives you don't have a grasp on or hold of.
They called you and for a time you came at their beckoning, you sat beside the Red Room or S.H.I.E.L.D's throne like a child and left to do the deeds no one else would lay claim to.
They call you now, their voices mocking and empty and terrified, and you shut out the words like so much white static.
In a world of silence, of self-imposed exile and moving from step to step in the absence of your parent, your Red Room or your S.H.I.E.L.D., the sound of your name in this voice breaks it all like a bell.
"Natasha?"
He's standing on the sidewalk in jeans and a sweatshirt, hands tucked into his pockets, gym bag slung over his shoulder. And you know without asking that his bow is inside, that there's a burner phone in a front pocket and cash in a back one, that the easy set of his shoulders has everything to do with finding you and nothing to do with the world you've helped create.
You stay where you have stopped, his purple hoodie and worn jeans standing out like the only color in a white-washed world, and then breathe.
"I thought you'd never call," you tell him, and move forward to be by his side.
They called you and for a time you came at their beckoning, you sat beside the Red Room or S.H.I.E.L.D's throne like a child and left to do the deeds no one else would lay claim to.
They call you now, their voices mocking and empty and terrified, and you shut out the words like so much white static.
In a world of silence, of self-imposed exile and moving from step to step in the absence of your parent, your Red Room or your S.H.I.E.L.D., the sound of your name in this voice breaks it all like a bell.
"Natasha?"
He's standing on the sidewalk in jeans and a sweatshirt, hands tucked into his pockets, gym bag slung over his shoulder. And you know without asking that his bow is inside, that there's a burner phone in a front pocket and cash in a back one, that the easy set of his shoulders has everything to do with finding you and nothing to do with the world you've helped create.
You stay where you have stopped, his purple hoodie and worn jeans standing out like the only color in a white-washed world, and then breathe.
"I thought you'd never call," you tell him, and move forward to be by his side.
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