Every day, my senses get better. Most of these improvements are subtle. I doubt anyone else would ever notice. But compared to my disorienting first few weeks here, there are days I can fool myself into thinking I'm just on a well-deserved vacation instead of trapped on an island without my heightened senses. It's been slow, tedious work. Admittedly, I've spent more hours retraining myself than socializing. But it passes the time, so I can't complain. (I'm sure Foggy would have a few things to say about my habits. In turn, I'd argue they're a lot healthier than anything I was getting up to in the Kitchen
( ... )
Even after all that James has told her, she expects Matt to recognize her the instant he turns the corner into view. Her heart leaps at the sight of him, surprise and pleasure beating out a rhythm he should know at once, but of course he doesn't. He can't hear her heartbeat anymore.
The mad thumping behind her breast begins to slow, replaced by a weight that sinks all the way to her toes. God, the sight of him. He's walking well enough, with more grace and certainty than she's seen in other blind men, but not like himself, and certainly not like Daredevil. Those short, careful steps pain her to behold, but Natalia doesn't mean to show it. Matt craves no one's pity, and she will offer none, instead sliding down from her perch
( ... )
I'm met with the same assortment of feelings every time it is I run into someone else from home. Surprise that I didn't recognize them right away. Frustration. And, given that so far everyone's already known who I really am (and not because they read it in the tabloids), a tinge of embarrassment. I'm capable of so much more than this, and barring maybe Peter, who's had to pass himself off as Daredevil in the past, there's no one else on this island more aware of that fact than the woman apparently standing in front of me.
Natasha Romanova. The Black Widow. My ex and friend.
"Babette," I greet instead.
The act is a familiar one, even if there's nothing else about her that is, her smell all wrong, the steady beat of her heart (one of my favorite sounds in the world) entirely absent. I wonder when she arrived. Recently, obviously, but the game suggests she's been here long enough to have given someone else the honors of explaining the nature of this place.
"Matt," she exhales, and though she moves with less enthusiasm than she'd like, not yet sure what will startle him, she can't keep herself away for long. Pressing her hands light against his arms first, Natalia slides them up and over his shoulders, embracing him the way she's wanted to since he showed her the first hint of a smile.
She wants to ask him how he is, but watching him has already told her so much, and Natalia holds her tongue. This place has taken enough from him - she won't demand anything more, will wait for him to tell her all he wants. "It's good to see you."
"I really wouldn't know," I reply, tone wry, but that's not unique to this place. I collapse the cane quickly when her arms find their way around me, not wanting it to get in her way. Already her hesitance is apparent, even to a blind man. As I return the embrace, my frustration grows. There are few people I know as intimately as Natasha. Our bodies fit together as they always have, though I can't remember the last time I felt her wearing anything so soft, so distinctly feminine. It's balanced by the scent of someone else still lingering on her person (a man, no doubt). I'm not sure who, exactly, but I don't have it in me to be jealous. I still love Milla, and besides, Natasha and I haven't been an item in ages.
Doesn't mean it isn't good to have her here. I've been short on friends lately.
"I'm blind, not breakable," I murmur into her ear, pulling back slightly to cup her cheek, my touch certain out of familiarity. "Don't forget."
"I won't," she promises, though it will prove a challenge. Men's egos are fragile at the best of times, and Matt is particularly proud. Often rightfully so, though he'll never hear her say it, and Natalia smiles against the hand on her cheek.
"How long have you been here?" she asks, wondering what he's puzzled out about her arrival already. His remaining senses might no longer be as heightened, but they're still tools Matt knows how to use, and well. Who knows what he's put together in the few moments she's had hold of him?
I'm bold in my exploration of her face, tracing the pad of my thumb underneath the curve of her full, lower lip (it's good to feel her smile). It occurs to me she's the last woman I've kissed, an indiscretion made shortly after Milla filed for an annulment (something I eventually gave to her despite my own wishes to make things work). And even though I'm not jealous, it's hard not to wonder whose bed she's been staying in. Of the people from our world, there's no obvious candidate, and there's no way she's been around long enough to have met someone new. I would've surely heard about her arrival. (And she, in turn, wouldn't need to be asking how long I've been here
( ... )
It could be a guess, and Natalia would believe it were she standing before anyone but Matt. "Captain America," she answers, taking the shortcut he's offered towards determining from where and when he arrived. A few months he's been here. She wishes she'd been there to help, though she's not sure how much Matt would have accepted. Had he been angry? Afraid? She watches Matt's face as he explores her own, searching for a sign of it as she waits to see which man carries the shield in his world.
"The newer, more roguishly handsome model. South of here, by a little stream."
It's not until her clarification that I let out the breath I'd been holding when the words Captain America came out of her mouth. It takes me a moment longer to piece together a few facts I'd picked up since my arrival, my conversation with Steve Rogers -- the only Captain America I've known -- by far the most helpful. I'm silent for a second as I work out the puzzle, running through who could qualify (Natasha's description, unsurprisingly, isn't helpful in the least
( ... )
"I assure you there is nothing cold about it," she replies, refusing to rise to the bait, her hand slapping light against his stomach. There's no heat there, none at all, in fact. With everything Matt's been through, Natalia hadn't been sure if she'd ever hear him joke again, his humor making her glad for this Matt, and all the sorrier for the one at home. The Matt standing before her is surely from before that business with the Beast of the Hand, then. From before the death of Captain America. But before what else?
"And yes, he does, and very well." This is perhaps a stretch of the truth. While James has fought with a passion to rival Steve's own, while he's done much good in the short time he's carried the shield, the journey has been far from smooth. Natalia sees no need for Matt to know that.
"You're seeing him," I say in a flat voice. It's a guess, but an educated one. I'm honestly not sure what to make of this development (a part of me almost wants to think it's better than Hawkeye, but it's not in my nature to speak ill of the dead).
That, on the other hand, will earn him some heat. "He's lived through enough to age a weak man fifty years," she says, doubly angry that she can't say more to prove it. Stepping back, Natalia folds her arms beneath her breasts. She removed her gauntlets when she removed her uniform, but the Widow's Bite is only an arms-length away.
"I mean to say he was around twenty when he died and Steve was understandably cagey regarding the terms of his resurrection," I reply, utterly calm in the face of her ire. If nothing else, it's telling. She must care for him a great deal to get so upset so easily. I wonder how long they've been together. In the same breath, I wonder just how much I've missed. There are probably things I'm better off not knowing, though.
"You've just given me a lot of information. I'm attempting to fill in the considerable number of blanks. I'm assuming you've already figured out you're from a point in my future. A future I obviously know nothing about. Believe it or not, I'm not actually trying to be difficult."
It's a fair point, even if, in her current state, Natalia's not particularly inclined to see it. "There is much about him you don't understand, and much I won't explain," she says after a moment, and that will have to do because she means it. Drawing in a deep breath, she does her best to exhale her anger with it.
"And for that, I am sorry. I also have no wish to be difficult. Will you tell me?" she asks, "The last that you remember?"
A man with secrets, then. I'd be a hypocrite to press for more answers, but while it's true I'm no stranger to hypocrisy, I've made it my policy not to pry into the lives of other heroes. Not unless absolutely necessary.
"Nothing that would mean anything to you, I don't think," I reply, which is the truth. "I was leaving a church in Hell's Kitchen. I'd..." I stop for a moment, just long enough to ensure there's no one around to overhear our conversation. "...infiltrated a Daredevil support group to follow a lead. Then I was here, and an Economics major was explaining to me how I was stuck."
He's correct, it means very little to her, telling her only what foes he hadn't been involved at the time of his arrival here. And an economics major...that means nothing at all.
Canting her head with a sigh of frustration, Natalia flicks long red hair back over her shoulder, her blue eyes taking in the greenery beyond them but seeing little at all. Earlier she'd been accepting, at least as much as a person in her life could be, her relief at seeing James too great to leave room for much else, but now Natalia's begun to question. "What do you think it means?" she asks. "My arrival here interrupted something of great importance back home. Is this place meant to delay us? And if so, to what end?"
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The mad thumping behind her breast begins to slow, replaced by a weight that sinks all the way to her toes. God, the sight of him. He's walking well enough, with more grace and certainty than she's seen in other blind men, but not like himself, and certainly not like Daredevil. Those short, careful steps pain her to behold, but Natalia doesn't mean to show it. Matt craves no one's pity, and she will offer none, instead sliding down from her perch ( ... )
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Natasha Romanova. The Black Widow. My ex and friend.
"Babette," I greet instead.
The act is a familiar one, even if there's nothing else about her that is, her smell all wrong, the steady beat of her heart (one of my favorite sounds in the world) entirely absent. I wonder when she arrived. Recently, obviously, but the game suggests she's been here long enough to have given someone else the honors of explaining the nature of this place.
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She wants to ask him how he is, but watching him has already told her so much, and Natalia holds her tongue. This place has taken enough from him - she won't demand anything more, will wait for him to tell her all he wants. "It's good to see you."
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Doesn't mean it isn't good to have her here. I've been short on friends lately.
"I'm blind, not breakable," I murmur into her ear, pulling back slightly to cup her cheek, my touch certain out of familiarity. "Don't forget."
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"How long have you been here?" she asks, wondering what he's puzzled out about her arrival already. His remaining senses might no longer be as heightened, but they're still tools Matt knows how to use, and well. Who knows what he's put together in the few moments she's had hold of him?
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"The newer, more roguishly handsome model. South of here, by a little stream."
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"And yes, he does, and very well." This is perhaps a stretch of the truth. While James has fought with a passion to rival Steve's own, while he's done much good in the short time he's carried the shield, the journey has been far from smooth. Natalia sees no need for Matt to know that.
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"He's not..." I frown. "Young?"
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"Or perhaps you mean to say I take advantage."
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"You've just given me a lot of information. I'm attempting to fill in the considerable number of blanks. I'm assuming you've already figured out you're from a point in my future. A future I obviously know nothing about. Believe it or not, I'm not actually trying to be difficult."
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"And for that, I am sorry. I also have no wish to be difficult. Will you tell me?" she asks, "The last that you remember?"
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"Nothing that would mean anything to you, I don't think," I reply, which is the truth. "I was leaving a church in Hell's Kitchen. I'd..." I stop for a moment, just long enough to ensure there's no one around to overhear our conversation. "...infiltrated a Daredevil support group to follow a lead. Then I was here, and an Economics major was explaining to me how I was stuck."
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Canting her head with a sigh of frustration, Natalia flicks long red hair back over her shoulder, her blue eyes taking in the greenery beyond them but seeing little at all. Earlier she'd been accepting, at least as much as a person in her life could be, her relief at seeing James too great to leave room for much else, but now Natalia's begun to question. "What do you think it means?" she asks. "My arrival here interrupted something of great importance back home. Is this place meant to delay us? And if so, to what end?"
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