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Entry tags:
no, there's nothing sadder (closed)
Who: Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers
Where: The Baromanogernesons
When: May 15th
What: Discussing the phone call.
Warnings: Googly eyes. L words like liberation. Vague allusions to non-consensual medical trauma.
[ She'll look back later on the irony of this happening so soon after Steve's (first) arrest and probably laugh softly to herself, like it was inevitable or something. But for now, she's hanging up the phone, pressing a hand to her forehead — memories come boiling up from her subconscious, and she'd think Wanda had something to do with it except Wanda's not here at her house, and hasn't been for a while. It's a mix. Some of it she knows is the Red Room, but the others she's not so sure (though it reminds her of that place, in it's own clinical, sterile, way). Certainly the memories of her youth were brought to her mind by the sudden memory of waking up in a daze with people poking and prodding her, a needle in her arm.
But she goes about her day like normal. Natasha is good at acting like things are normal. She puts on a show for the cameras — laundry, grocery shopping, dusting. She even takes some time to read in the living room, curled up in the arm chair. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.
She plays nice as her housemates get home, and as she eats dinner with the boys, and even as she does the dishes, although there's a little hesitation there, enough that someone who knows her well could pick up on it. Certainly the people behind the cameras won't. She dries the last plate and sets it back into the cupboard, her hand lingering as she considers.
She should tell him. And then she should tell him that she was wrong. But not where anyone else can hear. ]
Where: The Baromanogernesons
When: May 15th
What: Discussing the phone call.
Warnings: Googly eyes. L words like liberation. Vague allusions to non-consensual medical trauma.
[ She'll look back later on the irony of this happening so soon after Steve's (first) arrest and probably laugh softly to herself, like it was inevitable or something. But for now, she's hanging up the phone, pressing a hand to her forehead — memories come boiling up from her subconscious, and she'd think Wanda had something to do with it except Wanda's not here at her house, and hasn't been for a while. It's a mix. Some of it she knows is the Red Room, but the others she's not so sure (though it reminds her of that place, in it's own clinical, sterile, way). Certainly the memories of her youth were brought to her mind by the sudden memory of waking up in a daze with people poking and prodding her, a needle in her arm.
But she goes about her day like normal. Natasha is good at acting like things are normal. She puts on a show for the cameras — laundry, grocery shopping, dusting. She even takes some time to read in the living room, curled up in the arm chair. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.
She plays nice as her housemates get home, and as she eats dinner with the boys, and even as she does the dishes, although there's a little hesitation there, enough that someone who knows her well could pick up on it. Certainly the people behind the cameras won't. She dries the last plate and sets it back into the cupboard, her hand lingering as she considers.
She should tell him. And then she should tell him that she was wrong. But not where anyone else can hear. ]