The heat was suffocating, laying over her like heavy blankets. Every breath was laced with weight, no amount of tossing or turning was giving her respite. The high powered fan was doing little more than pushing around hot air, sliding over her flesh like unwanted hands, coating her skin in sweat.
She missed Russia.
Not often by any means. She didn't miss the Red Room, the lies, the training. She didn't have memories of home cooked meals to fall back on, so her own borsch and pirogi were sufficient. She had no longing to hear her mother tongue unless on a mission. Most importantly, Stark's readiness to import her beloved Zyr meant she could enjoy her origin country's earthy vodka whenever warranted. Hell, he'd even get her Kauffman's in the years it was produced.
No, she didn't miss Russia for the most part.
Except the weather.
She peels back the covers, hissing in annoyance as they try to stick to her sweat slicked flesh. She stands, ignoring the prickle of her hair against her shoulders. Longer now, it falls around her shoulders and down her back in dark red curls. Fiery ringlets stick to her cheeks, the rest trailing down her skin and t-shirt.
She's not sure why she grew it back this length, and resists the urge to hack it off in the bathroom.
She stretches, reaching upwards carefully. Ensures every muscle and joint is loosened and engaged before padding quietly to the kitchen. She doesn't bother finding pants, knowing she'll strip off the thin t-shirt and sleep in her panties by the time she's done. The black panties are stretched between hipbones, and she feels a moment of annoyance at the weight loss. Previously ample curves are leaner now, enough so that Bruce has quietly pulled her aside and asked if she was feeling ok.
The stress is getting to her, as it has been all of them. The set-up slow and painful, the waiting was enough to set anyone's teeth on edge.
She misses her hips.
As she stretches she curses the broken air conditioner in the apartment, briefly debates calling Stark just to piss him off. He's the one who wanted them all in the tower with him, the one who decided to create a floor for each of them.
She knows she'll be curtly informed that he's not her maintenance man. She's already put in a request to JARVIS, and he's more prompt than Tony anyway. By lunch time she'll have her beautiful air conditioner up and running.
Which does nothing for her now at one in the morning.
She reaches the kitchen, pausing when she feels a slight kink in one leg. The overheated air of her apartment is stifling, but it does warm her muscles enough for better stretching. This time she lays one hand on the bench, ignoring the sweat in her eye as she arches forwards and then backwards, before lifting the offending leg high in the air. Developpe, perfectly executed.
She doesn't miss her false life, doesn't miss her prima ballerina days, but her muscles will forever claim the control and elegance wrought by years of practice.
She runs one hand through her curls as the other reaches up for her glass. She allows herself to linger at the freezer, inhaling icy air and feeling her sweat cool against her skin. The vodka bottle is delightfully chilled, and she allows herself to lean against the bench for a moment, pressing the cold glass against her neck and sighing.
Mother's milk.
She lets out a slow moan as she slips the bottle to the other side, the remaining liquid sloshing slightly in the heated air. She enjoys herself for a second more before suddenly stilling.
This bottle was bought today, a thank you gift from Thor for helping him select jewellery for Dr Foster (or Lady Jane, as he insisted on calling her). It had been kind and unnecessary, but Natasha would never refuse a gift from him. Especially not with what was coming; he needed to feel he could get things right.
Thor had even attempted to talk to Clint about her preferred brands, the archer just referring him to Tony, a wise call. But the bottle had been beautifully wrapped, and she had smiled when it was given.
And now she paused.
Because this bottle had been opened.
"I hope you don't mind." The voice is rougher than usual, silky tones laced with specks of gravel.
A different kind of ballet now. Pulling up replaced with spinning downwards, grand battement replaced with locking on target. No less beautiful but far more deadly.
Lounging in her arm chair like the fucking king he thinks he is, shirt unbuttoned and glass of Kauffman's Luxury Vintage Vodka clutched in long, pale fingers, is Loki.