Title: nosotras (we all)
Author: kyrilu/Endless-chan
Type: Fanfiction
Fandom: The Avengers (2012).
Rating: Soft R, to be safe.
Warnings/Triggers: Non-graphic sexual content.
Pairings: Jane Foster/Darcy Lewis/Natasha Romanov. Implied Jane/Darcy/Thor and Loki/Thor.
Summary: you are in love, and you means both of you, and you are jane & darcy.
Author's Notes: Another one of my forays into experimental POV, inspired by the Spanish pronoun Ustedes, meaning you all.
Neither of you have slept with such a liar.
You both have slept with the brother of Loki, but that really doesn't count because Thor is his polar opposite.
(Reciprocal, Jane says when she gets all geeky, because Loki is Thor flipped upside down and together they make one whole. Darcy just laughs and remembers the scary-as-shit robot thing; then the way Thor help himself out, pleading.)
So. See, the hot redhead comes in one week after someone from inside the facility leaked your research. You don't know who, you don't know how. You don't even know if they're still here.
(Darcy snaps at everyone all week and Jane keeps chugging coffee.)
Her name is Nora Renee, and she says that she claims to be a temporary secretary. She is intelligent and brilliant; she has a sharp smile and quick eyes.
You are looking at the sky from the telescope, wondering if Thor will ever come back.
("Gotta miss those abs," Darcy says wistfully. Jane nonchalantly twirls a strand of her hair, and then falls into a mess of giggles. They, well - they can deal.)
You've got each other, after all.
Nora wanders into the scene looking carelessly beautiful. Her red hair is a ponytail bundle at her right shoulder. Her blue eyes are careful, searching.
"Miss Foster. Miss Lewis," she greets.
You set aside the telescopes, and take her in.
"Just call me Darcy, geez, Nora. We're observing the sky up there, wanna join us?"
She nods, and slowly moves closer, as if reluctant. Her left hand brushes against the telescope, but she doesn't bring it up to her eyes.
"Please do call me Jane, too." A soft smile. "You're new here, right? What we're working on is - well, I don't know exactly how to describe it."
"'Fucking complicated' were the words you were looking for, Jane darling."
"Language, you. And since when was I 'darling'?"
(Jane has a hand cupped over her mouth, fingers splayed over laughter.)
"Hm, since, like now. It's cute. I like it. Now tell the newbie about our pet project, will you?"
"'Kay, babe," - is the reply, accompanied with dancing eyes. "But why don't you do it this time? I know that I tend to confuse my audience."
"With your technobabble, yeah. So let me start, Nora. It'll take a while."
"Thank you," she says. She's probably read the files, dry academic stuff, not the whole story, full of myth and magic and Thor.
You breathe together. Thread hands under the starlight, a careful grip. Maybe Nora sees the clasped fingers, maybe she doesn't.
"In the beginning, there was Jane, and Jane was a nerd..."
"How come you work for S.H.I.E.L.D., Nora?"
Nora raises her eyebrows, taken aback.
(Jane jolts Darcy with an elbow and a harsh whisper.)
"She means, you're kind of in a low job position right now. But you're adept, smart, quick. What's holding you back now?"
She smiles, tight. Her eyes are narrowed shards of the sky. Softly: "I owe a debt. To an agent and to myself." And: "I don't expect scientists like you two would understand."
As if that means anything. But who are you is on the tip of your tongue. You (mutually) do not believe she will answer honestly, but you are intrigued, nevertheless.
You realize that Nora Renee goes out of her way to wear something red every day. She usually wears black clothes, but there's always a slash of lipstick on her mouth, or perhaps a scarlet stone hanging from a necklace at her throat.
(Jane is the first one to notice, being her usual keen-eyed scientist self. Darcy is the one who brings it up, twined around her in bed, murmuring out loud about their new sexy co-worker's fashion sense. Her words, obviously, not Jane's.)
Shrugging: "It's a mystery."
"She's a mystery."
You make a good team. Always have, in truth, but ever since falling into bed together that first time, it's been easier to flow.
It's a balance, alright, just like those Norse brothers. One of you stresses and works and busies herself about science; the other one cracks jokes and pours coffee and kisses a headache-afflicted forehead.
Routine: exercise, coffee, work, breakfast, work, lunch, work, dinner, sex, sleep.
Routine: your bodies bumping slightly during the morning jog, your fingers meeting as a coffee mug is exchanged, your eyes on her as she is bent over her papers with ink stained fingers, your eyes on her as she talks laughs is beautiful during meals, your fingers slipping across her skin and folding over and claiming - then the day's done, and you're curled together in rest.
"Why is everything stupidly perfect?" - are the drowsy words said into the night.
"Mm."
But you are thinking of the woman from work, cutting wit and red, and wishing you would know the sound of her breath just as you know (y)our own.
Nora Renee is fierce.
She has this blazing expression in her eyes when she knocks a lunging scientist down, her bracelets chafing against him and crackling electricity.
("Wow," Darcy whispers. Wow wow wow. Jane watches the angles of Nora's legs elbows fists wrists, fitting the degrees into nonsensical formulas, and she is fucking blown away.)
Nora Renee pulls away from the fray, clicking handcuffs over the guy's wrists. She tucks a strand of stray hair behind her ear, and you want.
You are dismantling. You are a tangle of limbs and hips, a stream of sweat and tears, damn it you, shirts slipped off over heads and perfect perfect perfect-
(Jane's hands are cupped at Darcy's breasts, fingers skimming nipple; their mouths are tasting and taking, waists jerking together - friction.)
You do not see Nora there, at first. But you think of her, of that black widow poisoning the hydra all by herself; you shiver and shake and feel the coldness, the missing empty piece.
Then you see her. You see her wild and fiery and lovely, her eyelids dipped with want.
She is not wearing a shade of red on her, as if she has something to prove to you.
Hoarsely: "C'mere." An extended hand. (From whom? And does it really matter?)
And, now that you know: "What's your name?"
"Natasha," she says, pressing a kiss to the outstretched hand. "Natasha Romanova."