.
.
Maybe there will always be too much red on her ledger.
Natasha scrubs, and scrubs anyway, tutting under her breath and rubbing the stain on the bottom of her white tank-top. She gives up for now, snatching up her piece of burnt-brown toast. Her teeth savor the crispy, overly dry texture, slowly chewing.
In the distance, she can hear pelicans. The whisper of the sweltering hot winds off the Mediterranean leaves.
They encountered a few ex-HYDRA operatives, on location, and Yelena kept quiet about her persistently bleeding knife-wound. Your pain only makes you stronger. She wobbled around the next day, paled-out and slurring her words. Natasha figured Yelena would deal with her own injuries, like the grown-ass adult she is… when she feverishly doesn't, Natasha panics a little.
Maybe there will always be a part of her that considers Yelena as her baby sister and her friend.
Natasha drops herself into a sit on a coffee table, arranging the items in her lap. From the red-plaid couch, Yelena lets out a breathy, almost snoring noise. Her sunburned-pink mouth hangs open. She squirms, facing her back to Natasha.
A whistle carries from Natasha's lips.
She waits until Yelena echoes it faintly between her teeth.
Natasha snorts, holding out a bottle of water and medicine when a cranky-looking Yelena turns herself to meet Natasha's eyes. "Want some mac and cheese?" she asks, and Yelena pops the pills without say anything, cracking open the water. She swigs.
"You can't cook for shit…"
"That's okay," Natasha sighs, not in the mood for an argument. "We don't have any cheese packets to begin with."
Yelena grumbles, lying down flat. Her blood-soaked bandages have already removed and changed clean this afternoon. No more signs of pus from her knife-wound. No more fever. Natasha's fingers presses lightly against Yelena's forehead.
She glances down, amused, while both of Yelena's hands reach out, smoothing over a strand of Natasha's hair and braiding it.
Natasha lets her eyes wanders a little lower, peeking to the swell of Yelena's breasts from her own white tank top. They bought a twin pack on sale from the local mart. Yelena always prided herself on matching with her 'sister' when they were kids.
"You know what would be a cool way to die?" Yelena mumbles, her Russian accent thick. "From an orgasm."
Natasha wrinkles her nose, dropping her hand at her side.
"I don't think there's any good way to die."
No, she doesn't wanna think about it. One of her worst fears, before the Red Room, was falling helplessly to her death.
Yelena scoffs. "Says you."
"Lenusha."
Her fingers hesitate in the middle of braiding Natasha's deep red hair. The affectionate nickname reverberates in their ears.
Natasha eagerly eyes her.
She grins when Yelena rasps out, "Natalya," and digs one of her hands into Natasha's collar. They're dragged together, with a thrilled Yelena arching herself impatiently. Their lips make contact: a sweet and soft vibration invisible over Natasha's skin.
Brief as it is, Natasha doesn't know if a kiss has ever felt this wild in her blood.
Yelena's fingers curl, pulling enough on Natasha's tank top to expose her—and her titties—and Natasha finally remembers she doesn't have a bra. Oh, for fuck's sake. She ogles Natasha, somewhere between mild interest and skepticism.
"Uugh," Natasha groans out, pretending it's not a laugh.
She shoves her palm into Yelena's face and hearing a curse in Russian.
Well… so much for them behaving like adults.
.
.