Natasha is searching for an office as she passes through the hall. The wooden floor creaks as she enters, still in her long green dress. Her memories are haunting, the mansion slowly chipping away at whatever strength she has remaining.
There are ghosts attached to each piece. Blood stained memories of her 'sisters'.
Natasha finds herself gripping the wall with a slight stumble, just outside Ivan's office.
"Natasha?" Ivan steps out with the door creaking just a tad. His bow tie is undone and hanging open around his neck as he helps her inside.
Her vision may be blurry but she can walk on her own. The decor in the office is equally as haunting, and she recognizes piece after piece from different countries. Ivan is a collector- she knows this.
Someone is screaming in the back of her mind, toes burning with the false memory of pointe shoes that barely fit.
Natasha stands at his desk when he lets her go, pouring a glass of vodka…
As if either of them need any more right now.
"I need to know something," she mumbles, barely out of her head.
He watches as she hugs her biceps, "What now."
"Are you restarting some sort of Black Widow program with Riley and Violet?"
Alexei offers his half drunk glass, "You talk shit. Calm your nerves."
"Why else would this be the place you decide to call 'home'? This goddamn hellishly decorated prison,' Natasha takes the glass and chugs, 'The boys had a lot of questions for Riley for tonight."
"And you for Blonsky."
"I don't remember you being this jealous. Bruce. Now Emil,' she pauses, steadily regaining her composure, 'The British accent made him interesting."
She follows as they make their way into Ivan's office and immediately she is brushing a hand over the various pieces that are somewhat less haunting.
She's suddenly a baby again, playing with a figurine from Ivan.
Natasha hovers over the one from India. She knows its story and what it means to Ivan.
Pulled from a childhood memory, she is now in some abandoned home in Calcutta convincing Bruce Banner to join Fury's team.
Remembering Bruce brings her back to the present. With a stronger voice she addresses Alexei;
"When will you let me in."
Alexei shifts behind the desk, "When Ivan says."
"I can't just, sit around all day and stare at the walls," her eyes lift, "I know what you're doing has something to do with the girls. They're not just fosters."
A brief pause fills the room, his mumbling and the sound of various crumpling papers follow, "Who are they in fantasy world of yours?"
She grinds her molars as her thumb rubs over the art piece, "I know where they're from. Both of them are orphans with high intellect for their ages. What I can't figure out is why your guests tonight cared so much."
"The maid does what she wants. We let kids stay."
"Are you restarting some sort of Widow program…"
He looks up toward her. His wide eyes give off a hint of fear which conveys to Natasha she's at least on the right track,
"No," he states plainly and sinks into the chair behind him to study a page.
A page that she absolutely needs to read at this very moment.
Natasha grinds her teeth once more, reaching for the paper in front of him. He looks up, infuriated by the interruption, She lowers her head, her eyes widening as she curls the corner of her mouth upward, "I haven't, quite, figured out where you fit into the picture. If Papa were doing something with Black Ops, I'm not sure why you would be so for it."
"You're prying. I see through you."
"At least you see me," Natasha smirks, head tilting slightly. She's becoming agitated with Alexei, having half a mind to grab the decorated knife from off the wall and hurl it toward his head.
Natasha abandons her piece and moves to stand in front of the desk he's seated at, batting her eyelashes as she leans over the desk.
"Alexei," she tests his name in a breathier voice.
"-I do not have time tonight."
She drops a shoulder and lowers her chin to make her eyes look larger. With a shift in her stance Natasha tries to get Alexei to look at her. She bites her lip and makes eye contact. With a bout of nausea she's slipping into an emotionless persona to tug at his.
Natasha eyes his mouth and whispers, "I saw the way you looked at me tonight."
He frowns, "You are a toxic woman-."
"You like toxic women,' she bends slightly over Ivan's desk, 'we don't have to talk about work."
He may be stubborn but he's still a man. One she used to know extremely well. And her plan is working as his walls are falling even if it's slight.
"You lie," he mutters, sizing her up.
"Alexei. You know me. Better than most. I'm bored, restless and lonely. If you want me off your back the best way to do that is to wear me out."
He glares with what she interprets to be a growl. His pupils are dilating, chest rising a bit;
"What you offering…"
She grins when he stands and circles the desk, using the only weapon left at her disposal;
"Me."
She's caught him off guard so she slips in while she can and moves to kiss him. Alexei's lack of protest and immediately returning the kiss gives her an opportunity.
He throws his bow tie, aggressively lifting Natasha up onto the desk.
Suddenly she's able to read the Russian papers sprawled over the table. Her mouth is just a tool, working to distract her target long enough to get her information.
His thin lips press up consistently against hers in their unexpected connection, telling her he is sufficiently distracted. She parts for a breath when he tries to reach for and hide the pages she's already read.
Natasha feels a forceful grip over her shoulders as he pins up against her. The container full of writing utensils rocks in his maneuver.
Romanoff closes her eyes tightly as she subconsciously slips out of widow mode, tears forming when she tries and fails to imagine Bruce is the one with his hands on her.
There's no point in pretending when the physicist is far more concerned with her than himself. He's kind, selfless.
Alexei's hands grip at her hips, "You lie."
Her eyes flutter open, centimeters from his mouth, "I didn't."
"You did."
She breathes a quiet sigh of relief when he releases her. She moves to stand and it takes everything in her power not to run.
"You are not interested in me," he mutters almost sadly.
Natasha hugs a hand over her shoulder, lifting and clutching the strap on her green dress as if it were her lifeline. Her opposite arm hugs around her waist.
"I'm sorry... I drank a lot tonight. You're mad?"
He holds his stare, crossing his arms;
"Ty vresh'mne …"
Neither one moves through the awkward silence, Natasha is far too startled under his stare to move.
Alexei lowers his head and moves to open Ivan's office door with a firm;
"Goodnight."
Natasha moves to exit, head low. She remains as casual as possible until he can no longer see her, making a mad dash for her room. She needs to contact Fury with her newfound information, eager to fix the broken new com hidden in a firm candle she's made recently. She needs to make the call and fast.
"Svetlana has called you twice, man. We should head over there before she shows up and breaks in with her Christmas cookies," Clint is standing outside the small garage turned office Bruce won't leave a month later.
Banner is on the ground with scattered papers concerning radiation, blood types, books and documents on Izabella Mikhailov.
His hair is a mess, just enough bristles on his face to show that he hasn't shaved in a week;
"This is amazing, look at this."
Clint is cringing. Now aware of Izabella's green sparks from the little Bruce has shared. But Barton doesn't care about the science, only that Banner's phone stops ringing.
"Dude,' Clint cuts him off, 'you've got to get out of this shit hole. We need to go check in on the kid. It's her Christmas."
"I can't until I figure this out. And I'm really close-"
"Yeah, you said that two weeks ago," Clint scratches his head, baffled over the paper mess and makeshift chemistry lab.
Bruce starts chuckling, rambling. His shirt is untucked with one sleeve rolled higher than the other when he goes off.
Barton closes one eye and opens the other;
"You're freaking out about Nat."
He laughs and shuts down immediately, "I don't want to talk about Natasha."
Clint sighs, drumming his fingers on the garage door frame. He's unsure how to handle the typically emotional physicist, "I don't care but as a 'brother in law' I feel obligated to ask. Are you good?"
"No,' Bruce smirks emotionlessly and moves to remove his glasses, 'No, I'm not."
Banner shakes his head, eyes low and hidden as the words come spilling out, "I'm uh, in a country I don't know, trying to distract myself by entertaining a family that doesn't understand why Izabella can send out this weird green energy or what it does. So-."
"So?"
Bruce circles, hands flailing when his temper starts to boil, "I'm working with said kid who is amazing, the closest thing I'll have to a daughter. I'm not supposed to go out into the city and make connections so I can't work and distract myself. My wife is...working, with her ex husband coincidentally, on the eve of Russian Christmas- her holiday- our first together. And she's… I can't call her. My other half is agitated and I'm stressed out. Not because I can't handle her job, but because I don't know if she's okay. And I can't help her if she's not….You don't want to know what's going through my sick mind."
Bruce swallows with another laugh, a hand through his hair.
Clint pulls in his lips, eyes downward when he taps the frame of the doorway to the garage. It's far more information than he was prepared for.
He's trying to be supportive, "I'm not in the same boat but I'm starting to miss Laura. I'm ready to go home to my girl too- Not sure if that helps at all. And you're doing a lot for that kid with her homework and shit. Whatever, mumbo-jumbo you two ramble about for hours; Izabella respects and values anything that comes out of your mouth. You don't need to have every answer."
Bruce twirls his lenses, careless if they scratch against the cheap foldout table. He's read every book in the older home owner's library, from history to fiction. He's memorized the one on computers as well as the mystery novel- a stretch for his preferred taste even if the primary character reminds him of Natasha in some ways.
He leans back in his chair, finding no solace in Clint's excessive and uncharacteristically emotional state.
"I just need some space, yeah?" The doctor swallows.
"I get it. Just. Show up at some point? Don't disappoint the kid. I feel like she's got an evil streak deep down and I don't wanna see it."
Bruce smirks nervously over the remark, "She's got an edge…Can you bring her a present from me? It's on the stairs."
"Yeah. I'm just a delivery boy. She's going to throw a fit when we all show up and you don't."
"Thanks."
Bruce manages to wait until Clint leaves to let his head fall into his forearms and sink to the ground with a shuddering breath. He stands and kicks the table down, temper flaring up into full blown rage as his eyes fill steadily with tears of frustration and anger.