Beats on the Street
I do not own any of this or any part of Marvel or the MCU
Chapter 4 – Weather Report: A Storm's on the Horizon
A tale of two storms was brewing in Chicago. With the summer heat beating down, daily articles crashed together, surrounding two train lines. Days turned into weeks, and the daily prints kept nipping at each other's heel. And along with it, a question was thrown into the atmosphere. Was there a dark overcast looming?
Mysteries and questions were running high, along with the temperature in The Windy City.
And as each edition poured onto the streets of Chicago, thunder clapped with every heated exchange. Lighting struck with each cold stare. Clouds swelled until the sleet and hale tossed between our two leads, left permanent markings for all involved.
A stormfront was building indeed.
Two trains. Two accidents. And two journalists at their respective papers. A gust turned into a headwind, and now everyone was caught in the storm. All twisting and turning, as a cyclone of events swirled. The collision was inevitable. The headstrong journalist from The Herald. The surge of the rising reporter from The Star.
The dominance of the long-standing Herald, with its frozen grip on leading print sales for almost a decade, was no longer a predictable forecast. For just as seasons change, so do trends. Winter thaws into Spring, which leads to blooms and growth, with life in the Summer sun. All to Fall into a harvest of riches, before a slumber of cold returns again. Yes, trends were shifting.
The time of transition was now, but just because the age of dominance was cracking, didn't mean talent was lost or strength diminished. The Herald and The Times were finding their own ways to ride out the storm. Stretching with growing pains but settling into this new season.
But the other storm churning was more chaotic in nature. More challenged with erratic changes. More forceful with the turbulent nature of its players. Steve and Natasha met and collided, several times over. Whether their timing was good or bad, all lied within the eye of the beholder. But their paths continued to cross as these stories unraveled. They'd given into natural chemistry and tried to daydream of blue skies ahead. But their forecast quickly changed, revealing choppy waters instead.
Kismet may have been in play as their story rose with the sun a month ago. But a smooth sailing adventure this was not. Fermenting in old habits and stubborn spirits, Steve and Natasha realized, this was going to be a much rougher ride.
The sun was fully setting as Natasha stood in Memorial Park. It was just before 9 pm. The reds and oranges turned to purple, highlighting the shadows of the Chicago skyline. She stood at an overlook, watching the lake trail ahead of her, as all of downtown came to life this Friday night.
A Friday morning that started on that very same trail. And a Friday night that was supposed to have more flirtatious texts with Steve, with the promise of what was to come this weekend.
Instead, Natasha stood here alone, anticipation running amok with what Hope Van Dyne was going to reveal with the results from the lab. Natasha thought of her morning, running into Steve, and how light everything felt. But any thoughts of logic and reason were stomped out with the last bits of light leaving the sky.
Natasha had read his article and assumed the worst. Did Steve flirt with her over the last two weeks, all as a ruse for distraction in order to break ahead on John Doe's death?
Natasha snorted quietly as she heard some teenagers behind her on skateboards. How appropriate of a sound, because it was goddamn laughable to assume any of that. The flowers and cards and jokes and texts. It wasn't some plotted conspiracy. They were genuine and real. So no, Natasha didn't really think Steve was trying to play her for a fool. But she'd entertained the notion in the heat of anger earlier today, regardless.
What Natasha was thinking about, were the changes she'd shown in the last couple of weeks.
And they all revolved around Steve. Their connection, beyond a sheer competition. Something forming in their flirtatious bubble, recalling that tension and pull between them. The idea of it going beyond even flirting, when they'd agreed on drinks.
Steve wasn't pulling the wool over her eyes, trying to divert Natasha. But she'd failed at breaking ahead because she was distracted. Only the distraction was because of her, not him. It was her changes and loss of focus. That wasn't true either, but that's what she was convincing herself of right now, staring at the darkened skyline.
Facts were facts.
Steve still managed to beat her Friday morning, fair and square. And it had pissed her off to no end.
Everything had been culminating, and the blow to her ego hit hard today. Natasha realized Steve wasn't going anywhere, and this was going to be an adjustment in Chicago…well beyond this story. And when it came down to it, Natasha made a choice today. A choice she always made when push came to shove in her past.
The choice was easy.
Her career. Her city.
That had been her life, and it was what she knew. So, she ghosted him today.
And with her conscience fully locked away, Natasha ignored any thoughts of guilt right now. This was about her story now. That humidity had broken fully this morning, and the night had a chill in the air. She was in jeans and a thin zip up with her messenger bag over her shoulder. Folding her arms, she watched Lake Michigan's shoreline. She listened to the sounds of the city with car horns and electricity buzzing, and teenagers behind her.
Another sound added to the mix. Her phone went off with a text.
It wasn't from Steve. He'd clearly gotten the message that Natasha wasn't taking any messages from him. He hadn't sent anymore since his last one several hours ago.
Hope - 9:02 pm – Change of plans. Across the park, along Lakeshore and Grand. Apartment building under renovation. Meet inside.
Natasha looked out at the lake trail one last time as those teenagers made their way down to enjoy their Friday evening. At least someone was. Texting back quickly, Natasha said she'd be there in a few. Maybe to a person with a normal job, Hope's text would have caused alarm.
But honestly, this was fairly common.
Relying on information from sources working day-to-day operational jobs in the city, meant plans changed and timelines adjusted at the drop of a dime.
Sources were spooked sometimes. And other times, it was second guessing or reassuring with a change to help them feel secure. On the rare occasion, those feelings of fright were warranted. But most of the time, the changes were meaningless.
Maybe Hope had to stop somewhere near this apartment building on her way home. Maybe she had seasonal allergies or didn't like teenagers and decided against meeting in a park. Natasha didn't know. She'd never actually met Hope. She'd only looked at a picture of her online. So, the new lab assistant could've been more on the skittish or paranoid side of the aisle. Unlike the seasoned sources, who were all thick skinned and hardheaded, and were used to the seedy underground of the city. Like Jane or Yelena or any of the other regulars Natasha utilized for information.
Regardless, Natasha was used to this.
Meet ups in abandoned buildings or alleys or dark corners, was pretty much second nature, 15 years into this work. She walked briskly past a violinist trying to make some cash, and a few other groups of teens as she made her way to the edge of the park.
A joke marinated in her brain as Natasha avoided a younger couple making out under a streetlamp.
'Darkened corners of the world: The college class that was never offered about common meeting places for sources.'
These were the realities of beat writing and journalism. It wasn't taught in college but learned through beats on the street.
The internal thought was gone as quickly as it formed because Natasha was at the corner of Grand and Lakeshore. It was a busy intersection always, but tonight was a nice and cool summer evening. Quite the evening crowd was milling about for a Friday.
Natasha looked across the street and saw well developed businesses and stands. A few stores off in the distance with evening shoppers. Taxis honking horns, and some lofts with well to do residents, enjoying their weekends. But just like a black stone in a pool of clear water, the building under renovation stood out.
Natasha looked up and down at the four-story residential building. She scoffed at the lack of any renovation going on. Abandoned might have been a better description. There was scaffolding on the outside though. It was the cherry on top as Natasha crossed the road. This was definitely the place.
It stuck out like a sore thumb, with graffiti on some of the brick. Metal and rod iron bars on the windows, protecting the property from squatters when construction workers weren't there. Natasha stood outside the front entrance and saw it was cracked open with a doorstopper.
Hope must really be skittish, and apparently had a knack for picking locks. But Natasha went inside. There were no lights and sounds at first. The quiet filled the coffin of a building, as the outside was shut away. Natasha saw shadows of more scaffolding inside the lobby. Along with plenty of sheets and paint and other materials. It was being renovated alright, but the building was in rough shape. It must have been in the beginning stages.
"Hope?"
Nothing.
That was the first moment this evening, that Natasha felt a tightening in her stomach. But she moved passed the dark lobby and went down the long hallway. Creaky steps and dark movements. Only the shadow from the streetlights filtering in from the lobby, and the exit sign all the way at the other end, painted any light.
Each apartment room was open and bare. The smells of chemicals and paint and thinning materials from the stripped floors fermented in the air. It all mixed with the stale scents of mildew from pulled up carpet and rotted flooring. In every space, room after room, decayed materials rested in heaps of junk. From torn up floors and walls. From electrical wiring being pulled. The carcass of a building was being cleaned out, starting with this first floor. But there was no Hope.
There was nobody at all.
Natasha reached the end of the hallway, where that red exit sign was glowing. It made it seem all the weirder. And eerie. But she wasn't going to leave here without checking the rest of the floors. She didn't need to though.
Avoiding the elevator, Natasha took the stairs. And as soon as she made it up one flight, the quiet from the inside was interrupted with a mild thumping. Almost like a drum. Or a bass beat. Natasha's eyes squinted as she avoided floors two and three. One look down both hallways, and she could tell the noise wasn't coming from either and no one was there. But the steadied beat became louder the higher she went. All the way to the top floor, Natasha climbed. Step after step as her ears picked up on the clearer sound of techno beats on top of that bass thudding along.
Okay, this had moved past weird into the fucking strange territory.
Natasha shook her head, "Hope?"
She was at the fourth floor, and realized that as dilapidated as the downstairs looked, it was clear how early of a stage this renovation was in. There were no chemicals or scaffolding upstairs yet. So, the floor truly looked abandoned and smelled of mold and musty air and rodents. Creaking boards met every footstep as the red exit sign flickered behind her.
"HGTV meets Steven King," Natasha chuckled to herself quietly as she made her way past the apartments of the fourth floor.
Some were open. Some shut. Some had holes in their drywall and in their ceilings…and in the floorboards. Old wallpaper hung like meat falling off a bone in a couple of the rooms, and Natasha could only imagine how many drug dealers, criminals, prostitutes, and homeless squatters had made their way through this eyesore over the years.
The tales these walls could tell. But Natasha wasn't here for those stories.
It was obvious where the increasingly loud music was coming from now. The apartment all the way at the end of the hallway. Natasha checked her phone again. There was nothing else from Hope. There was nothing else from Steve either, but she'd deal with those thoughts and feelings later.
That strain in her stomach only increased, but she continued.
Natasha didn't make it as far as she had in this world by turning away at the first sign of worry.
Natasha took a breath as she reached the door at the end of the hallway. Never one to wade around in nerves, she turned the knob. It was probably creaky like the floorboards, but she couldn't tell. The only thing she could hear was the obnoxiously loud sound of techno music. Blaring loudly, Natasha could feel those beats thudding in her ears. Stepping inside, Natasha squinted because along with the swelled volume, was an incessant flashing from a strobe light.
Weird turned creepy turned downright unsettling.
"What the fuck. Hope…are you in here?"
Natasha's yell wasn't answered. She tried to blink away the dizzying sensation from that goddamn strobe light, but it was no use. The large space was completely open and empty. And the sensory overload became debilitating as a rapid headache formed. She turned around and caught something on the counter in the kitchen between flashes. A small rectangular shadow, popping in and out of her eyesight. Was that a goddamn boombox? Fumbling her way over, Natasha shuffled her hands around until she found the button to shut it off.
A little relief was felt but only for a moment. The silence was overwhelming as Natasha's eyes seemed to flicker with each strobe of light. Trying to take in the rest of the apartment between flashes, she looked around the empty room. Two windows, barred. A door that led to a bathroom off to the right, and a closet off to the left.
But there was nothing else.
Nothing until Natasha turned around to look at the doorway, from where she'd entered, to see another closet space right by it. The door to the closet was open, but it wasn't empty.
The air seemed to be sucked out of the room in a second. In between the flashing of white light, Natasha saw Hope Van Dyne. In the closet, on the ground. The woman was crumpled up and wrapped in plastic. Frozen forever with a terror filled look in her eyes, that were wide open under the thick cellophane.
A bone chilling tension filled the air. It surrounded her and filled her chest, cascading down her spine as Natasha's mouth fell open.
A throaty yell came out as she rushed over to squat down, "Hope?"
Fight or flight kicked in. Fight was always her response. Natasha clawed at the plastic but felt it immediately when she touched her. That chill wasn't just on her back and in the air anymore. Even through the plastic, Natasha could feel how cold her skin and body were. Hope was gone.
But that wasn't the only thing that would terrify Natasha.
She wasn't alone.
She felt the hairs stand up on her neck. But before Natasha could turn around, a hand came from behind. Wrapping around her ponytail, Natasha was yanked upward and away from the closet. A man had a hold of her, snaking his arms around her neck. Flashes of self-defense lessons ran through Natasha's brain, instantly clawing at his forearms, trying to leverage herself to escape from his grasp. Mouth open, eyes wild and wide, the strobing was all she could see anymore. The heavy breathing from the attacker filled that void of silence as he grunted in her ear.
Only a couple seconds had passed as Natasha's brain locked any details away that she could make out.
Tall. Average build. She could feel the ski mask he had on. Callouses on his hand, and hair on his forearm from where his jacket had slid up around her neck.
That grunting became a growl as the menace spewed out with his words, "Nosey bitches will end up like her."
Natasha's feet were kicking, trying to hook and sweep a leg, but he had the advantage. He had her in a strong hold, squeezing and pulling her hair violently as the pain shot through her eyes. Clawing at his arm, thrashing her body against him. Using as much force as she could. But the pressure around her neck only increased. Natasha couldn't wriggle away, and the room seemed to become smaller as her oxygen intake lessened. The blood pumped in her heart and thrusted into her ears as her airway begged for relief.
He had the advantage. He came from behind and had a tight hold on her. But with her thrashing and kicking, Natasha jostled her messenger bag around to her front. Time was crucial, feeling the heat in her cheeks as her face reddened. Her pulse was thumping as loudly as the music did a few minutes ago.
Natasha dropped her hand from his grasp, slipping inside her bag. She'd found what she never left home without. Her taser.
Instinct took over. Natasha flipped the switch on the side of the taser and didn't hesitate. It was an awkward angle, and she couldn't reach his neck. But she made contact with the guy's side as a guttural yell came out of him. Stumbling backwards, he pulled away as the taser dropped from her hand.
His hold was gone, and she was free from his grasp. Violent responses emerged. Natasha's coughing turned to hacking, feeling the air trickle in again. She grabbed her throat, instinctively rubbing and checking to see if she was bleeding. She wasn't, but everything hurt.
Her headache had spiked. Her body was rigid, and it hurt to breathe. Pain never felt so good to her. Natasha's hair was disheveled from her ponytail being snatched, with a few strands ripped out.
Coughing and wheezing. Hacking and heaving. It all mixed with his agonizing sounds as her attacker tried to make sense of what just happened. Natasha sucked in the oxygen and swallowed the vomit that threatened to spew out. He only had her in his grasp for a minute, but it was enough to leave an impact. And a mark. But his advantage was gone, and their positions changed in a second.
Natasha spit, bending over to retrieve the taser. Adrenaline surged as her face filled with rage.
He'd managed to stay upright but was grabbing his side and spitting too. A throated shout came out as the flashing lights never let up.
"Fucking bitch," was all Natasha heard as he reached behind his back.
Natasha's instinct was on overdrive, not waiting to see what she knew he was pulling for. She lunged at him, missing him with the taser, but finding his groin with her knee. He screamed in pain from the forceful strike. But his adrenaline had kicked in as he lurched forward and hit back.
A bellow came out as his fist found her stomach, punching hard and knocking her backwards to the ground.
The white staccatos of light, only made the shadows and images more frightening. Who was wheezing or groaning louder, couldn't be known. It all blended in the abandoned space as the attacker stood up, pulling his gun out now. His words came out with a gravelly sound for a threat, "Quit running that mouth of yours, or you'll end up like the bitch over there."
Natasha could see a little more of him. Height probably 6'1". Maybe 190 lbs. He was in a jacket and ski mask, but the jacket had slid up from where Natasha had scratched his forearm. She caught a glimpse of a tattoo on the underside of that arm. He could barely stand from the impact of her knee and the taser, but he didn't wait any longer after his warning was declared.
The man ran out of the apartment with his gun, and Natasha began to process what the fuck just happened.
She was hot and cold all at the same time. Sweat was pouring out as all the adrenaline made her feel like she'd just hit a bump of cocaine. Jerking around on the ground, Natasha patted herself down frantically. Her chest and stomach. Her hair and neck and face.
Everything hurt, and she was so relieved it did. She wasn't bleeding. But she would bruise and be full of pain for days, that she was sure of. But she was…okay. She was alive and that was all that mattered.
Alive…meant she wasn't dead.
That thought ran through her brain. And the bottom fell out in an instant as her stomach sank, feeling the panic close in. And that fucking strobe light was still flashing.
Natasha groaned and spat again, standing up and breathing through each throb. She searched around the room for a few seconds and found it. The light was battery operated and was on the ground in the kitchen. The blackness that she was left in wouldn't do either. Her senses had already gone haywire, and the suffocated feeling of darkness was overwhelming. She flipped the switch again and again until she found a setting for a steadied spotlight.
It was the first decent breath Natasha had taken in a few minutes. Her chest didn't feel like an elephant was sitting on it anymore, but then everything else flooded her. Her survival instincts had kicked in, leaving her thinking about who hadn't survived.
Hope.
Natasha dialed 911 immediately on her phone as she ran back to the closet. She began clawing away at the plastic over Hope's head.
Natasha shouted at the lady on the other end of the phone 30 seconds later, "A woman's been killed. Just fucking get here now!"
She knew she was dead. She knew it. But Natasha had to try.
The address was given, and Natasha hung up as shock filled her eyes. Tears followed, pooling and threatening to fall out from sheer panic. The plastic was thick and tight, but Natasha tore a tiny hole at the top finally. Pulling and tugging. Stretching and digging as she pulled more and more. Finding a little give as it split open. And then more and more, tearing away at the small crack that expanded.
Enough space was found with a forceful rip, and then Hope's head was out of the plastic, meeting the air Natasha was breathing in.
It was no use.
The cold skin Natasha felt minutes ago, was met with no pulse and the assurance of her death now. The only other image she'd ever seen of Hope was when Natasha Googled her.
And now, she saw the woman before her on the floor. Wide eyed and horrified, Hope stared back into nothing because she was gone from this world. Her mouth was open a little, and Natasha could only imagine the last horrifying thoughts that ran through her head.
A splitting headache that had emerged right away, was being held at bay for the moment. Natasha would have time to deal with all her pain and bruising later. Time was of the essence now though.
Natasha's palm found her forehead, as she stood up for a second. Sucking in heaps of air, trying to calm herself. Trying to take in everything that just happened. Trying to manage every detail and fact and new question that swirled around her brain.
A clear threat was given to Natasha. But that journalist instinct took hold like muscle memory.
Natasha looked down at Hope's appearance and cataloged the immediate things that stood out. Her cell phone was on the ground next to her. Her face frozen in terror, but Natasha noticed the other details. Two bullet holes to her chest, with blood pooling under the plastic from where she was shot. Which means she'd been shot recently. A reddened circular spot was on her neck that almost looked like a puncture wound. And Natasha could see a piece of paper peeking out from Hope's coat pocket.
Natasha shook any second thoughts away. Waving her hands at her side, she breathed in and out as her nerves shook away. She kneeled back down. Her fingers slipped in where the plastic was ripped open by Hope's neck. Forcing and angling, Natasha's hand snaked past her chest, covering itself in Hope's blood. With how she was kneeling, forcing her hand further down, Natasha's face almost touched Hope's to reach the spot. She was close enough that she could smell the hint of her shampoo and the odor of iron from her blood.
"Fucking hell," Natasha groaned. She focused on staying calm, making contact, and finally grabbing the paper. Securing it in her palm, she pulled her arm out of the plastic as quickly as possible.
Natasha fumbled backwards as her ass met the creaky floorboards of the closet entrance, groaning along with it. She shoved all the other panic and fear away as the gruesome images settled in her brain. She couldn't do this now. She couldn't process what just happened. She had to focus and think. The cops and ambulance would be here any minute. And her chance to find anything in this fucking abandoned building would be gone.
Focus.
Natasha wiped her hand on her jeans, painting blood on the denim as she crawled and reached over to look at Hope's phone.
The lock wasn't on, but that wasn't what was odd.
It was empty. Her entire phone. Empty.
All her messages except one were deleted, including the texts that had just been sent to Natasha 45 minutes ago. Fucking 45 minutes was all it took for Natasha to be attacked, and now sitting on the ground next to a very dead Hope Van Dyne.
Natasha knew she couldn't take Hope's phone, but she could sure as hell take pictures of the scene with her own.
The one text message remaining was from Jane. It had just come through a couple minutes ago after the attacker ran off.
Jane – 9:52 pm – "Weekend won't be as long as I first thought. I'll be back by Sunday instead of Monday, now. Let me know if you need anything if you end up meeting with Natasha this weekend. Talk soon!"
It was the first real emotion that Natasha couldn't shove down in her stomach. Her stomach…that hurt like a son of a bitch from where he'd hit her. Natasha didn't know Hope, but she knew Jane. And Jane didn't have any idea what had happened. No one probably did. The horror and sickening cruelty of the situation started to overpower, but Natasha shook it off.
"Fucking focus, Romanoff."
Yes, focus. She had work to do.
This wasn't a crime scene yet, so Natasha pushed through any pain and started snapping the scene with her phone's camera. The hallway and door. The windows and counter. That goddamn boombox and strobe light. And Hope. Hope's body. The close-up images of her neck and chest and phone. And then the paper.
Natasha opened it. It was the results from the lab tests that were done on the pen. Hope's handwriting was off to the side of a bunch of charts and graphs and numbers. Natasha wasn't about to try and understand what those meant right now.
'J.D. +'
That was the first line Natasha read. Short and succinct, she knew it meant John Doe, positive. Which meant a whole other bag of realizations being tossed up in the air.
John Doe was in the fucking system but hadn't been identified. But an autopsy had been run. Or at least enough tests were done, for Hope to find a match. A link was solidified between that goddamn blue pen at the train tracks and John Doe. The how and where…and why his results weren't public, were all questions for later. As was, how Hope was able to access John Doe's results.
The second line written just read,
'LSL 616.'
That was something Natasha didn't have a goddamn clue on. And she didn't have time to think about it now. She folded the paper up, now stained with blood, and stuffed it in her bra. Pulling her notepad out from her bag, she immediately started writing beats down.
The man in a ski mask with his attempts at disguising his voice with gruffness. His hands and breath and words to her. The message was clear. Natasha's articles had definitely ruffled some feathers, which only meant Steve's had too. The fact they weren't letting this story die, only fed into the public keeping it in the limelight too. But it was simple. Whoever killed Hope, or whoever they worked for was telling her and anyone else to back the fuck off.
Or else.
But why Hope? What was LSL? What did the numbers mean? Why is John Doe still a John Doe in the system if his prints are a match to the pen? What else was there to John Doe's death? And what, if any, was the connection to The Red Line crash? The Red Line crash, revealing trace amounts of explosives from its debris.
None of it made sense as Natasha filled her page and then flipped it and filled another one. And another one. Her hand hurt as she tried to draw the image of the tattoo she thought she saw.
Tracksuits came to mind, but the attacker was wearing jeans. Not that it meant he wasn't with the tracksuits. The ski mask and jacket all blended, looking like a black swath in the flashes of light, so she really wasn't sure. It could have been a tracksuit thug, going rogue and wearing his own clothes, or it could be something entirely different.
Natasha had done all she could in the few minutes alone she had. She heard the sirens outside, and she secured her bag over her shoulder. Breathing heavily still, Natasha walked over and crouched down with a shaky hand. She didn't know what caused her to do it, but it just felt like something needing to be done. She reached over and shut Hope's eyelids, closing them from this vicious world that took her from it.
The cops arrived, barging in with the EMT's. And Natasha realized her Friday night was just beginning.
An hour later, Natasha swatted away another paramedic outside the dark building, only highlighted in the shadows of the streetlights and the flashing emergency red and blues from ambulances and police cruisers.
A lot of feelings were coursing through her right now, but irritation jumped to the forefront, "Stop. I'm fine. Just let me keep the icepack, okay?"
Natasha was fine, technically. She ached all over, and she touched her neck frequently from the strain she could still feel on her windpipe. There'd be marks and pain with her bruising. She was advised to get to the doctor tomorrow to make sure nothing was bleeding internally, but they finally relented and let her go. Because she was physically okay. No broken bones. No serious injuries. She got banged up, but was…okay. Or at least that's what she kept telling herself. The threat of the situation and how terrifyingly close it came to being something serious, was a different story.
She shoved all those thoughts away for now.
Natasha groaned during her second call with Fury in the last 30 minutes. Their first call was frenzied on both ends. The second was controlled but driven, with both of them focusing on a plan. Bucky and Wanda were already at her apartment waiting for her whenever she got home. And Natasha and Fury would meet at The Herald bright and early to make their weekend full, with non-stop work.
Initial questioning and statements were taken from her as the police secured and closed off the scene. Her safety and care were attended to outside. (To an overblown extent if you asked her.) But there was a lot of waiting too. Caution tape unrolled. Radios were yelled into as more police arrived. Her throat was grazed over repeatedly as she tried to wipe away that phantom feeling of the criminal's hands and arm around her.
The coroner finally arrived and made his way up the old building to examine what Natasha had found, hours ago.
A lifeless Hope Van Dyne.
Finally, two hours after she'd made the 911 call, Natasha was in the back of a police cruiser with her favorite duo, who's favorite pastime was blowing her off. Frank Castle and Jessica Jones.
"No Castle, you have to go around the east side remember? The back entrance is blocked off for sidewalk repairs for the weekend."
"Fucking construction."
Jessica turned to look at Natasha as she braced herself against the cruiser door when Castle hit a pothole.
"Sorry, Romanoff. You've had a rough night, and Castle's driving isn't helping."
"My driving is fine."
Natasha waved it off as Jones added, "Gotta ask, Romanoff. You find anything on the victim's phone? Saw the blood on your hands and there were marks on the phone, and it was pretty empty."
Castle looked at her in the mirror, "You know you're prints are in the system already, Romanoff. Might as well tell us since we'll find out anyway."
Natasha flashed back to being arrested at a college house party for underage drinking. It was long ago when she was only 19. The cops had come thinking there were drugs and arrested all the young adults instead. She was released immediately, but her prints were taken regardless. Castle was being truthful, but it didn't change the dynamic between them.
The journalist and officer. Antagonistic. Reluctant. Both searching for the truth and facts, but on the opposite side of procedures more often than not.
Natasha scoffed, "I don't suppose if I said, I don't comment on ongoing investigations, you'd like it very much, would you?"
"Fucking reporters."
Castle's response was in line with where his mood was at tonight, but Jones couldn't help but smirk at her. Natasha was beyond exhausted and aching all over. She'd been through the ringer tonight and her nerves were a little like a downed telephone wire in a storm. Loose and wild, and waiting to spark.
Natasha snapped back, "I'm not a fucking TV reporter, Castle. I'm a journalist."
Jones gave Frank a glare before staring back at her. Natasha groaned but relented, "Just check the goddamn prints if you want, but yeah of course I looked at her cell. She was fucking murdered, and I was attacked. But there wasn't anything on the phone, okay? All the texts were cleared, even the ones I already told you about with Hope earlier tonight. There was just the one from Jane Foster, who's out of town. It came through after…everything."
Silence filled the police car the rest of the way.
A few minutes later, Natasha was in a room at the cop shop as Jessica muttered, "Just hang tight. Hopefully we can get your official statement, get the sketch from your details of the perp, and get you back to your apartment within a couple of hours."
They had asked to see Natasha's phone at the precinct. The fact that she hid the photos she'd taken, in a private folder on her phone, was beside the point. They had the same images. They just wanted to check her texts anyway. She wasn't hiding anything except her access to facts. And she hadn't broken any laws. The abandoned building wasn't a crime scene until they arrived.
And the paper with the lab results?
Well…Natasha did keep that to herself. So maybe she did hide that one tiny detail, but she needed to figure out what LSL and 616 stood for first. The paper was for her anyway. Something about being way past permission stages and asking for forgiveness later ran through her head.
Natasha justified it by telling the cops why she'd met up with Hope. She mentioned John Doe from The Blue Line, and Jones and Castle had a look. It was fleeting, but noticeable and Natasha called them out, "You know, maybe if you commented a little more on ongoing investigations, we both might find answers a lot quicker."
Between the crime scene, the car ride, and now the station, Natasha had recapped the evening several times over the last few hours. She'd given the details of her attacker repeatedly. They knew she was being truthful and wasn't hiding anything.
Besides a single piece of paper Natasha had kept to herself, that is.
Castle left, wanting to get rid of the thorn in his side as quickly as possible. Allies was too nice of a term to label Jessica and Natasha's relationship. But there was a mutual respect. So being the most positive relationship Natasha had with the police, Jones tried to be a voice of reason with her, "Look, Romanoff. You're probably not going to listen to anything I tell you…but word of advice. Tread lightly unless you got something big to stand on with all of this."
Jones was off the record with Natasha. The questioning was done, and her statement was recorded, but her words were just for the two women to hear. Natasha looked at her as Jessica added, "Now go clean yourself up a bit, Romanoff. You look like shit. Use our private bathroom, and I'll be back in a few minutes. Gonna go grab the keys, and then I'll drive you home."
Natasha didn't say anything back at the moment. Instead, she took Jones' advice and went to the bathroom. For the first time since she'd left her apartment, she looked in the mirror. And saw the results of the evening.
"Shit."
Jessica was blunt, but truthful in her commentary on Natasha's appearance. She looked like hell, and she felt like she'd been through a mild version of it.
But as much as it hurt to look at the results of this evening, Natasha's body hurt more. Her cheek was scraped when she was knocked to the ground. Deep purple and dark red marks were already forming around her throat. And on her stomach. And from what she could feel, her back and rear end were sore from being thrown directly on her ass. Her hair was full of tangles, and dirt and blood stained her face and fingers. Only it wasn't her blood.
Forensics had taken samples of the collection of dirt and blood and DNA from her hands and nails, since she'd managed to make contact with the assailant's forearm. But whether it would result in anything, had yet to be determined.
Natasha took a few extra strength Tylenol and swigged some water before washing her hands finally. She combed her hair with her fingers, trying to put it up again, but winced with a dramatic hiss.
There was no skirting around it. She was ripe with pain. In her shoulders and back. On her scalp from where he'd pulled at her ponytail. On her chest and stomach.
Pain…was a welcomed feeling though, just like before. Pain meant Natasha was okay. She had survived.
She was alive.
30 minutes later, Jones had Natasha in the cop car. It was just the two of them. It was a little after 2 am and Natasha was being dropped off outside her apartment building, "Your jeep is already here, Romanoff. I had an officer bring it over after you gave us your keys at the precinct."
Natasha had been running over Jessica's last words of advice to her at the police station. The weight of the evening was finally settling in, "What'd you mean before, Jones…when you said tread lightly?"
Jessica took a breath as Natasha added, "Look, this is all off record, and I meant what I said to you the other day. I'll keep your name out of it, if you ever have anything to share. I just…do you know what the fuck is going on?"
Jones looked over at her, "I don't, Romanoff. Just like I said I couldn't go around arresting any guy in a tracksuit, I can't act on assumptions in my line of work."
A heavy sigh came out of both women as Jessica added, "But…I think your instincts are in line with the police…at least our precinct. We're just on the opposite sides of the caution tape, like always. And you're not going to change that dynamic with this story, Natasha. All I meant was…if your instincts are spot on with ours, and there's something bigger going on here with the likes of the Mob or Wilson Fisk…or some other group, then that's a hell of a hornet's nest to get caught up in."
Natasha tapped her finger on her thigh as Jones finished, "This whole thing has been fucked up from the start. All the questions, and now the results of the debris from The Red Line, showing trace amounts of explosives. It feels like we're all on a little shaky ground here. And when stuff like this happens, a lot of effort is usually made to stop the truth from coming out, and to stop any real culprits from being arrested. You need to be careful."
Natasha mulled over Jessica's words. It was a heavy message after an even heavier night, so she tried to make a little light of it, "If I didn't know any better, Jones…I'd say you actually cared about me."
She chuckled, "Well, don't embellish the facts, Romanoff. You're persistent as hell and know how to irritate every police officer in the city because you throw that rule book, we kind of live by, out the window so often. But you're also one hell of a fighter. And I like that. Fuck, I respect the hell out of that. So, for what it's worth, I'm glad you're okay."
It wasn't that Jessica had anything to share right now. It was that her instinct was on the same path as Natasha's. Knowing that this story had a lot more to it, than just two train lines being brought to a stop a month ago.
Natasha let out a long breath, "Yeah, I'm glad I'm okay too. Thanks for the lift, Jones…and for everything. See ya around."
Jessica Jones drove off, and Natasha made her way into her building with her messenger bag slung over her very sore shoulder. And Bucky and Wanda were fussing over her five minutes later. The paramedics had nothing on them, and Natasha wouldn't be able to shoo their efforts away.
Wanda helped clean her up as Bucky filled in the rest of the team over some late night texts.
Some water, toast, and tea. A shower, sweats, and even more Tylenol. It all mixed together and helped what needed to be soothed. Natasha was passed out by 3 am, and Wanda and Bucky stayed the night in her guest bedroom.
What a Friday night.
Two days later, Natasha sat across Fury's desk in his office.
It was Sunday. The late afternoon calm had settled in the room after sending Natasha's article off and the rest of Monday's paper to print.
"If I can be so bold, Romanoff…as much as yours and Rogers' articles have been kicking up dust over the last few weeks, tomorrow's is about to light some fires. And rightfully so. It's great work, Kid."
Natasha set her coffee mug down and smiled. When a college-aged Natasha showed up in glasses, almost 15 years ago now…that was Fury's name for her as an intern, then turned fresh copy assistant.
Kid.
What a cycle to be in. Natasha thought of MJ and Peter being in their early 20's now, starting where she had.
"You haven't called me that in a long time, Fury."
Fury sat back, "Well, every now and then, my soft spots show."
"Is that a hint you need to get back to the gym?"
Fury gave a dead panned look, but he chuckled after a bit. "Seriously though, Romanoff. I'm proud of you. I know after everything on Friday, the last two days haven't been easy with how rough it was."
Natasha blew out a breath as Fury pulled out his whiskey from his drawer. A habit Natasha had clearly picked up on, working with the veteran editor.
The last two days weren't easy, but the hard is what made articles like tomorrow's great. Natasha knew it, as she sent it off. Sometimes, she'd send an article into the world, hoping it'd be received well, like her book. Sometimes, she raced to beat the clock and filled the pages with drabble, when cycles were slow. Others, the focus was solely on beating a competitor named Steve Rogers.
But every once in a while, there were articles that Natasha just knew would shake things up in a story and the city.
Beyond the actual act of writing and living at the office over the last two days, it was demanding too.
Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.
There were follow ups with the police. Fury made Natasha get checked out by the doctor Saturday morning. She was fine like she'd told the paramedics, but was advised to take it easy and keep up on the Tylenol. And as the hours passed, distancing herself from the adrenaline of Friday evening, her drive only increased.
Natasha had meant what she told the police. She'd never met Hope before, so personally, she wasn't feeling a sense of loss of someone she knew. And as long as she'd been who she was in Chicago, this wasn't new territory. Unfortunately, this wasn't Natasha's first encounter with a dead body or horrifying situation she'd found herself in either. Her being attacked and threatened, and so viscerally close with Hope's body, surely put it close to the top, but regardless.
Natasha came in under a veteran editor, and she was now a veteran in the industry and to Chicago. Shitty things happened every day in this large of a city, and she'd encountered the underbelly numerous times before.
In short, Natasha was tough as hell and had alligator skin for nerves. But it didn't change how close of a call it still was. And how terrifying it was for her in the moment.
But all of that, only meant Natasha was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of this story. To find out who the hell attacked her and why. To find out why Hope was murdered, and who was responsible. To make the connections that taunted this developing story from the beginning. Between the two accidents a month ago. And between John Doe's death, Hope's murder, and five other victims. And God knows what else.
Natasha and Steve had argued a couple weeks ago over being in contact with a couple of family members of those victims. Nothing had come of it, except realizing the tracksuits were lingering all over the city like cockroaches. And Steve and Natasha agreeing to steer clear of each other.
But with John Doe and Hope? There was more than just evidence of possible explosives. There was more than just smoke billowing from both deaths. It was a forest fire full of intuition, knowing they were connected and having a feeling that this was as big as certain stories in the past.
Drug trafficking. Prostitution rings. Death and cover-ups. Child abuse. Seedy politicians over and over again. And even a couple of serial killers in her time as a journalist. And so many more tales from this town. Natasha hadn't made the arrests in any of those cases because she wasn't an officer of the law.
But she was an officer of truth and had been integral in those stories being exposed and shared with the public.
This story…was one of those times. She could feel it in every aching bone in her body right now. And Jessica Jones warning her about treading lightly, pretty much ensured that Natasha wouldn't tread lightly at all.
Beyond all the exhaustion and bruising and still sore muscles, and terrible unfairness of Hope's murder, there was something else bothering her too. But it was something Natasha didn't talk about over the last two days as her text messages from everyone else filled her inbox. Her parents and friends. Peter and MJ. Sam and Bucky and Wanda. Yelena and Jane. And Fury and the police. So many text messages and calls. And with each new message, Steve's last attempt to communicate with her on Friday afternoon, was pushed further and further down her contact list.
Out of sight, out of mind, right?
If only it were that simple.
"Yeah, Fury. It's never easy, but it's worth every beat on the street, right?"
He smiled, handing her a glass as she added, "I'll be okay though, Fury. You know that. I learn from the best. And all things considered, I came out of Friday with less injuries than in the past."
Fury frowned, "I don't know about that, Romanoff."
She quickly responded, "I mean I didn't have to spend the night in the hospital, and I didn't sprain my ankle or anything."
Fury shook his head, "Romanoff, you were in the hospital because you had food poisoning from a dinner party you crashed. And you sprained your ankle, running away from the police when you snuck into a crime scene. Those hardly compare to being attacked and finding a source murdered."
Natasha sat back with a raised brow as he went on, "You've encountered plenty of the horrors of reality over the years, Romanoff. And yeah, you've been banged up along the way. But this was…visceral. We both know that. You don't need to pretend with me. But when I said Friday was rough…everything with Hope was implied, but it wasn't exactly what I was referring to."
Natasha let out a breath, "Fury…it's been a long weekend. You're going to have to spell it out."
Fury chuckled and shifted gears a little, "Well now that I can do. You know, Romanoff. I see so much of myself in you with each year you're here, that sometimes it's unnerving."
Natasha sat up, stifling a groan. The scrape on her cheek was gone. Most of her bruising had lessened a little, and the pain was a lot better than two days ago. But it was still there. And her neck was still sensitive.
"Fury, you've been the best mentor I could have ever asked for. I mean, you've been like a surrogate father even. My Dad thinks so too."
A warm smile appeared, "Well, from his lips to my ears, the feeling is mutual. But a mentor does not make me a role model."
A little confusion crossed her face, "I didn't know I was looking at you as one…Fury, I'm not a teenager looking for a hero…"
A little heartier of a laugh came out of him, "Romanoff, just hear me out."
She took a sip of her drink and sat back as he went on, "Do you remember what I asked you when you first came to me as an overeager intern?"
Natasha smirked, "You asked me why I wanted to be a reporter…and it was the first trick question you ever tried with me. But it certainly wasn't the last."
Fury grinned, "Well, it's a good test. Reporters and news media are all well and good, and they serve a vital role to this industry. But there's a difference in what we dinosaurs in print do. And I remember you telling me…I believe the exact phrasing was something like, 'I've wanted to be a journalist, telling the stories of the street, for as long as I can remember.'"
"It was a good trick question, Fury."
"It was a good answer, Romanoff."
He sat back in his chair, "So let me add, that those of us still interested in writing our stories, may be classified as dinosaurs. But that doesn't mean we have to play into our own extinction."
Natasha shook her head, "Fury, our sales have been up the last month…by quite a bit."
He chuckled again, "Yes they have, but that's not what I'm referring to either."
Natasha sipped from her glass, "Well, unless I'm supposed to say all journalists are reporters, but all reporters aren't newspaper journalists, I don't think I'm picking up on this trick question…"
Fury took a sip too, "Romanoff…I'm talking about you, not repeating mistakes from an old dog like me."
Natasha's brow quirked. She had a hunch on where this was going now, based on past conversations with friends and family members throughout her life, starting off with similar phrasing.
A sigh came out as he continued, "I've been divorced not once. Not twice. But three times, Romanoff. And while it always involves both parties signing a dotted line at the end, make no mistake…the blame rests mostly on me. A work obsessed journalist in this industry for over 50 years, who always put the story first. No matter the cost. Even when it doesn't need to be that way."
Natasha looked to the side as he went on, "I know those wheels are fighting where I'm going already, but don't. Just listen. I know you're always going to do what you want to…but take it from me. You'll get to my age sooner than you think. And when you start looking back at all your accomplishments and work, you'll feel the weight of the consequences of going it alone too."
"Fury, come on. I don't know if it's because some thug attacked me on Friday, but I meant it then and yesterday. And I mean it today. I'm okay…I promise. It wasn't the first time I've been threatened because of a story. It's not going to slow me down."
"Romanoff, I'm just going to be blunt…I'm not talking about Friday's news. I'm talking about Steve Rogers's story on Friday and how you reacted."
Okay, now she knew what he was getting at.
"Jesus, Fury. There was nothing going on. He's more talented than I thought…A lot more even. And yeah, we crossed paths and were even cordial over the last couple weeks. But that's all done."
Fury scoffed, "You do realize, I am old, but not oblivious. I pick up on quite a bit in this office, Romanoff. And I have to say…cordial would not be how I described you over the last few weeks."
Natasha crossed her arms as he held up his hand, "Look, you're an adult. And I meant every word of what I said a month ago. I want my prized journalist actually doing her job. But that doesn't mean you can't have a life too. There's space for both, you just have to be willing and choose."
"I don't know what you're…"
Fury cut her off, "Natasha, I saw you smiling in a way I hadn't…I don't think ever, over the last few weeks. The guy is a good writer, yeah. But it's more than that. I think the guy…is good for you."
Natasha shook her head out of disbelief. And not from the fact that he called her by her first name, which was another rarity, "I have a life most journalism students would kill for, Fury. I have a life…I just wrote a book for god's sake."
Fury chuckled, "Romanoff, you wrote that book on a whim, because your co-workers pretty much dared, that you wouldn't ever have your name on a hardcover as long as you stuck to beat writing. They were joking, but you took it as a challenge anyway."
"Yeah, and I finished my book, didn't I?"
Now a full laugh came out of him, "Save the BS for your publicist or the press, Romanoff. Was it well written? Sure. Engaging? Yeah. But I didn't have to give you my honest opinion of your book when you were finished. Because you told me over the last six months, repeatedly, how much you hated the press tour and book signings and how fake the world of media always is. You even told me three months ago, when you were half a bottle of Jack in, working late on a Friday here, that 'Finding Your Own Beat,' was full of words and would sell because of your name. But you also told me…it was just fluff."
The fact that Natasha wasn't offended said everything. She had said all of those words. She'd felt it. And it was why she'd told her publicist time and time again, that a second book was off the table. And that she wasn't extending her press tour or book signing events. She hated that part of it. And really, Natasha felt like the book was cold and stale because it was. It was full of great tips on sleuthing and journalism, and ethics of finding the truth. Just like her college books.
But it wasn't personal. It was a challenge she met. That was all.
A sign of life that she existed? Sure. But it was not a sign of a life well lived.
And that notion, was exactly what this conversation was about, and in all its various forms over the years.
Fury looked at his phone for a second and put it back down, "Alright, alright. Advice from your mentor is over now. Get home and have a good rest tonight, Romanoff. Your article is going to raise some hell, and we'll be ready in the morning for whatever comes next."
Maybe if she wasn't going on fumes right now, she would have put up a verbal fight to Fury's dad talk, but Natasha wanted to be in her apartment and working on that idea of rest too, so she'd just ignore it for now.
Hell, she'd ignored that line of advice for most of her life, so what was another day.
But five minutes later, Natasha was given a shot of adrenaline.
As her and Fury walked out of The Herald that Sunday evening, Natasha stopped and looked at the street, "You've got to be kidding."
If you can't bring the horse to water, bring the water to the horse. Or something like that.
She had a hunch on who Fury had just answered a text from.
The light from the setting sun was gleaming off her sunglasses as Natasha saw Steve Rogers standing against his motorcycle outside The Herald.
Here she was, face-to-face with the man she'd avoided texting and had tried to avoid thinking about for the last 48 hours. He was also the reason Fury had just told her to get a life. Speaking of Fury, Natasha turned her head at him, having more than just a hunch, that her boss knew Rogers was going to pay a visit.
Fury chuckled and said goodnight, "All I did was confirm his guess that we'd be here most the day. And that we were here now. Everything else is on him. Goodnight, Romanoff."
Natasha walked out the door, standing on the sidewalk as she gripped her bag tight. By fate or by force, everything stood before her, that she'd been avoiding since Friday.
That 'nothing,' she'd tried to convince Fury of…but most importantly herself, was leaning against his bike in his jeans and t-shirt and sunglasses. Natasha's nerves sputtered to life, knowing that Steve wasn't going to let her off the hook as easily as Fury did.
Disbelief settled on her face again watching him stand up. She was in capris and a tank and thin cardigan as she continued to fiddle with her shoulder strap, "Rogers? What are you doing here?"
Even though his shades were on, she saw his focus immediately go to her neck. His jaw tightened, seeing the bruising and red marks still there, "I saw the logline early Saturday morning…I talked with Jones and Castle yesterday, and they filled me in. I figured you'd be here all weekend…Fury just confirmed it when I sent a text."
Natasha didn't even try to start off playing nice, "Figures Castle would talk to you. For some reason, you're the only journalist he doesn't say, 'Fuck off,' too. You looking for a quote, Rogers?"
Her response was snarky and not appreciated as he shook his head, "Look, Romanoff, I get it. This? Your job and work. It's your life. Believe me, I get it…more than you'd care to understand, clearly since you ignored me. But I'm not working an angle on a story here. And I never was with you."
Even though seeing Steve standing outside caused a little jolt, her exhaustion was winning in every way. It only made everything seem that much harder right now. Natasha's worst behaviors reared their ugly head as she responded harshly, "Right, that's just what you were doing over the last few weeks, until you could break your story about the doctored train footage. Your schoolboy charm may have worked on Darcy at the train station, but I'm not buying what you're selling, Rogers."
Steve shook his head in disbelief too. There was a lot of that going around. His aggravation and concern had been battling all weekend long. And his aggravation was in the lead.
"You're unbelievable."
"And you're impossible…It doesn't make me wrong, though."
"If that's how you want to play this, Romanoff, fine. I get it. You were pissed off I got a bigger break before you did. But you don't have a goddamn leg to stand on, if you think I was manipulating anything with us over the last couple of weeks."
Surprising no one who knew her, Natasha doubled down and dug in, "That's great, Rogers. I'm really happy you got your story out there. Hope you realize it's not personal when I kick your ass in sales tomorrow, when people pick up Monday's edition."
An erratic energy had surrounded them as their battle of words climbed. He was drained from worrying and being pissed off all weekend. She was overcome with fatigue from everything else.
And their words were pouring out all wrong. Natasha couldn't see Steve's eyes with his sunglasses on. But they were filled with frustration, "Yeah, I'm sure you will, because you're Chicago's best journalist and use your sources and intel…just like I did on Friday. You're just pissed off that you weren't the one with the break last week."
There it was.
She knew it and he did too. Natasha's irrational behavior towards Steve had less to do with him being the one with the scoop last Friday, and more to do with her not having it.
Steve muttered something to himself as his hands drew to his hips, "Jesus, Romanoff. I just came here to see if you were okay."
Shit.
Her jaw twitched as she stood defiantly, "Yeah, well…I'm fine, Rogers."
A month after they'd met, and fine didn't even begin to describe any of it.
Natasha wasn't the only one digging in right now.
Steve took a step towards her, "You don't look fine."
A scowl formed as she shifted her stance. Her shoulders groaned in pain as her neck was yelling at her too. Fine? Signs were pointing to the negative right now, but she wasn't going to show that, "Yeah, well…that's on you for not hearing me straight then. I am fine."
Natasha left The Herald 15 minutes ago, aching and tired, but calmer than she'd been all weekend. And honestly, a little reflective with her actions towards Steve last week. And Steve had arrived out of genuine concern, having worried about her all weekend.
But they jumped into the shallow end of their feelings and were rolling around like pigs in slop right now. He was pissed off at her stubborn side refusing to break. And she was agitated beyond belief he had the gall to show up and check on her. How dare he, right?
The audacity of being so obtuse to one's own feelings.
Any genuine thoughts of reflection and concern had been wiped away, leaving them flinging sunglass filled glares and clenched jaws at each other.
Steve turned to the side before quickly focusing on her again, "What I said before wasn't enough. You're fucking unbelievable, Romanoff. You want to put the story first? Fine, like I said, I get it and would never stand in your way. I've lived that life where the story is everything. Your entire purpose from morning to night. Where everything else, whether it's family or friends, comes in a distant second. I've lived that…more than I care to remember. So yeah, I get it."
Questions were forming in Natasha's pile of mush for a brain, focusing on all the double meanings and hidden stories from Steve's words. But before she could even form a proper thought, he continued.
Steve took a step forward, "You wanna live every waking breath for your work? Fine. Have at it. But you want to try and blame me for last week? For acting like you would've for that precious work of yours? Well, I'm sorry, Romanoff. That's just a bunch of bullshit."
Natasha shifted her feet but kept the stern look, "Maybe we should have followed through with what we said a few weeks ago, and steered clear of each other completely, Rogers."
Steve shook his head as he let out a breath. Frustrated didn't begin to describe his cocktail of emotions. But disappointment was surging to the forefront, "Yeah, well…message received that you are saying that. But you wanna stand here with a stiff upper lip, and pretend that you're fine? Like the last few weeks of us texting and sharing…and planning for drinks sometime didn't happen?"
Natasha crossed her arms tightly in front of her, "I never said it didn't happen, Rogers. I'm saying we should have stayed true to our agreement a few weeks ago."
Steve huffed out a sarcastic laugh, "I don't operate in the world of denial and make believe like that. You wanna try to pretend this is a mutual dissolution right now? That's bullshit too. You don't want to text or talk anymore? Fine. But don't pretend that's on me."
That pull was swallowing them whole, but in the worst way. Natasha leaned into her worst tendencies, and Steve wasn't going to fight right now. Not after how worried he was the entire weekend, only to be met with fire and fight right now. Not after she'd spent the weekend full of aches and pain and rage toward this story. Towards her work. Towards her life and all the meaning behind Fury's words, of finding something else in her life besides that work.
Sense and sensibility were nowhere on this Sunday evening with the sun setting around them. The heated tension only increased with their closing distance on the sidewalk.
Steve took another step as she watched his nostrils flare and he saw her swallow.
There was a tightening in Natasha's stomach, mixing with the soreness from her bruises that she tried to shake off. Agitation rose and her attempts to be left alone with her life weren't working, so she leaned into that old reliable friend of hers. The stubborn woman inside that had helped her at so many times in her life, but also hurt her in times like these.
It may have been bullshit, but she was leaning into it, "I said I was fine. I guess you need to hear it loud and clear though. I'm not interested…Go home, Rogers."
The boom had been lowered as one of the biggest lies she'd ever told came out of her mouth.
All from sheer stubbornness and pride.
Steve blew out a breath as she watched the muscles under his tee expand and contract. His shoulders and chest. His biceps and sternum. Those nerves danced along her spine, reaching her neck. But she didn't move a muscle and kept her jaw tight.
Steve shook his head and nodded through his own mental fatigue, "Yeah…no pretending there. Message received loud and clear, Romanoff."
It was also obvious, that he was more than pissed off. Steve was upset, fidgeting with his key, getting ready to turn around. He scoffed, wanting to yell at how stupid this all was, but he just looked at her again.
Their mirrored shades were in a stalemate, "I'm leaving. And I won't bother you anymore, Romanoff. Even if we see each other around…I'll steer clear. That's me, respecting your decision. But don't confuse deciding something and believing something. Fools can believe things and act differently all at the same time."
Did he just call her a fool?
You're goddamn right he did.
Natasha responded the only way she knew how right now, "Fools can keep talking, regardless of being told to leave too, Rogers."
Foolish, only began to touch on how she was acting.
Steve relented, shaking his head as he turned around to climb back on his bike.
Her head sunk, and his turned away. Both their hearts and heads were yelling inside, but both succumbed to the easy road of stubbornness.
Steve looked at her one last time, "I'm glad you're okay."
Even with calling her out, Steve couldn't help but let his genuine concern seep through. It's why he'd tracked her down in the first place.
And then a few seconds later, his engine roared to life, and Steve was off in the direction from which he came. Natasha had gotten what she wished for. Story first, no matter the consequences. Not making room for anything else in her life just like she always had. The problem was, everything that Fury, (and her parents and close friends,) had always advised her on, was felt in this moment.
After a terrifying Friday, and a calm before the storm of news tomorrow, Natasha wasn't thinking about her work. She wasn't thinking about her Monday morning article, or the story, or her writing at all.
Bullshit was right.
All Natasha was thinking about, was the man who blended with the sunset as he disappeared in the city streets. All she was thinking about, was how Fury's words, and now Steve's, hit a nerve and exposed some unwanted truths. All she was thinking about was what just happened.
Yes, she'd made it crystal clear to Steve, that this little nothing between them, was completely done.
But as she watched Steve leave, Natasha knew with every nerve on fire and tightened muscle inside, that she wanted it to be anything but over.
The sun always comes up, and clear skies emerge after a thunderstorm. But it was hard to focus on brighter days ahead, with what'd just erupted in their storm of a story.
End Note:
Deeper into the story we go! Natasha's drive is in full control. And Steve isn't letting her excuse it all away. The mystery is getting a deeper (and a little darker), and anyone that read M & R, probably would have guessed I couldn't stay away from a little action forever 😊.
Thanks so much for reading and supporting this little side world as we go deeper into this tale.
I love hearing from readers, so help a writer out and leave a comment with your thoughts.
Have a great weekend!
Cheers! ~~ Kat