A/N: Well, on the same day that I'm going to head down to London for the midnight showing of TDW, I pass 100 reviews on this fic. Thank you, you beautiful people. You're lovely.
Turn
by Flaignhan
She feels empty, weak, and her head is pounding. She tries opening her eyes but the glare of the strip lighting overhead forces her to squeeze them shut again. She lets out a groan and places her forearm over her eyes, relishing in the darkness. Her wrists are sore, naturally, but she always knew that was going to be the case. She can feel the bandages wrapped tightly around them, the stitches holding her skin together, and the plastic tube of the cannula in the back of her left hand. The only noise in the room is the frequent creaking of the drip machine next to her, as it pumps fluid into her. She assumes it's just saline, because they've probably run some blood tests and discovered that the little blood she had left was around seventy per cent vodka. It feels strange, the coolness in her veins, gradually warming before another burst enters; it's almost pleasant.
At the sound of a sigh, she realises she's not the only person in the room, and so she forces her eyes open, squinting in the light, and looks around. Daniil is sitting in the chair by her bed, his face propped up by the heel of his palm, his eyes closed, a magazine open on his lap. When she started reeling off her lies to him last night, Natasha had no idea that he'd end up getting so involved, that he'd be here when she woke, watching over her like some alcohol-enabling guardian angel. She hates the idea that she's fucking up his day, especially when none of this is real. She will tell lie after lie to bad people, corrupt people, or just people she plain doesn't like, and she won't lose a wink of sleep over it. But lying to people like Daniil? Tugging on their heart strings with tales of tragedy and then following it up with a faux suicide attempt? Now she questions her moral standpoint.
He coughs himself awake, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown, before he yawns, stretching his arms out in front of him, then opens his eyes.
"You're awake."
Natasha nods solemnly, then turns her head on the pillow to stare at the ceiling. She doesn't want to make things worse for him, but at the same time, she can't jeopardise her cover. She needs this story - it's the quickest, albeit the crudest, way she's got of getting inside that research facility. No one ever suspects the suicidal girl, after all.
"I told you, if you needed someone -"
"I wanted to die. I figured you wouldn't help me out with that."
Daniil sighs heavily, leaning forward and gently wrapping his hand around Natasha's. "There are things worth living for, no matter how bad it gets."
Natasha doesn't reply.
"I'll tell the doctor you're awake," Daniil mumbles, releasing Natasha's hand and getting to his feet. He leaves the room and Natasha closes her eyes, in an attempt to reset all the information in her brain. As if this assignment wasn't already complicated enough, she had to get herself entangled with a do-gooder. She knows the sort, desperate to fix everyone else's problems while his own life is probably sheer chaos. She doesn't know how to get rid of him, short of telling him to get lost, and to her, that seems a little ungrateful, after everything. She doesn't want to put him off helping people after all, because it's the Daniils of the world that make it worth fighting for. And yet, the longer he stays with her, the more involved in her treatment he is, the less likely she'll be to get transferred to Yanayev's facility, and even if she does get transferred, if he gets wrapped up in that mess, if someone involved wants revenge and assumes he was in on the plan the whole time…
Her stomach lurches, but she doesn't have time to focus on her guilt, for Daniil has returned with a short, bespectacled doctor in a white lab coat, the overlong cuffs of his sleeves rolled up to his wrists.
"Miss Dezhnyov?"
"Yes."
"You've had a very lucky escape," he says, unhooking the chart from the end of her bed, his eyes trailing down it. Once he's absorbed all the information, he looks up, glancing at each of Natasha's wrists, then finally at her face. "Do you want to tell me why you did this?"
Natasha looks away from him and stays silent. She can feel Daniil's eyes on her, and the change in the atmosphere as he grows ever more impatient, waiting for her to talk.
"She's had a hard time recently," he says at last, and Natasha shoots a venomous look at him.
"And you are?" the doctor asks politely, turning his attention to Daniil.
"Daniil," he says. "Daniil Kazakov. I met Irina last night. We had a few drinks."
"More than a few, it seems," the doctor replies with a raised eyebrow. "Forgive me, Mr Kazakov, but would it be possible for me to speak to Irina alone?"
"Of course, if that's what she wants," Daniil says, turning to look at Natasha. She gives him a single nod, and he leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him. The doctor takes the seat by Natasha's bed, crossing one leg over the other, his hands clasped and resting on his knee.
"Irina, it's very important that you tell us everything. We only want to help you get better. Wouldn't you like that?"
Silence, she decides is her best tool in this situation. She knows that if she breaks down and cries, that gives them something to work with, something for a counsellor to analyse, dissect, and talk her through. But lack of reaction, lack of emotion, and lack self-preservation? That's something that runs a lot deeper than 'having a hard time'. Nothing will get her committed quicker than the possibility that she might try to take her own life again, so there is to be absolutely no progress made during this conversation, no matter how much the doctor tries to wheedle things out of her, or how angry and upset Daniil will be at her refusal to accept help.
"You know as well as I do that your actions were a cry for help, and not a genuine attempt. Either that, or you're far more stupid than you look. There was a lot of blood, a lot of drama, and a lot of fuss. But the damage? Minimal. Your scars will heal and fade and by this time next year, you'll look back and shake your head at how silly you've been. Now, please, let me help you."
When she doesn't speak to him, the doctor sits back in his chair, steepling his fingers and watching her closely.
"I'm not going to go away, you know. If you don't get your act together, they'll send you to the care home, and I'm not sure you'll like it there."
Natasha stares at the wall ahead, trying to ignore the smarting in her wrists. After thirty seconds, she feels her eyes lose focus, and when she closes herself off from her surroundings, the doctor's words become background noise, occasional syllables filtering through her ears and into her brain. She remains this way, trying to keep all memories of the other times she was like this at bay.
She thinks of Loki, but instead of calling on memories of stone skimming, chocolate sharing, or poker games, which are all liable to make her smile, she thinks back to that time on the helicarrier, where he threatened to have Clint split her skull open. It's only now that she can see how very unwell he was at the time - pale, sweaty, scarred, his hands trembling despite his best efforts to disguise it by clasping them behind his back. She can recall with startling clarity the moment he slammed his fist against the glass of his cage as he towered above her, his voice deep and vicious. It physically hurts her to think about him like that, to remember the unnatural blue of his eyes, just like the unnatural blue of Clint's when he was trying to kill her. As much as it pains her, she forces her brain to focus on those things, because the more she focuses on the, more swamped she becomes, and the more she loses touch with reality.
"Irina."
The hand on her shoulder pulls her sharply from her thoughts and she gasps, blinking rapidly as she tries to readjust to her surroundings.
"What were you thinking about?"
He doesn't wait long for her to answer this time, having already realised that she won't, no matter what questions he asks or how gentle his tone.
"I think you need more specialist treatment," he says with a sigh. "At the home, they're very good people, the doctors are excellent at what they do, but it's just…the environment. It's safe, but it's not healthy. Not for someone like you who's been coping alone so far. Until last night, obviously."
Natasha ignores him still, her brain scrambling to pull all of her worst memories of Loki back together so she can delve into them at a moment's notice and shut herself away from delicately asked questions and hushed tones.
"They'll be able to help you there," the doctor sighs, getting to his feet, apparently giving up. "If you talk to them, that is. They can't do much if you don't."
He leaves the room, and for a few minutes, Natasha can hear the mumble of a conversation between him and Daniil outside the door, but she's unable to make out the words. Now she's alone, she tries to find some better memories of Loki, to ease the weight in her heart and chase away the lingering sickness that is a result of her unhappy memories. She finds it difficult to hold onto any of them though. She gets flashes of him smirking, sarcastic comments, eye rolls, and very very briefly, a glimpse of his face, resting on a pillow as he reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear. She tries to keep a hold of that one, but it's gone before she can even think about it, the blurred edges fading into a maniacal grin, and she has to stop because this isn't helping.
The door opens, and in walks Daniil, his head bowed as he closes the door behind him. He sits down in the vacant chair and rests his head in his hands, his fingers gripping at his hair.
"He says they're going to transfer you to a care home…"
The drip machine creaks as it pushes more saline into her veins, and Natasha blinks, trying to focus on the wall ahead, rather than the snatches of Loki she's getting, flitting around her head, tormenting her.
"You're not that sick, are you?" he asks, his voice breaking, and then he sinks his teeth into his lower lip, his brown eyes brighter than Natasha is really comfortable with.
"Daniil, maybe you should go," she whispers. "Go home and forget you ever met me, you'll be a lot happier, I promise."
"I could look after you, if you wanted. There's a spare bedroom in my house, you could stay there while you get better, I'll make you food, we can go out, and I'll show you all the reasons why you should keep yourself alive. Just please, don't go to the care home, please don't go. Anywhere but there."
"Why?" Natasha asks blankly. "He says the doctors are very good there."
Daniil pulls at his hair and inhales deeply, looking up at the ceiling. Natasha's hanging off his every word now, despite what her body language might be suggesting to him. Every reaction of his, every beat, every syllable is being committed to her mental assignment file.
"No one ever comes out."
"Kids stories," Natasha says dismissively.
"No, really, Irina, they're not just stories -"
"I think you should go now," Natasha says harshly. "Thanks for hanging around but it's about time you left, don't you think?"
"Is that really what you want?" Daniil asks softly. "You really want me to go?"
"Yes. I mean come on, you met me twelve hours ago and you just asked me to move in with you. Maybe I'm not the crazy one, maybe it's you."
Daniil looks down at the floor, takes a deep breath, then stands up.
"I hope you get better soon," he says stiffly, then leaves, letting the door slam behind him. Natasha watches as he skulks down the corridor, hands dug deep in his pockets, before eventually, he disappears around the corner, and she's left staring at an empty corridor.
She rolls onto her side, her knees pulled up to her chest, hands tucked under her chin. She had thought, initially, that it would be difficult to maintain her cover, that all her other aliases would, in comparison, be a walk in the park. But, as she finds herself sinking into the silence, her memories of Loki twisting and evolving into new, horrible visions in her mind, she's beginning to think she'll fit in just fine at the care home.
The room is even smaller than Loki's cell. There is a narrow twin bed pushed against one wall, a small table next to it, and a dresser for her clothes. A folding door leads to a wet room with plastic flooring, a toilet and sink at one end and a very basic shower at the other. On the wall is a dispenser for shampoo and shower gel, and a plastic towel rail is fixed to the wall. It's not the worst place she's ever had to stay, but it's certainly no Asgard.
"Doctor Ulyanova will see you in a little while," the nurse says, standing by the door. "I'll come and collect you in twenty minutes."
Natasha sits down on the bed, holding the few items of clothing they allowed her to bring close to her chest, her arms locked in an x shape over them.
"I'm afraid I'm going to need to take your hair clip," the nurse says with a sigh. "No sharp objects."
"It's not sharp," Natasha says darkly. "And you will not take it. It was my mother's."
"It's very beautiful," the nurse says. "But rules are rules. I promise I'll look after it for you."
Natasha raises an eyebrow. "If you can remove it, then be my guest. Otherwise, you will not take it."
The nurse hesitates, then steps forward, and Natasha even turns her head to grant her easier access. She hopes Frigga's magic is as good as Loki says, because she won't feel quite as confident about her plan if the nurse manages to remove it. She pulls at the clip gently, then tries to unravel Natasha's hair from around the metal.
"It's certainly secure," the nurse comments. "Is there a special trick to it?"
Natasha smirks. "No. No trick."
The nurse pulls, with increasing force, and when she accidentally plucks a few of Natasha's hairs out from the roots, causing Natasha to hiss, she gives up, her arms dropping to her sides.
"I'm sorry," she says. "Maybe it's something you can speak with Doctor Ulyanova about. It's for your own safety, you know. It's not because we want to upset you."
Natasha gives her a steely look, and the nurse retreats, closing the door behind her and locking it. Natasha waits until she hears the footsteps fade from earshot, then sighs, lying down on the bed, arms folded across her stomach. Her wrists are itchy, but the bandages are so tightly wound that she couldn't possibly remove them, not without cutting them, and if she uses Frigga's knife for that, then they're bound to take the hair clip away from her, without any real evidence of it being responsible for the damage to the bandages.
The next twenty minutes pass slowly, and Natasha tries, once again, to get a grip on her good memories of Loki. It's a little easier, now she doesn't have an audience, and she finds that she's much less wrapped up in her cover story. She closes her eyes and thinks of the other night, of his hand resting comfortably on her leg while he read, her face slightly flushed from the heat of the wine, the fire light giving everything in the room a warm, twinkly glow. She feels her lips curve into a smile, her heart rate slow as she relaxes, and even the discomfort in her wrists starts to fade. She wonders if he's laying on that indecently large bed of his, staring at the ceiling high above, thinking of her. She hopes not. She hopes he's making an effort with Thor, perhaps going exploring in the woods, or heading up to the mountains, or maybe even just allowing Thor to sit in the same room as him while he reads. She's not sure Thor will have the patience for that, but perhaps his desire to bond with Loki will overwhelm his restlessness.
When the nurse returns, Natasha gets up silently, banishing all traces of Loki from her mind. Her face falls into an emotionless mask, and she follows the nurse down corridors, through a number of doors, until eventually the linoleum flooring becomes dark wooden floorboards, the cheaply painted doors with plastic viewing windows swapped for old, carved oak doors with brass handles. The nurse opens the door to an office which has a wall full of books, a large desk, behind which is a leather chair on castors, and, in the centre of the room, is a chaise longue, upholstered with dark green leather and small brass studs. Natasha tries to ignore the colour, and when the nurse gestures for her to take a seat, she does so.
"Doctor Ulyanova will be along in a moment," she says. "Will you be all right to wait for a couple of minutes?"
Natasha nods, resting her hands in her lap and regulating her breathing. In truth, she's dreading the conversation. To be able to stay here, she needs to enter that same headspace that she was in at the hospital. She needs to recreate that same anchor in her chest that fills her with hopelessness, and lingers long after the curtains have closed on her performance. More than that, though, she needs to be able to level up again, if she's to have the slightest chance of making it to the next level. The research facility is a few miles away, but depending on how she's assessed, she could be there in the next few days, or it could take weeks, months, even, of velcro fastened shoes and bland, mass produced food.
She delves into her pot of unhappy memories, and quickly loses herself, unable to escape that venomous, icy blue glare. She faintly hears the door open and close, but she is purposefully oblivious to her surroundings, sinking lower and lower into the depths of darker (though not her darkest, she's not that committed to the job) memories. She remembers running for her life from Bruce, his face filled with rage, and then, after a narrow escape that left her shaking and hiding in a corner, she recalls Clint, one hand around her neck, a knife millimetres from her face, and all the while, the expression on his face was one of not giving a damn that he was trying to kill his best friend.
"Irina?"
Doctor Ulyanova is young, with a kind face, her blonde hair secured in a loose braid hanging down over her left shoulder. She has a pile of papers in front of her, and her pen tip poised over her notebook.
"Do you want to tell me why you're here?"
"You know why I'm here."
"In your own words though," Ulyanova prompts, offering a gentle smile of encouragement. "Take your time. Make yourself comfortable."
Natasha doesn't move a muscle, nor does she say a word. She stares out of the window on the far wall, unable to see much in the darkness, except for the flecks of snow, whipping past the glass, collecting on the outside ledge.
"I hear you're a dancer," Ulyanova says, in that same, patient tone that is really starting to grate on Natasha.
"Was. I was a dancer."
"What happened?"
Natasha remains silent, unwilling to give Ulyanova much to work with. She needs to be a lost cause, a source of frustration for her, she needs to quickly get to the point where Ulyanova wishes to wash her hands of her, and pack her off to Yanayev's research facility.
"Those bruises," Ulyanova says, gesturing with her writing hand to Natasha's forearms. "Did you boyfriend give you those?"
Natasha rolls her eyes and rests the side of her head on her hand boredly. The bruises are faint now, barely even visible, just a slight tinge of yellow, with the largest one clinging onto a hint of purple at the centre.
"Has he hurt you before?"
"He didn't hurt me," Natasha says through gritted teeth, throwing a poisonous look in Ulyanova's direction.
"So who gave you the bruises?" Ulyanova presses, her naivety astounding for someone who works in psychiatric care.
"He did," Natasha says with an exasperated sigh. "He's very passionate."
"Love isn't supposed to hurt, Irine," Ulyanova says softly. "You know that, don't you?"
Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. "When I say, passionate," she says, turning her head to meet Ulyanova's gaze and turning on her best intimidating stare. "I don't mean he was passionate about beating me. I mean he was passionate about fucking me."
The words, designed to shock, do their job well. Ulyanova turns beetroot red, and adjusts her glasses, pushing them further up her nose and staring down at the notes in front of her.
"I take it you've never been pinned down and fucked senseless before," Natasha adds, poking her with a stick. The less she warms to Natasha, the more chance there is that she'll send her on her merry way sooner, rather than later. And the sooner that happens, the sooner she can head back to Asgard and ensure Loki hasn't tried to invade any planets in her absence.
"We're not here to talk about me," Ulyanova says primly, her face still flushed. "We're here to talk about you."
Natasha smirks, but doesn't add any more fuel to the fire. Small steps are important, and she doesn't want to say too much in this first meeting, because once her words are out there, no matter how she intends for them to land in Ulyanova's brain, psychiatrists tend to have an uncanny knack of taking something completely different from seemingly harmless sentences and turning it into a seventeen page report.
She knows this, rather unfortunately, from experience.
"So you have a good relationship with your boyfriend? Will he be coming to visit you?"
Natasha turns away, and it doesn't take much effort for her to force her eyes to prickle uncomfortably, her breathing suddenly heavier as she exhales through her nose, her lips pressed tightly together as she tries not to cry.
"Are you still together?" Ulyanova asks delicately. "I'm sorry, I just assumed that -"
"He's been sent to jail," Natasha chokes out. "He's not gonna be out for a while."
"What did he do?"
"None of your damn business. We're not here to talk about him, we're here to talk about me."
"So let's talk about you then," Ulyanova says coolly, fixing Natasha with an icy stare that she hadn't thought her capable of. "Let's talk about Irina."
Natasha sighs, blinking rapidly, trying to chase away the tears, brimming around her lower eye lids.
"Was this the first time you tried?"
"No."
Ulyanova scribbles some notes onto her pad, then returns her attention to Natasha, her lips pursed, chin resting on her knuckles.
"And the other times, did you cut yourself? Or did you try other methods?"
"Other methods," Natasha says grudgingly. "Thought I'd mix it up a little this time."
"Didn't work though," Ulyanova says, pointlessly. Natasha rolls her eyes and stares up at the ceiling, twirling a loose lock of her hair around her index finger boredly.
"Would have, if the maid hadn't have barged in," Natasha murmurs, before briefly meeting Ulyanova's gaze. "No respect for privacy, these people."
"That hotel manager saved your life, I'm told."
"Asshole."
From the corner of her eye, Natasha can see Ulyanova shake her head in disbelief, jotting more notes down, her pen moving at a lightning fast speed across the page. "You should be grateful," she says. "You wouldn't be here if it weren't for him."
"Well maybe I'll send him some flowers…"
Ulyanova sighs and sets down her pen. "The nurse tells me you have an unsanctioned hair clip in your possession."
Natasha laughs derisively, throwing her head back and letting out a sardonic chuckle, before she turns to address Ulyanova. "An unsanctioned hair clip? My god, what is wrong with you people?"
"Hand it over," Ulyanova says, rising from her seat and approaching Natasha, her hand held out. "I'm not joking, Irina, you need to hand it over."
"Over my dead body," Natasha says through gritted teeth. "It was my mother's. You are not taking it away from me."
"Let me see it," Ulyanova says firmly, hand still waiting. "And I will decide if it's appropriate for you to keep. If I think you can harm yourself with it -"
Natasha huffs and, with a deep scowl on her face, reaches behind her head to release the clip. It falls loosely into her hands, even more delicate and tactile than she remembers. She mentally thanks Frigga for her ridiculously intelligent magic, and places the clip in Ulyanova's hand. She turns it over, eyebrows slightly raised, running her fingers along the edges.
"Are those emeralds?" she asks, looking up from the clip and meeting Natasha's glare.
"Yes."
Ulyanova looks back down at the clip, before shrugging and handing it back to Natasha. "I think that's fine to keep," she says. "It's not sharp at all. It's very beautiful, actually."
"Thank you," Natasha says stiffly, placing the clip back in her hair and waiting for it to lock into place.
"So," Ulyanova says, taking a seat on the chaise longue next to her, leaning forward, her forearms resting on her knees. "What was your mother like?"
Natasha groans and slumps back in the seat, staring at the ceiling, her fingers picking at the edge of her bandages. Compared to this, she's starting to think the research facility will be a walk in the park.
Dinner is a miserable affair. She is given a plastic tray and on it is a nauseating selection of food that isn't the colour it should. The rice is a grubby shade of grey, while the peas and carrots have been microwaved beyond redemption, shadows of their former selves. The unidentifiable meat (potentially chicken) is covered in a watery sauce, bubbles of fat glistening on the top.
"It gets better," says a quiet voice next to her.
Natasha turns to see a girl with lank dark hair and pale face waiting in line next to her.
"Really?" Natasha asks.
"No, not really, don't listen to her, she's an idiot." The reply come from the same girl, but the tone is different, harsher, and somehow, her face takes on a different shape than previously.
Natasha opens her mouth to respond, but no words come out.
"Be quiet, you're scaring her," the girl hisses.
"No, you're not, you're really not," Natasha says quickly, shuffling along the line where the next cook hands her an apple.
"I'm Isabella, and my sister - Anastasia, I'm the clever one, she's the idiot."
"Sister?" Natasha asks curiously, as the cook hands a speckled banana to Isabella/Anastasia.
"Yes," she says softly, following Natasha to the nearest free table and sitting down opposite her. "She died at birth, we were twins, but - You mean you killed me. Her umbilical cord wrapped itself around my neck while she was on her way out. Strangled me. She made it out just fine of course, but they pulled what was left of me out with the forceps."
"Well that sounds shitty," Natasha says, looking down at her brightly coloured plastic fork and spoon and sighing. She picks up the fork, spears a piece of the (potential) chicken on the end of it, then gingerly places it in her mouth, chewing quickly to avoid the taste.
"Pasta tomorrow, they usually can't mess that one up too badly - oh who are you kidding? The food is awful, it's best that she gets used to that now." It's startling, just how quickly everything changes about the girl, right before her eyes. Somehow though, it doesn't seem weird to Natasha. Obviously, there's some really fucking deep seated issues going on, but the way the girl behave and interact with one another doesn't intimidate her, like she knows it would with others. She wonders how much better Isabella would fare without Anastasia, whether she really makes such a huge impact on her life, or whether it's everybody else that's bothered by it. Sure, it's not the norm, but there are crazier people walking freely around New York, she knows for certain.
"Pasta sounds…bearable?" Natasha says, before trying a forkful of rice. It's dry and tasteless and she ends up having to wash it down with a swig of water from her plastic cup. She's only two mouthfuls through her first meal, and already, she finds herself gagging at the thought of eating any more. She wouldn't be surprised if after a couple of weeks of this, she actually is crazy.
"It's not bearable at all, but you'll learn to cope with it. If you ask for tea or coffee and drink it straight away, it'll burn your tastebuds and you won't have to taste anything."
"Sounds like an idea," Natasha replies, pushing her food around her plate. She tries a carrot, but it breaks as soon as she puts her fork into it, and so she uses the edge of her fork to scoop it up instead. It turns mush the moment it enters her mouth, and it's with a great deal of effort that Natasha manages to swallow it without throwing up.
"It hurts like hell though, so maybe don't listen to - yes, it hurts almost as much as being strangled to death by your own sister."
Anastasia's mask disappears from Isabella's face, and she folds her arms across her chest, abandoning her food altogether. Within moments, however, Anastasia has returned, seizing the opportunity that is Isabella's silence.
"It doesn't hurt that much. And it's better than this." She gestures to the trays, and Natasha nods.
"So what are you in for?" Isabella asks, an irritable Anastasia disappearing in a disgruntled flash.
Natasha is about to answer, but Anastasia butts in. "She tried to kill herself, you idiot. Didn't do a very good job though, what happened?"
"Hotel manager found me," Natasha says, examining her apple. "Called an ambulance."
"Asshole."
Natasha smirks, and peels the sticker off of the waxy green skin. "That's what I said." She takes a bite, and it's the first thing she can honestly deem edible. It's almost fresh, and while it's not the best apple she's ever had, far from it, to be perfectly honest, it's certainly a godsend right now.
"But why would you want to die?"
Isabella's concerned expression is gone as soon as it arrives. "Maybe she's sharing a body with a murderer too."
There is a brief moment of panic on Anastasia's face, before Isabella angrily slams down her fork. "I am not a murderer!" she shrieks.
Natasha stops chewing, looking around, but of the few patients in the canteen with them, none of them have batted an eyelid at the scene. Perhaps it's a regular occurrence, or maybe they're just simply too wrapped up in their own heads to even care about the internal struggle happening in Isabella's body.
"Keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night."
Quick as a flash, Isabella grabs her plastic fork and plunges it into the back of her left hand, exerting so much force on it that the prongs not only manage to pierce the skin, but sink a good inch or so into the flesh. Natasha recoils, her eyes wide, and tears start to stream down Isabella's face.
"Now look what you've done!" she wails, and one of the nurses comes over, syringe in hand, and carefully administers a sedative before Isabella even realises she's there. It comes into effect quickly, her eyelids drooping, before she slumps forward, onto the table, Natasha just managing to pull her dinner tray out of the way before she crashes into it. Another nurse arrives with a wheelchair, and between the two of them, they lift Isabella into the chair then wheel her off, out of the canteen and down the corridor, the wheels of the chair squeaking in the distance.
Natasha finishes her apple in silence, picks at a little bit more of the chicken, then decides it's time to head to her room. As she lays awake that night, her encounter with Isabella at the forefront of her mind, while Loki lurks in the darker corners, intruding on her thoughts more frequently than she'd like, she wonders whether she ought to ramp up the crazy, just a little bit. She's not sure suicide attempts are quite interesting enough to get her to where she needs to be.
With every single hour that passes, Natasha feels herself sink further into depression. She has no idea how genuinely sick people are supposed to get better in here, considering that she was technically fine (a little fucked up, but isn't everyone?) when she came in, and now she spends her days staring into space, not even needing to dig into her collection of bad memories of Loki to help her seem genuine. Perhaps it's the fact that everything she does is supervised - her showers are timed, just in case she manages to drown herself; watchful eyes survey her as she tries to eat, perhaps labouring on the delusion that she's choking on purpose, rather than due to the sheer inedibility of the food.
She's lost weight. She tries to keep track of the days, but after the eighth or ninth, she finds it difficult. Her head is all over the place, and she finds it difficult to focus on one thing for a substantial amount of time. Ulyanova barely gets a syllable from her in their daily meetings, and nor do the co-ordinators and nurses in charge of the activities during the day time. She sticks with Isabella, who has a thick bandage wrapped around her hand, and is now only allowed a spoon at meal times. For the most part, she and Anastasia get along reasonably well, bar the occasional snide comment, but sometimes, Anastasia pushes it too far, just like she did on the first night, and Isabella loses it, destroying the nearest thing in a fit of rage. So far, she's gotten through two chairs, an easel, and a pottery wheel. Each time, Natasha looks down at the floor as her unconscious form is dragged away, her head lolling like a rag doll's.
In one of their art sessions, they are asked to make Christmas cards for one another. Natasha sighs loudly, earning herself a disapproving glare from the co-ordinator.
"Come on Irina," Isabella says brightly, folding her red sheet of card in half, her tongue stick out of the corner of her mouth while she lines the edges up with pin point precision. "We'll give you ours, and you can give us yours."
Natasha pulls her own piece of card towards her, folds it in two and runs her thumb along the crease, flattening it down.
"I want to put a snowman on it," Isabella says quietly, and Natasha can tell that an argument is about to break out. Ignoring it, she takes the tub of white glitter and the glue stick, then begins to cover the lower half of the card in 'snow', while Isabella and Anastasia angrily exchange design ideas.
"Snowmen are for babies, you're not a baby, are you - Snowmen are not for babies. Just because I don't want a reindeer massacre, it doesn't mean I'm a baby, it just means I'm sane."
Anastasia laughs cruelly at this, but Isabella grabs the plastic wallet of card shapes and empties it out on the table, rooting around for different sized white circles before Anastasia can take hold again. Natasha spots one and hands it to her, Isabella smiling as she takes it.
"Oh don't encourage her."
"You don't give a damn about the card," Natasha says simply. "Just let her get on with it, all right?"
"But -"
"She's your sister. She just wants to make a damn Christmas card. Let her."
"Thank you, Irina," Isabella says primly, gluing the body of her snowman onto the card. "You see? Irina's kind to me - Yes, but you didn't murder Irina, did you?"
Natasha sighs, and then blows the excess glitter off of her card.
"I am not having this conversation again, look what you did to my hand! My hand! You don't have a hand! It burned in the incinerator along with the rest of you!"
"Girls, come on," Natasha says, her voice gentle but firm. "Let's not argue."
"I'm sorry if I'm holding a bit of a grudge, but she -"
"Has let you share her body your whole lives. Now stop being a lousy room mate. Can't you guys just leave passive aggressive notes or something?" Natasha grabs the pot of felt tips and begins drawing a log cabin on top of her snow. Apparently, the brown pen isn't too popular, because it's one of the few that still has ink in, for which she is grateful. It's the small things that get her through the day. When it comes to drawing the fir trees around it, however, the green runs out irritatingly fast, and before she can reign herself in, Natasha launches it across the room with the speed of a bullet. It smashes against the wall, leaving a faint green blob on the plaster, then drops into the bin.
"Irina!" One of the co-ordinators strides over, her hands on her hips. "Am I going to have to send you back to your room?"
"It was finished," Natasha says sourly, her breathing loud and erratic as she tries to get a grip on herself. "I put it in the bin."
"That was definitely not an example of putting. Why can't you just get on with things nicely, like Anastasia?"
Natasha glances to her left, to see Isabella cast a venomous look towards the co-ordinator, and then shake her head. It really isn't that difficult to tell the difference between the two of them, and from what Natasha can gather, the girls have been in institutions for most of their life. If she can tell the difference with a glance after two weeks, then surely the people who are supposed to be looking after them can tell the difference after months, maybe even years of breaking up arguments between them.
"Can I have a new green pen?" Natasha asks, her arms folded across her stomach. She scowls at the half finished tree on her card, and after a moment, the co-ordinator sighs.
"Fine," she says. "But no more throwing."
Natasha rolls her eyes and waits for the co-ordinator to get the new pen from the cupboard. She fiddles around with a number of keys before she unlocks it, and Natasha sighs impatiently, tapping her fingers against the desk.
"No more throwing, Irina," Anastasia says, a smirk plastered on her lips.
"I'll throw you in a second," Natasha mutters, taking the green pen from the co-ordinator and pulling the lid off.
"Here we are," Isabella says, smoothing her hand over her finished card. She hands it to Natasha, and she takes it, dutifully surveying the snowman on the front before she opens it. Even their handwriting differs - Isabella's neat, rounded letters making up the bulk of the message, while Anastasia signs her own name in a narrow, flowing script.
"Thank you," Natasha says, standing it in front of her on the desk. "I'll be finished with yours soon."
"No need to rush, we can make another one," Isabella says, taking another piece of card and folding it in two. "Reindeer mass - No!"
Natasha continues with her colouring, and when the trees are finished, she lines the edges with glue and sprinkles more white glitter over them, and then the roof of her log cabin. She's not sure why she's bothering to put so much effort into making the card, it's not like she's enjoying herself. She finds the art sessions to be tedious and childish, but she's not so opposed to the idea of keeping busy.
Also, for some reason, the Christmas cards are a big deal to Isabella, even if Anastasia couldn't give a damn. She'd like to do her the courtesy of putting in at least half as much effort as Isabella put into her own card.
"Are you gonna give that one to your family?" Natasha asks, nodding to the new card, while Anastasia draws the outlines of several reindeer.
"We don't have any family," Isabella pipes up. "Father left when we were small - and Mummy drank herself into an early grave."
"I'm sorry," Natasha says, brushing a few remnants of glitter from her fingertips. "I don't have anyone either."
"Well then you can have this card as well," Isabella says. "One from me, and one from Anastasia."
Natasha smiles. "Thanks."
"Nobody, your whole life?"
"I have a boyfriend," Natasha mumbles, using a darker shade of brown to draw some wood grain on her cabin, all of her attention focused on the card.
"Oh yeah? Where's he?"
"Jail," she says glumly.
"Really?" Anastasia puts down the pen, giving Natasha her undivided attention. "What for?"
Natasha pauses, her pen poised an inch above the card. "He killed some people."
"Awesome."
"No," Natasha says. "Definitely not awesome."
"Definitely awesome. How many people did he - Anastasia, you can't just ask her how many people her boyfriend's killed. Is he handsome?" Isabella's cheeks flush a gentle shade of pink, her lips curved into a small smile.
Natasha smiles, but there's a pang in her chest as she searches for the vague truth that forms the basis of her lie. "Yeah, yeah he is."
"What does he look like?" Anastasia asks, abandoning the card and her reindeer massacre, a sly grin on her face.
"Dark hair…" Natasha murmurs, her pen running over the same line more times than necessary. "Green eyes…"
"Tall?"
Natasha nods.
"Is he strong?"
"Yeah," Natasha replies. "Stronger than he looks. He's kinda lean."
"Muscular though?" Anastasia asks, eyebrow arched.
"Yep," she says, her eyes focused on her card. She doesn't like talking about him too much, not only because she fears her cover will become far too much of a self portrait. Apart from that, she misses the asshole, she's worried about him, and being stuck in this place is fucking with her head and emotions so she feels particularly vulnerable when she lets her real emotions break through to the surface.
"He sounds gorgeous," Isabella sighs, resting her chin on the heel of her palm and staring into space. "Does he know that you're in here?"
"Nope," Natasha says, trying to block the image of Loki from her mind once and for all. She doesn't need to perform in front of the girls, doesn't need to wear that anchor around her heart for anyone who doesn't have the authority to prescribe her meds, and yet still he persists, pushing at her thoughts, perforating them, his unnatural blue eyes glowing in the darkness of her mind.
"Will he be upset when he finds out?"
Natasha puts the lid back on her pen and places it back in the pot. She hands the card to Isabella, who is momentarily distracted, a large smile on her face as she coos over the snow, and the red breasted robin perched on the fence. Anastasia, on the other hand, isn't so hard to throw off.
"Well?"
"He's not gonna find out," Natasha says. "And really, what's he gonna do? Kill me?"
Anastasia smirks. "Maybe you should have asked him for some tips before he went away."
"Yeah," Natasha says. "Maybe that would have been a better idea."
She's taken to sleeping on the floor in the corner of her room. Each night she wraps her blanket around her and curls up, her head resting against the wall. She knows why she does it, knows why she ignores the confused frowns of the nurses when they peep through the viewing port to check she's okay. She hates herself for it, but being on the floor like this reminds her of long days in Loki's cell. She's gotten to the point where she can really manage to lose herself inside her own head, without having to delve too deep. Within minutes, she can imagine that he's sitting next to her, counting out his poker winnings, or else fast asleep after a heavy meal, his breathing gentle and even.
The real decision to sleep on the floor came after one too many nights of not being able to remember what it feels like to have his arms around her, his face tucked into her neck, his breath warm against her skin. It feels as though her memories of him are beyond reach, but only on the condition that they contain some happiness or contentment. Anything that causes her to wake in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, her heart racing, lungs heaving, her hands shaking, is always plentiful. But something that could give her some comfort in this godforsaken place? No, she can't have anything like that.
The days have blended into blurs of arts and crafts activities, repetitive and unproductive meetings with Doctor Ulyanova, bickering between Isabella and Anastasia, and frequent accusations of murder and betrayal, Isabella getting increasingly upset, although no more forks have found their way into flesh since that first incident. The nights are long and lonely, and she almost longs for sunrise, when she's allowed to go to the canteen for breakfast. The girls are always waiting, up at the crack of dawn, apparently, and she appreciates the company. For someone who's been so insular her whole life, the lonely twelve hours she spends in her room each night have really started to get to her.
When she comes down one morning (it's a Thursday according to the nurse on duty), Isabella and Anastasia aren't there. She collects her breakfast (a couple of slices of cold toast, a tangerine, and a glass of milk) and sits down, wondering whether the girls have overslept, or if they had an episode in the night. She chews her food slowly, her tastebuds no longer caring, her throat immune to the dryness of the toast after so long. The feasts of Asgard seem like they were a million years ago now, and even a pizza from Tony's latest investment seems like it'd be gourmet cuisine right now.
She doesn't see herself in the mirror very often - glass isn't permitted in the residential area - but sometimes she catches sight of her reflection in the mirror in Ulyanova's office and with every passing day, she looks worse and worse. Her skin has taken on a greyish hue, her hair straw-like, having lost its vivid hue. There are bags under her eyes, and her face is gaunt, hollow, her skin dry. She knows she's lost some of her strength, despite the exercises she tries to do in the late evening, her eyes constantly on the viewing port to ensure she isn't caught out by any of the nurses.
After breakfast, she skulks her way into the art room, glancing around to see if Isabella's made it down, but she's nowhere to be seen. Natasha takes a seat, listens boredly to the safety talk before they're allowed to get on with decorating notebooks with coloured paper, sequins, and glitter. It's a dull exercise, with the end result being that they write about how they're feeling this morning in their new shiny notebook. When the art materials are confiscated and replaced with chunky, fibre tipped pens for writing, Natasha sighs and scribbles the word bullshit across her entire first page. She knows it's juvenile, but she really wants to get a move on, she wants to be that impossible patient who won't co-operate, and who they'll be glad to see the back of when it comes to selling off the meat to Yanayev's research facility.
The co-ordinator folds her arms and raises an eyebrow at Natasha's notebook, but Natasha shrugs, puts her feet up on the chair next to her, and holds her gaze.
"Why can't you just do as you're asked for once?"
"I have," Natasha says pointedly. "We were told to write about how we feel. I feel that this is bullshit. I was being succinct."
"That's one way of putting it," the co-ordinator replies, pursing her lips. "You know the more you talk about what's troubling you, the easier it'll get."
"I'm sure," Natasha says with a sigh. Then, after a pause, she asks, "Where's Isabella?"
"She's been transferred," the co-ordinator says boredly. "To another institution. Apparently they're running a programme for people with her condition, so that'll be better for her."
"But she's okay, right?"
"Yes," the co-ordinator replies, her mouth finally falling into a sympathetic smile. "She's fine. Why don't you write about her in your book?"
"No," Natasha says, falling back in her seat and pushing the notebook away from her. She chews on her thumb nail, a sickening feeling swirling around in her stomach. Her hands are shaking, and her body feels weak. She will never be able to forgive herself if anything happens to Isabella, and she spends the rest of the morning awaiting her appointment with Doctor Ulyanova anxiously, not even bothering to touch her lunch.
"How are you feeling?" Ulyanova asks, as always, as soon as Natasha's taken her seat.
Natasha offers her usual response of an eye roll, and Ulyanova doesn't bother to make a note of it. She's gotten tired of Natasha's tactics now, but that only encourages Natasha to keep them up.
"Irina you've been here for nearly three weeks…"
"Three?" she says in surprise. "I thought it was two?"
"Three tomorrow," Ulyanova says softly. "You're not getting better."
"Maybe I don't want to get better." She says the last two words mockingly, as though it is a ridiculous notion, and Ulyanova sighs.
"There is a centre," she says, "Not too far from here. It's running trials for some new medication. The doctors there tell me that you'd be a prime candidate for it, if you wanted."
"Prime in what sense?" Natasha asks suspiciously.
"Well," Ulyanova says. "You're not responding to normal methods in the slightest. You refuse to talk about your situation, your current medication is having absolutely no effect on you. We're at a bit of a dead end, if I'm honest. You don't want to recover, and that's a very specific mindset, and it's something these drugs are designed to deal with."
"What's the success rate?"
Ulyanova looks through her notes, then pulls out a sheet of headed paper, the crest in the top left corner bearing the words Yanayev Institute.
"Sixty three percent of patients have shown definite signs of improvement. That was on the last trial, they've tweaked the meds a little bit since then, so hopefully that'll bring it up a bit."
"Any side effects?"
"Nausea," Ulyanova says, as though it's nothing. "Diarrhoea, increased perspiration. In some rare cases there have been hallucinations but that can be said for a lot of fully tested drugs."
"I…" Natasha begins, before casting her eyes around the room in false hesitation. "Yeah, sure. Whatever."
"I really think you'll benefit from it," Ulyanova says, picking up her pen and leaning forward to fill in the form attached to the trial information. "The doctors there are experts in their field."
Natasha stares at the ceiling, trying to feel happy that she's finally making progress. Her victory is an empty one, however. She doubts she'll be transferred before tomorrow morning, and who knows what they'll do to Isabella in that time.
When the thought of Isabella, suffering at the hands of Yanayev becomes too much, Natasha tries to focus on Loki, and the fact that sooner, rather than later, she'll be seeing him again. It almost puts the whole assignment at risk of being blown, because this thought alone is enough to elicit a small, contented smile from her.