Taste of Apples

Summary:

My name is Lexi Roux. I am twenty-years-old and because I am just that awesome, I just recently graduated from Universite Paris Sorbonne, in Paris, France. I never expected my life to change so drastically after the death of my parents. I never really expected to have to put my life on hold, my Tante Maria telling me that my parents had been agents for some S.H.I.E.L.D. agency.

I guess Tante Maria never explained to these...Avengers, that I have what people call Synethesia. Every voice carries a taste. Every touch carries a sound.

Now, if I could just get the taste of apples out of my mouth and ignore the soft whispers against my skin.

Author's Note:

Lexi Roux is of my own creation. She is twenty years old and incredibly talented in Fine Arts. She also suffers from what is called Synethesia, which is where the brain confuses some of the sensory triggers. Voices cause her to taste flavors, music causes her to see metallic-shaded colors (compare it to the visualizers for ITunes or Media Players) and anything she touches she hears sounds. This doesn't effect her normal senses; sight, hearing or smell, it might sound confusing, but it won't seem so odd when you read on. She has been living in France for many years, so she uses some French terms, but did grow up in America so her first language is English.

Because I absolutely adore Tony Stark (there are so many different sides to Tony that makes him so...delicious), this will be a Tony/OC story.

Disclaimer:

I do not own the Avengers, or anything in relation to Marvel. The plot and Lexi are completely my own.

Enjoy!

Chapter Five
Flavorless

I dreamt of pain and fear. Of the stench of burnt rubber. Of the loud crash and crinkles. Of the nauseatingly bitter taste of black liquorice. Waking up in the dead of night, I stumble from my bed, tripping over the tangled mess of sheets around my ankles. The remnant of the bitter flavor causes me to shudder in disgust as I dig through my art messenger bag. Finding the object of my desperate desire, I grab it before moving out of the room. As silent as possible, I move through the halls of the housing level and enter the kitchen. Heating up a mug of milk, I add a dollop of honey and stir it carefully before making my way on the terrace. Curling up on the chair, I take a long, drawn-out sip before setting it on the table. Lifting up the small, rectangular paper-made box, I extract one of the twenty white, tobacco-filled tubes. Lighting the end, I inhale deeply as a rush of thick smoke flows over my senses.

It isn't healthy. I know. A bad habit. It is a habit I find...helpful. In the rare chances that I wasn't able to get away from large groups of people, I had taken up smoking to cancel out the effects of their voices. Difficult flavors, such as the liquorice, always leaves a heavy residue of passing flavor on my tongue and it sickens me. As unhealthy as cigarettes are, the flavor of burnt tobacco and smoke permeates thicker than Tony's sour-bite.

Finishing the cigarette, I curl into the chair once again, shivering. Not just from the exposure of my bare arms, but the heavy silence filling the air around me. I hate silence. Ironic isn't it? Having Synethesia, I have become so used to tasting flavors, seeing colors or feeling sounds that silence is...flavorless, colorless and without the sound of feeling. Silence is enveloping, surrounding everything and leaving a void of sensory intrusion along my senses. It makes me weary, nervous, twitchy and paranoid. As though something is going to jump out at any given moment and slam my senses into overdrive.

"You should be asleep."

I jump, flinching as sweet wild strawberries fills my senses. That is exactly what I hate about silence. Once I grow used to the silence, something breaks it and I am forced to taste, see, or feel something so suddenly that it hurts. Realizing who spoke, I glance over my shoulder to gaze into the blue-green eyes of the beautiful, red-haired enigma. My reactionary blush from not only being caught unaware, but the delicate flavor of her voice, causes me to shift slightly and I look away.

"I hope I did not wake you up," I say softly, "Though, I doubt I will be getting any sleep for the rest of the night."

"I heard a thump come from one of the rooms and decided to investigate," she state, the strawberry flavor of her voice calm and collected as always, "When I noticed you were not in your room, I went searching for you in hopes someone didn't get pass Jarvis's security."

I give her a weak, slightly nervous smile, "Merci, Ms. Romanoff. I apologize for waking you up. I'm afraid I had a nightmare."

"A nightmare?" she questions, disbelief of my words coating her flavor, "May I ask what you could have nightmares of?"

"The accident," I reply without hesitation and I blush, looking down, "Just...sensations more than anything. I had never been so scared in my life, though I'm sure you have dealt with worse, but...losing everything I am comfortable around it scares me more than anything."

The flavorless silence returns and I shift nervously. Feeling the twitchy nerves of my fingers itching to counter the lack of flavor, my fingers curl into a fist.

"You do not touch people," Strawberries filters through the void of sensation and I glance up, "I've watched you interact with everyone, and you avoid touch at all cost."

"I do. People are not aware of how...painful touch can be. I've experienced enough of it to know when to avoid it," I answer, flushing slightly, "Ma Tante Maria, she is one of two people that take heed when touching people, me specifically."

"Is that why you are not so broken up over the death of your parents? Did they...hurt you?"

I shrug, unsure of how to respond, "Not intentionally. They weren't around enough to understand a lot of the things I went through. They might have been the agency's best field pair, but they were not the best parents. Though, I could have had worse."

Sighing as silence takes over once again, I turn my gaze to the young mercenary once more, "I'm afraid I am confused. I know that you do not care for me very much, so why is it you are asking so many personal questions?"

"It isn't that I don't care for you. I just do not see why you must be under our protection."

"Ma Tanteprobably informed Director Fury that I am not fond of heights. I am able to identify one of the men responsible for my parents' death and being stuck on a helicarrier, I probably would have gone and thrown myself over board," I watch her eyebrow twitch, "Director Fury placed me with you guys because while I need to be visible in order to play bait for the men who killed my parents, I am still only a civilian." I see a frown flicker in her gaze, "Désolé, I know that you are not...pleased with needing to keep an eye on me."

"It isn't that. I believe we are not the best ideal group to be protecting someone," she replies curtly.

I nod in understand, "Oui, that much I figured out. I appreciate the sentiment of you caring enough for my well-being," Her eyes widen minutely, "Your words say otherwise most of the time, but if you really did not care, you would not be watching me all of the time."

"You are too observant for a civilian."

I snort, "I'm an artist. It's in the job description to be observant of one's surroundings."

A small twitch tugs are the edge of her lips, "You're alright, Miss. Roux. I will leave you to yourself."

"Good night, Ms. Romanoff," I say softly, with a small smile of my own.

"Natasha."

"Lexi," I quip as she turns and walks away.

Again, surrounded by silence, I glance up at the heavily veiled stars. I miss seeing them so bright. I shudder at the void within my senses and I lift up another cigarette, lighting it once more and the emptiness fades with each inhale of the thick smoke.

As the sun breaks over the horizon, I decide to make breakfast for everyone. Figuring in the estimated amount (I bet Thor as a ravenous hunger), I enter the kitchen. Pulling out various ingredients, I call out to Jarvis to play some music. Specifically some Hollywood Undead.

If you got jack in your cup,
Go raise it up, go raise it up, go raise it up
If you ain't got enough,
Go fill it up, Go fill it up, go fill it up

The purple-orange color associated with hip-hop music causes me to smile softly as 'Comin' in Hot' fills the air. Feeling the heavy bass flow through my body and invade my senses, I set out to make breakfast as I sway and bounce in time with the music as I move around the kitchen.

I'm gonna chase this whiskey with Patrón,
I wanna girl on my lap and a jägerbomb;
I'm comin' in hot, you heard me
And I'ma make it rain on the girl who serves me
I drink a fifth of vodka till it's gone
And if it feels so good then it can't be wrong
I'm comin' in hot, you heard me
And we be taking shots and if not you nerdy

As the hip-hop sound changes into the heavier Rock sound of 'Tendencies' the color shifts to metallic-red, I busy myself making a batch of scrambled eggs, a plateful of bacon and sausage, as well as a large stack of pancakes and waffles. I may not be the most coordinated person in the world, but cooking is one thing I've always enjoyed doing. It takes me back to the weekend mornings, my roommate and I moving around each other in the kitchen of our dorm apartment as we cook. I miss it, to be honest. I miss our weekend breakfast meals. I miss our frequent concert visits. I miss the general chaos that befits my dear friend.

"Well, this is a welcomed sight this early in the morning."

The sour-apple bite voice catches me off guard mid-lyric and I whirl around to stare at Tony, who grins from his spot leaning against the arch way. A burning flush tinges my cheeks, and I shift nervously at the look of appraisal.

"Please, don't stop on my account."

My blush burns darker and I rub at the back of my neck nervously, "Sorry. I am so used to making breakfast on the weekends. My roommate and I would dance and sing, no matter how off-key he gets, while making breakfast in the mornings."

"You miss him," The apple-bite statement causes me to nod as I lick my lips, "Tell me about him."

"Why?"

"You obviously miss your friend. Sometimes, talking about them, helps."

I sigh, "Jacques Mason, or Jacquot as I call him, is a talented painter. He has a deep love for life and expresses it everyday. It is rare that he ever goes without a smile on his face. We frequently attended whatever Rock concerts we could. We argued and had movie nights. We cooked breakfast every Saturday and Sunday morning."

"Sounds like you and Legolas."

I can't help the giggle that leaves my lips at Clint's nickname, "It's one of the reasons I feel comfortable around Clint. He reminds me of Jacquot so much, and yet...they are so different. Jacquot came from a wealthy, encouraging and large family. He had five brothers, three sisters and was one of the middle children. He prides himself on being the only artist among his siblings. He knew the love of a famille, a love I knew of only at a distance."

The silence that had fallen between us is broken as Clint and Natasha enter the kitchen. Soon, Steve, Bruce and an overly joyful Thor follow the two mercenaries. Before long, I find myself sitting silently at the table, listening as their flavors contrast, and for the first time since I had come to the Tower, I find myself at ease.

The ever-present void of silence is broken and it causes me to smile as I shovel a bite of syrup-coated pancake in my mouth.

A treat for my awesome readers! Until next time!