See the world, they said….
A hand shoots out and yanks the tattered book out of my hand. I look up to see Tony leafing through it, a bemused smirk on his face. "Give that back," I whine. Lulu, my newly acquired German Shepard just lifts her head off my out stretched legs, gives Stark a cursory glance, and puts her head back down. Thanks for the warning pup. Tony flips another page before tossing it in my lap, "What is this drool 'deamons, talking polar bears, kids running around saving the world'?" He crosses his arms, shaking his head. "Seriously Sparky, I don't understand you."
"What can I say…" I retort as I pick up my mug from the coffee table next to the couch I'm lying on and take a sip, "I'm complicated." Tony rolls his eyes. "How did you get coffee away from the maniac," Tony turns and points at Barton, who's sitting on the kitchen countertop, his legs dangling down. Coveted between his palms appears to be the entire 12-cup coffee pot, half full with heavenly goodness. Barton briefly glances at me, then looks Tony directly in the eyes awhile taking a long drag from the pot.
Tony turns back to me, "What the hell? Go get the pot back from him," he demands, stomping his foot for emphasis. God, he's such a child. Lulu whines, her nap being interrupted by a mad man's ravings. "It's not like you don't have like 10 more coffee pots somewhere in this building, Tony," I say while reopening my book. "Why don't you just use one of them?" A second later the book is again snatched out of my hands, "That's the best pot in the place," Tony announces, jumping back from my lazy swipe to grab my book back. "You must have done something to make him all moody and weepy. Now fix him," Tony demands. I glare at the billionaire for half a beat before turning to look at Hawkeye. He seems to be cradling the pot of coffee like it's the Holy Grail. He's slightly hunched over, his head down, and seems to be moping. He emits a loud sigh, as if he knows were both staring at him; which he's Hawkeye, so he does.
"I think he's mad about his hair. He'll get over it." I shrug. "What's wrong with his hair?" Tony asks, turning to squint at Barton, his head tilts to the right. He eventually throws his hands up and he turns back to me with his silent question. "Seriously, how do you not notice his hair is bright purple," I gasp. "Oh, I noticed that, but I just thought Cupid was, you know," Tony leans next to my ear, "doing a little role playing." He winks. Eww, eww, eww. So did not need that image in my head. "By the way, did you do something with your hair? It looks different," Tony continues, reaching out to grab a strand.
I slap his hand away before running my fingers down and through the newly cut locks, which now end at my shoulders. "Someone," I clear my throat, "whom shall remain unnamed," My eyes dart to a certain mopping moron in the kitchen, "decided to spit chewing gum in my hair, under the pretense of spitting it into the trash can (like he'd actually miss an intended target) next to me, and it resulted in me having to lose 5 beautiful inches." I pout at Tony, holding a handful of my shorten strains out for him to see. Tony rolls his eyes.
I'd been pissed at first, threatening to murder a certain beloved archer, before Hill convinced me of a better plan. With a little help from Jarvis, I'd gained access to Barton's apartment and with a tiny misdirection – i.e. paint "accidentally" falling on the blond's head as he entered said room, the need to use the shampoo in his shower was assured. After sulking for a bit while devising my payback plan, I came to the conclusion that I actually liked my new look. The shorter locks complimented my oval face and they were going to be a blessing now that the summer season was in full swing. Good thing for Barton I guess, as I only used semi-permanent dye instead of the full-strength stuff. He'd be good as new in 6-8 washes.
I caught the look of comprehending the minute everything fell into place for Tony. "Oh." He looks from me to Barton and back again. "Ohhhh." I swear, if something didn't involve caffeine, whiskey, or robots, that man would be utterly clueless. "You know what," he clears his throat, "I think there's a coffee pot in my workshop." And with that, my book is placed neatly on the table next to me before the Mechanic turns and makes a hasty exit. I wait a few seconds, but Tony doesn't come back, so I reach for my book while casting a quick glance at Barton - he is now turned slightly to the left, hunching more protectively over his coffee, his purple hair a bright beacon in the morning light. A smile graces my lips as I returned to my reading.
I'm thoroughly engrossed in my book a second time when it's again pulled out of my hands. "Tony, I swear to Go-" I look up with clenched fists to notice Natasha holding my go bag. When she knows she has my attention, she thrust it at me and says, "wheels up in 20. Wear something warm." With that, she turns and walks away. There's a suspicious lack of warmth across my lower extremities and I look down to see that Lulu's abandoned me. Midday light streams through the big windows casting the room in a bright glow. I look to the kitchen, notice the distinct lack of a mopey human and realize I must have been sitting here for a while. I guess I better see if I can take a quick shower.
21 minutes later I'm running up the Quinjet ramp as it's quickly closing. I probably would have been later if I'd had to make arrangements for the puppy, but I luckily caught the scribbled note tapped to my door explaining that Thor had graciously agreed to look after her and I shouldn't worry about anything. Yeah, I'll come back and my dog will be 10 pounds heavier and addicted to Pop Tarts. Stumbling inside, I barely manage to save my arm from being crushed by the ramp locking into place. I give a pointed look at the back of the redhead sitting in the pilot's seat. "You're late," she states without turning around. I had had just enough time to rinse off, rub some shampoo in my hair (after inspecting it for unnatural coloring dye), and throw on my most comfortable hoodie before running to meet her. I thought I did really good on time.
I toss my go bag against the far wall before sinking into the co-pilot's chair. My hair is still dripping, leaving dark wet splotches on my shoulder. Ugh. "It's not like you don't control our departure time," I counter while pulling my hair back into a ponytail. "It is not my fault you don't understand punctuality," she fires back. The engines roar and as we're lifting off, I realize it's just Natasha and I inside the plane. "Where's Clint?" I ask. "Fury grounded the идиот due to the recognizability of his new hair style." She gives me a brief side-glance before pushing forward on the throttle, the inertia pressing me into my seat. I guess she's a little mad.
6 hours later I find myself jolting upright, my heart pounding and sweat popping out on my forehead. My vision is blurred, but I can hear bombs dropping behind me, screams in front of me… "Help! Someone help me!" I feel the heat of a blast to my right, so I bring my hand up to shield my face from the shrapnel. Small pebbles of metal dig into my right side, one scratching a jagged line behind my ear. I reach for it, feeling slick blood coat my fingers. The pain is sharp, but drowned out by a sudden, pained cry, "Mom!" I frantically try to scan my surroundings but everything's a hazy blur. Another bomb goes off to my left, more screams and whimpers, but not the familiar voice I seek. Something hits my shoulder and shakes me, but I remain firm. (Breathe.) My breathing is shaky as poisonous smoke starts to fill my lungs. "Mommmmm..." the small voice dies out with a wet gurgle, the sound echoing through my brain. Everything is shaking now…or maybe it's just me. It's hard to tell; the smoke has thickened and my heart feels like it's going to rip out of my chest. I'm dizzy and in immense emotional pain, from what, I can't remember. I start gasping for air that can't reach my lungs. My head is suddenly thrust between my knees. (You're alright Маленький) I can feel circular movement on my back. (In and out. In and out.) Air pushes pass my swollen throat, inflating my lungs, clearing my thoughts. I see a muted grey, but something's in my eyes. I rub my right hand across them and my fingers come back wet. After blinking I can see them coated with a clear liquid. Tears?
"That's it, just breathe." Natasha's words finally register. She's rubbing slow and gently circles across my back. "It was only a nightmare Маленький. You're not there." I suck in a greedy breath and rise. My hands come up to cover my face as I take a few calming breathes. Natasha's hand stills on my lower back. I inhale once more before dragging my hands down my face and letting them flop in my lap.
I turn to look at Natasha, not really wanting to see pity in her eyes, but knowing she's expecting my attention. As blue meets green, only understanding is reflected back. "We all have pain. It's how we deal with it that makes us who we are," She states. A stray tear rolls down my cheek as I wrap my arms around her and lay my head on her shoulder. "Whoever said 'Assassins are soulless' was a moron," I hiccup. I'm pretty sure that if anyone besides me, and maybe Barton, tried to hug Natasha (and leave snot on her shirt), they'd be missing a limb by this point. As it is, she allows me to sit in our hugged embrace until an annoying beep interrupts my contentment. Reluctantly I pull away from Natasha's comfort so she can check the controls, a cold void supersedes the warmth from her now vacant hand.
"We're about 15 minutes out from landing," Natasha informs me while flicking a couple buttons and turning the wheel to the left. "You might want to freshen up." I guess exiting the plane with streaks of mascara running down your cheeks could be construed as unprofessional. I push myself out of my chair and make my way over to my go bag. I glance out the window as I bend down to retrieve said bag and my jaw drops. I'm greeted with the sight of a massive ice-covered peak towering over never ending white. I unconsciously shiver in anticipation of going outside. "10 minutes," is called. I turn away from the frozen tundra and hurry into the small bathroom.
I'm wholly unprepared for the freezing burst of wind that slices through my new puffy coat as I descend the loading ramp. This is so going back to the store! Another gust of wind slams into my face, turning my nose into a Popsicle. I pull the hood tighter around my face and wrap my arms across my middle. It feels like my cheeks are reddening with ensuing frostbite. "It's not that cold," Natasha huffs, as if she can read my thoughts. She stuffs something fluffy in my arms before causally walking down the ramp unencumbered by the frigid wind. Damn Russian. I look down at my hands and discover a large winter coat tucked between them. I quickly pull it on and relax into its protected warmth. Good Russian.
Natasha's talking with someone by the crumbling shed a few yards in front of me. They're bundled in a white parka, the furry hood obscuring their face. Once on the tarmac, I take a second to look about. We've landed at what looks like one of those creepy airports you see in the movies used for drug trafficking. A cropping of snow frosted trees spans out from the decaying runway, concealing anything past the perimeter fence. Not like I could tell what's out there if I wanted to as everything's covered in a blanket of blinding white.
I reach into my go bag and pull out my shades. With clumsy, gloved covered fingers, I manage to pull them from their case and slip them on. Blessedly the world is dimmed to an acceptable level. Natasha turns to glare at me, so I hurriedly walk to her side. "This is Sigurður," she indicated the man under the hood. I can really only see two startling light blue eyes and a strain of pale blond hair; the hood covers the rest of his face. Pretty eyes, my heart flutters. "He'll be our liaison while we're here," she finishes. Maybe this trip won't be so bad after all? Sigurður gives me a curt nod and then turns and walks towards the side of the shed. Natasha and I follow, rounding the corner to find a jeep idling in the snow. Sigurður opens the trunk and gestures towards my bag. I quickly hand it over and then jump into the backseat. Heavenly warmth surrounds me when I shut the door. My happy sigh is interrupted by the front passenger door opening and a gist of wind following Natasha inside. She's buckling in when Sigurður climbs in and starts the engine.
"Who the hell would willingly come here," I ask, shivering and pointing to the bleakness in front of us. "You did," Natasha counters. "You know, when Shield said 'you'll see the world'", this is not what I had in mind," I pout. Tasha just shrugs and continues walking through the snow. I follow suit, my crampons sinking faintly in the snow. We'd been walking for about 2 hours in the heavy powder and so far, there was no end in sight.
I'm pretty sure my initial praise of the beautiful, white snow is gone now. I don't think I ever want to touch snow again, or even see it. I want a nice sunny beach where I can sit in the sun and turn a lovely tan shade. "Stop daydreaming, you're slowing us down," Tasha grumbles while picking up the speed. Ugh. I swear she is a robot. "I'm tired mom," I whine. "Ребёнок," she scoffs. Sigurður, who'd been calmly and easily walking besides me, just chuckles. Damn Russians!
Hours ago, after I was cruelly told to exit the warm cocoon of the jeep's interior for the frozen tundra of death we're currently walking across, Natasha informed me that we were heading to a remote cabin in this lovely winter landscape, a cabin that apparently couldn't have a road built because of the extremely steep and rocky terrain. We were sent here to fetch some smarty-pants scientist that was going to help Shield solve some complicated formula they had been working on forever. I seriously don't get the sciencey stuff and constantly zone out when Tony and Bruce go at it, so when Natasha started talking smart stuff, I just tuned her out. Sigurður was nodding his head like he actually comprehended her words, while I just stared at his face and imagined what his lips looked like – were they plump and kissable? God I need a boyfriend. I was daydreaming about a man covered head to toe in a bright white snow suit where I could only see his beautiful eyes. He was essentially the marshmallow man, without the sailor hat.
As we set out to transverse a freaking mountain in the dead of Russian winter, I was rather enjoying the trek at first; the snowcapped trees, little rabbits darting across our path, the immense beauty of white vastness, and the sway of Sigurður's backside, but that was like 3 miles ago. Do you have any idea how much energy it takes to just lift a crampon in deep snow as little white flurry descend upon you and instantly freeze across any part of flesh that just happens to be dumb enough to present itself to the fresh air. I'm pretty sure my nose is still on my face, but I haven't felt it in a while and I'm wondering when I should start worrying.
I'd learned that Sigurður grew up in the small village closest to this cabin and used to play in these woods as a child, so he was the nearest to an expert of the area as we would get. He'd gotten into some trouble a few years ago and sort of owed Shield, so he was the lucky winner of guiding us in negative degrees to this stupid cabin. I almost felt bad for him, as this was no quaint forest hike, but a rather strenuous journey with one quiet Russian that didn't believe in rest breaks and a California girl who has a bad habit of grumbling, tripping, and just being a general klutz.
Surprisingly he just smiled, or at least I think he was because the corner of his pretty blue eyes, about the only thing I could see of his face, would occasionally crinkle a bit after I'd accidentally grumble some expletives after stubbing my toe on a rock or slipping down a small hill and landing on my butt. Maybe I'd too quickly judged this assignment as a punishment for Sigurður and him getting to watch me make a fool of myself was a reward. Wait, did that mean it was a punishment for me?
"Stay here, I'm going to scout the perimeter," Tasha's voice cuts through my musings and I lift my head to revel in the blessed site of a small, single-story log cabin with an inviting plume of smoke bellowing from its chimney. We had stopped on a small hill over-looking the cabin and warmth was just 500 yards through a cropping of trees and in a small clearing. Natasha expertly transcended the hill and vanished into the white. Times like these made me so thankful she was on my side. I would hate to see her walking the woods, blink, and her ghosting into the landscape. Scary.
Sigurður opened his canteen and took a hefty sip. Turns out his lips are semi full with a faint rosy tint. I licked my chapped lips and sighed. He didn't seem to be tired at all; no heavy breathing, his posture was erect, and his eyes bright and twinkling. My heart beat a baby staccato through my chest and I was sure if I breathed anymore "fresh" air in, I would crystalize my lungs. Goddamn Russians. "A storm is brewing to the west. It will be here in a few hours," Sigurður says. Great. "We can't head out tonight?" I ask, hopeful. Sigurður just raises his left eyebrow, squints his eyes a bit, and turns away from me. I guess that's a no?
"It's clear, let's go," Tasha pops up beside me, making me jump internally. WTF, she needs a damn bell. And I'm supposed to be part of an elite assassination squad. Shame on me for not paying attention to my surroundings. Without hesitation, Sigurður starts down the small hill with Natasha behind him. I take a huge breath to settle my beating heart and head after them, only slipping once before making it to the front door of the cabin. I can feel the heat within across my face and surprisingly, my nose. I guess it's still there.
Sigurður knocks twice, holds a beat, then knocks three small taps. Hum, didn't know he even knew the scientist, let alone developed a secret knock with them. 10 seconds later the door is opened by a meek looking woman in a hideous brown sweater with little reindeers stitched across the chest. Her grey eyes flick across Natasha and my faces before lighting up when she comes across Sigurður. She moves to envelop him on a hug, one which he quickly returns. Damn. She releases him, and steps back so we can all enter.
I've never been as relieved as I am the minute the door shuts and I'm encased in a comforting warmth. As I shed my coat and backpack, I take in the small cabin. There's a fire in the hearth along the back wall, opposite the door, with a ratty looking plaid couch in front of it. To the left is a half wall with a little kitchen behind it and what looks like a dining table, covered in papers, beakers, colored liquids in test tubes, and other sciencey looking equipment; and on the right, a darkened doorway to what I assume is a bedroom and bathroom. Cozy.
"Would you like tea?" the lady says with a thick Russian accent while moving towards the stove and reaching for the kettle. "пожалуйста," Natasha accepts for all of us and makes her way around the room, glancing subtly at the papers on the dining table before removing several mugs from the dish rack and laying them out for the scientist as the kettle whistles. I'd moved to the couch and was slowly sinking into its well-worn cushions when a steaming mug is thrust under my nose. It smells faintly of moss and floral, but it is warm and I greedily take a slow sip. The liquid heat travels down my esophagitis and creates a little fire in my empty stomach. I can hear Natasha asking the scientist if she has everything ready for the hike out tomorrow. I assume she also noticed the storm brewing and decided that we would not be heading out tonight.
I didn't particularly want to be spending the night hunkered down in a small cabin with 2 strangers, but the idea of hiking 2.5 hours in a snow storm when it was already some horrible double digits below zero outside, was even more unappealing. I was content to melt into the couch, drink my tea, and let Tasha deal with the logistics.
The couch sagged slightly, so I turned my head to the left to see Sigurður settling on the opposite corner. He'd taken off his jacket and beanie and was in an equally hideous navy-blue reindeer jumper and his white snow pants. Is that the only clothing option in Russia? As he took small sips from his mug, admiring the crackling fire, I took a second to admire his ruggedly handsome face. Russia definitely knew how to make a man 'cause (dammmmn!) he definitely had the 'chiseled jaw with a small dimple' and 'golden brown hair (cut a little long and sweeping towards his oh so pretty eyes)', going for him. Down girl.
I think he read my thoughts 'cause his lips seemed to curve upwards as he sipped his tea and I swear he winked. But it could have been a trick of the dim light from the fire splashing across the room or the fact that my eyes were slowly getting blurry. I suddenly felt like I hadn't slept in days, I didn't realize how tired the trek to get here had apparently made me. Natasha's voice was fading into a light hum at the back of my mind and my hand holding the mug started to drop towards the floor. Shit, I'm tired.
I look towards Sigurður to see if he is also falling asleep, but he has turned from the fire and is just staring at me. Maybe I was over thinking things, my eyes didn't really want to focus anymore, but I kind of felt like a bug under a microscope. "Oстаток," a woman's voice says, but I don't think it is Tasha. The last thing I feel is the mug being taken from my hand before an emptiness envelops me.
To be continued….
идиот – Idiot (Russian)
Маленький – Little One (Russian)
Ребенок – Child (Russian)
Пожалуйста – Please (Russian)
Остаток – Rest (Russian)