Romanogers - Oneshots

'𝔱𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔪𝔫 𝔰𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔬𝔫

Posted this last night but forgot to paste it here.

It's here! This is *completely* based off the Taylor Swift song of the same name, plus its partner 'dorothea'. Listen to both to fill out the picture behind this.
Disclaimer: here are a lot of T.S lyrics woven in from throughout her discography, so some of the metaphors aren't mine :)

Natasha bites her lip, preparing for the discordant groan of scraping metal as she manoeuvres the car inch by inch into a narrow parking space at the end of a row at the lot between the Methodist and the school. When it doesn't come, she slaps the steering wheel in victory, forgetting the next issue of actually leaving the vehicle. Hemmed in as she is by the church wall and neighbouring SUV, it is an unlikely situation where both her and the car emerge without scrapes, and she's unwilling to pay any kind of compensation for damages. After all, what kind of thanks would that be?

The hire car had fortunately kept her anonymous while driving into the town where everybody knows her, and hopefully she can keep it that way. Edging down one of the many crowded motorways that led from the airport to her hometown, like roots to the trunk of a tree, hadn't been the problem; there, she was just another innominate bead sliding down a thread choked with traffic. The problem was when the roads began to narrow and seclude, and then it was only herself and three other drivers who became no longer faceless on roads as titchy as those. Three. Then two, and one, until she was the only car passing the town's welcome sign, which made her smile to herself. That, at least, hadn't changed.

Unlike the school to her left. It's been refurbished since she was last here, a trying-too-hard-to-be-modern chunk tacked on the side of the old building. The dirty red brick part, hiding under piles of pale concrete blocks, makes the whole construction look a bit like Lego blocks plucked from different sets and jammed together by sheer force. The playground is still just about visible, crowded by stony edifices, and empty. She almost expects some tumbleweed to bounce across the tarmac and painted hop-scotch squares. From here, she can see a forlorn glove impaled on the fence, abandoned in a rush by children eager to get home for the holidays, and probably retrieved by some weary teacher. Something about the image is glum.

Natasha inhales deeply, sucking in her stomach, and squeezes out without as much grief as she was expecting. Of course, she does have to get back in, and the car has to get out. She's hoping that will be an altogether easier experience. She jams her beanie lower over her ears, pulls the collar of her coat up as a shield against the biting wind, but also as a place to tuck a crimson ponytail. Her sunglasses, an industry favourite, find their place on her nose, as do headphones in her ears. Nothing playing, but it makes her less approachable. The suitcase she unloads from the boot is small, but deceivingly deadly. All she wishes to do is become invisible, but the rumble of a suitcase on uneven streets, especially in a town exempted from all the usual tourist destinations, will practically put a flashing sign on her head screaming 'Look at me!'.

If she was being particularly modest, she could admit that she, to some extent, may be exaggerating her own celebrity. But after two years with a steadily increasing magnifying glass over her name and face, she's learnt that there's no place for modesty with eyes everywhere. Cameras, everywhere. Reserve, still. Discretion has become her most valued quality. There may be an epidemic of vanity amongst the 'Somebodies' of this world, but nothing good ever came from undervaluing herself, or her own importance.

Travelling home for the pinnacle of the holiday season had been a decision taken on a whim. After an exhausting day arguing with executives at SHIELD about new releases, publicity and concert dates in which advocating her rights as a person and not a shiny mirrorball seemed to become the highest imperative, she'd been ready for a heavily liquored holiday. But coming home to a spacious apartment that housed only the one felt wrong. Staring at the contents of her fridge, or lack of thereof, and the many follow-up emails from her label, had instilled such hopelessness in her that she'd just needed to get out of that flat before she did something stupid. One thing that did become easier the bigger her name became was transport, and she was picking up her car rental at Houston airport within a few hours of the whole process.