" we are not who we used to be "
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in which romanoff decides that enough is enough, and she risks everything to bring back the one she did all this for
BOOK THREE | Natasha Romanoff |
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new york america
AFTER natasha
We sat opposite of each other in my bedroom. Her sitting uncomfortably on my bed and me on the sleek chair that belonged to my desk. Her wide eyes wandered the room with a quizzical expression.
Then slowly she stood up and moved around the room. I watched her every move.
She started first by the dresser that housed my home clothes. My tactical gear wasn't stored here. So when she opened the drawers she just found sweatpants and leggings, T-shirts and a few blouses that have been nearly folded and untouched since I moved in.
The few knick knacks that sat in top of the dresser. An unloaded pistol that Clint gave to me after I completed my training. A photograph of him and I from his farmhouse. A small circular dish where earrings and a few necklaces rested in.
She opened the closet doors and thumbed through a few more clothes. Then closing the doors, she moved back to the dresser and pulled out a pair of sweatpants and one of the first shirts I had bought when I moved to America.
I averted my eyes while she changed, but I still somehow managed to get a glimpse of her toned legs and stomach. Her body was always petite but she had muscled up since the last time she had changed.
After changing she looked at me and seemed as if she wanted to speak, but her mouth remained shut. I didn't know what to say either. I couldn't think of anything that seemed right.
But her standing in my bedroom caused my head to spin. The reality of it was something I hadn't yet accepted. When I walked out of her cabin last week I never expected to see her again. I was going to fully let her go, like I should have years ago.
Now here she stood. Her black hair reaching to the end of her back, dressed in my clothes once more, like she used to in the Red Room. And it was real. Whatever it was, it was real.
The sight of her standing there, looking out the window to the lake, it made everything feel so normal. Even though nothing about this, about us, was normal.
I didn't realize I was crying until she looked over at me.
"Why are you crying?" She asked me, in an accent I lost a while ago. Hearing her voice, the strong Russian of her voice, it made me crumble even more. It felt so familiar. It felt so much like home.
I couldn't think of a good enough answer. How was there an answer to any of this? None of this even seemed real. I was a thirty two year old woman and I was crying for reasons I couldn't barely fathom.
