𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐄 | 𝘞𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘕𝘢𝘵

- CHAPTER 5

| CHAPTER 5 |
-
HOLDING OUT
-

breakeven
- The Script

| 5th June 2015 |

     NATASHA REALISED THAT EVEN THOUGH IT'D BEEN A MISTAKE, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN KINDER TO WANDA TO HAVE FOLLOWED THROUGH. But Natasha, having lived with men for the majority of her life, and even more so when joining the Avengers, did not take kindly to kindness. In her experience, men were sympathetic rather than caring, but they did care. Then again, growing up, Natasha lacked the contact and loving care of parents, so this sudden feeling of warmth that rushed her stomach every time she saw Wanda, or felt her nearby, felt foreign and unwelcome. She had no use for it: for it was a weakness.

The night she'd rushed from the younger woman's room, she'd dreamed of them both together, sat on the edge of a cliff, watching the sunset drown behind the silhouette of a jagged mountain range. Hands entwinned. Serenaded by the whistling of a warm, summer's breeze and sweet birdsong. Natasha had abruptly woken up, shook her head and untangled her hands from where they'd gotten caught up in the duvet covers. The embrace of love was the stuff of nightmares to her, and it would take a lot to convince her otherwise.

So, she'd gotten up, found her way to the balcony, via the kitchen, where she stocked her hand with a chilled beer. The sky was filled with stars, the sky itself a deep shade of royal blue - occasionally streaked with a perfectly subtle lilac. The stars were dotted like splatters of white paint. A soft wind filled her hair, brushing it off her shoulder like a loving hand, and she stood there happily, lazily watching the darkness about her, the only superficial light coming from the one lamp she's turned on inside. The rest of the rooms she'd left in the comfort of the dark. And suddenly, Natasha remembered how much she had missed the peace of the night, how - once everything else had faded from her mind - she could rest, she could close her eyes, breathe in deeply, and blow the air back out slowly through her parted lips. Like a cigarette. Oh, how she wanted a smoke. How desperately she wanted to fall back into the rhythmic inhale-exhale of taking a drag of a cigarette. To watch as the cloud of smoke blew expertly from her mouth. To feel the rush of nicotine in her veins, to preoccupy her mind for ten solid minutes.

But she'd gotten over that urge quickly as she reminded herself that Fury had specifically weaned her off of nicotine for the sake of her own health. Having smoked for a good decade did nothing good for her lungs. And she was a valuable asset to the Avengers, no, they couldn't lose her because she wasted her health on smoking. So, she changed vices. Needless to say, she smoked less and drank more - sustained, of course, enough to take the edge off every so often, but hardly enough to cause any health problems, which she thanked herself for.

They'd jumped right back to square one, but Wanda couldn't quite figure out how or why. She thought they'd been getting better at the whole 'having feelings' thing, or at least she felt a little more relaxed about them. But apparently, Natasha was on a whole other level she didn't know existed - well, no, that's incorrect. Denial exists in everyone, but it hadn't once crossed her mind when it came to Natasha. What had crossed her mind was confusion and hurt and panic, but also an albeit unexpected layer of warmth. She felt safe around Natasha, and safety was important and valuable. And she'd thought that Natasha had felt safe enough to admit her feelings to herself, but she'd been wrong about that. Wanda was often wrong about things.

That night, after Natasha had rushed away, Wanda had sat on her bed, staring blankly at the wall in front of her, slightly left of the TV that Tony had had installed for her as soon as he realised how invested she was in her sitcoms - and how that meant that she would take up the common room television, because when feeling lonely, Wanda found herself watching the stuff of her childhood. In that moment, she felt a pang of loss, brief as it was. Loss of the chance at a fresh start, at loving someone again and being loved. To her, Natasha was practically a second chance at life, because she was close to nobody else. Except maybe Clint Barton.