She never thought she'd end up back here again: Moscow, Russia.
It was different from the first time, a memory that tasted bitter sweet on her tongue. It was the same apartment after all, just five years a part. Before the dust.
There was a bustling energy the last time they were here, together. Their secret apartment, back in Natasha's homeland, hidden away at the fringe of society. It existed as a haven whenever they both needed a break, from work, from life, and even sometimes each other. It held so many cherished memories, the walls themselves radiated love. The atmosphere within their cozy flat was a stark contrast to the desolation that surrounded it, the threat of the real world, radiating a warmth and vibrancy of their shared laughter.
Maria could remember it still, as if it was only yesterday. The room, which was bathed in the soft glow of a setting sun filtering through the curtains, exuded a homely charm. The way Natasha's hair would shine in the morning light, the way Maria would tuck it behind her ear before she kissed her. The walls, adorned with artwork and framed photographs, the very few photographs of memories of holidays and lazy mornings in bed, told the story of their life together. Natasha's favourite flowers, a splash of a vibrant red against the muted tones, sat in a vase on the windowsill, filling the air with their sweet fragrance.
Maria, adorned in a comfortable sweater, would move effortlessly around the room, the clinking of utensils and the gentle hum of a familiar tune playing in the background. Probably Natasha humming along to 'Cheap Thrills'. Natasha, with an apron tied around her waist, would join in the culinary dance. She couldn't cook to save her life, but she could certainly keep Maria entertained. The aroma of home-cooked Russian dishes would permeate the air. It was all they needed, all they would ever need.
As they would work together in that compact kitchen, Maria would always steal glances at Natasha, she couldn't imagine a life without her. Oh how their eyes would lock in a shared understanding that transcends and form of words. The laughter that used to bubble between them is an orchestration of happiness, a melody that punctuates the air with the carefree notes of genuine companionship.
And now she's back, and she's alone.
Back in the same desolate outskirts of Moscow, Maria's apartment is now a refuge of bitter solitude, the walls echoing not only with the grief for Natasha but also with the lingering bitterness of abandonment. The once-vibrant cityscape beyond the cracked window seems indifferent to Maria's struggles, a stark contrast to the chaos that once defined her. The flowers on the widow sill had grown rotten, there was no Natasha to change them.
Boxes, now unpacked and scattered, conveyed the mess Maria really was. She came here for peace, for a break. To get clean. To pour the whisky down the drain and be strong. But, she wasn't strong without Natasha. How could she be? There was no Natasha and no Nick to help her. She was bitter, truly bitter. The man she called father left her the first chance he got to go to space. Fuck him, she didn't need him anyway.
The few photographs on the peeling walls bear witness to a time when Maria, Natasha, and Nick were an inseparable, a formidable force against the world's injustices. A family. Now, the images feel like faded echoes of a bygone era, a testament to the absence of the man who once stood as a pillar of strength in Maria's life. She stared at him until the glass, which she promised not to pour, began to crack under her strength. She averted her eyes, staring at her feet trying to maintain the courage to look back up at her. Her wife. God, she'd be so ashamed. The pictures she had of Natasha were far from the deadly black widow the world believed her to be. She looked up, her wife was framed perfectly, a grumpy pout on her face, wearing Maria's favourite blue sweater with a large hot chocolate in her hands. Maria's eyes began to water. How could someone so loving, so caring, so brave be gone?
The scent of Natasha's lingering perfume intertwines with the acrid bitterness of Maria's discontent. Her wife was never coming back and there was nothing she could do about it. Still clutching the tumbler of whisky, Maria takes measured sips, each one carrying the weight of resentment. The amber liquid, tasted like the bitter residue of broken promises and unfulfilled assurances. Her father used to do the same thing, sit in his chair and drink away the grief of her mother. She judged him so heavily for it, she called him weak... and here she was now.
Outside, the winds howl with a cruelty, mirroring the emotional tempest within her. The distant sounds of a bustling city only accentuated the hollowness of her new reality. That loud noise outside used to sound like nothing when she had Natasha in her arms to keep her warm, and now she couldn't even sleep the whole night without waking up.
The whisky, though momentarily providing a numbing embrace, fails to drown out the bitterness that courses through her veins. Fuck you, Fury. Fuck you. He could have at least help her arrange the funeral. He said it was stupid, there was no body after all. But, Natasha deserved respect. She deserved recognition. She saved the fucking world.
Unable to contain the anger any longer, her arm swings in a sudden, cathartic release. The glass leaves her hand with a forceful bloody velocity, its trajectory guided by the overwhelming weight of her sorrow. The whisky was hurtling towards the wall with a shattering impact, bringing down the framed photographs with it.
The sound of breaking glass resonates with her, a dissonant echo that punctuates the silence. The shards scatter across the worn floor, mirroring the fragments of Maria's once-unbreakable strength. The yellowing liquid stains the peeling wallpaper/
As the echoes of the shattered glass dissipate, Maria is left standing amidst the wreckage, breathing heavily. She can feel the anger radiating off her, heavy breaths being forced through her nose. The pungent scent of alcohol hangs in the air, mingling with the mustiness of the neglected space.
In the aftermath, the room bears witness to Maria's raw vulnerability. She can't do this for much longer, she knows she can't. Work is the only reason she keeps going, she knows there's something wrong going on in Moscow. She's not sure what, maybe it's a skrull terrorist faction like Ross said, or even a civil dispute? She cant be sure, she can only follow the trail until it goes cold.
