𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗡 | 𝗡. 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗙𝗙

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𝐏𝐨𝐳𝐧𝐚𝐧, 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝

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"Truth."

She did not answer. Instead, she continued pacing the length of the bedroom, her overcoat flowing out behind her as she turned on her heel, passing Natasha who stood in front of the open bathroom, having changed out of her comfortable clothing into something more technical, giving her more room to hide a couple more knives on her person, her gun sitting snug in the waistline of her pants, covered by a medium-length jacket.

Poland was cold this time of year. Wind struck the windows with a force, the cloudy night sky blanketing the streets in a winter fog. 

It reminded Natasha of home. Of course, Russia wasn't too far, only an hour flight out, but the chilly air biting at her cheeks, the flush on Truth's face as they had walked from the car to the safe house, their breath visible with every exhale held a trace of something that America lacked. It soothed her like a mother's touch, emboldening her for the next part of their trip.

Truth walked by her again, the fleeting breeze she brought with her stirring Natasha's loose curls.

"Truth," Natasha tried again. "Why don't you sit down for a minute?"

She shook her head distractedly, her arms crossed over her chest as she stared unseeingly at the ground. 

When she passed by once more, Natasha grabbed her arm, spinning her towards herself.

"Calm down," she said, her voice stern yet steady, her hold grounding. "Breathe."

"I am breathing," Truth said, doing as Natasha instructed as she took a deep breath. She still refrained from looking at her. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, I can tell." Natasha grabbed her hand, able to pinpoint the subtle pull of her inducement after experiencing it a few times. She took a step forward, Truth moving with her until they hit the bed. "Now, sit down," —with a hand on her chest, Natasha pushed the other woman down and sat next to her on the mattress—, "and tell me what's bothering you."

Truth flopped back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as she tried to calm her nerves.

Natasha followed in suit, laying down beside her, eyes tracing the plastered art on the ceiling, swirling marks like the cold gusts of wind outside these walls. 

After a while, she sighed.

"You don't want me to go."

Truth shook her head.

"That's not true."

"But, you're worried." There was a shift as Natasha turned her head to look at her. "It'd be easier for you if I didn't go."

Truth scoffed.

"You're not a burden, Natasha." She looked to her right, Natasha's eyes like a magnet, so familiar now that Truth could close her eyes and still see that vibrant shade, the green of forests and pretty gems. "Do you know anything about the Lycan other than what me and Viktor have told you?" When she shook her head, Truth glanced up at the ceiling once more.