[she notices the cuffed hand meaningfully raised in her peripheral vision, processes the words, and understands immediately. the cuffs are monitored. of course they are; she wouldn't expect anything less from an organization that makes a habit of tampering with memories, that operates on a level of deception beyond anything even people like them have ever seen.
fortunately, they have a way around that.]
And less obnoxiously loud music. [it sounds like idle agreement, but it's a signal of acknowledgement.
those are the last words she'll actually say. with their gazes still locked, she lifts her hands from her sides, and starts to sign.]
I talked to Rogers. [she pauses. a beat (another breath), and then she continues.] He told me something that I think you need to know.
[ They've worked together so long it's no surprise that she understands immediately. They're seamless, he warns her and she acknowledges, mouth curving in a smile while they're still under camera sight. He returns it, amused, though the blue of his gaze is perfectly serious.
His gaze flicks down to her hands, even as they settle into her pre-picked place, and sharpens even further. Steve? What could he have told Natasha that he wouldn't have told Clint? What could it be that would affect him? But he nods, lifts his own hands and quickly signs back. ]
Go ahead, tell me.
[ Short and sweet, even if he knows she's already planning on it. ]
[her finger's on the trigger again, hovering just at the top of a house of cards only meant to come crashing down. she's back at the triskelion, just on the precipice of a decision that would change everything forever, listening to alexander pierce's voice taunting her as she teeters.
("are you ready for the world to see you as you really are?")
there's one last chance. one last chance to turn back, to protect him from the distress this will inevitably cause. but well-intentioned as it is, protection isn't kindness; protection doesn't honor the years they've worked together, all the times when they were the only thing that got the other through, the extent to which she regards and respects him as a partner and a deeply close friend, as the one constant in her life.
("are you?")]
What happened to me - [her hands drop as the thought trails. it isn't even a second later, though, that they come up again, steadier than they were.] It happened to you, too. You were here before.
[ Clint trusts her, achingly, completely. He doesn't need to say it, but he does on occasion, lets their code fall from his lips and knows she understands. They've had so much time together that it's impossible not to.
So she looks up at him like she's on the edge of a decision that might change everything, and it has him wanting to fidget, nervously. There's nothing good in that look, even as she pulls herself together and forges through. She was always going to, Natasha was the strongest person he knew, and she wouldn't let some news fall idly by if she thought it was important. Especially because it was important.
He'd stilled, curiously, watching the graceful move of her hands. Understands what she says even as she signs it. Suddenly, the world rushes past, gaze pinpointed on her hands, up, to meet her eyes. He's frozen, blueblueblue, looking at her like he wants this to be some kind of joke but knowing with a sick sense that it isn't. ]
What. [ He signs, carefully, hands held purposely still. Wants her to be wrong, knows she wouldn't tell him unless she was sure. Again: ] What?
[the time difference between them is now more apparent than ever. she's looking into two years ago, into those tense weeks, months after new york, when she'd stayed by him and reminded him of who he was and who he wasn't. when she'd done for him what he'd once done for her.
it strikes her now, hits her with palpable force, cuts straight through her and touches something deep. the look in his eyes, the knowledge that she put it there, causes a sharp ache in her chest, one that could almost make her wince.
she wishes she could tell him this was a joke. wishes, even more, that she could tell him, with certainty, that it's going to be all right. she can do neither of those things. he needs the truth, she knows he does, but she can't help but feel as though the only thing she's capable of is adding to her debt.]
They took your memories like they took mine. I don't know how.
[steadiness had only ever meant to be short-lived; there's a visible tremor that starts to surface with the "i don't know." she's scared. no, correction: she's terrified. because that's the thing, isn't it? she doesn't know the full extent of what these people are capable of, doesn't know -
[ He still doesn't know. He was taken right from the tail end of that, when he'd bugged Fury enough to get his clearance back, but before he'd been pulled out in the field. When he still woke up thinking he was under Loki's control. When he woke up thinking he'd look down and there'd be blood on his hands and Natasha's body at his feet. When he didn't know if something was his own or if Loki had written it into him. Doesn't mean he's blind to the way this is hitting Natasha, because she knows exactly how well this would have gone over. But she did it anyway. He saved her once, and she saved him -- it's the way they work, the reason they can trust each other so deeply.
But this is too much.
His hands tremble. Faint, something only he could see, and then more, aching, wanting to reach out and bring her hands up again so she might explain, wanting to cup her jaw in his palm and read the words she doesn't speak. Wants her to be wrong, knows she isn't.
Instead, he spins, plants a fist into the rough bark of a tree, bites out the rough sound that wants to leave his mouth. There's something desperate in the curve of his back, the way he breathes. His knuckles bleed, scraped to hell, but when he flexes the bite of pain doesn't belay anything broken. He stays there, aching, for a long moment. Trying to get his thoughts back in some semblance of control, before he turns to her. ]
Was it just Rogers?
[ Rogers, not Steve as he'd found himself slipping up with lately. Because he's angry and terrified, on the verge of panicking. He's lived half a year like this, not knowing, trusting. It's a betrayal of its own. He already knows the answer. ]
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cognitived) wrote2014-08-29 11:53 pm
no subject
fortunately, they have a way around that.]
And less obnoxiously loud music. [it sounds like idle agreement, but it's a signal of acknowledgement.
those are the last words she'll actually say. with their gazes still locked, she lifts her hands from her sides, and starts to sign.]
I talked to Rogers. [she pauses. a beat (another breath), and then she continues.] He told me something that I think you need to know.
no subject
His gaze flicks down to her hands, even as they settle into her pre-picked place, and sharpens even further. Steve? What could he have told Natasha that he wouldn't have told Clint? What could it be that would affect him? But he nods, lifts his own hands and quickly signs back. ]
Go ahead, tell me.
[ Short and sweet, even if he knows she's already planning on it. ]
no subject
("are you ready for the world to see you as you really are?")
there's one last chance. one last chance to turn back, to protect him from the distress this will inevitably cause. but well-intentioned as it is, protection isn't kindness; protection doesn't honor the years they've worked together, all the times when they were the only thing that got the other through, the extent to which she regards and respects him as a partner and a deeply close friend, as the one constant in her life.
("are you?")]
What happened to me - [her hands drop as the thought trails. it isn't even a second later, though, that they come up again, steadier than they were.] It happened to you, too. You were here before.
no subject
So she looks up at him like she's on the edge of a decision that might change everything, and it has him wanting to fidget, nervously. There's nothing good in that look, even as she pulls herself together and forges through. She was always going to, Natasha was the strongest person he knew, and she wouldn't let some news fall idly by if she thought it was important. Especially because it was important.
He'd stilled, curiously, watching the graceful move of her hands. Understands what she says even as she signs it. Suddenly, the world rushes past, gaze pinpointed on her hands, up, to meet her eyes. He's frozen, blueblueblue, looking at her like he wants this to be some kind of joke but knowing with a sick sense that it isn't. ]
What. [ He signs, carefully, hands held purposely still. Wants her to be wrong, knows she wouldn't tell him unless she was sure. Again: ] What?
no subject
it strikes her now, hits her with palpable force, cuts straight through her and touches something deep. the look in his eyes, the knowledge that she put it there, causes a sharp ache in her chest, one that could almost make her wince.
she wishes she could tell him this was a joke. wishes, even more, that she could tell him, with certainty, that it's going to be all right. she can do neither of those things. he needs the truth, she knows he does, but she can't help but feel as though the only thing she's capable of is adding to her debt.]
They took your memories like they took mine. I don't know how.
[steadiness had only ever meant to be short-lived; there's a visible tremor that starts to surface with the "i don't know." she's scared. no, correction: she's terrified. because that's the thing, isn't it? she doesn't know the full extent of what these people are capable of, doesn't know -
her eyes drop down to the sand.]
no subject
But this is too much.
His hands tremble. Faint, something only he could see, and then more, aching, wanting to reach out and bring her hands up again so she might explain, wanting to cup her jaw in his palm and read the words she doesn't speak. Wants her to be wrong, knows she isn't.
Instead, he spins, plants a fist into the rough bark of a tree, bites out the rough sound that wants to leave his mouth. There's something desperate in the curve of his back, the way he breathes. His knuckles bleed, scraped to hell, but when he flexes the bite of pain doesn't belay anything broken. He stays there, aching, for a long moment. Trying to get his thoughts back in some semblance of control, before he turns to her. ]
Was it just Rogers?
[ Rogers, not Steve as he'd found himself slipping up with lately. Because he's angry and terrified, on the verge of panicking. He's lived half a year like this, not knowing, trusting. It's a betrayal of its own. He already knows the answer. ]