Chapter Text
Natasha doesn’t mope. She tactically hides away in her room and thinks about all that is wrong in her life. Very different.
Where others might stew in their emotions, let the weight of their thoughts press on them until they can’t breathe, Natasha pulls the curtains shut and locks the door, turning the world outside into a blur of noise and chaos. In the stillness of her room, she has control.
She lies on her side, facing the wall. She lets her fingers trace the rough fabric of the blanket, the sensation grounding her in the silence. It’s the only moment of peace she’s had in days, maybe longer.
A soft knock at the door disrupts her isolation. She doesn’t move, doesn’t answer. Maybe if she waits long enough, they’ll go away. But the knock comes again, this time with more urgency. Natasha sighs, feeling the pull of the world outside her room, of the people who don’t know how to leave her alone, even when she asks them to.
She pushes herself up, slowly, as if the weight of her own body is too much to bear. Opening the door, she finds Naomi standing there, her posture calm, unassuming, but her eyes sharp. She knows Natasha’s game, the way she hides from everything and everyone.
“You’re going to talk to me eventually, right?” Naomi asks, her voice gentle but firm. Natasha crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe. She wants to argue but doesn't. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the way Naomi never gives up on her. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” Natasha mutters. Her eyes want to avoid Naomi’s, but she doesn't let herself. One of the best assassins in the world, bested by a bad day.
"I haven't been paying attention to you, I'm sorry-" She's cut off by Natasha scoffing. "Don't apologize," Natasha mutters, the edge in her voice betraying the walls she’s so desperately trying to keep up. "You don’t need to play the 'I’m sorry' card with me."
Naomi holds her ground, her gaze soft but unwavering. "It’s not a card, Natalie. It's the truth. I’ve been too caught up in my own world to notice yours. And that’s on me."
Natasha shifts uncomfortably still. She hates this—hates feeling like she’s the center of someone else’s concern. It makes her feel vulnerable, exposed. But Naomi’s sincerity gnaws at her. "You think I need someone to feel sorry for me?" Natasha scoffs again, but there’s no bite behind it this time. It’s more of a defense mechanism. "I can handle it."
"I know you can— don't forget that you're the one that taught me." Naomi lets a playful grin form at the corner of her lips. Naomi knows a lot about her friend, like how her uncomfortable body language is planted. No matter how truthful, Naomi doesn't think Natasha will ever move without planning it seconds before. The red room truly made her the perfect spy.
Today is a bit different, it's purposely placed but somehow... faulty.
Naomi narrows her eyes, properly studying her friend. Natasha quietly lets her, that's the second thing that's wrong.
It's subtle—just the smallest hint of hesitation, a sliver of something Naomi can't quite place. Natasha shifts her weight, but it’s too deliberate, too forced, as though she's trying to hide something. Naomi knows that posture—every angle, every fidget is part of the performance. But this time, the cracks are showing.
"You're off," Naomi states, her voice flat, the observation more a statement than a question. Natasha doesn't flinch, but she also doesn't correct her. “Am I?” Natasha says, her tone devoid of emotion, as though she’s already bored with the conversation.
Naomi steps closer, but Natasha doesn’t budge. That’s the third thing that’s wrong. Natasha’s posture is perfect—no signs of discomfort, no movements that betray vulnerability. “Something’s different,” Naomi presses. Her eyes linger on Natasha's face, watching the tiniest muscle in her jaw tighten. “You’re usually not this still. What’s happening, Nat?”
She doesn't answer. Her mind is already elsewhere, calculating, weighing, measuring. Naomi knows the look well—the way Natasha's mind races in a thousand directions at once, always two steps ahead.
It's the same reason Natasha doesn't need to explain herself; her actions speak louder than words. But this? This was different. There’s a weariness creeping into her movements, but it’s buried under layers of cold control.
"I don’t need you to fix anything," Natasha says flatly, her voice a weapon wrapped in indifference. "Stay out of it." Naomi doesn't take offense. She never does. She holds Natasha’s gaze for a moment longer, searching for any sign of softness—but it’s as cold and impenetrable as stone.
Natasha doesn’t let anyone in—not unless she lets them see it first, and right now, she has no intention of doing so. Natasha finally shifts, but only to walk back in her room, her expression unreadable. "Don’t worry about me," she mutters, her tone dismissive, a finality in her words that cuts off the conversation. Naomi watches her go for a moment before turning away.
It's late. Eleven hours after her only conversation of the day.
The thought of Naomi keeps poking at the back of her mind. Naomi had tried to get through. But then there was that moment right before Natasha walked away when Naomi’s gaze softened. God she was good, Natasha had taught her well, maybe a little too well.
Natasha pushes it aside. She’s been pushing a lot of things aside lately.
There’s a soft buzz from her phone on the nightstand. She doesn’t move to grab it at first, but when she sees the name flash on the screen—Maria—it’s like her body reacts before her mind can.
She knows Maria understands when to give space and when to pull Natasha out of her shell. Maria isn’t the kind to ask too much. Her presence is something Natasha can always count on to be... uncomplicated.
It’s the kind of connection she’s not sure she knows how to hold onto anymore. But tonight, Maria’s message feels different.
"You still awake?"
It’s a simple question, yet it cuts through the fog in her head. She sighs, glancing at the ceiling, then reaches over to grab her phone.
“Yeah. Why?”
Maria’s response is quick.
“Just wondering if you want to come over. I’ve got food.”
Natasha stares at the message for a moment, her mind already calculating. She should stay put, let the night pass in peace. But Maria’s invitation is uncomplicated. Easy. Natasha stands, walking to the window and pulling the curtains open, letting the dim light outside cast a weak glow across her room. For a moment, she considers shutting the phone off, pretending she never saw the message.
Her fingers hover over the keys before she types back.
“On my way.”