riverviewlogs | The distance between us [open]

Entry tags:

The distance between us [open]

who: Ava and you!
what: Catchall
when: Early December
where: Around the town
warnings: None?

i. conversations

[She gets her coffee at the shop that Tony had shown her once, before he left. It reminds her of him, but not in a bad way. Just about conversation, how he'd introduced her to the best pastries in Quarantine (and as far as she'd found, he'd been right). It's cold out, even if it doesn't bother her much, it is a little more agreeable to enjoy the weather someplace where her drink stays warm. So some days when she actually consents to letting herself have a break for a little while, she takes her drawing pad, orders a peppermint mocha, and she just sits and draws for a while.

Whether it's passersby with the things they've found for the holidays, an evening nights before with people she knows, or just the way the snow settles on rooftops, she enjoys drawing the world. She's always drawn things; the Avengers, her dreams, though ever since the things that happened in Odessa, it's a way of making sure she remembers, too. Overall her art has always been a small piece of comfort when she doesn't have a lot of it. ]

ii. dancing

[She doesn't work with the ballet company, or really have any plans to. But she does like dancing, and she has old connections to ballet. It's usually before dawn, in the gym she likes, red hair pulled up as she dances in front of a mirror to the soft sound of Tchaikovsky playing on a rather beat up old iPod. Sometimes it's on a rooftop, the wind in her hair, late nights and moonlight. She's in her usual black exercise clothes, but with a pair of bright red toe shoes. It's been a long time since she's practiced en pointe, but it feels familiar.

There's still that dance in her head, old memories, but she specifically tries to avoid it. To find something in the marriage of the music and her body that isn't just a string of the numbers three and six drawn on the floor of a room in her mother's laboratory. She's focused, watching in the mirror, the sound of her shoes almost louder than the soft strains of the music that come through the small speakers.

She's not so focused she wont notice the presence of someone else, but she doesn't stop because of it, either. She's pushing herself, like she's looking for something.]

iii. mistletoe

[It's not one of the magic tricks, the little springs that trap people under their influence, but just some of the plant left over from the Vikings' Yule celebration that end up catching her eye as it hangs from the branch of a tree. It actually puts a bit of a smile on her face, part of the season, as it nears the end of December, even if she's more used to the little store-bought bunches with garish red ribbons on them.

It's snowing, and the little orb of light dancing over her fingers gives the surroundings a sort of strange glow about them. Her eyes bright and luminescent in the dark of the late evening. She thinks she's alone so she spins under it for a moment, even though she's hardly dressed for the weather, the snow catching in the long bright red of her hair.]

For Christmas Day, twine mistletoe and holly...

[A line of a half-remembered poem, unsure if it's hers or Natasha's.]

iv. abandoned city

[It's admittedly not too hard to find Ava once she's working. She's either out on one of the still-damaged SkyTram lines, or she's investigating the generators that are still down. Having put proof of concept to the idea that she can use her abilities to bring power to the outer city, there's the question of what she can do on purpose.

When she's by herself, it's easy enough for her to slip through unnoticed, at least until the light and heat starts attracting attention. But when she works with the Perimeter Guard, doing what she can to make sure the new fence goes up as smoothly, most people are loud and with the sounds of the construction, she ends up on monster duty more often than not. Not that she minds. She's better with tech than most people assume, but at the same time, punching things is easier.

She tends to wander a little, doing what she can to clear them out before they make it close to the more vulnerable. Maybe she has someone with her this time, or maybe that rustle of leaves and cracking sticks isn't a creature at all. But either way, she has swords in her hands and a shine in her eyes.]

v. wildcard

[Her schedule is rather erratic and hard to track, but she can found just about anywhere. Also game for any of the Hygge or TDM prompts, and if you want anything in particular, or a starter, either PM or hit me up on Plurk

natalia_vdova.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Much as he loved Winter, Ivar also could be kept up for hours on end if his daughter didn't settle down for the night. She had been fussy, likely due to a bad stomach, all night, and Ivar had only just gotten her to sleep an hour or two before dawn. By that point, he'd gone round the bend on feeling sleepy, and was back to feeling wide awake.

He decided to get out some energy in the hopes of being able to tire himself out so he could get some sleep. Out he went to a nearby gym. At this hour, the place was nearly deserted. But there was soft strains of music coming from a room off to the side. He wheels over and watches Ava dance. He's always been fascinated with dancers for the exact reason that it's something he'll never be able to do.]

[She notices him in a way that's sharp and all about threat assessment and things burned into her bones that aren't nearly as soft as dancing. But in truth, dancing hadn't been about being soft, either. That's why she does it, here and now, in an attempt to make it into something else, even if it escapes her at points. There's a specific combination, a keycode in her steps that she doesn't quite know how to erase. But she's trying and that means something, too.

She spins in place for several rotations, foot going up and down but her body perfectly over that straight line of one slender leg. She moves around the space, fluttersteps on the very tips of her toes. There's a struggle, a way she pulls herself back, like there's something she's avoiding, dancing around as she moves around the space.

She looks to him in the break in the music, a wry sort of smile as she tosses her head, bright red hair bound up in a ponytail.]

You like it? [It's an easy question, her tone says that she doesn't mind the audience.]

[Ivar sits there and watches, looking a little bit spellbound. There's a certain athleticism to dancing that's almost like what's required for fighting. There were precise movements designed to produce certain results. He can respect the skills that it takes.

He waits until she stops moving and asks him a question to speak, nodding as part of his answer.] You're very graceful. I've never seen anyone dance like that before.

Thank you.

[She looks at him, a tilt of her head. She understands better than most just how well dancing and fighting fit together, one and the same, really. Especially with how she fights. But then, he hasn't really seen that, to be fair. It's one of those things she keeps close to her chest, more often than not.]

They called it Ballet, back home.

[And it was a nest of strange thoughts, and not just something pretty.]

Why do you do it? Does it bring you joy?

[He asks because Ivar is sure most people would find it odd that the thing that brought Ivar the most joy in life was being in the middle of a fight, bringing death to foes left and right. But it was. Fighting was all that Ivar had ever been good at in his life. He'd had to work twice as hard as any either other Viking to become a warrior worthy of being taken to Valhalla.

It gave him the only happiness that had never been taken away from the Viking. His parents, who had made him happier than anyone else in the world, had both died. But the sight of seeing the light die from someone's eyes, nothing could remove that sight from his mind.]

[ Sarah wishes she'd brought her camera. The young woman spinning under the mistletoe, lit by a glowing orb--it's beautiful.

Sure, she would have to ask for permission to keep the picture (responsible is kind of her thing), but it would have been worth the gamble.

Sarah hesitates, then says, ] For a friendship glows in winter snows... I don't remember the rest.

[She laughs softly, a smile on her face as she looks over at the young woman that seems to have caught her small moment of just allowing herself to enjoy the winter, that feeling of almost holiday spirit. Christmas. She wasn't sure what it meant here, but it was still... nice.]

Something about joy, I think.

[Her voice is soft, a little melodic, and the orb floats up a little, to better illuminate the other young woman. She looks a little shy about being caught out here, or maybe it's just the mistletoe, and the blue cast of the light.]

I used to love the holidays, back home.

Me too. [ She rubs her arms, more out of instinct than from the actual cold. Sarah hesitates, then offers the woman her hand. ] I'm Sarah. You're--that's magic? That's your magic?

[She takes her hand with a slight touch of a smile that curves her lips. To anyone sensitive to it, there's a very clear hum of power that seems to hum through her.] I'm Ava. And-- yeah. Or something like it, anyway.

[There's a slightly rueful shrug of her shoulders.] People can do so many different things here I'm never quite sure where the lines are.

So you had it before you came? [ Sarah feels that hum. She's not sure what it is, why she gets the odd sense of strength. Probably just Ava's magic, strong enough to roll off her like that.

Definitely not because Sarah herself can tell it's there. ]

What kind is it? I mean, what can you do, if it's okay for me to ask?

[She nods, smiles in quiet affirmation. She doesn't explain, because that is an ugly, messy story she doesn't entirely like sharing even with people she likes. But, she's trying to be more open with her powers, at least in the general, so Sarah still gets a slight ease as she faces her.]

I'm sort of still figuring that out. [It's an easy admittance, a slight shrug of her shoulders.]

But I find working with energy to be the easiest.

[She leaves the orb hanging there for light, but she holds her hands out, facing each other, and she creates another one in between her hands, tendrils of light that come off the palms of her hands and collect in the space between them.]

So I can create it, and then I can manipulate it- [The ball between her fingers instead stretched so it was like strands of electricity between her fingertips.] -and change its form.

[That's the simple version, at least.]

...Wow.

[ Sarah brushes her hair back behind her ears, completely captivated. ]

That's. Amazing. [ She almost wants to touch it, but that electric look gives her the impression that it would be a bad idea. Besides, it'd be rude to touch it without some kind of permission. ] Everyone here can do magic, it feels like.

[Ava smiles, watching the other girl. She's a little bit shy, but mostly she seems quietly pleased at the way that Sarah reacts to the display.]

You really think so?

[She shifts it into an orb of blue light and lets it roll across her palm and then up to balance on the point of gathered fingertips.] I know. I've heard some people actually pick up things just from being here, so maybe it's contagious.

[She's teasing a little and she lifts an eyebrow slightly.] Do you want to touch?

["Touch" is actually the wrong word, as the reason it's safe like this is by virtue of not quite allowing her power to really come in contact with anything else. But she can come close; enough for the warmth and the hum of it to bleed over a little. For Ava, just having someone that seemed to think this was cool was a novelty, and one she rather enjoyed.]

[She texts him every so often while he's gone. Nothing critical of what he's doing, nothing about how she feels, the way that how he left without a word cuts open all those old wounds she carries. It's just.. making sure that he's alive. And that he didn't leave without saying goodbye. It's an almost familiar ache that twists inside of her that she resolutely pushes down, over and over again. She honestly expects that one day there wont be a response, or his phone will bounce the message, and he'll just be gone, like ghosts and vapor, like everyone she lets herself care about.

Maybe the smart thing would be to talk to someone about it, but she's never really been good at that. Even with Steve, it's easier to just smile over a cup of coffee and then go spar because hitting something is easier. Honestly, probably part of deciding to spar with Thor (not her best idea ever) had just been having something to hit that wouldn't give. And she really had needed an outlet.

Then he's back, and she doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to do, so she sort of avoids him for the first half a day. She just doesn't know if she wants to hug him or punch him in his stupid face (both; the answer is both). She doesn't know the words, what to say. The first time she walks into the kitchen and he's just there, it knocks the wind out of her for a long moment.]

--You're back.

[She has to take a breath, to hold it down, the feelings. Yeah, it's definitely both.]

[During the time he's gone, he does still respond to texts in a timely fashion, even if they're short and offer little detail on what he's doing or where he is. His sojourn into the woods both helped and didn't, in a way. Toward the end, the days stretched on, and it took Yuri tracking him down to make him realize just how long he'd been gone and what he'd left behind.

His return is about as sudden as his departure, in the first few days of December. That morning/afternoon has found him in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, his laundry going in the dryer. He's freshly showered and wearing sweats and a tank top like he'd always been rattling around in this apartment.

There's a slightly sheepish air to him as he sips his coffee, gaze on Ava.] ...Yeah, I'm back.

[It was the texts that kept her from giving up and going out looking for him, honestly. As long as she got a response, the reassurance that he was okay, she could keep herself from chasing him down. Honestly, she didn't want to. There was that urge, but she tried to choke down the fears that it sparked, and wait for him.

Now he's back, and she doesn't.. quite know what to do. Part of her wants to yell at him, she also just wants to hug him, and maybe hit him really hard. It's confusing, and she's never really felt like this before. Well, not entirely true. Through Natasha, through filtered memory and old feelings. But this is here and now and burns in her chest, and she's never been good with feelings.

He sips his coffee and she sighs, leans in the doorway a little, not quite sure how to close the distance.] I'm glad you're back.

[She means it, but the words still sound hurt. Not bitter, but she doesn't really know how to hide the fact that disappearing like that cut, deep and sharp. There are words she could say, but she's trying to not let herself get angry over it, even if she's bad at it. She's always been more emotional, more raw and it takes effort.] Are you staying?

[The fact that she's upset about it actually says a lot, in it's own way. Because it meant she'd trusted him enough to believe that he wouldn't leave, when everyone else always has.]

[His lips turn up into a brief, small smile when she says she's glad he's back, and he takes another sip of his coffee, and then sets it back onto the counter.] It's good to be back. [It's a genuine sentiment. He did miss the place, the creature comforts and people alike. It feels like it's been ages and it's a bit strange to return, but it was the right choice.

And there it is. The million dollar question. Are you staying?]

Yeah. I'm staying. [His expression falls just slightly.] I guess I owe you an explanation, huh?

[She nods quietly as he says that it's good to be back. That's something, at least. Even if he did just disappear out of nowhere, and she's still sort of trying to work through how she feels about it. It was one of those things she was sensitive about, that hit those broken pieces of her. It made her want to yell at him, but for not she was still subdued, emotions shoved down as she tried to get a handle on the pieces of it.

Hearing that he's staying is a comfort, and there's a sharp exhale at it, as if she'd half-expected that he'd only come back to get his things together an disappear again. She shakes her head at the question, even if it's probably half rhetorical.]

You don't- owe me anything. [It's just phrasing, she knows that. But she's all lifted chin, sharp eyes, and small shoulders squared as she faces him. And the phrasing matters. And then she softens, just a little.] But- yeah, it'd be nice.

[He's quiet for a few moments, taking in her reaction, figuring she probably expects him to run again. It's a fair assumption. He's done his share of running. But... not anymore. It upset her, it upset Steve, it upset Yuri. It's not the way to handle things.

Exhaling quietly, he sets down his coffee mug. He beings in a halting voice,] Might as well. Steve caught me before I left, so- it's only fair.

I, uh, found out some things. I don't have long before I kick the bucket back home.

[She doesn't snipe at him, point out that Steve was who she heard it from. She wants to hear, not push him away, get him to clam up. So she waits, even if there's a tension in her body, shoulders set and that lift to her jaw. At least, until he admits that he doesn't have long until he dies back home.

She quiets for a moment, steps in a little closer, like she wants to reach out to him, but stops herself short.]

You're staying, right? [There's something intense in her tone, a flutter of her eyelashes as she looks down at the floor. This hits just to the side of something, something she doesn't talk about. The fact that he might not be her Bucky doesn't circumvent that desire to protect him. When she looks up at him there's a sort of fierceness in her eyes.]

Or-- there's gotta be some way to fix it. You can't-

[There was more, of course, than just his death. There was the knowledge - at least, the assumption of knowledge, because he still can't quite believe it himself - that it was Steve who orchestrated his demise along with Zemo. He hasn't told anyone that, not Steve, not Yuri, and he won't tell Ava either. Only he and Natasha know and he plans to keep it that way, at least for a while.] For the time being. [He says, exhaling a soft breath, fingers curled a little tighter around the mug of coffee in his hand.

And then- a humorless laugh, a shake of his head.] This is the conversation I didn't wanna have. This is what I left to think over. If I ever do go back, I'm not going to try to change things. It could make the timeline worse.

But for now- I'm staying here.

[ Natasha knows where Ava practices, now that she's followed her to the gym once or twice. And of course, she knows that Ava has watched the ballet company practice, too. This is why she feels, on some level, that she's owed this, to see Ava dance. And of course, Natasha is a spy, and a spider. She also sees what that she isn't owed, and has no right to.

Her footsteps entering the gym are quiet, as a matter of habit. She watches for many minutes without making a sound. The opposite of Ava, her complete stillness compared to the fluidity of Ava's motion, but there's a similar determination there, the way mirror images are always reversed.

But after a pause in the music, she announces her presence. ]

Red shoes. I hope they aren't cursed.

[ She's thought of that story a few times, over the years. Like Coppélia, or Petrushka, better parables than Stone Flower.

( She brought her own coffee this time, and it warms her fingers but nothing else.) ]

[Maybe she sees something similar in how Ava dances, maybe she doesn't. Much of how she moves is informed by that link she'd had to the Natasha of her own world, but it's layered with that memory, the code her mother had drilled into her, a pattern of threes and sixes drawn on a labroom floor. She doesn't remember who taught her to dance, but she remembers the pattern, and she has to fight to carve something else from her body.

But she's light on her feet, with an easy agility, grace, and her body knows the movements.]

They don't seem to be. I got them from the ice maze.

[Not something that she would have expected; everyone else seemed to have gotten something from home, but the truth was that there weren't things from home she was attached to. There wasn't some place she belonged to. The closest she had was the motorcycle Natasha gave her, which was already here. So the ballet shoes weren't hers, but they were interesting.

She stops, turns to face her.]

How are you?

[It feels like an easier question than talking about the shoes or the dance and what happened the last time she saw her.]

[ Natasha doesn't recognize the moves, not so specifically. She hadn't had a mother to drill her, to keep her legs and her hips in line. Dancing was always about freedom, for Natasha, the small space she was allowed to have something that truly belonged to her. Dancing was something no one could take away.

At least, that is what she'd thought. Or thought she'd thought.

Still, if she had known Ava's story, she would have thought it suited the red shoes. But these are things they do not talk about. Instead, Ava asks her how she's doing. ]

Ah, well. [ She makes an idle gesture to herself, fingers of her hands separated. ] I am the Black Widow, always the same. [ A glacier doesn't melt, even in the sun. That is what they say about her. ]

But not for you, I suppose. [ She wasn't the Natasha that Ava knew, and she could only see small glimpses of that other self through Ava. It was at once curious and offputting. A spy is dangerous once she knows what makes her unique. ]

For you I am different.

[There's a slight twitch of a smile as she says she is always the same. But that truth isn't quite true between them and she nods in quiet assent.]

You are.

[She doesn't deny that fact, just looks up at her with a sigh. The memories that had brought up in those dreamscapes still haven't settled for her. Both Natasha's and her own have all kinds of sharp edges, and now Pierce is here, and whatever fragile rhythm she'd found here is starting to crumble. She doesn't feel safe, but that's not something she knows how to talk about. It's not like having Ivan here, but it is for Bucky.]

They tried to make me into her. That's what it was. The dreams, most of the experiments.

[She shrugs her shoulders and drags a hand through her red hair. Her life is a mess, and back home being herself never felt like it was good enough.]

[ Natasha can't help but think of Yelena— how they must have trained her, how she tried to match every one of her scores. But Yelena had never wanted to be Natasha, she had wanted to beat Natasha. And then, in the end, she hadn't known what she wanted at all. ]

Did it work?

[ It's an absurd question. Of course, Natasha has never considered herself something someone should want to be. But maybe Ava felt differently.

Maybe it was cruel of her, to look for echoes of Natasha's other self in this girl. But having a better idea of where Ava had come from only made things more confusing. She wants to help Ava, but doesn't know what Ava needs. And she knows she can only be herself, her specific self.

The gym seems very overlarge, for a minute, empty caverns like caves of ice. But it is large enough to hold them both, at the least. ]

[She's quiet for a long moment as that question hangs in the air. Did it work? And she's not sure if she knows the answer, if she's being honest. So: another approach, then.]

Normally, the explanation I give is that I ended up with her memories, but it's more than just that. It's muscle memory, it's-- never her thoughts, but her feelings. [She tries not to rest on that point too long, because there are implications she doesn't think about. Natasha and Alexei and the way her life had been so twisted up in other people. And so--]

But, she's always the better spy. I know how she does it, but it never comes easy for me. I really prefer to just hit things.

[That last part offered with a shrug of her shoulders. It's true, but also downplays the truth; the fact that she knows how to disappear, how to dodge security cameras, and how much of that came before the dreams, before Ivan had maneuvered them in order to synchronize them.]

[ She takes a moment to listen to Ava. What a terrible thing to do to a person— to a child. To her other self. But none of Natasha's concern showed easily on her face. The gift of so many Red Room drills.

Is it worse for Ava, without her Natasha here? Of course, she thinks immediately. Stupid question. But maybe there's some benefit, maybe the time apart would do them good. It is hard to grow in a shadow. ]

You don't have to be a spy if you don't want to. [ She understands, better than most, that this is not always true. But she would fight to make it that way. ]

Everyone deserves to be themselves.

[ The last sentence is the only one she says with any hint of fire. Despite all those Red Room drills, she cannot keep it from her tongue. She adds: ]

And you have a self, too.

[ Maybe Ava needed to hear that. ]

Edited 2017-12-30 16:27 (UTC)

[She looks up at those words, a little wide-eyed, a little startled to hear them on the air. Her lips curve into a sad soft of smile. There's something important in this. In hearing those words, even if they're words that her own Natasha never had- or maybe, never could- tell her.

That she got to be herself. That even after what had happened, what had been done to her, she had one.]

I don't know what else I'd be. [There's an explanation there, of course- but she figures Natasha can figure it out, because they're not words that she likes to say. Memory wipes and pieces of her history that she still can't quite fit together.] And as far as most people seemed concerned, if I wasn't her, then I wasn't good enough.

[She doesn't laugh as she says it, but there's almost a bleak humor to it, tinged with frustration as it is. She's quiet for a moment, then she smiles thin and sharp.]

I didn't want to be like her, you know. I wanted to be-- like them. A hero.

[To a little girl growing up in an off-record safehouse, The Red Widow had been about everything except being a spy, had meant not being what Natasha was. It makes the reality of it strange, and the name even more hollow.]

[ Natasha raises an eyebrow. ]

I've met a lot of heroes. Most of them are stupid.

[ She's thinking of Clint most of all, in that moment, because before she'd come here, he'd been her partner. And also because he was very stupid. ]

It's work, you know. To make a self. [ Perhaps some people simply emerged, like Pallas in her armor, fully grown, with weapons ready. But Natasha doesn't believe that. People are made, and if you don't make yourself, someone will make you. ] It takes practice.

[ Her eyes drift towards Ava's shoes. The significance of the glance is clear, though Ava's steps no longer fill the space's silence. ]

[Ava shrugs her shoulders at that a little bit sheepishly.

She's not sure that hand-on-heart she could say that her Natasha wouldn't say the same thing about her. She's reckless and stubborn and while her heart is in the right place, sometimes her tactical decisions... are not. Not because she can't think tactically but because she frequently finds that the shortest line between the problem and the solution is punching someone in the face. She is a terrible spy, to be honest.]

It's just hard. Pieces of her get all tangled up with the pieces of me. I remember Stalingrad, the bombing. The Red Room- [There's an awkward pause there, but she brushes it off.] -SHIELD. But I'm trying. Practicing, I guess.

[It's a quiet admittance, and she looks down at her red shoes, and she bounces up onto pointe. These are things she doesn't know how to talk to anyone else about: not her Natasha, not even James, really. But her-- she's both stripped of that shared trauma, and there's still a chance for understanding so she admits to more of it.]

I want to make dancing something-- good. Beauty that's not tangled up in all these other things. My mother just used ballet to put a code in my head. Muscle memory so I wouldn't forget it, not really, even after they wiped me. For Natasha, it was Red Room training and a life she remembered but never really lived.

[ Natasha listens to Ava, but doesn't look up.

Even after all this, Natasha isn't keen to share her own experiences with dancing, besides her performances here in the corps de ballet And that was just an assigned job, a convenient cover story. It didn't mean anything.

(There is something her old handler used to say: to a spy, either everything means something or nothing does.)

Still, Natasha doesn't raise her eyes to meet Ava's— they stay on the red shoes. But now, it isn't because she wants to imply something without saying it. It's because she doesn't know what Ava would see in her eyes, if she looked up just then. ]

Do you remember what I told you about dancing? When you were watching, at the rehearsal?

[ Her voice isn't as harsh as it was back then. But it doesn't waver. ]

[Ava doesn't push.

At least not intentionally. She doesn't know if she knows how to. After everything that happened with her Natasha, the good and the bad, she just always tries to allow her the space to take a step back. Even when that just means letting her stand there, gaze fixed on the red ballet shoes Ava wears.

She stays quiet, and nods in silent answer to the question, flexing up onto pointe and then down, something to keep her moving. Easier.]

You told me I couldn't draw a dance. That it can't be captured because it leaves nothing lasting.

[In her case, she wonders how true that is. That dance is etched into her, but it's not really a dance, either. It's a code, a program, a key, written to the pattern of Ava's DNA and transcribed in ballet steps because Ivan took memories so frequently it was almost routine, but muscle memory, physicality- those things lingered.]

[ Natasha nods. That is what she'd said. ]

When I was with the Bolshoi, we drilled every morning, so that each step would be perfect, the same every time. So that our bodies remembered, so that we could dance in our sleep. [ Her voice isn't loud, but it holds— she's spoken in the same tones at SHIELD briefings, with heads of state, at the Avengers mansion, with gods. ]

But still, our arms would waver. Not so much that the eye might notice. But we could feel it. Our legs would bruise, and our steps would fall differently, and some other muscle would need to stretch to compensate. Again and again and again. We could rehearse, but we could never repeat. Not the way it felt, not the parts that belonged to us.

Because every dance is unique. [ Maybe it didn't feel that way to Ava. There are things she still doesn't know. But in the end, this is the solace Natasha had found in dance, if she had found any solace there at all: if you cannot hold onto something, it cannot be taken away. ]

Edited 2018-01-23 05:00 (UTC)

[She listens, nods softly as she watches the other woman. She understands that. With Natasha it hadn't been the Bolshoi, but the training sounds similar. Ballet drills, hours upon hours, steps that needed to be perfect. The find the ones that would break.

She understands what Natasha's saying, but she doesn't really remember that part. Not for herself, at least. She remembers the words her mother said, the call for again from a voice sharper than her mother's. But it was hard to remember what that ceaseless practice felt like for the little girl that danced in a back room of her mother's lab. She remembers that more for Natasha, remembers it more for her own attempts in the here and now. How every pirouette is different even when they're the same.

She's still learning, trying to figure out what it means to her. But she likes the thought of it. The words. The parts that belonged to us.]

I like that. I guess.. that's kind of what I'm trying for. Something that's mine, that I can hold onto. What they did to me as a child- that feels like something that was theirs. I hear that song, and it's still hard not to follow the code I was taught. I want to break it.

[She shrugs, her smile a little wry. Looks at her a little bit sideways.] Did you come just to talk about dancing?

[Not that she minded, she just didn't think that was all of it. And she was always willing to be more direct. She knows there are questions, and while the answers are difficult, she's not running from them, either.]

No.

[ For a moment she hesitates.

It's easy for Natasha to be direct, when dealing with terrorists, or criminals. She prefers it to disguises, a dance of deception, leading men into her perfumed bower— things she was taught to do. Things she hated doing, that made the skin crawl up her arms. Natasha preferred just to talk, to keep her hands neatly folded to herself, and to lay out only her questions with precision. Strictly business. That was how she liked it, mirrored in the chill of the SHIELD interrogation rooms.

So why is she hesitating? Why is her impulse to soften the questions, and make them come out easier?

But Natasha pushes all of that aside. The hesitation only lasts for a moment. ]

The fire in the apartment building. What do you know about it?

[Deception is tempting, but the truth is that she's bad at it, and she knows- or at least thinks that she knows- that it's probably the wrong approach to take here. It's been so many months ago that it's a little surprising, but Ava hasn't forgotten.

So instead she sighs, lips thinning. This isn't something she likes to talk about or even wants to, but she does it anyway. Showing is best, she decides.

She holds her hands a few inches apart, until there's a blue-white glow between them, electricity that connects between her palms. She looks at Natasha, shrugs her shoulders, trying to ignore the pain of the confession.]

I had a nightmare. I lost control for a second and-- It wasn't on purpose, but it's still my fault. Things had been better, I thought I could control it. I was wrong.

[Guilt. Part of why she'd stayed, choking on smoke until everyone was out, until Tony had promised they'd saved everyone.]

[ Natasha had worked out the basics of what must have happened long before she asked. It made the asking easier. Maybe Ava knows that. Watching the girl, her pressed lips, she can tell this is difficult for her. But she doesn't run away from the truth, or from Natasha, like Natasha herself might've done at her age.

It's admirable.

But, of course, admiration beholds from a distance. It gets nothing done. ]

Has it happened before? [ Her head tilts. ] Losing control, nightmares?

[ All these small questions leading back to the bigger one: could it happen again? Natasha crosses her legs. ]

[Ava lets the energy dissipate from her hands, crosses her arms across her chest as she looks at Natasha. She doesn't try to hide her discomfort, but she isn't running away from this, either.

There's guilt, but she doesn't flinch from it. She nods to the question, a touch of a sigh as she tries to work out the phrasing. The ultimate answer here is that yes, she's dangerous, which she imagines is the honest question.]

Yes. After-- Well, when I was in the Academy it used to happen all the time. My powers respond to my emotions, heart rate. I've gotten better, I can mostly control them when I'm awake, but nightmares are hard.

[ Nightmares. In her own dreams, she was surrounded by faces with accusing eyes, bodies with blank stares, and snow that was not cold. In her dreams, she could not feel anything. And everything was red. ]

I tried taking pills. For a dreamless sleep.

[ It's a confession of her own, and she stops before she says anymore. This is not the kind of conversation she was trained for. At least, Natasha doesn't want it to be. ]

[She sees Alexei, sometimes Sana, sometimes even Natasha. Sometimes she seems Ivan's army of teenagers with blank eyes and guns in their hands. Sometimes they all wear Alexei's face. Sometimes her dreams glow blue and end in flames and fire and death. Sometimes it's that safehouse in DC. She has many nightmares, and none of them are kind or easy.]

Did it work?

[She can recognize the way Natasha stops short, and maybe it would be kinder to nod and not press the point, but she can't help asking.]

It did. For a while.

[ The dreams stopped. She slept like a rock, like a dead thing. ]

I decided I deserved the guilt.

I don't think you do. For what it's worth.

[She's even as she says it, but they're difficult words to say, anyway. She's not the woman that Ava had known, but she likes knowing her now. But things were still complicated. Guilt and blame and the tangled web of connections.

But things were better, she supposed. Or at least getting there?]

[ Shigeru often ventures out to the abandoned city to cool off and to destress. Training was useful that way and it was the mindless sort of walking that often calmed him down.

After the conversation he had with Ava Shigeru is also there, but only after having a training session or two beforehand. He'll spot someone in the distance and he'll step slowly out to greet her. A soft whistle will issue from his lips to get her attention. ]

[Ava looks up sharply at the whistle, but she sheathes her swords when she recognizes him. She waves, walking in his direction. Destressing is at least part of why she's out here; reconnaissance is some of her best stress relief. The mindless walking, letting the world wash over her senses, looking for something that doesn't fit the pieces, and of course, the possibility that it ends in a fight.

She smiles, thin though it is. She's wearing herself ragged, though she doesn't really slow down to acknowledge as much these days.]

How are you?

[ Shigeru can definitely see that. It's...not a good thing to run yourself ragged out here though, Ava! Please take better care of yourself!!

But Shigeru will return the smile and type something on his phone for it to speak. ]

I'm okay! How about you? You look a bit...tired.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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For Bucky

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iv arrives super late with starbucks

I'm later whoops sorry post-holiday slump happened :3

it's all good!