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.]

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[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?]

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The distance between us [open]

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