riverviewlogs | [open And we keep waiting to be seen, right?

Entry tags:

[open And we keep waiting to be seen, right?

who: Illya Kuryakin & you
what: just a general catch-all
when: End of April and beginning of May
where: around the city shopping, gym
warnings: will add if needed

1; around

Illya doesn’t get out much.

It’s not being in a strange place, in a strange world full of strange people with futuristic technology. Or… rather, even though he has to admit that’s kind of getting under the skin, it’s not just that. He’s just used to keeping to himself, to doing things on his own and only relying on his boss to give him his orders and trust Illya will know what to do.

In here it’s different. In here he doesn’t have to hide, doesn’t have to keep in the shadows and become a shadow himself. In here he can get out and try to be a normal person. Or at least do his best to look like one, since the most people know about him is a fake name and his claims that he was a rowboat champion before he ended up in this place.

So there’s probably something… calming, in just doing normal things. Grocery shopping, checking out nearby libraries, just stopping at a park and watching the animals go by. It may seem boring to most people, but to Illya is kind of refreshing to be able to do all of this without a weight on his shoulders. He figures it will get boring eventually, but for now he enjoys his newfound freedom.

Enjoying it so much he doesn’t even notice the orange firefly circling him.

2; gym

It does get boring eventually, even with all the shenanigans going around.

Illya is used to physical exertion, to being active and working out as much as he can, as much as he’s healthy. Back home he needed his body to be in peak condition, to be able to fulfill every mission as fast as efficiently as possible. Most of them ended up with him running away or towards something, after all. But in here his job, while more interesting than what he had assumed when it had been assigned to him, doesn’t require much more than a inquisitive mind and knowing where to look, what questions to ask.

He really misses the exertion. So after asking around and getting some advice he’s finally decided to join a nearby gym.

He can be seen running himself ragged on the treadmill, doing weights or basically using every single machine he can find his hands on. Yay technology. Obviously not all on the same day, he’s stubborn but not suicidal… but someone should probably tell him to slow down.

3: OPEN option! Go wild. Poke me on DM or over at

crotalus if you want a specific thread!

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Any sense of just enjoying the fight, of just doing it for the hell of it is flying away quickly as she keeps talking. It’s not that she struck a nerve, it’s that just like when she mentioned Russia she’s shaking the very core of his beliefs. Considering the bite in his arm, she should know for sure he means every word of what he’s saying… just like she means every word herself.

“I choose this life.” He spats out. He tries to attack her legs, since it seems like the quickest way to get her to stop moving around so quickly. Her speed is his advantage, just like his size is his biggest disadvantage and they both know it. “You know nothing, absolutely nothing. They gave me a life when I had nothing, they gave me a reason to keep on going.

They gave me a chance to clean my father’s reputation. If I fail, if I give my back on them I will have nothing.”

He believes it. Absolutely. He wouldn't be able to say it if he didn't, right? He's in the same boat she is. "They gave you a choice the way someone drowning has a choice to swim or give up." He doesn't knock her down, but in dodging away from his kick, she ends up close enough for him to throw his shoulder into her again, the weight of him slamming her against the wall before she brings her knee up to connect solidly with his chest. "The choices they gave us--" She grunts with the effort of breaking away from him, comes in angry with an elbow aimed at his sternum. "They weren't real, and I didn't even know it until I got out. Until someone gave me a real choice."

“I had a choice!”

He says instantly, with the same kind of desperation a man uses when he knows he’s latching onto the last thread of a losing argument. But he doesn’t stop fighting, if anything he reacts more violently to every hit of hers that lands. He’s pushed away, her legs are surprisingly strong so he uses that to his advantage and uses the momentum when he gits against the wall to go back towards her, arm stretched out to try to hit her head- he doesn’t want to knock her down, it kind of feels like cheating to do that to someone who fights like this. But he hopes it will be enough to give him some advantage.

“I have friends- people I was supposed to eliminate and I choose to befriend them. They convinced me to make the hard choice. To not look away for once and accept that even Russia itself makes mistakes.

You. Know. Nothing.”

The problem with the both of them being unwilling to stop, to give in, but also unwilling to actually put the other out of commission, is that there is no way to win this fight. She could electrocute him, and that would normally be her end game. He might have a trick up his sleeve he's not using. Or maybe he doesn't, but that's not the point. The point is, the way they're fighting now, they're a match. They trade off the upper hand, they don't make real progress, and the only thing it ends up accomplishing is exhausting the both of them.

Natasha has already had a full day at work, already sore and tired before this began. Trying to keep the words in is also exhausting. The harder she fights against her desire to talk, the more it takes out of her. Eventually they both end up out of energy, tired and sore and bruised, but conscious.

There's no discussion, no plan behind it. It just happens. She gets a good shot in on his knee, he's quick enough to take her down with him, and instead of springing back to their feet, back to fighting ready, they just... stay there. Natasha is sprawled on the floor, attempting to keep herself propped up with shaking arms, breathing heavily, and she has nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. "That choice you made. That wasn't Russia. That was yours. You saw the flaws in the system, and someone showed you a different way. That's--" She takes a deep breath, licks her lips. "That's how life really begins. It's when we start being human again."

“Shut up.”

He’s just exhausted, and not just because they have been fighting for who knows how long by now. He can handle that kind of exertion, he pretty much thrives on it and h could go on for hours if he had to. But the combination of fighting in such an aggressive way and having to hold back so much, to avoid talking even though the poison in him keeps pushing him to is really doing a number on him.

“Stop assuming our lives are the same. Stop assuming you know me at all. You don’t.”

An almost bitter laugh, something in her hurting, she huffs out a breath and then lets herself flop back, giving up on holding herself up with arms that are now burning. A damn good fight, and she'd thank him for it there wasn't something much heavier fighting to get out from her chest. The thought of lying down on the floor of this elevator, as though she isn't already doing something she finds so much more distasteful, is a line too far. So she leaves her head resting against his stomach. She doesn't ask, she just uses him to make herself a little more comfortable. They're to that point, aren't they? Just in case they're not, she bends her arm up and rests the back of her hand against his chest where she'll be able to feel the muscles move if he tries to go for her, with just enough lead time to get away.

"Of course I do. I used to be you." If not for Clint, she might still be him, or she might be something so much worse. "That's why I know..." That he can do this? Does she really know a him well enough to know that he can? That it gets better? Well, it can. "There is more for people like us, but you have to be willing to risk for it." All he has to do is believe it. That's all he needs to take the first step. Which sounds easier if you don't know what it's like to be there, how far there is to fall. She gets that. She'd love to stop talking, to stop caring, but that's not in the cards today.

He’s had a few moments to… control himself, to put it simply. So he doesn’t even react to her using his stomach to make himself comfortable. They were fighting each other ruthlessly and carelessly just a few moments ago, but they both know that neither of them used every weapon in their arsenal against each other. They were fighting for the sake of fighting, they were both enjoying this- and it was very clear they didn’t want it to end earlier than it had to.

“That is not shutting up.” He says with a sigh, because he’s too tired to be angry now that the adrenaline is leaving his system. He’s always angry, always so this is a new feeling for him. But he’s definitely calmed down and he doesn’t really wants to keep on fighting… he just wants her words to stop hitting so hard.

“I don’t care what you went through. But whatever it is, you obviously had an option.” He licks lips, letting his head rest against the wall. He kind of wants to run his hand through her hair, but decides that wouldn’t be wise.

“It is not for me.”

Her gaze shifts from the ceiling of their elevator car to his face, and her eyes are full of emotion that it's just too damn tiring to stuff down. "I can't. And you know that." She sighs, her knuckles tapping gently against his chest, like she's thinking, trying to order thoughts in her mind. "You think you know my life. You're smart enough to know that if you're good enough to read me, I'm good enough to read you, and that neither of us needs to be particularly skilled right now thanks to that damn bug."

She takes a breath deep, shaking a little on the exhale. "I'm-- so sorry you believe that. I'm sorry you really believe you don't have the choice. No one should--" She sighs again, wets her lips and looks away. "Clint should be here. It shouldn't be me. I'm no good at this."

She does consider the possibility that he's just better at resisting the effects of the bite than she is. That would just figure. Maybe it gets worse, the more you're exposed to their toxin. Just her luck.

She cannot stop talking, just like he cannot stop telling her to shut up because that’s really what he wants. But just like her he’s really aware that they are both naked right now when it comes to their honesty. He has to be very careful about what he says and how he words it… but he will still always end up telling the truth either way. He wants to say he doesn’t want a choice, that he’s fine the way it is- but of course he cannot say that out loud. Especially not after Italy, not after the mission where he met Gaby and Solo. Not after making a pact with Solo that basically was them turning their back to their respective countries.

“Don’t be sorry for me. I am not to be pitied.” He can at least tell her that much, to begin with. Because if there is something he hates is people being sorry for him.

“I don’t know Clint. But he wouldn’t help me either. You can’t help someone you don’t know, and you don’t know me yet.” He shakes his head. “Not after just a single fight, a single conversation, no matter how honest.

I meant it. You don’t know me. You just have formed an imagine of me out of your own experience.”

Natasha would love it if she could shut up, if they could sit in silence and just wait this out. There is almost nothing she wouldn't give right now for a little bit of quiet. It's not going to happen, though. "I'm not sorry for you. You're a formidable person with a strong will to survive. There's nothing to pity there. You're a fighter."

Actually, Natasha is fairly certain she could shut up, at least for a very short while, if she really tried. Thing is, if she's silent, will he start talking? She feels like one of them needs to. As much as she hates the fact that she's clearly hurting him, she doesn't want this spotlight turned on herself. "One conversation to form an image of you, but that doesn't mean I'm not right." She wants to stop there, but it's too ambiguous, and her stomach lurches. She almost feels like she has to vomit, like it doesn't matter if it's words or bile, but something is going to come out. So she swallows heavily. "Tell me I'm wrong, if you can, and then maybe I can stop." Not stop talking, sadly, but it might let her jump the track.

Illya’s approach to a conversation he doesn’t want to have is to either walk away from it as soon as he’s able to, to punch them so they will shut up, or to stay quiet and glare at them until they get the message. He can’t leave, he tried punching and it didn’t solve much… and he’s aware that glaring won’t help when the poison is running through both of their systems. So he’s out of ideas here.

She asks a direct question, and of course he can’t give her the answer he really wants to give. He hasn’t quite accepted what she’s telling him, not really, not yet. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an inkling that she’s completely right, specially deep down inside him. It takes him a few minutes to reply, he’s biting his inner cheek so hard he can taste blood in an attempt to keep himself from answering. But in the end...

“I can’t. I... can’t tell you you’re wrong.” Through gritted teeth, but he does let it out at least. But he isn’t a dummy, and he can tell she’s going to pounce on that if he lets her. So he changes tactics.

“What did Clint do for you?”

A direct question, and she can't ignore it any more than he could. Unlike Illya, she doesn't bother trying. She is resigned. Or maybe she's just tired. She sighs, turns her head slightly to stare at the ceiling again. She can't avoid talking about it, but she doesn't have to look at him while everything she's feeling plays out across her face. "He decided to go against his orders and refused to try and kill me. He offered me a new life, a purpose, a chance to atone. He gave me hope."

More than that, he taught her to relate to people. Slowly, and with plenty of backsliding, but he helped her to learn how to relate to people as herself, not as the part she chose to play. He didn't save her life, he helped her to create it.

That much, she manages to hold back, but she won't be able to keep it up forever.

He’s not going to say it. He’s absolutely, determinedly not going to say it. He even bites his tongue, trying to keep at least some modicum of privacy between them for now. He has to be honest, yes, but she didn’t ask a question, there’s nothing for him to answer to, nothing for him to be honest about. So he’s absolutely not going to share-

“I met someone like that, as well. His name was Solo.” He… absolutely said it. He sighs, reaching to rub his eyelids because he can already feel a headache incoming from this conversation. He hasn’t shared any of this with literally anyone in this place, Natasha is the first.

“We were supposed to kill each other, but we… reached a truce instead, lying to our bosses. I’d never lied to my boss before.”

When he looks back at her, he looks less frustrated, less angry at the situation. And yet more vulnerable at the same time.

“You said he gave you hope. But you were telling me you were rotten, earlier. It doesn’t sound like you are very hopeful.”

He doesn't want to hear that his bosses have no problems lying to him, and she bites down on the inside of her cheek to keep from saying it. He's in a delicate stage. She remembers this time, when accepting that her entire life had been-- it's a trial, and not easy to go through on your own, let alone with a stranger bearing witness.

The words have to come out, but she has the ability to direct their subject matter, at least a little. She doesn't have to talk about Solo, though her steady breathing for a few moments speaks to that struggle. Unfortunately for her, what comes out is more personal. "Even a person who is fundamentally bad has a choice. A bad person can choose to do a good thing. I can still make the world a better place."

These are things she doesn't even talk with Clint about, mostly because there is no fixing them, they just are. She's made her peace with it, more or less. She can work to balance her ledger, doing enough good to clear the debt of the evil in her past. She doesn't believe it will save her, but it's penance. It's something. It keeps the nightmares away.

Illya, who just a moment ago had used a piece of information to try to get get to stop digging into his own pain without regard on how she may feel about it he feels a slight pang of guilt. He can tell how much she’s refraining from using Solo’s name against him- and he’s definitely grateful. Because even if he was forced to be honest, he wouldn’t really know how to explain Solo to her. Or Gabby, though he’s managed to keep her name under wraps.

Gabby wasn’t asked to kill him, Gabby… Gabby made sure she saved their lives even when she was spying on them, even when they had nearly ruined the mission she had trained for for years.

“I…” Well. She didn’t ask directly but there’s no harm in what he’s going to say, is there? He considers his options, considers what he should be able to say. He knows he can’t let the silence go on for long, not if he doesn’t want to feel sick or forced to say something very embarrassing. So he decides to say something that’s slightly embarrassing, but at least he has some control over it.

“I don’t think you are a bad person. You’re very obviously trying to help me even if you just met me. I don’t know Clint, but no one would put their life on the line like that, no one like us would refuse to do a mission if they thought you’re bad.

And I wouldn’t let a bad person lie on my stomach like you are.”

He can't just be blowing smoke up her skirt. He can't tell her something he doesn't think is true, and that gives her pause. After a moment, she reasons that he doesn't know her, that he's seeing a surface version of her. An honest one, but that's not what she focuses on. Just like Illya can't handle hearing that he has a choice, can't quite accept such a drastic change, Natasha is in no emotional shape to accept that there is someone who knows her, even a little, and truly believes she is a good person. Clint wants to see the good in people. She thinks that sometimes that blinds him to her faults.

Natasha, right now, she has to believe in the bad in herself. She has to believe that there is a deep rooted and fundamental reason that she can't keep the things she needs, the things she loves, from falling apart. It makes an awful, painful kind of sense, but it makes sense. She can work with that.

Which is nothing she wants to say to anyone, let alone Illya when she has no means of escape. The struggle plays out deep in her chest, runs across her face in vulnerability she hates to her very core, and eventually comes out as something entirely different. "Clint is an idiot. I love him, but he's an idiot most of the time. He can't--" Her need to keep from mentioning his family is almost a physical pain, a deep throbbing behind her temples. "He wants to believe he can save everyone. I'm grateful, but-- I still think he's wrong about me, most of the time." Fuck. This is a horrible idea, but the harder she tries to keep from talking about one specific thing, the more she ends up saying about everything else. "I wish I could be the person he thinks I am, and maybe that's good enough. I want to be that woman so badly."

Fuck her fucking life.

It’s not that Illya doesn’t understand what she means, from a logical standpoint. Clint believes she’s a good person, or he believes she at least has the potential to be. She wants to be the person Clint believes her to be, but she believes herself to be rotten inside for some reason Illya still cannot understand. He gets that much, he can understand her up to that point.

It’s just that he has a hard time understanding from an emotional point of view. He’s spent so measuring his life worth through the eyes of someone else, it’s just hard for him to imagine living his life otherwise. Which was probably her point, earlier. A point he may agree with, but he isn’t quite ready to fully accept.

He reaches to touch his father’s watch, hoping she won’t notice. If she asks about it he won’t be able to lie to her.

“I don’t believe in just trying. Either you do or you don’t. But I don’t really understand what makes you a good person. Or what makes you person. I thought doing what I was supposed to do, following orders and cleaning my family’s name would make me a good person.” He doesn’t sound like he’s fighting it anymore. Honestly, of all the things he could talk about this is comparatively harmless so it’s better if she keeps her on this track of thought.

“I am not sure anymore.”

Of course fiddling with his watch draws her attention to it. How could it not, in such close quarters? A watch is better than Clint, though, and she zeroes in on the topic. Will any truth satisfy the urge? Any honesty, no matter how trivial? "Nice watch. It's a Pobeda, isn't it?" Such a strong Cold War throwback, it's almost painful. It's not history for Illya, though, he's said as much. It's a reality for him, the current and present time. Hell, he might have bought the thing new from the factory. Only... it's got too much wear for that. No, this watch is not new. It's at least a decade old, probably closer to two if he's taken careful care of it.

He winces to himself because of course she would notice him fiddling with his watch. Not only that, but of course a Russian spy would also realize the importance of the specific brand of his watch. He knows fighting the urge to be completely honest is futile at best and harmful to himself at worst, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try his best. He goes as far as biting his own tongue to try to keep the truth in, but he only manages to buy himself a few seconds.

When he speaks again he does so quietly.

“A TTK1, yes.” He confirms, looking down at the watch. One of the first from the Petrodworzowy factory, so he’s taken very good care of it since the moment it was handed to him with the rest of his father’s pertinences. But of course telling her that much won’t be enough, because it’s not the truth. Not the whole truth, which is what the poison inside of him is fighting for.

“It was my father’s watch. I got it when he was sent to the Gulag, bringing much shame to my family.” He closes his eyes firmly, like he’s trying to avoid seeing the train-wreck that’s about to happen. “He died shortly after. I have been working since then to try to clean up his reputation, to clean up my family’s name.”

He finally opens his eyes, looking at Natasha. Because he’s learned the best way to avoid having to talk about yourself is asking about someone else.

“What about your family?”

He doesn't know. Just like Natasha didn't know before she asked, he has no idea why that question hurts. The attempt to keep quiet is a brief thing, plays out across her face in a fairly obvious way, most notably the very real pain in her eyes. Keeping quiet isn't an option, though, and she knows that. "There was a fire. I was... young. Maybe five. My mother threw me out a window, then she went back for my baby brother. I never saw either of them again, or my father." There is an urge to say more, pushing against her chest like her heart is an over-inflated balloon, but it's not specifically to do with her family, and she swallows thickly until it goes away. Not that it vanishes entirely. "I can't even remember their faces properly."

Still, it's better than talking about the man who caught her, who stood with her and made her watch the building burn, the heat of it on her face and the cold of the snow underneath her small feet. It's still better than talking about what came next.

Illya grimaces, and the guilt is easy to see in his face. He didn’t mean to step into a minefield, but he should have known family, of all subjects, wouldn’t be exactly all happy and nice when she had been talking about Russia forcing kids into their line of work. He’s not stupid, there’s a reason she was so emotional about such a particular subject. He just hadn’t known what she’d meant by ‘kids’.

“I won’t… ask about that. As long as you won’t, either.” Another motion at his watch.

Yeah, she hadn't meant surly teens, or young adults who didn't know what they were signing up for. Actual children, too young to fight back, and with no one to come looking for them. At the time, when it happened, she'd thought that the Red Room would be her salvation, that surely the government would take care of her far better than the unscrupulous man who had walked her away from that fire, his voice cruel in her ear, reminding her that she had no one now but him. She had thought, naïve and hopeful, that the government would take care of her, that her country was supposed to care.

She doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to talk about it. So she nods her head, taps the back of her nail against the watch face. "You've taken very good care of it." Assuming he's from the sixties. That would be her guess. The way he talks about things, and the things he omits, little glimpses of his view of the Cold War as it stands. She'd guess mid sixties. She doesn't mention anything else about his parents, though. When the urge to continue to speak about the man who caught her in the snow returns, the violent life she'd led before Red Room, the violent life she'd led after, she stomps it down. He must be feeling something similar. So she needs the truth, and a truth she'd rather not share seems to works best. She wonders if it needs to be a truth she doesn't want to share with him specifically.

"I love chili cheese fries." That horrible junk food that Clint insists is a deeply important part of being American, and she can't stand most of it, but-- "They're horrible for you - salty, greasy, heavy, sit in your stomach like lead, but I love them." It does sort of work, this thing she doesn't want someone else to know. Plus, with her own history pressing heavily on her chest right now, it's all she can think of that's safe.

Her eyes say that she knows this is stupid, but still, it works. They can share little things that don't matter, and as long as they don't stop, it might be enough.

It’s definitely not easy to make Illya laugh (not easy at all), so Nat should be proud that she manages a soft, very quiet chuckle at that admittedly very bad joke. But he just really wasn’t expecting her to say that of all things, so the chuckle is half actual amusement and half simply… relief that she seems to be going with her request.

“I’ve never eaten those. There’s a lot of American food I’ve never tried. I… want to.” He hums to himself a little bit. She’s broken the spell, allowed them to talk about something else so he may as well go for it and confess embarrassing but not hard-hitting things as well.

“I would like to run my hand through your hair, I’ve been thinking about that since you laid down your head in my stomach.”

That's surprising. Well, no, not surprising. Unexpected. There's a difference. His physical reaction during their fight, she's sure that at one point he wanted to do a hell of a lot more than pet her hair, but it's interesting that this desire is lingering long after the adrenaline has faded. She does know she has beautiful hair, objectively - it's thick and soft, curls evenly, a rich and unique colour. She's never had the urge to just run her hands through it, but it's also hers. She's spent so long thinking of every part of her body as a tool, it shouldn't be that surprising.

So she nods her head once, very minutely, since he doesn't have to see it to feel it. "All right." It's probably a little sweaty from her day's work and the fight, but she won't stop him if it will make him happy. Since he can't lie to her, she's pretty sure it will. When is the last time she was able to make someone happy with something so simple?

Her hair is indeed pretty, and he doesn’t see that kind of very pretty bright red often. So it’s a novelty. But that wouldn’t be enough to make him want to run his fingers through it, not enough to make him want to get close to anyone else in such an intimate way. No, the real reason- though it’s a reason he will avoid telling her if she can- is that she’s vulnerable right now. A forced kind of vulnerability, of course, but still. And he’s always been a sucker when it comes to giving comfort in this kind of situations.

So running his fingers through her hair is it.

“It’s hard to believe I literally just met you.”

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