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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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.”

"If not for that damn bug, right?" She can manage a little chuckle for that. They would have had a mostly silent ride to their respective floors, and she probably wouldn't have taken much notice of him. Just a generic tall, handsome stranger. Hell, he might not have even been in the elevator with her. He might not have been running. He might not have made it to the doors before they closed. She never would have had this incredibly harrowing and draining and oddly cathartic experience.

She's not sure what to think of that, and her expression shades deeply thoughtful. Confession is supposed to be good for the soul. Does that still count if it's involuntary? Either way, his fingers against her scalp feel nice. "It's been a long time since anyone touched me like this." The quiet words slip out before her brain catches up to them, before she can try to twist is around into something vague and ambiguous, and she flinches slightly once she realizes what she's said.

Well, that happened. It's out there now, and no sense in crying over it. If she has to dump out her purse for anyone, it may as well be the man who already has a whole basket full of her dirty laundry, just as she has his.

In a normal situation he’d retreat his hands quickly, because that’s a level of intimacy he isn’t ready to jump into with someone he literally just met. But this is as far from ‘normal situation’ as it gets, and the intimacy ship has already sailed. So even though he doesn’t exactly feel comfortable as he keeps on sharing, even though he really wishes he could just keep quiet until the poison runs out and they can finally open the doors… it doesn’t really matter anymore does it? Not after all he’s already shared.

“It’s been awhile since I touched anyone like this, too. But thanks to annoying fireflies you know me better than most people in this place already anyway.”

No, nothing about this is normal. Nothing is safe and detached. They're right in the thick of it, messy and raw and exposed. She wants to hate him for it, and can't, and ends up coming out the other side almost grateful. It's deeply strange, but here she is, enjoying the feel of him carding his fingers through her hair.

"More people who know me seem to turn up every day, and every one of them makes me feel more alone." Damnit. More of what she doesn't want to be saying slipping past her lips, because she's tired, she's so very tired. She closes her eyes, turns her face into his shirt, as though hiding will make it easier. He'll judge her for it, won't he? She'd judge herself. Still, it's not like his opinion won't plummet sooner or later. Either she'll be forgotten, or he'll continue to try to get to know her, and things will reach the inevitable end. At least this time, it won't be a dozen connections cut all at once. She can handle one. At least, in the meantime, she'll have someone to talk to.

Illya is very gentle while playing with her hair, doing his best to not pull any hair and enjoying how soft it is… and honestly, the fact that she’s very clearly just finished a fight only makes this scene even more intimate as far as Illya’s concerned. He gets a fight and an intimate moment with a gorgeous woman. He wouldn’t change a thing.

Except for, you know. Nearly everything in this entire situation.

“I do not know how that feels. I am alone in this place.” He confesses, but he doesn’t look as vulnerable as he’d looked the other times the truth had forced itself out of his mouth. “I… like being alone. I have few friends. I do not want them to be here and be kidnapped. Gabby would not enjoy that. And Solo...”

A beat.

“Solo would enjoy it too much.”

She cracks a smile, because it's nice to think that there are people already supporting him in his attempt to break himself out of this misplaced loyalty.

"That's the smarter way to live. Alone. I should have done that. The friends thing never worked out for me before. I don't know why I thought this time would be different." There's a little huff of displeasure and a hard swallow to stop the urge to keep going. She's also a little surprised, herself. She still has Clint. She came out of this with her connection to the Bartons intact. Yet she said never, that friendship never worked out for her.

It's a slower realization than it possibly should be, that Clint is not a friend. He hasn't been for a long time. He's family, the only family she can remember, and the urge to cry comes over her in a wave. Years before she'll see him again, before she'll see any of them. Years before she can keep them safe again.

"Anyway, you're not alone here. You've got me now." She thumps the back of her hand against his chest, as though he needs a reminder she's here. "Like you said, I know you better than most people in this place. Is it most people, or all people?" Natasha has a suspicion that it's possible she knows him better than most people in his life, full stop. Of course, she has no way of knowing how close he is with Gabby and Solo, how long he's known them, but they've gone fairly deep today. For spies, anyway.

“All people in this place. No one else know my real name, so you will have to keep it a secret.”

He answers easily, because it’s the truth. Clark and Taako come a close second, he’s told them a lot and they have guessed a lot more on their own by spending time with Illya. But Natasha is definitely the one that has gotten the most out of him, even if it was basically forced. He’s angry this was even a thing, displeased because the truth is something precious you give to those you trust implicitly, and he was forced to give it away like a cheap trinket. But he actually doesn’t regret this.

“And you’ve got me, too. Friendship hasn’t worked out for you yet, but you just didn’t have someone as resilient as me. We will be fine. I like you.”

The last part comes out without him meaning to, he’s not prone to random compliments. But she’s fun, sarcastic, knows how to kick his ass if she wants to and she understands him better than most people probably ever would unless they were in his exact same situation. So he wouldn’t try to take it back, even if he could.

"I like you, too." It slips out automatically, like call and response. Truth of his matched by truth of hers, and it wants to be known, it wants to meet its counterpart head on. Still annoying, but also still not his fault. Natasha probably would try to take this all back, given the chance, but she would do it for his good, not hers. He may not believe she's trouble, but just because he's being honest doesn't mean he's correct.

She'd like to try and tease him about the name, to get things antagonistic again, but she knows it won't work, and that weariness is seeping into her bones now. "So, what should I be calling you? Please don't say Boris. You'll make it very difficult for me to take you seriously." Though he wouldn't know why, would he? She's willing to bet he predates that cartoon. "You can call me Natalie, if you like. Shiny lies for the outside world. We should match."

“Natalie.” He repeats. It’s a French variant- there was a time where they really adored the French versions of people’s names. He likes how it sounds. “I may take you up on that.”

Honestly, he knows he should be so calm. He knows he’s confessed more than half his life to a stranger and even if she ended up sharing some of her life back with him it still feels like he should be on guard. Or at least just very angry at the situation, which shouldn’t be all that hard because almost everything works to make him angry if he twists it the right way (it’s a talent). But instead he’s just… not calm, not exactly, but definitely calmer than he had felt before the fight.

He supposes he’s release some anger now, and he has his own blackmailing material when it comes to her. She was bitten as well so everything she said is true, and he could use it against her. He just doesn’t think he will have to. It’s not trust, exactly, because trust is an illogical emotion. It’s more like a statement of facts that tells him Natalia will make the right decisions.

“Call me Alexei, please. Everybody here knows me as Alexei.”

"That's a name with some ghosts," she says, her voice heavy. Luckily she's able to stop there, and pull herself back. "Alexei it is. Illya and Natasha are-- they're always going to be there waiting for us. Nice to be someone else for a while." Which he must know. Which he clearly does know. Which even Solo and Gabby must have seen, if they're trying to give him a way out, a way to recreate himself. Maybe the twist of universal fate is that everyone gets a Clint in their lives, that everyone gets the chance. Good.

She sighs, a restlessness in her now that the name Alexei is rattling around in her mind. She's scared of what might pop out. She's given up so much, but there are still things she has no desire to share with anyone. Ever. "You think they'll like each other? Alexei and Natalie?" Talk about anything. Anything to fill the silence. Please.

His free arm is close enough for her to reach, and she turns his wrist so she can check the time on his watch. His father's watch. That's a lot of pain and conflict to keep so close day in and day out.

He opens his mouth to ask about the ghosts, but stops himself right on time. If he asks, she will have to answer and they will start the circle all over again. They may be able to have this conversation again later on, when she’s not forced to answer with complete honesty and she can actually choose how to reply.

“I think they will. They seem to be pretty similar to each other, after all.”

She smiles, just a little uptick of the corner of her mouth. "You don't know Natalie, though. She can be very cold. All about the job." The pad of her thumb rubs idly around the edge of the face of the watch, the smooth glass and slightly textures metal almost comforting.

"I hope you're not counting on her to keep Alexei from being alone here, too. She might let you down. She does that." What she really wants to say is that she hopes Alexei isn't as alone as Illya, that the person he pretends to be has people to keep him from getting stuck in his own mind.

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