iterumrp | here we go again

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here we go again

Who: Natasha and OPEN!
What: Getting settled
When: First week after returning
Where: Various
Warnings: Will update

It was like déjà vu, only of another world and not her own, though she knew exactly what the fate of her outcome was there. Now she was caught in some kind of middle plane that no one quite knew a lot about. Even the ones who'd been there years and before that somewhere else that had all of the same uncanny similarities.

Natasha woke up in her old suite at Magnolia and found the basket at the end of the kitchen island. In it were the same items from home and the same invitation to a party at the Tower. Everything was so damn reminiscent of the last time she had arrived that she had to look at the date on her phone to understand why she felt so unsettled. And that's when she saw it. The date. Last she remembered, it was February. Now it was July 1st.

So, where the hell did five months go?

She spends her first week passing through each of the districts, refamiliarizing herself and taking note of what was still there and what wasn't, all the while keeping an eye out for a certain Atlantean King who she steadily lost faith would be returning as days wore on. But, she spent time at the shoreline down at the end of Chicory Way where she had her modest-sized bungalow kept waiting for her.

In the second half of the week, Natasha connects with other Chosen and willingly engages with anyone she remembers or with those who look slightly out of sorts. If she's not dining in at one of the various restaurants or stops in to grab a drink at The Blind Beggar or The Lounge.

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That first week, when she passes by the Red Currant in the Red Lantern District, there's a man sitting on a bench outside. He's stretched out, presumably to take pressure off of his left leg as it's wrapped from mid-thigh to ankle in a leg brace, smoking a cigarette. He probably could be doing all of this inside, but it's force of habit, still, to go outside to smoke. It doesn't hurt that the people-watching is just as good out here as it is inside, and that's exactly what he's doing.

He makes no secret of that, either, as when she pauses nearby, he eyes her for a moment, before, "Lost, sweetheart?"

There's nothing inherently lecherous in the question, despite where they are and the term of endearment. It's a causal thing -- a way of starting a conversation. Never mind the fact that he probably won't be able to give directions in the first place for all that he's brand new.

The question gets a casual look his way and an indiscreet twitch of her lips in amusement. Natasha has worn plenty of masks in her day, but there's somewhat of a thrill that comes at the revelation that she hasn't lost the ability to hold up an identity for whatever gain it might get her, even without so much as trying. So, instead of dropping the facade, she plays it up a little, curious to see what the man knows.

"Maybe a little? Do you know what district this is?" Natasha asks, moving a little closer to the bench where he sits.

"Red Lantern District," Damien answers after a glance over his shoulder at the building at his back. "Think like every little red light district you've ever seen on TV."

There's no shortage of brothels and (probably) opium dens, he's noticed. He's also a little disgusted by it, if the tone of his voice is any indication. Sex, drugs and rock and roll have never really been his vice. He's only hanging out here because he lives here, apparently. One of these days, when he regains some of his resources, he'll need to find somewhere nicer.

Natasha isn't ready to assume he's a Chosen. She's already run into a few demons who tried acting the part and done a pretty good job in almost having her believe that they wanted to help a damsel in distress. But lucky for her, she'd had her fair share of run-ins with villains and alien things alike.

"I've visited a few myself," she looks off, then brings her gaze back to him. "It has that same running theme of being creepy."

A shrug.

"Are you one of the recently arrived?"

"No argument," he agrees, a wisp of cigarette smoke following his hand as he waves it dismissively. He takes a moment following to take a drag off of it, then on the exhale, answers, "But yes.

"I've been here -- however long I've been here." Come to think of it, he's not entirely sure. The Void didn't have much of a concept of time, so he's stopped trying to keep track of it. It's a habit he's going to have to get in the, well, habit of again. How odd. "A week, maybe?"

Yeah, let's go with that.

"You?"

"Same. Long enough to figure out where the best places are to get a good Reuben and espresso." Because that's clearly what is important when you're visiting a new city.

She gets closer and extends her hand for a more formal introduction. "Natasha."

"You'll have to share. I haven't had a good espresso since I left home." It's absolutely important.

Regardless, though, he passes his cigarette from one hand to the other so he can reach to take hers in the shake. When he leans back, he passes it back, takes another drag off of it, and on an exhale of smoke answers, "Damien.

"You'll forgive me for not getting up." His fingers drum against the brace, drawing attention to it.

She'll probably notice someone when she makes her way around the Coliseum district. Or even around the City at large. At some point, Clint's going to learn about the sins each are associated with. And he's going to be darkly amused at the whole thing.

Because he's trying not to be that, anymore. Maybe, maybe if he had shown up about, oh, ten years ago, it might've been pride. But the specter of the man in black and gold is haunting, and while he never fully subscribed to the idea of a ledger of the soul to balance, he knows there's no real making up for what he did.

But he'll make the most of the situation. The building he woke up in comes with a shooting range, which is absolutely nuts, and ideal. Now if only he had his damn bow on him. He doesn't, though in a bustling Earth-y city, he's sure he can find one. What he does have is the sword. Nestled among all the goodies from a weird world with names that mean absolutely nothing.

Fascinating. He fucking hates this place already, and he doesn't know thing one about it.

So he does his own recon. Obviously. Can't trust this place, and can't trust anyone in it, but he can trust his own senses, and his eyes are as good as they ever were.

His knees, maybe not as much. But good enough for some building climbing (well, stairwell climbing, no need to make things more difficult than they have to be) and rooftop scampering. People don't tend to look up in their daily lives. But he does see better from a distance, and if he's going to get out of here and figure out just where in the god damn he is, then he needs to scout.

Even when most think of looking up, it's usually the last thing they do, which, by that point, they've either missed what they're looking for entirely. Or, the point of interest sees them first and seizes the opportunity to move to a spot less obvious before they are spotted. Natasha looks up, though having been to the City before without most of her team (apart from Steve), it's always been out of habit.

After revisiting some favourite haunts of hers scattered around the City, Natasha ends up on the street bordering the Coliseum and Tower districts, where several story buildings cozied around her favourite bar. It wasn't until she was headed out that she glanced upward for no other reason than impulsion and there he was.

Immediately, Natasha pulls out her phone and after a quick search in the directory realizes it was who she hoped it would be. Exhaling slowly, she considers the best way to approach him due to everything that may or may not have happened at the point the City chose to bring him in. So, after some thought, she heads for the building.

Natasha makes no effort to conceal her presence, the click of the door closing echoes across the sky and she walks closer, waiting for him to turn and see her.

He sees better from up here, but he's not necessarily looking at the people. It's too big to really get a feel for the population yet, and he doesn't have much reason to think anyone specific would be here, much less within sight. He's more focused on his bearings, his surroundings.

It looks like a city. Just...a generic-ass city, devoid of any specific trappings of any one particular culture or landmarks that make it familiar to anywhere he's been, but it does seem to have some oddly neat divisions that wouldn't be as apparent from the ground.

Huh.

He grips a throwing knife in a pocket, a "gift" left in a box for him, when he hears the roof door behind him close, footsteps approach. A light but steady gait, and maybe if he focuses, it might seem even this side of familiar-?

"There's no sign on the door," he says to his company with a little sigh in his voice, "and wasn't locked, so it's not illegal. Sorry if I'm ruining your--"

But it's not just anyone when he turns, half ready to fight. The wind blow, catches her hair just right, takes his breath away. He's too steady to sway, but there's a moment in time when they aren't on a rooftop in the middle of fucking nowhere.

There's a sheer cliff. Old ruins. Dark alien sky. A quiet, wizened presence of a man(?) long dead yet not allowed to die. A terrible choice. That some would argue was never a choice at all. A moment when his feet leave the ground and it's only open air below him. A weight to desperately grab. And a distinct lack of weight, ripped out of his hand.

He's been here before so many times it's starting to feel like a second home.

When he blinks, it's a rooftop again, but she's still there, and that's not right, but it's the best kind of not right. Even with the tang of panic electric through his senses, he doesn't want to leave this moment when he isn't entirely sure of what constitutes reality.

He opens his mouth like he's going to say something. Like there's anything he could possibly think to say. Like his mouth isn't desert dry, like his throat isn't lined with razor blades, like there's air in his hollowed out chest. Besides...he might ruin the illusion.

Natasha's been on that same cliff too many times to admit to anyone. She never spoke about it with Steve or Wanda beyond it happening. Even with Arthur, she did her best to steer clear of the conversation or any opportunity where it could segue into it. She simply needed to keep the memory and the heartache of leaving Clint that way to herself.

Only he was here and no more than a few hundred yards. Natasha stood still and only dared to move when she could see the look on his face; the shock and awe and unflinching way that most people would react when they don't know how to react. He was afraid she'd disappear; dematerialize before his very eyes and left wondering why she would come to him like that. As if she had a message from whatever afterlife she made it to.

Natasha halves the distance between them and shakes her head. "No, not ruining anything," she starts, setting her lips into a small, yet slightly crooked. Tears begin gathering across her lower lids. "Actually, realizing you're here, too, turned a pretty crappy day into a pretty decent one."

She speaks. And it's her. In every way.

"Don't-" he starts, still clutching the balanced handle of the knife out of sight, and he doesn't actually know where to take the rest of that sentence. Don't give me hope is what he thinks. The hope that she might actually be here. Alive. Unharmed. That he can touch her again. Have entire silent conversations in only facial expressions to the bafflement of everyone else. Sit on some empty boxes in a shitty warehouse with some stale pizza. Crash at a safehouse to mend some wounds and fall asleep against each other watching soaps.

What if it's not her? Is any of this even truly real? Better question: what if it is her?

The hell is he supposed to do about that but feel healing scars splitting back open?

He takes a breath, shaky and wet, and tightens his mouth into something that would be a fair approximation of a cocky smile under better circumstances instead of something in deep pain. Rework the sentiment. Into anything else, fuck, anything else.

"Don't pretend like me crashing a party ever made your day better."

Her eyes veer off into the depth of the night sky, only for so long as she can manage to reign in the emotion that is threatening to make her less than the strong woman she tries over and over to be. It's getting harder and when she looks back down at him, Natasha knows it's easier said than done.

The remark has her breathing out a laugh, stifled and mixed with the threat of bursting into a sob. How can she know for sure that he's real? That this is some way the City's doing in order to invoke those feelings that it feeds off of so readily? She's barely been there a full day and she's hoping for this to be real, even if it means it's likely without his family. The very same one she wouldn't let him sacrifice himself for.

"Right," she playfully nods. "Because your party of one is so much more fun than mine. I gotta admit though, you do have the better view."

Natasha closes the distance a little more and stops in a patch illuminated by a nearby floodlight. She's within arm's length now and no longer has to raise her voice to be heard. So, she reaches out a hand for him to take, hoping he will.

Needing him to.

"I have the best view right now, yeah."

It's not the only way for him to be sure. But it's the way that immediately presents itself and will take care of most of the doubt in an instant. She offers a hand. She reaches out to him in a way that, if nothing else, this tells him that she knows. She has to know, what she did, why she did it. She must know, then, why her existence here rattles him so much.

Are they both dead? Is this what happens?

His hand lets go of the death grip on the knife and, tentatively, slides out to meet hers. It feels like it takes a year. It feels like it takes five.

Her hand is as warm and solid and familiar as it ever was when she was alive, and he grips tight, almost as tight as his chest squeezing fit to burst with love and pain and grief and joy. He pulls her the rest of the way in for a hug, because if he doesn't get his arms around her in the next two seconds, he really might just explode.

It was exactly what she hopes for and has been yearning for. Him. The consistency of his presence which Natasha hasn't realized how badly her heart has been aching for since she landed in the old City. It's the stability of the way he holds her, making sure it's conveyed without a word that he's got her. Always. Still.

Natasha lets go of a breath she'd been holding, marking how relieved she is to see him again. Even after protesting as hard as he did to be the one, she knows grieving her was the second hardest thing he's ever had to do apart from grieving the disappearance of his family. That was a hole too big to recover from. But he'd gotten them back. Steve had told her they were successful and she could only imagine how happy the reunion with Laura, and the kids was for Clint.

She clings to him harder, blinking back tears that land on his shoulder. "I've missed you so much." Her voice is small, cracking halfway through. She can't hold that truth from him and even if she tried, he'd be able to hear it anyway.

"Missed you." So much. More than damn near anything. He can hear, feel the way her dam is breaking, and if that's going to happen, it might as well be well out of sight, up on some rooftop, rather than down on a busy street, or the middle of a cafe, or any public place they could have happened upon one another. "We all do."

Laura, the kids, the surviving Avengers.

Yelena.

The world doesn't mourn the Black Widow the way it mourns the Iron Man, but some people do. He's seen it, in small ways, not big colorful works of graffiti art, but smaller outpourings of love. And she would have hated it if she had gotten the same attention, the same recognition. It's easier on him, in some ways, so he doesn't have to see her face everywhere he goes, but sometimes it's quietly upsetting that their souls aren't weighed the same in the eyes of the world.

But she is missed nevertheless.

There are a lot of questions. And a lot of things that need said. But the most important thing is happening right now, holding her close, trying not to cry and failing that impossible task. Holding her the way she wouldn't allow him to hold on before. He can't let her slip away this time.

Trust has never been an easy thing for her to give. Doubly so when she's emotionally vulnerable and needs a safe place to take whatever time to get through whatever struggle she's trying to overcome. He's that for her. Has always been for as far back as she can remember. They were a team. Partners in every sense of the word.

Natasha holds on tighter like her life depends on it yet again. Only this time instead of telling him 'it's okay' and to 'let go', she conveys the opposite now; to not let go now or ever again for that matter. The City is fickle and she knows nothing lasts for any length of time. He's here now, but she's lost too many friends to know that he might one day leave, too.

After what feels like too long, she finally pulls away enough to look at his face and without putting thought into it, she reaches up a hand and presses it to his cheek warmly, leaving it there to remind herself that he's really here.

"When did you arrive?" she asks, slipping her hand to his shoulder.

He can't even mind that his cheek is damp under her hand, because they're both here, both clinging, both knowing this is an impossible second chance. "This morning," he says, with a little frown. "Near as I can tell." In case it's been longer, in case he's missing time.

"Figured I'd get the lay here." Hence up. Out of sight, out of mind, unnoticed. Except those who know to look.

Should he ask her the same thing? Would the answer really matter? Is 'when' applicable to the dead? Which...shit, he really has to ask, doesn't he? Because it wouldn't be the craziest thing, though might be near it.

He licks his lips. "Nat, are we both...?" There's a cough of a laugh punched out of him. "If this is an afterlife, I was kinda hoping for something a little more glamorous."

That makes sense. She set out early this morning and left her device on silent so that she could float from district to district to get a fresh set of eyes on the City to see what had changed. It was always in the back of her mind that someone else would arrive but deep down, she hoped with her whole self that it wouldn't be him.

So much for silver linings.

Natasha sweeps away the wetness with her thumb across his cheek and lowers her hand to his shoulder. She shakes her head. Not because the answer is a grim one, but because she doesn't honestly know.

"I don't think so," she answers. "I remember falling but it was like the half second before I actually died, I ended up here."

Her lips press together.

"Did something happen to you before you got here?" she questions next, her tone a little more animated than seconds before while eyes search his for the answer before he has a chance to tell her.

If he'd die, even despite her sacrifice, she wouldn't know what to do with herself.

Did something happen to him. God. Obviously he knows what she's asking, but it still feels like an incredibly loaded question. His head still feels like it's ringing from Yelena's tender touch, after all.

"Nothing that I remember. Hopefully I didn't have a heart attack in my sleep. Always figured I'd go out in a much louder, way stupider way." Always figured he'd die on the job, and somehow, decades later, he's still here. Someone up there likes him, maybe a little too much.

Besides. Who knows if it's different for someone whose soul was made a sacrifice?

"I feel pretty alive. So do you." And she shouldn't. It doesn't surprise him that she thinks she's from before death, because it was instantaneous. She probably didn't even feel the impact, didn't have time to register anything like that. He couldn't get her body--

Under the circumstances, it's impossible to steer his thoughts from Vormir, but what he needs to focus on is right in front of him. She's warm. Alive for whatever that means here and now.

Thankfully, he didn't get the chance to jump. That would have definitely been the "stupid" part of that death. Still, Natasha can't help but nod at feeling alive, though she knows as well as he does that when you take that kind of dive, there's not much you can do. It wasn't like there was a field of tumbling Red Room debris to hop over and step down on like a staircase to solid ground.

For the sake of him and that whole thing, Natasha wants to move on to other topics, though she's pretty sure it's easier said than done,

"Seems that way, yeah," she nods, letting a beat pass before taking in a breath. "You got a place nearby that we can go to and talk?"

As much as she doesn't want to take him away from his vantage point, anything that's more than a few stories is something Natasha has been steering clear of.

"I got the apparent apartment in the area that I seem to have just...inherited somehow." By virtue of appearing in it and having the means to lock or unlock it as he pleases. So. One of his weirder kidnappings, to be sure.

"Whether it's safe to talk there or not is up in the air." Since he doesn't trust shit for shit here. But maybe somewhere that isn't the top of some building might be better. Given the past several years of their lives back home, the idea of Clint being slotted into the more wrathful district probably doesn't come as any particular shock.

It was at one of her stops at The Blind Beggar, that another of the newer chosen was there. Michael had changed out of his suit before leaving the Coliseum, back into his street clothes. His color was a little better from having had a few bottles of the blood substitute since his arrival, still looking very, very pale. Pale enough to make the bruise across the left side of his face, and another showing from where his shirt was half open, very noticeable.

He had come in a few minutes after her, taking a seat at the bar and ordering a glass of red wine, of all things. Looking over once his drink was sat down, he had never met Natasha in his world, he had no idea he was sitting next to the Black Widow. In the bar, he didn't care so much about hiding his vampiric features. Those glowy red eyes catching watching a few people in the mirror, but drawn back to her.

Natasha makes quick eye contact with the gentleman who takes the seat near her, mostly from the practice of knowing her surroundings at all times. But since her arrival, that tendency is heightened ten-fold, even if she's drinking. After a quick assessment, she decides he could be trouble, but is most definitely a Chosen, like her, despite the obvious fact of him being a vampire.

She tips her beer bottle against her lips and sets it down before turning her attention fully to him. Her tone is quietly curious, but there's something in her tone that says she's not at all frightened or cautious. "Are you here hunting?"

Green eyes pointedly glance down at his glass, suggesting that it's a fair question to ask a vampire who's drinking wine instead of blood.

He had been doing the usual scan of patrons, both looking for familiar faces, and praying to not see familiar faces.

When Natasha turned her attention to him, he could tell, and looked to her just before she spoke. He'd seen her eyes shift in the mirror behind the bar. Red meeting green, he chuckled with the question. Almost smiling, but not quite. "Right out with it?" He asked, impressed, before shaking his head. "No, no. There is no need to here. There is a lovely substitute that my body does not reject."

He knew he was a bit of a cliché here, a vampire drinking wine, and yet. He took a drink anyway and offered that light smile anyway. "I'm Michael, and you?"

The City had been full of every kind of person, but she can't say she'd had the pleasure of meeting a wine-drinking vampire before. And if she had, they didn't announce themselves as such. But he seems nice enough, even if Natasha isn't ready to call him a friend. She's not in the habit of trusting people right out of the gate.

"Natasha," she returns, leaving her last name off for good reason. "You arrive here recently? Or you part of the population that Chosen are warned about?"

He was a disappointment to classic vampires with his wine drinking ways, but he was a living vampire, and that living part was important. He still had to eat and keep his body going. Trusting people out of the gate was never wise.

"A pleasure, Natasha." He replied with ease. Which would have vanished if he had heard her last name. Even Morbius knew of the Black Widow. "Yes, just days ago with the others. I am not one of the demons that roams the streets. My appearance is due to a mistake in science. No need to worry."

Her brow creases curiously. "Your appearance is due to a mistake? How so?"

Was he saying that he was a vampire created in a lab? If so, there's a story behind that one that she is most definitely interested in hearing. No judgements.

Those who were residents before had a certainty and a confidence as they moved through the districts. Perhaps not complete at home, but adjusted to everything about their situation. It is enviable, but it's difficult to imagine being here for such a long time that you would feel so comfortable. At the very least, it's an asset for those still lost and confused, which Kosem is.

Shops are one thing, but restaurants require more adjustment for a woman out of her time. She's placed at a table near Natasha, eyeing the menu with a bit of confusion. English is a fourth language and reading could still make her stumble.

Natasha is a rather discreet people watcher. She's learned from the best and honed the skill to near perfection. Knowing the setting around her comes equally naturally, but the restaurant she's in, allows her to let her guard down some since the owner is her landlord.

She spends a minute or so listening to the woman nearby, hearing the slight mumble and soft pronunciation of words on the menu in front of her and she remembers the days when English wasn't even her fourth language.

"You look like you could use some help deciding," Natasha says, glancing at the woman so that if she wondered who was talking to her, she know who it was.

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here we go again

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