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Left.
Right.
Cold, green, piercing eyes.
Timing.
The slightest shift in weight.
Back in a perfectly balanced stance.
Control.
Strands of red had started to fall from her tightly pulled up hair, but she seemed not to care, never faltering in the moves she had performed countless times before, following the ever-changing sequence with practiced ease.
She had to put on a show, after all.
Faintly aware of the multiple eyes mesmerized by her fluid movements, her focus solely on the task. She was deadly graceful, fast but precise. Elusive, untouchable. Unapproachable.
Like everyone else, Yelena could only watch, sitting on the training room floor amongst all the other girls. All wore the same enraptured gaze, carefully studying the older widow in front of them. A widow that an old, tiny part of the blonde persisted in calling sestra, an hidden spot that in moments like this made itself known by filling with pride.
Suddenly, she was snapped back to attention, along with the neck of the man who had just fulfilled his role as the Black Widow prey.
He was one of the newest Hydra recruits, perfectly expendable. Plenty of them there. It wasn't unusual for groups of widows to be transferred for a few days to some Hydra bases, in order to experiment variations in their training. The number of soldiers there was much higher, and older widows had permission to use some of the most unexperienced ones to teach fighting techniques to the younger girls.
Yelena dreaded the notice of such special-trainings, because some widows wouldn't come back from them — accidents, they said.
Yelena also eagerly awaited it, because they were the only moments she could find herself close to Natasha. It was not certain, the senior widows that went with them weren't always the same, but just the possibility was enough to light her up with sparkles of hope, hope she needed in order to be part of the group of girls that would come back.
In the Red Room, their paths rarely crossed, and when they did, no lingering nor sign of recognition would have been tolerated.
But here, it was different. Many handlers were Hydra's, and if they knew, they mostly didn't care about possible connections between widows. Here, they were simply two in a crowd of nameless weapons.
So, while Natasha would performe her demonstration, Yelena could safely let her eyes take in her figure, seemingly studying the moves displayed before them, while internally she would be noting all the changes from the latest memory of her she had.
And when the girls would be divided into pairs to try to replicate the sequence, and the older ones would walk around to make sure of its correct execution, Natasha could slow down her pace while passing by Yelena's spot, and observe her posture, her arms, her face more thoroughly. And if her eyes never dwelled on the opponent girl, even while hastily pointing out some adjustments to the pair, well, nobody ever said anything about it.
Then she would turn her head and move to the next girls, never looking back.
Each time, Yelena had to refrain herself from calling after her to ask for some other advice, for a little more attention. But they couldn't risk more than that, Natasha — always the most cautios one — wouldn't have let her, but it was enough. It had to be.
So, today Yelena watched, as red hair tinged of a different, more bloody shade.
Tomorrow, maybe Natasha will supervise her sister as she'll do the same.
Next week, they will start waiting for the next notice, hoping to survive long enough to do this all over again.
—•—
She wasn't there.
Yelena walked down the corridor with blossoming apprehension, an unusual feeling that had started making itself known only moments before — poking at her gut, twisting her stomach — and was now reverberating throught her whole body, permeating all her senses.
After dinner, her group was starting to head out, as the older widows swarmed into the room for the shift change. They strolled past them neatly, not showing any sign of the fatigue they should have been feeling, consequence of their own training session after a day of tutoring the younger girls.
Yelena had observed them carefully, quick glances that made for an approximative inspection, and then dared to double-check with a sinking feeling in her stomach, upon realizing that her attention hadn't been drawn by any redhead.
Natasha wasn't with them.
Maybe she had decided to skip dinner. Or she had been held up at training. Yeah, that was probably — definetly — what had happened. From their first day at the base, not a dinner had passed by without their paths crossing in a sort of silent farewell, it was like a tacit agreement between them.
But she found no comfort in her deduction, since extra-training had always meant anything but good. Her pace slightly increased while she kept strolling through the corridors, now hoping to run into her there, whatever might have been the reason of the redhead's lateness.
As she approached the training area, somewhere, hidden to her view, a door slammed open, and voices suddenly started flooding the halls, instantly dissipating all her last hopes. They were clearly coming in her direction, the raising volume of their snickers, at what had to be some sort of joke, and the following shushing still giving them away.
She was quick in turning right and slowly heading towards the sleeping quarters, mingling with some other girls lingering in the hall, so as not to attract undesired attention.
As they passed by, coming briefly into her view — they were three soldiers, not enough old to be of the highest ranks, but nonetheless exuding that peculiar confidence that accompanied who was aware to be untouchable, privileged — she tried to grasp bits of what they were talking about.
" —one of the best? Surely didn't seem like it, back there, if— "
Yelena didn't like where this was going. At all.
She waited a few seconds more, until the only noise left was of the blood pumping in her own ears, then turned back in her track, and went straight in the direction they had come from.
Nobody was around — nobody should have, this late in the evening — the place still and silent, the echo of her steps following her through the corridors, looking hastily left and right for a lead.
She was about to start examining each and every room in the facility, when she spotted a door slightly open a few meters away, on her left.
She slowed down and carefully made her way to it, sharpening her senses and readying herself, every possible scenario she could think of now flashing before her eyes.
She peeked through the opening, feeling her blood run cold when her eyes landed on a faint trail of blood, smeared on the floor and continuing out of her view.
Shuffling forward and realigning herself, she sucked in a sharp breath as she took in the sight of a figure, huddled against the wall.
There she was, Natasha, legs drawn to her chest and arms crossed above them, the uniform disheveled and messy, her hands rubbing and scratching mindlessly at her upper arms. Her gaze glassy and far away.
It was such a contrast image to what Yelena had seen just mere hours prior, that she found herself freezed on the spot, staring at an unusual handprint, right there, on the wall — unusual not because it was blood, but because it was Natalia's — while her muscles refused to move.
Finally, she shook herself out of her trance and stepped right away into the room, trying to contain the suddenness of her actions — even if every part of her ached to just run in as fast as possible, but this was what Yelena needed — closing the door behind her.
As soon as she had first touched the door, Natasha's gaze had hardened, her hands steadying, nails now digging into the skin. She seemed ready to stand up and bolt — or, in a worse case scenario, simply walk away, like nothing had happened.
"It's just me."
Natasha's head snapped vaguely in her direction, but her eyes remained unfocused. Still, Yelena could see the way her posture slumped a bit and her fingers unhooked slightly, the way her body knew that this was someone that could be trusted.
She tentatively stepped forward, hands raised and open in front of her. When she saw no reaction from the redhead, she took courage and slowly made her way up to her.
Yelena crouched down, keeping a short distance between them. She was at a loss of what to do, never really having been in the position of offering something — help? — to someone else, least of all her sister. From what she could remember, it had always been the other way around.
She wasn't even sure Natasha was actually aware of her presence, her eyes still searching for something she couldn't find, and all her efforts seemingly put into keeping a steady breathing, ready to fall into a perfectly modeled mask.
They couldn't stay there, anyone could come in, and she didn't even want to think about the consequences. But she couldn't leave her like this either.
She let her gaze wander around the room, taking in the silence that filled the place, while a thought started to form in her mind.
Her eyes darted back to Natasha, a new determination settled within.
"Can I touch you?"
No response besides a hitch in her breathing at the sudden noise, the only sign that she had heard the blonde.
Yelena exhaled and waited a few seconds more, before continuing more softly.
"I'm going to grab your arm and help you up, okay?"
She didn't actually expect an answer, but she wanted Natasha to know that she had the power to choose.
After a beat, she cautiously reached out and brushed her fingers on the redhead's, where they were still clawing at her skin.
The grip constricted for a moment, then it loosened ever so slightly. Yelena took this as her cue to trail her hand all the way to Natasha's shoulder and slip it around her back, stopping between her shoulder blades, never breaking contact to let her movements be known. Her other hand was now resting on the scarred arm, holding it while she started to lift both of them up.
She was almost taken aback by the ease with which Natasha followed her lead and let be pulled to her feet, folding her arms around herself in the process — whether it was to shield herself, or to prevent Yelena from seeing the stains of blood on her training gear, the blonde didn't want to know.
She started toward the exit, Natasha leaning more firmly against her, but still with that haunted look that had yet to falter.
Having made sure no one was around, Yelena opened the door just wide enough to let them slip through, then lead the way through the several corridors that separated them from her selected destination.
One good thing that came with staying at Hydra's facilities was that they were bigger and with a different organization regarding common spaces. Shared rooms generally could accommodate up to six or eight soldiers, and the largest ones were always assigned to the youngers. So, during their brief time there, most widows were provided with individual rooms, something they knew was to be treasured — because there was nowhere else they would have been really let be alone. Now, Yelena only hoped not to run into anyone, while she tried to get the two of them to her own.
This late in the evening, almost everyone who was not still dining should have been in their room, not coming out till morning. Watchmen — soldiers and Red Room's keepers — made sure of that, walking up and down the halls all night, disappearing only at the crack of dawn.
They were halfway through, and Yelena was starting to think that maybe they would be able to pull it off smoothly, for once in their lives.
One more turn to the right, and they would have made it. She released the breath she had been holding, as the junction at the end of the corridor came into view.
That was her first mistake. She realized it too late, when rhythmic footsteps could already be heard approaching from the left end, too fast to turn around and change path. Her second one was freezing on the spot, not releasing her grip on Natasha, even worse, tightening it.
The redhead gave no signs of aknowledgment, but her eyes were now fixed in direction of the echoing pounding, her gaze steeled with a deadly stare that meant only one thing.
Maybe they were screwed, but the other person was too.
However, Yelena felt both of their bodies stiffening at the appearance of a figure that many would have deemed frightening, threatening, or at least felt intimidated just by being in her presence. But not them. She didn't know what their feelings were or should have been, but one thing for sure, they weren't scared of her.
Melina.
She had noticed them too, turning slightly and stopping dead in her tracks, not far enough as to let the briefest flash of shock on her face go unnoticed.
And suddenly they weren't there anymore, and they weren't themselves, but two children, sneaking back to bed after a mission to retrieving late night snacks, about to be scolded by their mother and receive a lecture about the importance of sleep and sticking to rules.
But that was another life.
Shrugging the fog of her memories off, Yelena's hand on Natasha's back went up to her far shoulder, drawing her closer protectively, because she remembered she didn't know who this woman was. She only knew who she had pretended to be, a long time ago, but now she found herself clinging to the possibility that not everything had been a lie, trying to convey it all in her eyes locked on the woman's.
She had never begged for mercy, and she thought she would die before ever doing it. But this wasn't about herself, this was about Natasha — about her sister, about Melina's daughter — and she was willing to do it for her. She just hoped that Melina would too.
Still, she couldn't help that hint of defiance in her stare that she reserved for the world, daring it to do her another wrong, to throw something more at her.
It wasn't the first time she had come across Melina, but it was the first one out of the Red Room. Especially when General Dreykov was around, it wasn't rare for her to be spotted walking in and out of his office, with or without reports. During her visits, she would usually stop by sparring mats and ballet classes to watch over widows practicing. Yelena herself had felt her eyes laid on her form, fighting off the urge to reciprocate her stare for the few seconds she had the older woman's attention for herself.
Except, this time Melina was actually seeing them, both of them, with all their scars, her eyes lingering on the ones that were not bleeding, the ones she was responsible for.
The blonde saw her gaze roam over Natasha's body — she didn't know how much awareness of the situation the redhead actually had, but she felt her form shrinking subtly beside her nonetheless — an unreadable expression on her face.
After what seemed like an eternity, Melina's eyes came back up and met Yelena's, looking at her meaningfully.
She gave a curt nod and turned around, walking back down the way she had come from, her pace slower.
Yelena started moving on autopilot, and before even realizing it, she was dragging Natasha down the final part of the corridor and by the row of doors, stopping only in front of hers.
Pausing for a moment, she glanced back, but Melina had already vanished.
—•—
Yelena closed the door behind her with one hand, the other still around Natasha.
Still gripping the doorknob, she exhaled, closing her eyes for a moment as she let the adrenalyne wear off, trying to process the events of the past thirty minutes. Had she made the right call? She was in no way prepared to handle this. What if she had just made things worse? What if Melina—
All of her worries faded into background noise when she felt Natasha shifting and pulling away slightly from her. She let her go, giving her time to take in her surroundings and giving herself a chance to think about what to do next. She hesitantly cleared her throat.
"So..."
The silence was becoming unbearable, and her voice cut right through it, drawing Natasha's gaze back on her. She felt a wave of relief washing over her, noticing that it had regained some sort of clearness.
"Welcome to my—"
She gestured lightly around, trying to ease a little of the tension engulfing her. Natasha was watching her like she was seeing her for the first time, her brow furrowed, trying to reassemble the missing pieces in her memory. She finished in a whisper.
"—place."
Yelena shifted uncomfortably, the intensity of the other' stare making her wanting to run away or sprint forward and crush into her sister's arms all at once, like she used to — when she stained herself red with strawberries, when the dirt on her hands was only that, dirt, and when she actually was her sister.
Instead, she swallowed hard and started fidgeting with her fingers, looking down intently.
"I— I didn't see you. At dinner. When—"
"I was worried you would come looking for me."
Her eyes snapped back up, Natasha's voice raspy and low, almost unrecognizable, nevertheless trying to convey firmness in her tone. She had an indecipherable look on her face, and Yelena was taken aback by being the one she was putting on that impassive mask with. It was only when she noticed the redhead's hands' slight tremble — she was trying, and failing, to conceal it — that she regained the courage to speak and ask.
"Do you wish that I didn't?"
She could see the conflict unfolding behind her green eyes, rationality telling her what they both knew she should have said. Its defeat was revealed by a tired sigh and a softening in her gaze.
"No."
Yelena felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest, finally allowing her to breathe properly, as silence filled the room once again. She was still trying to figure out what she should do or not, but when she noticed Natasha's stare shifting to a point behind her, starting to go back somewhere Yelena couldn't follow, instantly all she knew was that she wasn't going to let it happen. She had to snap her out of it. Her eyes fell for a moment on the blood staining the other's clothes.
"Do you...I mean—"
Natasha's attention was back on her in an instant, and she had to swallow before continuing.
"If you want...you can use the bathroom. And my shower is free, I've already gone before dinner."
The redhead furrowed her brow, pondering her words, her eyes still distant. Yelena went on talking, trying to keep her here.
"I just thought that...you know, after—"
The words caught in her throat as soon as she saw Natasha tensing up.
"—training."
She finished in a little voice, standing still on the spot as she waited for a reaction. Natasha slowly brought up her hands, examining the dried blood onto them and under her nails. She then trailed her gaze on herself, as if taking in her own condition for the first time. Finally, she raised her head and nodded, a still confused look in her eyes. Yelena nodded back.
"Okay..."
She moved a couple of steps towards her, but stopped immediately when she saw Natasha backing away, her arms once again crossed in front of herself. Her head turned to the side, jaw clenched, refusing to meet the blonde's gaze.
Yelena understood, she really did. Still, she couldn't help feeling a pang of hurt at the involuntary rejection. She assessed the situation for a few seconds, before turning to her right and opening one of the drawers in front of her. She pulled out some underwear, extending her arm for Natasha to come and take them, her eyes not leaving the plain colors of the clothes before her.
A moment passed by, then she felt the redhead shifting and drawing nearer, hesitantly taking the items she was being handed, then heading toward the bathroom.
There were a few beats of silence, then a whispered "Thank you" before the door shut.
Yelena dared to close the drawer and move away only when she heard the water starting running.
She felt like stuck in the worst nightmare she had ever had, and at the same time in one of her best and most recurring dreams.
Usually though, it was Natasha coming to rescue her, gun in hand and a plan to escape, telling her that everything would be alright. Lately, she had found these dreams becoming more and more rare.
She approached the small wardrobe on the other side of the room, starting rummaging through it for the sweatshirt and sweatpants she used to sleep in. She then selected a sweater and another pair of sweatpants, similar to hers, to give Natasha.
The Red Room provided everyone with all the types of clothes they could need, from uniforms, to training suits and even some more plain ones, usually to be brought along in long missions and stayings like this.
They were all identical from girl to girl, some wouldn't need them for long anyway, and in that case the newly ownerless garments would have been quick and easy to reassign.
Yelena let her hand trail along the dark fabric, as she set down the pieces of clothing on the bed, then proceded starting changing into her owns.
She was finding hard to belive that the girl, woman, in her bathroom was the same kid she knew all those years ago — ready to go against her own past and training to protect her 'little sister' from a whole unit of soldiers and Dreykov himself — the same woman she had seen just that morning — killing a man with the coldest expression she could muster. She realized she had so many layers. Yelena couldn't help but wonder if those three years had been one of the fake ones.
She pushed that thought away almost instantly. Natasha wouldn't have risked her own life to keep her safe if she didn't actually care. All those stolen glances through the years, Yelena couldn't have imagined them. She couldn't, because if she did...she just couldn't.
She was brought back to reality when she realized that the silence surrounding her had prolonged for too long. The shower had been turned off for a while now, and the quiet shuffling that followed had now been replaced by a deafening nothingness.
She made her way to the door separating her from the redhead, not wanting to leave her alone for too long. She knocked gently.
"Natalia?"
The name sounded foreign coming out of her lips, but she gave it a try nonetheless, unsure of where they stood with each other. Nevertheless, it was met with silence.
"Natasha?"
She tried again, almost scared to pronounce that name out loud. It was the first time in years.
When once again there was no reply, she grabbed the door handle.
"I'm coming in."
Yelena gave her one more moment, before opening the door. The sight she was met with was not one she would have easily forgotten.
Natasha was in the underwear she had been given, standing in front of the mirror situated above the sink. Her hands were raised, her fingers trailing along the bruises covering her neck and her eyes glued to the reflection staring back at her.
Yelena held her breath while taking in the multiple red, and blue, and purple marks that accompanied old — more yellowish — and fresh cuts littering the other's body. Natalia Romanova was supposed to be untouchable. They always told them that she was one of the best. So, what did this mean for the others?
The blonde moved instinctively, stepping in and positioning herself right in front of the redhead, blocking her view. Natasha barely looked at her, eyes once again distant and glazed. She slowly reached out and grasped at her hands, pulling them away.
"Hey..."
Natasha followed the movement, blinking twice and then furrowing her brow, keeping her gaze locked onto their joined hands. Yelena glanced at the open door and let out a shuddering breath, looking back and searching her face for any sign of discomfort.
"Come on."
She gently tugged her towards the other room, Natasha letting herself be led without any resistance. They left the bathroom behind them and slowly made their way to the bed, Yelena maneuvering the redhead so as to make her sit on the edge of one side of it. She eyed the redhead worriedly, feeling her chest constricting when she noticed that Natasha had yet to make a move to let go of her hand, her eyes pointedly to the floor.
With a tentative, final squeeze, she let go first, grabbing the sweatpants lying on the bed and kneeling down, starting to slip Natasha's legs throught them. Being this close, she was able to discern the different shapes and sizes of the blue splotches that were concentrated on her inner tighs. She paused for a moment, suddenly feeling the quiet rage that had been swirling through her now threatening to spill over.
She motioned for Natasha to hold onto her shoulders and stand up slightly, so she could pull the sweatpants all the way up — and as an excuse to hide her face from her, trying to maintain her composure for the sake of them both. Still not uttering a word, Natasha swiftly complied, and Yelena decided to take it as a good sign.
When Natasha was seated again, the blonde tentatively met her gaze while starting to pull away, and was relieved to finally be able to detect something — confusion, mainly, but there was also a hint of apprehension — behind the unusually dull green.
"I'll be right back."
Yelena returned from the bathroom a few seconds later, hairdryer in one hand, a wet towel and bandages in the other, which she placed on the bedside table. She beckoned Natasha to bow her head and turned the thing on, the loud noise filling the room being sort of alienating, giving her the chance to try and clear her mind.
With her free hand she started to untangle the damp hair, trying to keep her touch feather-light, but soon she felt Natasha's scalp pressed more firmly against her palm, her head faintly following the movements.
She didn't remember the last time someone did something like this for her. She only knew that it had to have been her mom — not the Iron Maiden, but her mom — who, on their last year in Ohio, had gotten into the habit of combing, and drying, and braiding their hair for them. She hoped her last time hadn't been one of those in which she would run around the house, mom chasing her, hairbrush in her hand, both yelling for her sister to come and help them. Or maybe she did. She wondered if that had been the last time for Natasha too.
She kept running her fingers through the red tresses — her fingertips lingering whenever they passed on what had to be an old, little scar, near the nape of her neck — until they seemed dry enough. It didn't go unnoticed that, by then, Natasha had been with her eyes closed for a while, although she was quick in opening them when she sensed Yelena turning off the hairdryer and putting it away.
The blonde fetched the wet towel and turned back, taking one of Natasha's arms in her hand and starting to wipe the crescent-shaped marks to make sure they were clean. It was not really necessary, but she felt like she needed to do this anyway.
When she was done, she took the bandages and carefully wrapped them around it, before moving to the other arm and repeating the same process. Still without saying a word, Natasha was keeping her gaze locked on her every move, with a somewhat thoughtful espression on her face. There were a couple of times her breathing changed briefly, but then her jaw clenched, as if she was refraining herself from saying something.
When Yelena raised her head to proceed tending to her split lip and the cut on the forehead, she noted how her mouth swiftly opened and closed right away, her gaze returning obstinately to the ground. Yelena didn't push though, busying herself with dabbing at some persistent dried blood just above the chin — that had been trickling down her lips for suspiciously long — keeping it up and steady with the fingers of her free hand.
When she felt satisfied with her work, she moved one hand to the back of Natasha's head, the other brushing the cloth against her forhead. That was when she suddenly spoke up.
"They..."
She trailed off almost immediately. Yelena didn't falter in her movements, just waiting for her to continue.
"They're going to do this to you, too."
She paused at that, hand still midair, the other tightening imperceptibly over the red hair. She glanced at her face, but it was unreadable as ever. She couldn't tell if it was a statement meant for her, or a realization that had hit Natasha herself. She pondered how to reply. The last thing she wanted was to upset Natasha more. But it was also the first time they could actually talk to each other in years, and she even less wanted to lie. The towel resumed its motions.
"They already did."
She could instantly feel Natasha's whole body stiffening under her touch and her breath hitching. She winced.
Maybe she should have lied.
She tried to backtrack somehow.
"I— I mean, it was not exactly—"
"I'm sorry."
It was a whisper, but Yelena was able to catch the words anyway. She stopped again, pulling away slightly to get a better look at Natasha. Her face was tense, a moltitude of emotions now flooding her eyes, undoubtedly reflecting some inner, deeper, overwhelming feelings she was finding herself forced to deal with.
Yelena lowered her gaze, and saw that her hands were back at grasping tightly at her arms, rubbing over the bandages. She quickly kneeled down and moved to cover Natasha's hands with hers, effectively making them coming to a rest.
"Stop it, or I'll have to do this all over again."
Natasha averted her eyes, lowering her voice even more.
"I'm sorry."
It was not for the bandages. Maybe it wasn't even about what she had just been told. Yelena sighed, inspecting her arms.
"Me too."
She got up, setting the towel aside and picking up the sweater, unfolding it. She motioned for Natasha to lift her arms, proceeding to guide them and her head through the holes. After it was pulled all the way down, her body now fully covered, Natasha's form seemed to relax a bit. Yelena went to the nightstand to collect the items used and put them back.
When she emerged from the bathroom, she found Natasha in the exact same position as before, but now there was a hint of nervousness in her eyes, her hands fidgeting with the sleeves covering them. She stepped closer, insecurity creeping into her again at the sight.
"What are you doing? You...don't want to sleep?"
Natasha's head snapped in her direction, then she lowered her gaze on her hands, frowning.
"I don't think I should stay here. It's not— It's not safe. If—"
"Nonsense."
The bluntness with which Yelena said it surprised them both, the redhead's eyes back on her. She didn't meant for it to come out this harsh, but what did Natasha expect? That she was still that cheerful six-year-old child, jumping into things without thinking it through? This was her choice, their chance, and she wasn't about to miss it or fuck things up. She tried to soften her voice.
"What will happen if they see you wandering around at this hour? If you're caught sneaking out of here?"
"You shouldn't have brought me here, in the first place."
She had almost forgottend how stubborn Natasha could be. Almost.
"You really think that I could have just left you there? That I could ever?"
Natasha didn't respond, looking at the floor and clenching her jaw. Yelena released a breath.
"It's safer if you leave early in the morning."
She made her way to her and grabbed the hem of the blanket, starting to lift it up and motioning for Natasha to get up.
"Here."
The redhead eyed her for a moment and then glared at the pillow, furrowing her brow as she considered her options.
"Please."
At this final, whispered plea, Natasha finally surrendered. She tentatively stood up and allowed Yelena to pull down the covers, walking around her and plopping down on the bare mattress. When she was settled, the blonde lifted and lowered the blanket over her, effectively tucking her in with a satisfied sigh. She then went back to her own side of the bed — which ordinarily wasn't suited for two people, but it was still large enough to let them both enough room to move — and got in as well.
Natasha was laying on her back with her arms resting on her stomach, pointedly looking at the patterns traced by her fingers on the covers. Yelena tried to ask the question in the most casual way possible.
"Lights on or lights off?"
The redhead's hands stopped and she cleared her throat.
"Off. It's okay."
Yelena reached out for the switch above her nightstand, the one that regulated every dim lights in the room, and darkness enveloped them, cracked only by the moonlight seeping through the half-open window. Once her eyes had adjusted to the shadows, and she was able to distinguish the outlines around her, she turned, and found out that Natasha was now staring at her, gaze unwavering for the first time that night. Yelena settled down and onto her side, locking her eyes with her shimmering ones, trying to decipher what was within them.
Natasha held her stare for a few moments more, then swallowed, turning back towards the ceiling, her hands resuming their nervous fiddling. Yelena moved a inch closer and reached out to rest her hand above them. She forced herself to keep it in place when she felt Natasha tensing, hoping not to be herself one more cause of the other's upsetting.
"You didn't have to do this."
It was so sudden and so low that Yelena almost missed it. She stroked her thumb on the back of one of her hands.
"But I wanted to."
It fully hit her then, that Natasha's whole demeanor was more than likely springing from a place of guilt and self-loathing, feelings that she must have been carrying with her for all those years, since that day they had been taken away. The fact that she wouldn't meet her eyes, that she was so reluctant to accept that Yelena wanted to help her. Maybe she even felt like she didn't deserve it. The blonde already suspected that, but had never thought about the failure that that day must have represented for Natasha. Yelena thought about it as the day her sister had been taken away from her, and she was always just glad when they could see each other — alive — even if only for a few seconds. Maybe Natasha wasn't so happy to see her, to be reminded of her mistakes each time their eyes met. But Yelena wasn't going to let her despise herself for that.
"I missed you."
Natasha's hands twitched under hers. She turned her head slightly in Yelena's direction, seemingly about to say something, but then she thought better of it. With a hint of hopefulness, Yelena felt her starting to move, but then she realized that she was turning on the opposite side, giving her her back, the blonde's hand now finding itself resting above her hip. She pulled it back as if she had been burnt, afraid to have read this all wrong. Maybe Natasha simply wanted to forget everything and leave their past behind her, but she didn't know how to tell Yelena. And the blonde was just making things harder for her.
She still had her arm half-raised between them, and was about to withdraw it and turn away as well, when suddenly she felt Natasha shuffling backwards until her back brushed against Yelena's outstretched hand.
She freezed, caught of guard, unsure of what to do next. After a few seconds of debating herself, she sucked in a breath, pushing her hand forward and very hesitantly splaying it against the fabric of the sweater. When Natasha didn't pull away, on the contrary, some of the previous tension seemed to leave her at the touch, she dared to start tracing circles with her thumb, sliding her hand up and down in a soothing motion, and then tentatively bringing it back to where it had been before, just above her side.
At that, Natasha began moving backwards once again, slowly shuffling closer until her back was pressed against Yelena. The blonde was left so dumbfounded by this, that she found herself paralyzed, her mind trying to catch up with what was going on. She was able to recover only when she felt Natasha's stiffness increasing at her lack of a reaction, her shoulders shrinking uncomfortably. She swiftly lowered her free arm, the other now squished between them, encircling her middle and pulling her close. Natasha finally relaxed more fully, releasing a breath and wriggling a bit to make herself comfortable. Yelena tightened her hold as much as she could, mindful of the redhead's injures.
She let her forehead rest against the back of Natasha's head, taking in that now-different, yet familiar, scent that made her feel at home for the first time in years. She closed her eyes, her hand starting to play with the folds and wrinkles of the sweater.
"I'll give it back before I go, don't worry."
Yelena opened her eyes confusedly at the suddenly murmured statement.
"What?"
"Your clothes. I'll put mine back on, so nobody will suspect anything."
Yelena almost laughed at her always-extreme caution, noting that it hadn't changed. But she didn't, because she knew where it came from.
"It's just a sweater. They all look the same."
Also, she didn't want her to wear those clothes again, at least not so soon.
"But then, I don't know if I will be able to return it. If we'll ever—"
She trailed off, because there was no need for it to be said out loud. If we'll ever be together again. Yelena's grip became more firm.
"You can keep it. It's just a sweater, Natasha."
"No."
The sudden reply startled her a bit. She saw her tilt her head and nuzzle the fabric. If they weren't this close, Yelena wouldn't have been able to hear her.
"No, it's not."
Natasha's hand found hers on her stomach and intertwined their fingers for a moment, giving a gentle squeeze.
"Thank you."
She then slided it up to take hold of Yelena wrist, her thumb tracing along the invisible red mark around it, that she knew was there.
Yelena couldn't respond due to the lump that was growing in her throat, emotions overwhelming her as all the built up tension and anxiety of the previous hours melted away.
She pushed herself up slightly and raised her head to place a kiss on top of hers — a gesture that felt both completely wrong and definetly right — memories of a younger Natasha doing the exact same to her washing over them.
Repositioning herself and settling down, Yelena buried her face in red hair without fear of suddenly waking up.
For tonight, this was enough.