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"Are you done?" the redhead asked, a sigh underlying her voice.
You did not need to turn around to see her, you could see the woman leaning in the doorway out of the corner of your eye. She was looking soft, way more than you had expected her to.
Natasha should not be that calm, she should be angry, and yet she gave you nothing more than a quiet disappointment. One that was carefully hidden behind layers of concern, but you could still perceive, — because you knew her perfectly.
And maybe that was worse.
The woman was always calm, even — mainly — when she should not. She had learnt from a very young age that emotions were to be kept, her expression only meant to reflect what people were expecting to see, nothing more than a mirror to their desires.
She thought you must desire — need — comfort and reassurance after that day, explaining why she pushed aside the things she felt, replacing the frown of her brows by a small smile.
And yet, right now, the soft tone you always loved so much was, at best, unbearable. It made you sick in the stomach that she was here, gentle despite the things you had done. You do not deserve her love. The thought made its way into your mind, poisoning it slowly, fuelled by the guilt, exhaustion and pain you were feeling.
"Done what?" you innocently asked back. But you knew exactly what she meant, you just did not want to admit it.
You turned your head so you would not see the woman anymore, a useless gesture since she moved soon after you did. You heard her footsteps first, slow but steady, and then the parquet flooring in your vision was replaced by black boots — hers. The hands she placed on your knees were meant to be reassuring, but they only made you wish you could push them away —push her away. Yet, you did not, because you had not the energy to start such a futile fight.
"Let me see, please," she tried asking — begging. But when you did not reply, she knew that using a soft tone would get her nowhere. "Dekta, look at me" she ordered, and her tone, firmer this time, left no room for you to ignore the request.
You raised your gaze without thinking about it, not really. There was something in her presence that always made you soft, pliant — good. Before you can look away again, her hands leave your knees to cup your cheeks, imprisoning your face, forcing your eyes to delve into the depth of hers.
"You are going to let me take care of you, okay?" she asked once again, and you nodded this time, indulging in her request. The soothing gesture of her thumb brushing slow circles on the apple of your cheek was enough to finish tearing down the barriers behind which you had taken refuge.
"You should be with 'ria," you whispered weakly, but the protest died on your tongue, and the words you meant to say remained stuck in your throat — "because I do not deserve your comfort," those are the words you painfully swallowed.
"She is not the one bleeding, I am sure she can wait a bit," she replied, but if those words were meant to be a joke, they did not manage to elicit a hint of a smile from you. Only tears, at the thought of the woman that must hate you now.
And maybe Natasha could sense the turmoil that reigned within you at this moment, because she let out a soft sigh. It did not express annoyance, only her helplessness in view of the situation. There was nothing the redhead hated more than the feeling of the two people she loved most in the world, and what she had built with them, threatening to slip through her fingers.
The previous nights had been spent sleeping in an empty bed, marked by the absence of her lovers. For reasons unknown to the women, you had embarked on a mission that was not meant to be yours, and Maria? She was furious.
To say that was an understatement, because since she had locked herself in her office, after learning the news, no one had been able to reach the commander. In reality, no one, not even the redhead, had been brave — stupid — enough to try.
But you were back. Alive, safe, almost entirely. And Natasha had nurtured this childish hope that things would go back to normal the moment the mission would come to an end — except it did not, and tonight, the bed she will sleep in, would be as cold as yesterday.
Natasha liked routine — her routine —, and she would do anything to get back to the soft reassurance that came with it. She was ready to forgive — forget — anything, to pretend that some things never happened, that some decisions were never made.
She would even ignore the anger that was growing in her chest if that is what was needed, but Maria? Maria could not — because she felt like it was her fault.
When you came back, she did not even dare to look at you, frightened by what she might see in your eyes, afraid that the blood staining your uniform could be yours, a sign that the things she feared the most eventually became a reality — you were hurt, and it was her fault.
Maria thought you were ready — god, she thought you would actually listen for once. But you were stubborn, you have always been.
The memories were vivid, and they played over, and over, in her mind, drawing her into a spiral she could not escape. The woman could still hear the cracks in her voice when she yelled — begged — you not to step in that convey. You did anyway, carried by a quiet confidence and a desperate need to prove your worth.
She remembers her ears ringing, filled with the sound of her own heart beating fast — too fast. She had screamed, but was met only with a deafening silence, your earpiece switched off right before you set foot in the unknown.
You were damn stupid, but so was she, and when you came back, after days that felt like an eternity, she had not dared to look at you for longer than a few seconds. You had read anger, and disappointment, in her attitude, but if you had dared to look each other in the eyes, you would have only seen concern in hers.
Her stern attitude cracked when she saw the blood on your suit — could it be yours? At that moment, all she could see in you was the embodiment of her failures.
That day, she left before you could look at her with your puppy eyes that always managed to pierce through her barriers, she left before words she would regret could be pronounced. But, as she walked away, you called out to her — of course you did, because that silence was worse than anything else.
You had prepared yourself for shouting, for recriminations, but not for this. Not for this quiet disappointment. Not for this ignorance. This had never happened before, and it left you with the impression that, this time, you had crossed a line of no return.
But it was only once night had fallen that you realized it, when none of them came back to bed, the later still being as cold and empty when you woke up as when you had fallen asleep.
Maria could not sleep. All the 'what ifs' where running through her head, playing a melody she could not stop — what if you had been hurt? What if they had not found in time? What if... what if... Guilt was gnawing at her from the inside.
The woman liked to think she was doing her job properly. She did not become commander, then deputy director, by chance. No, she did so because worked hard, because she was efficient — because she followed the rules.
Maria liked rules; they are simple — they are safe. She had sticked by them her whole life — or so she thought. Eventually, she realized that it was no longer true, that since you entered her life, you kept pushing all the limits she was supposed to be the guardian of. In the end, she had even begun to exceed them herself — and the thought was terrifying.
She thought about all the times she bent the rules for you, small actions that she thought were inconsequential, but whose true significance she eventually came to realise; she was no longer doing her job properly — how could she, when you looked at her with those eyes? When you promised her you would not do it again?
Except that bending the rules was not just a matter of integrity; bending the rules meant putting at risk safety. Yours, hers, but also the one of every agent, and even the institution itself.
"We can't do this anymore," she bluntly said, "I can't do this anymore," she insisted, and if you looked into her eyes for something that would tell you she was not serious, you could not find anything.
It was a few days after your return, and you had not seen her since. That morning, she had come before dawn, not daring to wake you up — because as long as you were sleeping, things would remain unchanged. Safe.
She had not slept that night either, turning the words over and over in her head, searching for a good way to break the news to you — was there even a good way to do this? To break up with someone you loved so deeply?
"W- what?" You were confused. The words, cold and calculated, were thrown your way without any context. "'Ria, what do you mean?" You asked again, now widly awake as you could sense the emergency in the situation. You did not know what exactly yet, but something in her tone made your heart beat fast.
"We are done," she said, "that is what I mean," — could you be dreaming? The whole situation felt so unreal, that for a moment, you refused to believe what you had just heard.
You knew you had messed up, crossing a line of no return when you had stepped into that car, but you would never have imagined that the consequences would be that bad.
"I- where is 'tasha? Does she know?" You asked back, struggling to find the right words — because there are not any. “You can't..,” you started whispering, without getting a chance to finish your sentence.
Surprisingly, the redhead is the only thing you can think about in the moment — maybe because you needed her and her steady presence. You were never the rational one, Natasha was. Always calm and confident, she was your anchor in the storm — and christ, you were going through a hell of one right now.
But she was not here.
"I can," she replied dryly, and if you did not know her, you would have thought she was being sincere. God, even knowing her, it was so hard to see past the facade she would force herself to keep up to make things easier.
Except it did not work. Not for you, and certainly not for her, considering how her eyes were not quite meeting yours.
"I promise I will listen now, I- I won't do it again, but please, Maria," you said — begged —, but she had heard those words so many times already that they had lost their meaning. They were only empty promises she let slide too many times, blinded by what? A stupid, childish feeling; love.
"We both know it won't change anything, not everything's about you," she replied, and a silence followed her words, none of you knowing what to say, but none of you wanting to end this conversation — because then, it would be the end of everything. For good.
"But it is not fair," you whispered, so low that you thought they would never reach her ears — but they did. She even noticed how your voice broke on the last word, not saying it completely.
"Life never is," she replied, but her tone was not dry, not as much as previously, and if you paid particular attention to it, you could detect something behind the sudden softness — empathy, maybe pity. Almost like she could identify herself in your words, as if she was feeling the same unfairness; "I see you, I hear you," those are the words her tone conveyed.
And, she was right; life was not fair. The words got stuck in your mind for a long time, and the more you thought about it, the more hopeless the whole situation felt. Words, gifts, actions,... nothing would never be enough to get back what you had lost that day.
You did not sleep that night, nor the next one, jumping at every sound that could let you think that one of them was about to push the door to your once common room. But it stayed silent, and your bed remained cold, empty.