( xxiv → ❝if this was the cold war we could keep each other warm❞ )
a fiery girl. | marvel | 1100 words | natasha romanov, bucky barnes.
a fiery girl.
If there is one thing Natasha can never have too much of, it’s memory. Despite the length of her life and the pain of much of it, there’s nothing she would ever chose to forget. She’s not sure if this is a strength or a weakness; she’d like to believe the former but sometimes it’s hard to. It’s more difficult when she feels memories starting to slip away, when she knows she can’t hold onto them and it’s only a matter of time before they are covered by new ones, the same way she used to make footprints in the slush only to see them hidden by the newly-fallen snow.
“You’re a fiery girl. Don’t become a cold woman.”
There’s rain falling, deliberate and steady, against the windows outside. Where does that place her-London, Hong Kong, Seattle? None of the above. She’s in New York, a city she’s never particularly loved but has spent so much of her life in. She’s not in one of her own safe houses, she’s in that same apartment that she keeps finding herself in.
“Don’t become a cold woman.”
She prefers snow to rain. There’s something whimsical about it, crystalline. It reminds her of amber lights and cold mornings, seeing her breath in the wind and her cheeks turning as red as her hair. It reminds her of Ivan tousling that hair and asking her where her hat is, and does she want to catch her death? No such luck, she’d respond to him now.
“A cold woman.”
Memories are like dreams, fleeting and transient. Some of them she wants to rip away from the rest of her psyche, so they can’t taint the rest. Some she wants to bury away, wrapped in satin and maybe also steel, so they can’t be tainted.
█
She is a young girl, but not the kind with hopes and dreams and romantic ideals. She is the kind who wakes up early and trains until her bones are stiff and her body is numb, who nods when a superior addresses her and never speaks out of turn. She is the kind with long lashes and shell-shaped lips, who the officers might’ve winked at had they not already know that these girls, that this girl, is off-limits.
He is a grown man, but not the kind with his own path and mind and controls. He is the kind-or perhaps the only one-who does what he is told in between long, dreamless sleeps. He is the one who takes lives because he does not have one of his own. He is the one who is a stern taskmaster but a good teacher, who sometimes smiles in a sly way that is entirely at odds with the hollow look in his eyes.
They are outside, today, on the grounds. It isn’t snowing, but there’s a fresh layer of it on the ground. The girls stand, in perfect rows, two dozen of them. But it is she he calls on, pointing at her with one gloved finger.
They’ve sparred before, perhaps once or twice. He’s twice her size and has an entirely unique set of skills. She can’t hope to best him, only to hold her own and not make herself a target for punishment if she loses too badly.
And that’s precisely why he never sees it coming when leaps at him, palms knocking against his shoulders and forcing him off his feet. He slips, falls into the snow, his dark hair covered in it as he tries to regain his footing. She doesn’t give him the chance, hands coming down hard on either side of his neck, blocking off his windpipe. He coughs, and she prepares to strike again, but by that time he’s back on his feet, and she’s falling backwards into the snow.
“Not bad… Natalia, is it?” She’s still on her back, head pounding where it hit the ground. His voice is strangely accented; she decides she doesn’t like it. Who is this robotic, foreign man who presumes to teach them? And why is he so unbeatable?
She gets up with as much dignity as she can manage, glares at him with hard emerald eyes. And then he does something she has never seen him do before-he laughs. It’s not the mocking laughter of the other trainers, but a warm, appreciative laughter.
“You’re a fiery girl. Don’t become a cold woman.”
█
She only has a handful of memories like that. She keeps them close to her heart, even though there are others that taint them horribly, with colors dark and feelings of pain and guilt. The way the master pulled her hair as he wrenched them apart, tossing her aside like a ragdoll. The way his eyes went blank and he sunk to the ground-the man who’d seemed all powerful rendered impotent by not even a touch, but a word.
Guilt, too, tainted those memories. Because when she finally found him, trapped and frozen, she realized it had been her fault. Maybe if they’d been more careful, they could have enjoyed each other more. Maybe if she hadn’t been so stupid.
Maybe if she hadn’t given in to her delusions. And she vowed not to let it happen again, and buried her fire beneath layers and layers of snow.
“Become a cold woman.”
█
Rain falls on New York tonight, not snow. Natasha sits with her memories and her emotions and her faults, all laid bare before her. She’s wrapped in an old blanket, her dark hair still wet from the shower falling across her shoulders. There’s a chill that runs up the walls into the apartment, brought in by the rain outside. It fills the air with dampness, and it feels worse than ice.
And in the next moments, there are two strong arms wrapped around her-one cold like steel and ice, the other warm like blood and fire.
“Am I cold?”
“At the moment, yes. It’s freezing in here, Nat, why don’t you have the heater on?”
She shakes her head, even as she remains still in his grasp.
“Do you think I’m cold?”
He leans down and places his forehead against hers, eyes bright and lively, never hollow and empty again.
“You were a fiery girl. And you’re a woman ablaze.”
She smiles, then, the same sly smile he had worn so long ago. And she reaches up to touch his cheek, and he smirks at her.
Some memories, she supposes, cannot be forgotten. Or tainted.
a fiery girl.
If there is one thing Natasha can never have too much of, it’s memory. Despite the length of her life and the pain of much of it, there’s nothing she would ever chose to forget. She’s not sure if this is a strength or a weakness; she’d like to believe the former but sometimes it’s hard to. It’s more difficult when she feels memories starting to slip away, when she knows she can’t hold onto them and it’s only a matter of time before they are covered by new ones, the same way she used to make footprints in the slush only to see them hidden by the newly-fallen snow.
“You’re a fiery girl. Don’t become a cold woman.”
There’s rain falling, deliberate and steady, against the windows outside. Where does that place her-London, Hong Kong, Seattle? None of the above. She’s in New York, a city she’s never particularly loved but has spent so much of her life in. She’s not in one of her own safe houses, she’s in that same apartment that she keeps finding herself in.
“Don’t become a cold woman.”
She prefers snow to rain. There’s something whimsical about it, crystalline. It reminds her of amber lights and cold mornings, seeing her breath in the wind and her cheeks turning as red as her hair. It reminds her of Ivan tousling that hair and asking her where her hat is, and does she want to catch her death? No such luck, she’d respond to him now.
“A cold woman.”
Memories are like dreams, fleeting and transient. Some of them she wants to rip away from the rest of her psyche, so they can’t taint the rest. Some she wants to bury away, wrapped in satin and maybe also steel, so they can’t be tainted.
█
She is a young girl, but not the kind with hopes and dreams and romantic ideals. She is the kind who wakes up early and trains until her bones are stiff and her body is numb, who nods when a superior addresses her and never speaks out of turn. She is the kind with long lashes and shell-shaped lips, who the officers might’ve winked at had they not already know that these girls, that this girl, is off-limits.
He is a grown man, but not the kind with his own path and mind and controls. He is the kind-or perhaps the only one-who does what he is told in between long, dreamless sleeps. He is the one who takes lives because he does not have one of his own. He is the one who is a stern taskmaster but a good teacher, who sometimes smiles in a sly way that is entirely at odds with the hollow look in his eyes.
They are outside, today, on the grounds. It isn’t snowing, but there’s a fresh layer of it on the ground. The girls stand, in perfect rows, two dozen of them. But it is she he calls on, pointing at her with one gloved finger.
They’ve sparred before, perhaps once or twice. He’s twice her size and has an entirely unique set of skills. She can’t hope to best him, only to hold her own and not make herself a target for punishment if she loses too badly.
And that’s precisely why he never sees it coming when leaps at him, palms knocking against his shoulders and forcing him off his feet. He slips, falls into the snow, his dark hair covered in it as he tries to regain his footing. She doesn’t give him the chance, hands coming down hard on either side of his neck, blocking off his windpipe. He coughs, and she prepares to strike again, but by that time he’s back on his feet, and she’s falling backwards into the snow.
“Not bad… Natalia, is it?” She’s still on her back, head pounding where it hit the ground. His voice is strangely accented; she decides she doesn’t like it. Who is this robotic, foreign man who presumes to teach them? And why is he so unbeatable?
She gets up with as much dignity as she can manage, glares at him with hard emerald eyes. And then he does something she has never seen him do before-he laughs. It’s not the mocking laughter of the other trainers, but a warm, appreciative laughter.
“You’re a fiery girl. Don’t become a cold woman.”
█
She only has a handful of memories like that. She keeps them close to her heart, even though there are others that taint them horribly, with colors dark and feelings of pain and guilt. The way the master pulled her hair as he wrenched them apart, tossing her aside like a ragdoll. The way his eyes went blank and he sunk to the ground-the man who’d seemed all powerful rendered impotent by not even a touch, but a word.
Guilt, too, tainted those memories. Because when she finally found him, trapped and frozen, she realized it had been her fault. Maybe if they’d been more careful, they could have enjoyed each other more. Maybe if she hadn’t been so stupid.
Maybe if she hadn’t given in to her delusions. And she vowed not to let it happen again, and buried her fire beneath layers and layers of snow.
“Become a cold woman.”
█
Rain falls on New York tonight, not snow. Natasha sits with her memories and her emotions and her faults, all laid bare before her. She’s wrapped in an old blanket, her dark hair still wet from the shower falling across her shoulders. There’s a chill that runs up the walls into the apartment, brought in by the rain outside. It fills the air with dampness, and it feels worse than ice.
And in the next moments, there are two strong arms wrapped around her-one cold like steel and ice, the other warm like blood and fire.
“Am I cold?”
“At the moment, yes. It’s freezing in here, Nat, why don’t you have the heater on?”
She shakes her head, even as she remains still in his grasp.
“Do you think I’m cold?”
He leans down and places his forehead against hers, eyes bright and lively, never hollow and empty again.
“You were a fiery girl. And you’re a woman ablaze.”
She smiles, then, the same sly smile he had worn so long ago. And she reaches up to touch his cheek, and he smirks at her.
Some memories, she supposes, cannot be forgotten. Or tainted.