13030/Sweet Dreams

Sweet Dreams
Date of Scene:	14 April 2021
Location:	A safehouse in the Bronx
Synopsis:	Nat shoots Alex in the head.
Cast of Characters:	Phobos, Black Widow (Romanoff)

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Phobos has posed:
    Deep into the small hours of the morning, in the Bronx safehouse that had seen more used in the past several months than it likely had in many years, there was blissful quiet. It wasn't an active neighborhood, many of the pieces of property along that street were empty. Some were held be a development company, others by speculators who thought to turn a profit when the economy turned around for this area. Only two on this street were owned by private citizens, this being one of them.
    Yet it kept some of its cache from its prime years. The first floor was maintained and tasteful, with old furniture that had been preserved for a good bit of time, though looking like something that had escaped from the sixties or seventies. It was up on the second floor where the current residents stayed. Before it was primarily purely for storage. But over the last few months it had evolved from just crates and storage and gear, into something lived in.
    There were now utilities and a passable kitchen instead of just a hot plate in the corner. There was a living area that seemed actually somewhat comfortable with a television and a couch. And the bedroom, that had become the place where the two young paramours passed their nights, it had small elements. Aspects of them primarily from simple small things. Like the way their clothing had slowly migrated to the place. How some of their gear now hung up in the closet. How the old set of cots had given way to a comfortable queen-sized bed. Slowly, but surely, they were leaving their mark upon this corner of the world.
    Which was why it was one of the few places that Agent Alexander Aaron allowed himself to lay his head. And tonight he allowed himself the gift of sleep, with the woman he loved at his side. Oh he hadn't told her such. And perhaps didn't know it entirely himself, for what is love to a being that had lost the ability to know fear?
    Yet after the prior night, the long talks, the passage of shared time. Seeing her in the myriad ways he had since that meeting at SHIELD some time ago. He recognized in her that strong connection on a deep level. If not entirely conscious of it.
    So it was within that there was a lovely tableau of peace. The two intelligence operatives laying together, a single cover lying across them. He was turned to the side just so, one arm under his pillow sleeping on his side with their hips touching. He wore little save a pair of boxers, his lithe muscular body at such ease and comfort there. While outside the rain continued to fall softly against the leaded glass window, causing the haloed glow from the street lamp outside to fluctuate with those small crescent curves of water fraying the light.

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
It was unexpected. To have come to this point. Someone who she never expected to be attracted to when looking at face value. He was young, something she didn't particularly found appealing. Not after a century of life. Not after having most of that life being spent doing dark things in the shadows, serving her country. Or to be more accurate, tricked into that service. She thought she was loyal. Instead, she was a pawn.

How times had changed. She wasn't stupid enough to think she wasn't still a pawn. Just on the other side of the board. Though Fury trusted her with a lot, she was still an agent who was being used to achieve someone else's goals. Yet this time it was for a good cause. Or so it seemed.

This place had become a sanctuary, a spot to be away from all of that. But it wasn't the place. Places were just that. It was him. The young man who turned out to be far more than she had expected. He was the son of a mortal and a god. A man who wasn't a man. He had that lightness of youth yet the darkness of antiquity, all combined into one. How was that possible? She'd seen it though. When they sparred, that edge there. She knew it well because she had it too. Something she had denied, felt was a flaw in herself. Yet, he didn't see it as a flaw. It was part of her, a piece of the whole that created the being Natalia Alianovna Romanova. One of many names but the first she had known.

As she slept, she dreamed. Memories of their times spent together. In the field. Here. But then it shifted and she was facing a choice. One that would determine the course of the rest of her life.

Phobos has posed:
    There was an ease in the peace that he seemed to hold, just in those moments of rest and repose between them. Trust given, allowing one's guard down and to let another within. To let them see the cracks and flaws of a life spent going down blind paths. She had lived more years, but the young man at her side had experienced much in what time he had. She pays her penance still for the dark times and deeds that still haunted her. And Alexander, in some ways was still finding his way through the acceptance of what he himself had done in the past.
    But it was here that there was an element of recognition, feeling that nearness, those fleeting glimpses of normalcy shared. It was what allowed him to sleep now at such ease. Only a few nights had they been apart since they first chose to take the chance of becoming involved, yet each night they had slept well in each others' arms.
    And tonight was no different for him. To look at him then... and now. He was beautiful. Without the movement of him, without the shift and change of his features and smile, one could look on him in repose and see that perfection in form that he so often tried to hide when out amongst those of the world. The sharply defined muscular form that he hid underneath the baggy clothes, the strong taper of those broad shoulders, the firm arms that held the pillow beside him, and those long legs. In some ways it was the awful beauty of the divine, yet in others were she to look on him she would see that brilliance of feature that made him entirely too human.
    Though for now he rested, chest rising and lowering that slow steady pace. Breathing barely visible as he experienced a deep slumber.

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
In the bed, she shifted. An anxious movement. A jerk of a leg as she turned her head to the side. A light sheen of sweat was on her skin. Glowing. She didn't have night terrors. Bad dreams. Perhaps she should. She deserved as much yet she had always slept soundly and never was haunted by her deeds when asleep.

No, they only haunted her while she was awake.

In the dream there were two doors, a man at each of them. One was dark, a trench coat matching the black eyepatch he wore. The door he stood before was strong. Metal. There was a keypad with a retinal scan requirement to be able to access it. Behind it was all she was. All she had known her entire life. Being an agent. An assassin. A warrior for a cause.

The other man was golden, from his hair to his skin, a god given mortal form. His eyes were hazel, shifting colors at times, but there were golden specks in there that glowed of something more. The door behind him was...

Normal. It was the door to a house. Painted white with hunter green trim around the door frame. There was a little window that was frosted in the center, diamond shaped. It didn't let one to see in but still allowed the light to enter the room the exterior. The man was smiling and holding out a keychain toward her, the keychain a cartoonish cat dressed like a pirate with a sword and eyepatch. There was one key on the ring, shaped like a house key.

The choice was hers. While in life, she wasn't forced to choose, in the dream she had to.

She took a deep breath and reached out a hand...

In the bedroom, she was suddenly jerking upright, hand yanking the Glock out from under her pillow. She rolled up onto her knees in a smooth motion, second hand coming up to work that slide to chamber a round.

Then she aimed that gun at the face of the man beside her, finger curling around the trigger.

Phobos has posed:
    There was little time between one moment and the next. Yet also an eternity between now and then. In that instant that she was awake and rolled to her knees, the weapon coming free and the slide on it working with that faint ca-click, muted for the intelligence work that she did. She took clean aim and she saw him.
    He was perhaps as she remembered him. Perhaps he was someone else entirely. Perhaps he was asleep. Perhaps he was awake and leering. In the dark of the night in that bedroom with the rain outside, it was hard to be sure of anything. She had him clean. Nothing could stop the kill shot. One could draw a perfect point to point line between the barrel of the pistol and the side of his temple. And he was not moving.
    Though she might realize his breathing had paused. Held. If she saw him, truly saw him, she would see him awaken. Just the eyelids rise, the eyes sliding slowly to the side to see her there crouched, firing position perfect, ready. The lines of the tendons in her arms bunched. A bare ounce of pressure on that Glock and the round would fire.
    There was still that patter of rain outside. Then the soft rasp of the covers sliding off of his hip as he slowly turned. Slowly... very slowly. Until he was on his back looking up at her. At the barrel of the gun, but it was her eyes that drew him. His breathing remained slow. Steady.
    For a moment his gaze narrowed very faintly. A thought flickering into being. Then banished. And instead he just nodded once slowly before he lifted his head, arched his back just enough as he took a deep breath.

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
When she speaks, it's in Russian. <You have compromised me. My mission. My purpose.> Her voice is firm, sharp. A hint of anger to it. <You must not survive and I must return to the path.>

Her hand started shaking. Something that Natasha never did. Even when facing an angry Hulk, she had never allowed there to be a wobble in her aim.

She saw him. This man who had dared to distract her. Who had made her consider what was the biggest sin for their kind.

This man who she cared for. Who she wanted to spend time with. Days. Weeks. Years. He had his moment. That instant their eyes met he could have used his power. Could have saved himself. Yet, he didn't.

Her green eyes were shining, wet, then a tear flowed down her cheek followed by another. When she spoke again, the words were barely a whisper, barely audible. "I'm sorry."

She pulled the trigger.

Phobos has posed:
    There's the loud sharp /crack/ that's heard, strong in that bedroom like a large firecracker exploding in place as the round fires. His head jerks back, blood spatters upon the wall, the bed, the sheets as he falls back and down body suddenly limp. Once again on his side, looking as he did but moments ago and once again at peace. This side of his face uninjured, but there's a steady flow of blood from the other side into the pillow.
    And still outside beyond the window the rain continues to fall, casting those faint curves of light upon the room and the couple within.
    All else is silent, no sounds from the neighborhood, no notice of the world on what has passed. She is left there alone with her thoughts, the smell of gunpowder fired and oil even as the world both seems to abruptly make sense... and defy it entirely in that one single moment.

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
The sound echoed in her ears then left them ringing due to being in such closed room. The empty shell had been expelled from the weapon, flying out the right side and landing on the floor. It was silent for her but in reality there was a light tink of the metal on the hard floor. Then it rolled a few inches and stopped by the wall. The action of the slide had another round in the chamber ready to go. She continued to hold the weapon on him, eyeing the body on the bed before her. The blood that was staining the pillow and the sheets. She moved to the side of the bed, stepping lightly down. One foot on the floor then the second. The oversized t-shirt she was wearing falling down around her thighs almost to her knees.

She stood there a moment as her mind went though everything that had happened in the last few seconds. A wipe of her hand across her cheek and any sign of tears was gone.

She looked to him again. Laying there so peacefully. At ease. No more danger to her. Eyes remaining on his blond hair, she tapped the magazine release and caught the falling magazine in her opposite hand. She laid it on the corner of the bed, on her side. Then she grabbed the slide with that left hand, pulling it back and using her right thumb to lock it open as the bullet was ejected to land on the bed as well. She did then look away, glancing down as she made sure the weapon was clear more out of habit. Then she snapped the slide back into place and aimed the empty weapon at the bed. The pulled the trigger and got a click to verify it was empty. The Glock was laid next to the bullet and magazine. A few steps to her side of the bed and she picked up her cell phone before turning and walking out of the room.

Once outside, she ran a finger over the screen then let it scan her fingerprint to unlock. A button push to get her contacts and then the phone was at her ear as she waited. A moment later, it was answered.

"Director Fury. I just executed Agent Alexander Aaron. Please send someone to take me into custody."

Phobos has posed:
    Those words hung there in the dark. Like some great grim portent that threatened the entire homestead. It was all there and incontrovertible to her perception. She had drawn, aimed, fired.
    Still there was little more to hear in the house. The faint drone of the refrigerator's motor. The trickling rivulets of rain perhaps on the window glass. The sound on the other end of the line cutting out as the line goes mute, but not broken.
    She is left there with her thoughts in that white noise around her, in the dark of the house, with nothing more there for her than to leave it.
    Until a minute passes.
    Two.
    Then there is a quiet groan from that other room.

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
There were questions being asked. She would answer them with that same cold tone. It was as though it was just another job. Just another task that had been handled. Nothing major, the taking of the life of her lover.

She stood by that window, watching the rivulets of water sliding down the exterior surface. "Yes, Sir. Understood. I'll..."

The sound. Her head snapped that direction as she frowned. "Hold a moment please." She moved toward the bedroom, feet almost silent. To that darkened room where she had committed such an atrocity. She stepped across the threshold into the room, glancing over toward the bed.

Phobos has posed:
    He stirred.
    Though the blood was still wet, slick upon the wall, though the sheets were stained with the grim ichor yet he stirred. Pushed up on one hand, his back to her and the door. He rises partially, then turns his head with lips parting as a groan is torn from him, one hand lifting to the side of his head...
    And she can see then the wound, a furrow that /sliced/ along the side of his head, bone visible amongst the gore along with assuredly some cracks in the skull that had him seeing double and the world tilting around in a wicked gyre of movement that only he could perceive.
    Yet he managed to rise. To sit up, lifting himself enough to lean forward with his feet upon the floor now and his head in his hands as he tries to focus, to realize what happened. Then his voice lifts, pained, ragged to call out a single word.
    "Natasha?" Even as blood still flowed along the curve of his neck, yet not in the amounts it had only moments before.

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
She was still holding the phone to her ear as she stared at him. It wasn't possible. At that range? There was no way that she could have missed the shot. Yet he was moving. Talking. Alive.

Inside her everything began to toppled over, so many dominos having been tilted with the push of a single one.

"Director, I seem to have been mistaken. He's awake. I will call you back." And just like that, she hung up on the Director of SHIELD, likely leaving him with more questions than answers. She dropped the phone onto the bed beside the Glock and stared at Alex. Outwardly, she was cool and calm. No sign of that swirl of thoughts in her head.

She turned and walked out of the room. Only to return a moment later with a clean white towel which she offered to him. He was alive! But how? She couldn't miss at that range and she had needed to kill him.

Wait. She didn't want to kill him. The shaking. The conflict inside her mind. She had fought what she was programmed to do. And she had managed to pull her shot. Just enough that he wasn't dead, though surely he was injured. Pretty damn severely if he were anything but he was.

Phobos has posed:
    There is no focus to him, not yet. Right now the world is a seething mass of pain and blazing explosions of fireworks behind his eyelids when his eyes were closed, worse when he opened them. She handed him that towel and he accepted it, holding it up to the side of his head, but not knowing truly where to hold it, just applying its mass there.
    Yet he had managed her name.
    And then he manages two more words, quietly, and for once she can hear the puzzlement, the surprise. The hurt.
    "What happened?" He takes several quick breaths, trying to gather himself, to focus. Yet she can see even now the way his skin knits slowly over the wound, the flesh mending as it touches at points over the white of bone.
    Then he has the gall to ask, "Are you alright?"

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
"Am I..." She stops herself but the shock of him asking that is obvious. The fact she was echoing him. The surprise showing on her face for that moment. Then it is gone as she gets it tucked back away behind her mask.

How was she supposed to explain this? He was never going to understand. Even though she hadn't killed him? The damage was done. There was no way they could continue as they were. No way he could accept this.

"I shot you." She paused, letting that sink in as she looked at that wound. At the way he was starting to heal already on the outside. Yet, internally, there were still wounds. The brain might be bruised and swelling. The skull cracked. The pscyhological damage from her act.

"It seems there was something in me that I was not aware of. Programming. I managed to beat it somehow since you are wounded instead of dead." She shakes her head. "Not an excuse. This is unforgivable."

Phobos has posed:
    She can hear his breath come roughly, exhaled twice sharply, but not from difficulty breathing, but... scoffing. Exhaling something almost a laugh, as if not believing what she's saying, then he groans and grabs at his head, turning it slowly from side to side as if trying to shake it in slow motion.
    "I... I remember." He says quietly, as the injury does heal, the flesh knitting and binding over the pale bone. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Then he exhales again, this time a stronger thing, a laugh for sure as he says quickly, loudly, "Why?!"
    But that just causes him to laugh again, before he looks up at her and he can't hide that initial reaction, that hurt look like a dog that's been kicked, not understanding why there is cruelty in the world. But then he closes his eyes again still holding that towel to the side of his head. "It's..."
    He tries to manage, then says quietly, "It's ok. I've been... shot before." Though perhaps not quite like this. He takes another deep breath.
    "Why, Natasha?"

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
She closes her eyes, playing it back through her head. Jubilation that she had beaten it, that he was alive and seemed he was going to recover. At least physically.

Satsifaction that she was able to beat it, that thing inside her. That monster that she had been. No, that wasn't right. She apparently still was and just hadn't known.

Natasha opened her eyes and looked to him as she sat gently on the edge of the bed. Trying not to jostle him too much with the movement. "I made a choice." That wasn't explaining it at all. "I had a dream. I had to choose. My life as it has been. Or a life with you." Her voice softened. "I chose you."

Which still doesn't explain how that reached this point. "Apparently my subconscious had a trigger. By turning away from what I was made for, it told me I was compromised. If I am compromised, I have to eliminate what is going to interfere with my mission. So I woke up and was going to shoot you."

She sighs softly. "I was fighting it and somehow, I pulled the shot enough that you were wounded. So I beat it. Yet, even though you'll live, the programming did it's job. I've ruined us. And lost the one thing that is important enough I would be willing to leave this life behind me."

Phobos has posed:
    Another exhaled breath and he whispers, "Natasha..."
    There is quiet between them, even as he winces and closes his eyes, holding that bloodied towel to the side of his head. It was a harsh thing for her to endure, and a painful thing for him to face and recover. Shaking his head so slowly, he murmurs.
    "I've..." A small smile, then he blinks and looks away. Then he laughs again gently. "I think what you're saying is..."
    There's a pause as he looks down, brow furrowed, then he looks back up as he peers at her with his gaze still hazy from the head trauma...
    "I think you're saying we're in love." Which is perhaps the strangest way for two beings on this planet right now to express such things.
    Yet he says it, even as he still bleeds from the furrow she creased into the side of his skull. But then he laughs a little and murmurs, as he reaches a hand out to try and find hers.

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
"This isn't funny," Natasha says, confused at what in the world would have him laughing. "It must be the blood loss. It's making you light headed."

She thinks about his words and shakes her head. "I've been in love before. This never happened." All of them lived through the experience. Well maybe one didn't but that was a very different situation and he had been trying to kill her. But wait, she had never had the thought of leaving the life behind. Of seeing a future outside of being an agent, a chance at something else perhaps in time. After all, they were both agents. It wasn't like the choice was something she had to make now.

Yet their talk the night before. He would live for a very long time. She might as well, if the next hundred years were like the past. It meant there could be a future with a partner instead of watching them age and die as she stayed young. It meant that she could explore a life with someone instead of just enjoying the experiences while she could before she had to move on.

"I..." He took her hand and she turned hers palm upwards under his, giving it a squeeze "I think I am saying that." While carefully not saying that.

Phobos has posed:
    His fingers interlaced with hers as he looked down at their hands, his own closing, squeezing. Then he drew her close and he very gently touched his lips just to the corner of her mouth. A small kiss, that wasn't some passionate thing. It was more a gentle thing, to perhaps let her know there would be a tomorrow.
    Then there was another, very gentle, gingerly given as if making sure this was a thing that was alright. His lips soft, the faint tang of blood. Then he drew back and murmured quietly, eyes hooded.
    "I told you if you died I'd go to the underworld and find you."
    His eyes lift to meet hers, still a touch hazed so perhaps he doesn't know all of what he's saying, or perhaps he does and simply has thrown caution to the wind. "If I die, I'll come back. Eventually. And if I remember one thing it'll be you."

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
It was the most beautiful, painful, poignant kiss she had ever experienced. Though she was positive things were not going to be the same, things were forever damaged beyond repair, he was being understanding. Accepting even. Of her. Of her monsters. Of herself.

She returned the kiss as she felt a sting of tears but they were controlled by the time their eyes opened again after that soft press of lips. She focused on his eyes.

"Alex," her voice was soft as she squeezed his hand. "I don't know how you can be understanding of all this. I think it is the blood loss and mabye some brain damage. We'll see when you are fully recovered. But for now, I know I do feel deeply for you. That I'd be willing to go wherever gods go when they die to hang out until they are reborn here. If it's the realm of Hades, you might want to warn him that I'm a mortal who fights among gods and wins. He doesn't want me coming for him."

A soft smile as she brings up a hand to his cheek, the one opposite the wound. "I love you."

Phobos has posed:
    "Yeah," He says at first, knowing that she does. That she perhaps has. She can see the smile in his eyes, even if they are bleary and his vision is blurred. Yet he says quietly, "I love you too."
    And then there's another kiss, just as gentle, just as careful as he eases comfortably to lean against her and to accept her as well, drawing her close. He takes a deep breath, sharing that closeness, that intimacy.
    Then quietly he murmurs, "Besides. It's ok. My dad shot me once too."
    Which then those words hang there in the air... until he adds. "I was six."
    Then he looks to her sidelong and he smiles faintly and murmurs. "Only once."
    Another long pause, then he holds up two fingers an inch apart.
    "Don't worry, was a small bullet."