Chapter Text
—
I'm just trying to figure out who I want to be this week
Because I know it's not me, I know it's not me
—
She hadn't planed on calling Clint Barton on his personal cell phone, not ten days after she decided to let him live.
In fact, she hadn't planned on calling Clint Barton at all. Not even a little and also not ever.
She had planned on leaving New York, leaving America, leaving behind the whole mess that hadn’t done anything to help settle her. She had planned on joining Sonya for an easy mission with an uncomplicated target who even a tenderhearted optimist (such as Barton's curiously chipper protegee) would agree was a Very Bad Guy. And she had planned on spending the evening after the mission in the company of a Parisian model with dark hair and dark eyes, who might manage to give her something other than an all-too-fleeting moment of ecstasy.
She’d managed everything but the last.
Because instead, she's calling Clint Barton.
(She hadn’t killed him, but she still thought he was probably a dangerous sort of idiot. One that Natasha had befriended for reasons akin to saving a drowning rat: a pathetic, little, wet thing that needed the help of something greater than itself. She hated him — and hated him unsatisfyingly — because if there was anyone else left to blame, she’d hate them instead.)
She's calling Clint Barton, and that has to be further evidence that there's definitely something wrong with her.
“There is something wrong with me,” she says, as soon as she hears the ring cut off.
“Wh—?”
Before he can finish a single word (before Yelena can come to her senses), she continues, forcibly brisk.
“Did Natasha think there was something wrong with her too?”
She thinks he might hang up then.
The silence stretches on in a way that seems to say he’s definitely thinking about it. But in the end, he only sighs. It’s a pathetic sound, so much so that it sparks a brief burst of delight that has nowhere to go (a frustrating sensation, and one that she’s become annoyingly familiar with).
“… Yelena?”
“Yes, of course it’s me. Who else would be making a call like this?”
Another long pause. This time, his long suffering sigh reminds her of Natasha, but everything does, so she doesn’t give him any credit for it (or any fault).
“Seven people have this number. Right now, I know four of them are safe. Can you let me know — uh, just to be sure — if the rest are?”
Yelena rolls her eyes, and then puts some effort into making sure Barton can hear the emotion behind the gesture.
“Do you always jump straight to the worst case scenario? What about the sunny side of life? You should listen to more of The Carter Family. It’s very relaxing music.” Before Barton can let loose another familiar sound, Yelena continues. “But no, I did not kill anyone. I got it from the little hawk. You should tell her to be more careful with her cell phone. It hangs out of her back pocket for anyone to take and then look through and then also change a few of her contacts.”
She smiles a little, cheered by both picturing Barton’s face at receiving this news and remembering the moment itself.
(Kate had been in the midst of an argument with her delivery boy about the aioli-to-meat ratio of the sandwich that'd just arrived, and from what Yelena could tell, it was a long-standing feud. She had been tempted to watch all the way to the resolution of the disagreement, even after she’d finished with her business. Kate Bishop was funny, even when she was mad. Maybe especially so.)
“That last one was just for fun,” she adds. “How long do you think it will take before she decides to text ‘Douchey Haircut But Nice Smile’ again? I think I will be able to keep the game going for a week, at least, before she realizes it’s not Mr. Haircut replying.”
She says it to annoy him, but she finds she enjoys the idea on its own merit. It shouldn’t be a surprise; she’d thought much of the same when she’d slipped the phone from Kate’s jeans (loose and high-waisted, and unfashionable in a way that weirdly worked for her) and hidden one of her more permanent numbers in a random contact without much thought or reason.
“Yelena,” Barton says, and she definitely still hates him a little, but doesn’t disconnect. “Why are you calling me?”
Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. She should have killed him. She should have at least stabbed him. She should have done anything other than what she’d done, because now it was all worse.
“I already told you.”
She regrets the reply as soon as it’s released; the words themselves are fine, but the tone is not and she reveals more than she should.
(It’s not anger anymore, it’s anguish. It’s not fury, it’s desperation. She hates it and hates him and even that hate is a sad, empty sort of thing, and she hates that most of all.)
“She — Nat, I mean — she — ” He breaks off, like he’s already said too much. Yelena is inclined to agree. There’s a tension crawling up her spine and into the back of her skull that makes her want to break something. “I don’t know if she thought there was something wrong with her. I didn’t think so, but… I didn’t think she thought my life was worth more than hers either.”
“She was wrong,” Yelena cuts in, because the tension is seeping into her back molars and an ache is settling in.
(She misses anger. She misses the sharpness of it. She misses Natasha and all the things she never got to build with her. Stupid to let herself think it. Stupid to make this call.)
“I know,” Barton says.
“Good.”
She pulls the phone away from her face, staring down at the tiny screen. Time to go. The call had been foolish enough without letting it drag on, like she was doing now.
“Hey, look, I — ” He sighs again, one last time, loud enough that she does not need to bring the phone back to her ear. “Nat would want — We don’t have to be like this, you know. What… sort of thing do you think is wrong with you?”
The sharp lines of the phone press into her palm and fingers. She’d like to crush it completely.
“If I had any idea, I wouldn’t have called you.”
The wrong parts of her stretch, spreading through her gut like sepsis. She ignores it, drops her phone, and smashes it with the heel of her boot.
—
“Oh, look, Noémie! The lady killer is back so early. Big miss tonight, Yelena?”
If she were following strict protocol, she wouldn’t be here, but without an answer from Barton or a distraction from the city around her, she’s left with the dingy safehouse where one of her sisters is learning how to exist again. Noémie looks amused enough at the dig — even though she had not known Yelena before this morning— and Yelena lightens slightly. Bringing a Widow back was never a completely uneventful process (even with Melina’s improvements to the antidote and its delivery methods), but the mission had been easier than many of the others she’d been a part of. The Blip had done strange things to the path that led towards their ultimate goal, but Antonia had done well in improving their networks and retrieval abilities after Yelena had gone. (And had continued to do so after she had come back.)
“Yes, yes, very funny. Look, Noémie; Sonya is an amazingly talented comedian. And I’m a huge loser for not getting laid,” she switches from French to English for the last bit, because it’s the best choice for conveying her full meaning. “What’s for dinner? I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry. But Lerato is not here to make tartiflette on the fly for you, so you’ll have to get something for yourself. We already ate.”
Stepping further into the flat, Yelena drops into one of the weirdly ornate dining chairs and groans, kicking up her feet onto the table. She’d opted for designer wear while in Paris and — seeing her footwear now — she regrets it; her new Saint Laurent ankle boots had been wasted on an utterly disappointing night. If Yelena were in the mood for further self-reflection, she might find some kind of depressing little metaphor in that, but even at her worst she wasn’t quite that maudlin.
“And what if Noémie would like to spend some of her new free time cooking?” Yelena suggests, ever-helpful. “She could make tartiflette. She won’t know if she enjoys it until she tries.”
From the kitchen sink, Sonya fights a smile. She’s changed into something unflattering and comfortable, and wiped away the heavy and in-fashion makeup that Yelena had helped her apply this morning. She looks utterly at-ease, washing dishes with a battered sponge, and Yelena — one of the privileged to know this is not a front — wonders how that can be.
“Would you like to waste your time cooking tartiflette for Yelena, Noémie?”
“You are saying tartiflette more than it should ever be said,” Noémie grouses. “And no. I hate cooking. It takes forever, and for what? I had to cook for Alarie sometimes. All the money he paid and he wastes my talents with such ridiculous thin— ”
Noémie freezes. This part, Yelena knows, never gets easier. She lets Sonya (immediately on-task, even in her silly little pajamas) take the lead. This had been Yelena’s mission once, but she's not so sure that she’s needed for it anymore. Which, of course, is part of the problem. Or maybe the whole problem. (She isn’t sure about that yet either.)
“Some of us like to start with revenge,” Sonya says, slowing her movements as she slips back into Russian with a quiet tenderness. “Yelena already took care of Alaric, but you could kill anyone who’s left. That’s usually a nice start. Though some of us prefer a little blackmail instead."
“Or if not instead, then first,” Yelena adds, mirroring both language and tone. “Money and then revenge. A classic combination.”
Noémie stares at her, dish towel hanging limply in her hands, unreadable underneath her fresh pain. “And… then?”
“And then… whatever you want. Whatever feels right. You will know it when you see it.”
It’s Sonya who replies again and Yelena is glad, because she’s without an answer herself. And then, and then, and then? She keeps asking herself, but she’s not reached a point where she can stop with the asking and get on with the doing and the purpose to life and the promised fulfillment. (Not exactly a shining example for a newly released Widow.)
“And sometimes, what feels right is… tartiflette?”
Noémie offers a somewhat weak smile, but Sonya’s resulting grin is almost enough to make up for what it lacks.
“That is what we are coming to find.”
With a thoughtful nod, Noémie falls silent, abandoning her drying duties in favor of playing with the end of her braid. She’d secured her hair in the familiar style soon after they’d brought her to the safe house, and Yelena remembers experiencing the same impulse. In fact, she still feels the same impulse. The idea makes Yelena’s scalp itch, and she tries to focus on reality rather than possibility:
Most of them had worn their hair long (had been told to). A braid was practical, especially in a fight. The length allowed for allure, when outside of one. She’d liked to see how long it grew, a confirmation that she was living — day after day — just like everyone else.
(What parts of him got left behind? she still wonders. How much of what’s left is me?)
Yelena decides — right at that exact moment — that she hates the look of it, the feel of it, the reminder of it.
“Sonya! Come over here and cut my hair.”
She doesn’t recognize her own voice at first. She’s too loud, too abrupt, and too much all together. Sonya, noticing all of it and then some, gives her one of those annoying looks that means she’ll be telling Antonia and Lerato about this later. For once, Yelena doesn’t care; her call with Barton had left her jittery, each word a little needle pressing into skin, wearing away at any kind of sense or control.
“What?” she asks, all too blasé. “I’m being a good example! I suddenly felt like cutting off all my hair. No one is here to say no. So I do it. See, Noémie? A masterclass in your future. Sonya will cut my hair and I will order some food and you will see what real contentment looks like.”
The look does not abate. Sonya also makes absolutely no move to comply with Yelena’s request (or, more accurately, her demand), leaning up against a cabinet and watching Yelena a little too closely as she dries her hands with the towel Noémie had discarded.
“You want me to hack at your hair with a pair of kitchen shears? We are in Paris. Go to a salon.”
Yelena dismisses the idea with a wave of her hand. “You’re very talented with kitchen shears. Remember the cut you gave Kammie in Kyoto? Very chic,” she adds in a sing-song. “The bleach thing you did was cool. I want that too.”
Finally, Sonya pushes off the counter, and though it’s done with a roll of her eyes, Yelena’s encouraged by her movement towards the drawer containing their limited and mismatched collection of kitchenware.
“Now she wants a cut and dye.” Sonya tsks, but rummages around in the drawer nevertheless, using the scissors she quickly acquires to gesture over her shoulder at something further in the apartment. “Noémie, check the back closet for things; hair bleach, shampoo, a pair of scissors without rust, maybe?”
By the time Yelena realizes this casual errand is a trap, it’s too late. Sonya’s eyes are relaxed and tender and very, very dangerous as she crosses under the arched doorway that connects the kitchen and dining room, and when she then sits down at the table, it leaves Yelena with little room to maneuver and no time to prepare.
“Yelena,” Sonya says, too quiet. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing!” Pushing her chair onto its back legs, she slides her feet off the table, taking small comfort in the jolting thud that results when she sits properly upright once more. “It’s the same. It’s boring how the same it is. The same, but worse.”
“Because Barton is alive?”
“No.” Her lips twist with the discomfort of explanation. “It wasn’t about him, it turns out.”
The rest goes unsaid, but understood.
(There is something wrong with me, she’s been thinking with more and more frequency, as each empty day passed her by.)
“You will figure it out,” Sonya says gently, and leans forward in her chair, just enough to catch Yelena’s slightly downwards gaze. “You figure everything out.”
“That’s true,” Yelena allows, lips twitching once. “I really do.”
Sonya brushes her fingers against the side of Yelena’s shoulder, as soft as Yelena usually allows, and the role-reversal tugs to the point of discomfort. She’d been the one to rescue Sonya, but Sonya had stayed and Yelena had disappeared and she felt that five year difference now, that gap in experience they each had with being a person.
“Also, you are a terrible Widow now,” Yelena continues, with a small sniff of disdain, and Sonya leans back once more, her expression knowing. “Way too in-tune with your emotions.”
“Thank you,” she says easily. “It’s the Yin Yoga. I keep telling you to come — ”
“ — And I keep telling you I would rather jump off a building without a parachute.”
Sonya shakes her head, but raps her knuckle against the dining table with a sense of finality. “Fine, fine. I will cut your hair, Yelena. If you insist on being dramatic. How do you want it?”
This, Yelena had not actually considered yet. She thinks it over for a moment, blank stare finding a corner of the room. Only one thing catches her attention and sticks. She does not waste any more time (or risk any further introspection) by thinking about it further.
“What do you think a ‘douchey’ haircut looks like?”
“Douchey?” Noémie repeats the English word, managing both confusion and disdain as she reappears around the corner with an armful of products. Her timing is suspicious — or would be if she weren’t a Widow, well used to waiting for the exact right moment to arrive at a scene.
“Yes, douchey. Like the most annoying American man you have ever seen.”
“It is that broker boy one.” Sonya gestures with her right hand, cupping her fingers and sliding them over her head, like she’s slicking her hair back. “And then the short sides. Douchey.”
“Yes, exactly.” She nods. “Cut my hair the opposite of that.”
Noémie laughs, but Yelena thinks it might have more to do with Sonya’s blatant exasperation than anything Yelena herself might have (very humorously) said.
“Ahhh, Yelena, you are so annoying! What does that even mean? Get up! Go to the bathroom! You think I’m going to cut your hair where we eat?”
“Oh, food! I need to order food firs — ”
Sonya lightly slaps the back of Yelena’s head, rolling her eyes as she stalks past, and Noémie follows with her load of supplies, lips still curled at a single corner.
For a nice and long moment, Yelena feels full.
—
Her hair is fully dried by the time she slips away, forgoing any formal goodbyes.
It’s nearing one in the morning and it’s quiet, mostly, but restlessness creeps in. She’d once forced herself to bury the feeling, even in the most innocuous of situations, but now, she allows it to settle into her fingers, jolting them into action. The strands of hair now ending jaggedly at her jaw are an easy target, and she winds a bit of the white blonde around her knuckle, tugging once, as though to test to make sure it’s truly hers.
It’s never been this short — at least not past the earliest years of her childhood — and in this fact lies the appeal. She’s come to find that new is nearly always good, if only for the novelty of it. New clothes, new books, new places, new contracts, new people. Her hand drops at that last thought, sliding into the outside pocket of her oversized, checkered coat, thumb brushing along smooth glass. She doesn’t think about it too much (this, she’d found, was key) and brings out her phone, movements rapid as she finds one of her eight contacts and types out a message that, she thinks, conveys the exact right tone:
hey
Task finished, she swipes back to her home page, smiles at the picture of Fanny, and makes a call this time, tucking the phone up against her cheek with her shoulder. She still feels weird doing this: a casual call with her mom, who she still wasn’t sure she was supposed to think of like that.
(Sometimes, she’s not sure if any of them feel it like she does. But Natasha had. She knows that, at least. Clings to it, a little pathetically, but not without hope.)
“Yelena?” Melina answers, on the fourth ring. She doesn’t sound winded. “Do you need something?”
“Mmm, no. Not exactly.” Switching her phone to her other shoulder, Yelena allows herself a natural pause. “I wanted to let you know; I’m coming to get Fanny. I’m going to be in America for a while.”
“Kcc, no,” her mom — Melina — tsks. “She’s so helpful around the farm. You can leave her here. There’s so much room for her to run around! Just come visit.”
“Mama!” Yelena groans, but enjoys the trickle of familiality that comes with the annoyance. “I’m coming to get my dog. And… I will stay for a day. If you would like.”
Melina pauses for a moment, like she’s assessing her answer. “Good,” she says finally. “Stay for a day. I’ll show you the tricks I’ve taught Fanny.”
The speed at which Yelena’s fury overtakes her surprises even her.
One moment: uncomfortable (but nice) family exchanges; the next: red.
“Not the seru— ”
“No.”
In January, Paris is cold at night, and she can see her breath in front of her when she stops walking. She releases another huff and watches that as well: water condensing mid-air. Her shoulders relax.
“No,” Melina says again, softer this time. “Not like that. Though you might find the amount of treats I used to teach her to be almost cheating. But she is a very good girl. I cannot help but spoil her.”
(Natasha had told Barton about her. He had told her about their whistle and their family and she’d called Yelena sister. Yelena wonders what she had called Melina.)
“I’ll be there tomorrow. Really late.”
“Then you might as well stay two nights. There’s no point in leaving the next morning. That wouldn’t give me enough time to show you things. I made more of the darts you like; the injection speed is better now — you’ll see.”
Resuming her walk, Yelena glances up at the sky: something to do rather than look at.
“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow, Mama.”
“Bye, Yelena.” She trills it, like Yelena is still six.
Yelena isn’t sure if she should mind, but doesn’t.
—
The sun hasn’t risen when she’s pulled from sleep by the chime of her phone. Three, she’d guess. Three-thirty, maybe. Lifting it from the charger built into the nightstand, Yelena blinks at the screen; it blinks back: 3:18.
The time only registers briefly; instead, Yelena blinks again, confused at the message she finds when she unlocks her screen.
Yelena?
Her name shouldn’t be there, sitting in plain text just underneath her previous hey. There’s a two hour and twenty-seven minute delay between her message and the one that had awoken her, and absolutely nothing in between.
It’d been an educated guess, Yelena is fairly certain. Kate noticed the lack of previous messages from Douchey Haircut, checked the number, looked up the area code, and guessed. She tosses her phone onto the nightstand, twisting into her sheets and smiling into her pillow. It’s a cute guess, really — especially given how long it had taken Kate to narrow it down — but Yelena doesn’t think it’s worth interrupting her rest for.
Until the phone starts to ring.
This, maybe, is funnier, and thus worth the sacrifice of sleep; she cracks her back as she stretches, bringing one hand above her head and the other — grabbing her phone — to her ear, swiping up to answer.
She does not, however, speak.
“Uh— hey?” Kate Bishop pauses, an interesting mix of excitement and apprehension seeping through the two words. “This is — this is Yelena, right?”
Or maybe Barton had just told her, it occurs to Yelena then. That was far less fun, and she hopes it isn't true. She decides finding out for sure is better than making Kate wait (and question herself) in silence, as amusing as the latter might be.
“You’ve found me out,” she rasps, only then realizing the dryness in her throat and reaching for a glass of water.
“Ha! I knew it was you and I definitely did not doubt myself at all. Are you okay though? You sound like you were… “ Kate trails off and resumes again in the same breath. “Oh shit — it’s so late in Paris. I totally woke you up didn’t I?”
Kate groans and it takes an embarrassingly extended moment for Yelena to move past her lingering amusement at the woman’s patter and notice the startling fact that Kate knows where she is.
“Okay, I did not realize that. Or mainly I didn’t realize how much time went by since you texted me and when I — wait — do you sleep normal hours when you’re… doing stuff? I just realized you maybe aren’t on a mission, even though I assumed you were on a mission. Do you call it a mission?”
“Kate Bishop,” Yelena interrupts. “How did Barton know where I am?”
“Clint?” The name is seeped in genuine confusion, like Kate can’t possibly imagine why Yelena would bring the man up now. Understanding settles in again, quicker this time, followed quickly by a burst of delight (buoyed by a strange relief).
“He didn’t tell you?” she asks with a laugh. “He is a terrible mentor!”
“Didn’t tell me wh—? ”
“Never mind, never mind,” Yelena cuts in again, haphazardly pushing her pillows against the headboard. “How did you know I was in Paris then?”
“Oh!” Kate perks up instantly; it reminds Yelena of Fanny, presented with the opportunity to show off a new trick. “Well, when I got the text I had no idea who ‘Douchey Haircut But Nice Smile‘ was — I thought maybe he was from my freshman psych class? — but I figured I should check the actual number and — hey, actually — how did you change that number to yours?“
“Don’t worry about it.” It feels like she’s getting in one word for every ten of Kate’s, and she finds she doesn’t mind. Kate is funny. She comes back to that surprisingly often. In a fight or refusing to eat macaroni, Kate Bishop is funny, and this turns out to hold true even as she nervously rambles on the phone.
“Oh — uh — okay? So, I checked the number and I didn’t recognize it so I — ” For the first time, Kate slows down, hesitancy slipping into their voice. “Okay, this is the part when I did maybe cross a line but I was really curious and also — also! — I wanted to make sure it wasn’t one of Fisk’s creeps that was texting me! It could have been someone trying to kill me again, or whatever. So I… did a trace on your phone.”
Yelena tuts once, a sharp click of her tongue against the back of her teeth. “No. That wouldn’t be possible with this number.”
“Well, maybe not normally, sure, but my mom’s in prison for — well, you know, since she hired you to kill my childhood hero and all that. But she told me she wants to be ‘transparent’ now and ‘totally honest’ and — that’s really a whole other story — but she gave me access to literally everything her company has, which — honestly is a huge privacy violation for a bunch of people, but that’s another whole thing — and I did a little poking around and made some changes to their systems that made it easier to collate their databases and… if you look hard enough, you can find anything with that kind of data. Or anyone. Especially if you have their direct number.”
A lot of emotions hit Yelena in that moment, and she enjoys each one of them as they flit by. Not all are good, but the combination is and she’s left with something bordering on delight.
(Kate is funny, yes, but she’s also unexpected, and Yelena might enjoy that part most of all.)
“That is pretty good, Kate Bishop,” she laughs, because the last emotion to hit is amusement, and it lingers, spreading through her chest. “That’s actually pretty good. Not a lot of people can find me unless I want them to. Maybe you’re a real Avenger after all. Maybe you’ll be the first one to not be a complete poser.”
“Oh, uh, thanks?” Kate sounds genuinely pleased, and Yelena notes the reaction absently. “Actually, that brings me back to — because we’re talking about Avengers, not because we’re talking about posers, though that is definitely sometimes also applicable — what was that about Clint?”
Yelena thinks back, rewinding the conversation as she sits up a bit further. The movement shifts her legs against the silk sheets; she likes the feeling and repeats the action, intentionally this time.
“Right, Barton. I talked to him yesterday. Barely yesterday,” she adds, a little pointedly, just for fun. “I mentioned that I had added my number to your phone — for a fun joke, obviously. When you knew who I was, I thought it was because he’d warned you. But no. You’re just clever, aren’t you?“
In the silence that follows, Yelena can all-but-hear Kate’s blush. Funny. It's all very unexpected and funny, and Yelena can’t help but enjoy it.
“My… teachers always said so?” Kate finally responds, uncertainty (and a little bit of charming awkwardness) saturating the words.
“A teacher’s pet?” Yelena mocks, but gently. Fondly.
(She might genuinely be fond of Kate Bishop, and the thought makes her wonder: is this how it had started for Natasha? Had she talked a few times to a silly little archer and decided she was fond of him, in an amusing sort of way? Had she taken his calls until she started calling him back? Until she started helping him on his silly little missions? Until that first tiny spark of fondness turned into something that made her sacrifice herself instead of him? She doesn’t know, but she wants to. She wants to ask Natasha about it now.)
“Yeah, I guess,” Kate admits, a little sheepish, and the earnestness pulls Yelena from her own thoughts with a hard jerk that also brings relief. “I always do pretty good in school. Stuff doesn’t always come easy, but I don’t mind working hard when I need to. Or more like when I want to, which is a difference that gets me in trouble sometimes. So kind of a teacher’s pet, but only because they like that I ask questions. I swear that’s half of doing well in a class, because professors really like when you ask questions.”
“That’s right,” Yelena recalls, taking another sip of water before returning the glass to her nightstand and settling into the pillows at her back. “I remember: 3.8 GPA, double-major, Brown University. Such a fancy school. Very impressive on a résumé.”
“Yeah, unless I don’t finish my degree.” It’s a grumpy little mumble, barely meant for Yelena, but she responds to it nevertheless.
“What do you mean?“ she demands. “You only have a small amount of time left! Why would you stop now?”
“I don’t know,” Kate murmurs, and Yelena is bewildered to hear a faint echo in her own emptiness, coming from nearly six thousand kilometers away. “I just don’t really know what to do now, I guess. Clint says I’m the new Hawkeye, but that’s not official or anything. And even when it is, it’s going to be a lot of training. So I’m waiting to wait, or something, and — and I don’t know why I’m talking to you about this, actually.”
“Sometimes, it’s nice to just talk,” Yelena thinks and then says. “But I don’t think you should drop out of school, Kate Bishop. School is cool.”
Kate laughs. There’s an element of surprise to it, and Yelena finds herself pleased to return the favor of this particular (and delightful) combination of emotions.
“School is cool?” Kate repeats, another laugh slipping into the phrase. “You sound like a government-sponsored ad from the 90s.”
“Some things are timeless. Like gold and education.”
“Okay, now you’re starting to sound like my Grandma at Christmas. How old are you?”
“Mmm, the Blip always makes that complicated. So does the Red Room, but in a different kind of way; it’s hard to trust memories. Or dates.”
This bit of unexpected honesty takes the knees out of the conversation. She regrets it, but not for just the usual reason, which is strangely refreshing. Maybe it’s this that makes her want to push past it — to throw out another quip that Kate might like — but Kate beats her to it, gripping on rather than letting it go.
“Some of my friends were blipped,” she says, quiet again. “I feel like all of them had to restart. But I guess you’ve had to do that a lot now, huh? I bet that doesn’t make it easier, though. Probably the opposite.”
So earnest. The intensity of it builds until Yelena is forced to look away, even though she hadn’t been looking at anything in particular at all. There's plenty to look at, of course; her hotel is decadently nice. When she twists to her left, she can see the Sacré Cœur, lit by the city around it. She’d left the blinds open, because she'd found the view beautiful, and she wanted to be able to appreciate beautiful things right up until the inevitable moment this kind of whimsy invited a bullet through the middle of her forehead.
(Maybe that’s what Kate meant; all those restarts forced on top of each other made things crowded, much too crowded for anything to take root.)
There’s something wrong with me, she thinks of telling Kate Bishop, because she can’t help but wonder what nice and naive sort of thing Kate might say.
“No. It’s not easy,” she finally says, instead. “But what is, now? I don’t know if you’ve noticed from where you are, but this world is kind of shit.”
Kate laughs, and Yelena feels something unclench at the sound.
“Yeah, it kind of is shit. Fuck, what’s up with that, huh? This is some other generation's fault for sure, right?”
“I can think of a few people to blame,” she drawls. “But ah, what can we do? Or… what can you do, mmm?”
There’s a brief pause, like Kate is analyzing her words fairly carefully, as though not to make a mistake. It’s an odd change of pace, but it passes quickly.
“Me? Like me specifically?”
“Yes. Kate Bishop,” she sighs. “You. You’re waiting for the Avengers to come make you their little soldier, but what can you do? What do you want to do?”
“Well — ” On the other end of the line, Kate’s teeth audibly click together. “I just want to help people. That might sound cheesy, or whatever, but — ”
“I don’t think it sounds cheesy,” Yelena interrupts, but only with this.
“Oh. Well. Good.” Kate makes another little awkward sound with her mouth. “The problem is, I don’t know how to do that. In the best way. Or at all. Right now.”
“I think you will figure it out.”
It’s Sonya’s words slipping out of her mouth now, and she can’t quite figure out why she uses them. In her limited time with Kate Bishop, she’d proven to be funny and unexpected, clever and overly-friendly. But Yelena had also gotten the sense that instead of figuring things out she might more often than not stumble into things with enough energy to carry her through.
But Kate had also found her. Yelena herself had given Kate the means to do so, but either way, perhaps there was a little bit of figuring it out after all.
“You’ll figure it out,” she says again, more pointedly. “And while you’re doing that, you can also finish your school. It’s a nice back-up. In case you break your fragile human body and need to go back to depending on your brain.”
“You say that like you don’t have a fragile human body.”
“Well, no. Of course not. I’m a Widow. We’re enhanced.”
“Wait, like — ”
“Not super. We’re not Captain America in the plural. But we’re a little better, still. Enhanced.”
A little better with pain. With ignoring the things that were meant to tell the human body to stop. The injections had started young, as soon as Yelena had arrived. Melina would probably know what specific things had been changed inside of her (them), but she’d never offered up the information, and Yelena had never asked.
“Oh,” Kate says again, for what must be the third or fourth time, always in the exact same way. As she’d done with all the others, she pushes past whatever thoughts might be crowding her brain to offer a second and better response. “So… what can you do? Like, you specifically. Enhanced Widow who decided not to kill my mentor slash really good friend. What do you want to do?”
She doesn’t expect her question to be flipped back on her, and maybe it’s because of this (and because she doesn’t have a reason not to) that she settles on a response born from honesty.
“That is a very good question.”
Kate waits for her to say more, but she’s not particularly interested in sharing the rest. After another second, Kate realizes this as well, but she seems more surprised than bothered.
“Huh, okay. Well. You could travel. Like, actually for fun and not for anything else. Unless you’re actually doing that now. Is that why you’re in Paris?”
“No. And I have traveled plenty.”
“Right. Okay. Then,” Kate draws out the end of the word as she thinks. “Maybe you should do the reverse? Stay in one place for a while? Buy a house? The market is shit, but you seem like the type to have a stash of money buried in a dark cave in the middle of Siberia — ”
“Siberia would be a terrible choice.”
“ — that would let you buy some nice house in the middle of nowhere. Or in the middle of somewhere, if you like that better.”
“I don’t think I’m very domestic,” Yelena murmurs, even if she’s not entirely sure that’s true. As she does, she’s surprised at the early signs of drowsiness creeping on her. Outside, Paris is as dark as it ever gets, but that doesn’t have much to do with the calming lull setting into her shoulders.
Kate must sense it too, because her next words are slightly hushed, like she’s trying not to wake Yelena (or scare her).
“Maybe you could do what I’m trying to do, then. You wouldn’t need to… wait to wait to learn how to help people, like me. You could just do it.”
With a hum, Yelena shifts her positioning once again, until she’s on her back and staring up at the gaudy chandelier hanging above her bed.
“I don’t know how to do that either,” she admits, but then clarifies, sensing (and cutting off) Kate’s excitement before the woman can begin to express it properly. “And don’t say something stupid about joining the Avengers or Sword or Hammer or whatever they’re calling themselves now. I’m done with governments. If you had sense, you would be too, but that’s your business.”
Instead of taking offense, Kate only laughs.
“Okay, then. Fine. Follow your own advice, then. Be cool! Go to school!” Her mockery is terrible, the ‘Russian’ accent sounding like an American propaganda cartoon from the Cold War. “And then we can both figure out how to help people while studying for pointless CompSci finals. How does that sound?”
Yelena considers this.
“That sounds very stupid.”
“See?”
“Comparative Literature would be more interesting. Maybe History.”
“Now you’re just fucking with me.”
“I would never fuck with you, Kate Bishop.”
But then she grins, and Kate seems to hear it, letting out a huff as she undoubtedly rolls her eyes.
“I feel like you definitely have already, so that’s probably a lie.”
“Mmm, this comes with the territory when calling a Widow. Especially when she’s meant to be sleeping.”
“Right. Right! You should go to bed. Go back to bed?” Kate only hesitates a moment before barreling over whatever wayward thought had attempted to slow her down, entirely in vain. “But what if I called some other time? When you’re not meant to be sleeping?”
Unexpected again. Would Kate manage to surprise her if she called once more? (Would her wanting to call again be enough of a surprise in itself?)
“It’s just,” Kate continues, after only a second or two of silence. “You were right. It is nice to just talk. Especially when you’re not, like, trying to kill me.”
“I never tried to kill you.” She’s almost affronted by the accusation and it shows in her voice. “I attached you to a wire! I made macaroni and asked you so nicely to get out of my way. I used only half of my strength when you didn’t. And I showed great restraint even when you slapped me. Also, if I wanted you dead — ”
“Yeah, yeah, let’s not get into that again. It’s bad for my ego. But I am sorry for slapping you.” Kate grunts, like she’s thrown herself down onto something comfortable: a chair or couch or bed. For no reason at all, Yelena pictures the latter; she thinks Kate probably sprawls out, all those long limbs stretching in different directions. “But in my defense, you were trying to kill my friend.”
“But I decided against it, so the slap was still unnecessary. Also, silly. Who slaps people? We are not on the Real Housewives.”
“I prefer Selling Sunset, but we can debate that later… if you want.”
Yelena has wanted many things, but most have turned to ash. She aims for smaller wants now: a sauce that is hot but flavorful, a coat with pockets and style, a dog who would press her cold little nose into Yelena’s face without any kind of fear.
“You can call me,” she says finally, this new little want warming her briefly. “Some other time.”
There’s a rustle of fabric on the other line. If Yelena had to guess, she would say Kate had dropped her phone. She doesn’t have to hide her smile as she waits for a response.
“Cool,” Kate finally breathes. “Yeah, that’s like — I’m really — that’s cool. I will.”
Endearing. Maybe that’s the word Yelena has been trying to find. Kate had a strange way of going about it, but there was no denying the result.
“Goodnight, Kate Bishop.”
Uncharacteristically, Yelena waits for the echoed reply — a cheerful little chirp — before she hangs up.
—