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There are things which he knows, and things which he remembers, but they are seldom both at once. This is the way that it has always been
(no)
understanding kicking up sparks in the empty corners of his brain, woven with instinct to inform him what's true and what isn't
(wrong)
memories distant and unformed, hazy smeared images, impulses that pop and fade like a flashbulb, leaving him dazed, spots in his eyes.
This place he doesn't remember, but he remembers her in it. A cockeyed smile across a tabletop, perfect teeth skimming against a plush bottom lip. When he first sees her here, that shock of fiery red hair brushing a pale cheek, he remembers her through the sight of a rifle and isn't sure why.
He knows who she is, in the obtuse sense: Romanoff, Natasha. Colleague of Rogers, Steve. She's changed her name, and he isn't certain why he knows that, either.
He thinks, maybe, she knows he's there the second before his left forearm presses against her larynx; she's that good. Silently, swiftly, he pulls her from the carpeted hall and into the shadows of an alcove, dragging her back against his chest, arm firm across collar and throat, the soft scrape of metal plate beneath the soft fabric of his hoodie. She could break free if she wanted, and he thinks he'd let her.
She's that good.
"Explain," he says against the warm shell of her ear, voice low and velvet-rough from disuse.
He can smell her shampoo.
He's been here before.
(no)
understanding kicking up sparks in the empty corners of his brain, woven with instinct to inform him what's true and what isn't
(wrong)
memories distant and unformed, hazy smeared images, impulses that pop and fade like a flashbulb, leaving him dazed, spots in his eyes.
This place he doesn't remember, but he remembers her in it. A cockeyed smile across a tabletop, perfect teeth skimming against a plush bottom lip. When he first sees her here, that shock of fiery red hair brushing a pale cheek, he remembers her through the sight of a rifle and isn't sure why.
He knows who she is, in the obtuse sense: Romanoff, Natasha. Colleague of Rogers, Steve. She's changed her name, and he isn't certain why he knows that, either.
He thinks, maybe, she knows he's there the second before his left forearm presses against her larynx; she's that good. Silently, swiftly, he pulls her from the carpeted hall and into the shadows of an alcove, dragging her back against his chest, arm firm across collar and throat, the soft scrape of metal plate beneath the soft fabric of his hoodie. She could break free if she wanted, and he thinks he'd let her.
She's that good.
"Explain," he says against the warm shell of her ear, voice low and velvet-rough from disuse.
He can smell her shampoo.
He's been here before.