She knows that, and she should have barred him entry to the Red Room ages ago. He’s hardly the first to have fallen for her practised smiles, her honeyed words. He shouldn’t have been any different, one word from her to the front desk, and he’d be turned away at no loss; there is hardly a drought of men looking to spend a night caught in her web. It is dangerous for them to become attached, they’ll delude themselves into thinking that she needs saving, or worse, that she might love them back.
The Black Widow doesn’t love. She can’t afford to.
The Black Widow knows better.
And yet.
When Ivan grunts “he’s back”, she can’t stop her traitorous heart from leaping in her chest.
She can’t stop the genuine smile from blooming across her face when she sees his familiar pair of battered, purple converse shuffling through the doorway.
She can’t stop herself from laughing at his jokes and stories of his dog, a sincere and joyful sound that she isn’t used to hearing.
One night, while he dozes lightly, curled against her in post-coital bliss, she can’t stop herself from wondering what it might be like if things were different.
What it might be like if she could love him too.
She clamps down on the thought as soon as it arises.
It is dangerous for her to become attached, she’ll delude herself into thinking that she could ever be more than the Black Widow, more than the Red Room.
Later, she watches him collect his clothes from the floor, awkwardly pulling his jeans on and struggling to get his socks over his feet. Another one of those genuine smiles come unbidden across her face. She watches as he catches sight of it, and how he savours its appearance.
A pressure builds in her chest at the sight, a feeling she’s disturbed to realise is not unlike longing, and she has to remind herself.
The Black Widow doesn’t love. She can’t afford to.
The Black Widow knows better.
She should know better.
And yet.
“Natasha.” It slips out of her before she can catch herself, and he freezes as he’s about to leave, hand against the door. He turns to face her, and she sees the earnestness of his love written across his face, the hope, and something thaws in her heart.
FILL/REMIX: Red Light / Little Red Lies (401 word ficlet)
She knows that, and she should have barred him entry to the Red Room ages ago. He’s hardly the first to have fallen for her practised smiles, her honeyed words. He shouldn’t have been any different, one word from her to the front desk, and he’d be turned away at no loss; there is hardly a drought of men looking to spend a night caught in her web. It is dangerous for them to become attached, they’ll delude themselves into thinking that she needs saving, or worse, that she might love them back.
The Black Widow doesn’t love. She can’t afford to.
The Black Widow knows better.
And yet.
When Ivan grunts “he’s back”, she can’t stop her traitorous heart from leaping in her chest.
She can’t stop the genuine smile from blooming across her face when she sees his familiar pair of battered, purple converse shuffling through the doorway.
She can’t stop herself from laughing at his jokes and stories of his dog, a sincere and joyful sound that she isn’t used to hearing.
One night, while he dozes lightly, curled against her in post-coital bliss, she can’t stop herself from wondering what it might be like if things were different.
What it might be like if she could love him too.
She clamps down on the thought as soon as it arises.
It is dangerous for her to become attached, she’ll delude herself into thinking that she could ever be more than the Black Widow, more than the Red Room.
Later, she watches him collect his clothes from the floor, awkwardly pulling his jeans on and struggling to get his socks over his feet. Another one of those genuine smiles come unbidden across her face. She watches as he catches sight of it, and how he savours its appearance.
A pressure builds in her chest at the sight, a feeling she’s disturbed to realise is not unlike longing, and she has to remind herself.
The Black Widow doesn’t love. She can’t afford to.
The Black Widow knows better.
She should know better.
And yet.
“Natasha.” It slips out of her before she can catch herself, and he freezes as he’s about to leave, hand against the door. He turns to face her, and she sees the earnestness of his love written across his face, the hope, and something thaws in her heart.
“My name is Natasha.”