If this could make her happy, Natasha would be set. A gorgeous husband with good connections, a life near the top. It's the dream, isn't it?
But if it's one thing Natasha's learned in this life -- through experience -- it's that you can't have everything. Even the Cardinals, at the pinnacle of power, don't have it all. There's an emptiness in their hearts, where empathy should sit. In her own slow path upwards, Natasha has had to carve away pieces of herself. Perhaps that's what happened to all of them. As they made their way up, they sliced themselves thinner and thinner, until they were a shadow of humanity.
The last time Natasha was truly happy (not the pale simulacrum that passes for happiness in the Volary), was on the streets of one of the outer sectors. Before she knew anything of the luxury of the Volary. If she went back there, could she ever be happy again? Eating tasteless protein bars and scrambling to get by every second of every day?
Could she even do it? Or has she given up any practical knowledge of how the world works in exchange for the intricacies of the Volary?
Doesn't matter. Natasha will never go back there. If she knew about Tony's little jaunts down to the outer sectors, she'd feel equal parts enraged -- what right does he have, to wander down and pretend that he is one of them? -- and envy.
Happiness in abject poverty, and unhappiness in the lap of luxury. But nothing could ever convince her to return to the misery of her youth. Not even the warmth of true joy she remembers from back then. It didn't take much. Bucky's arms wrapped tight around her and the sound of a smile in his voice--
She squeezes her eyes shut and forces away the image as quickly as it slipped in. (Like a blade aimed straight at her heart.) She will have everything a woman in her position could possibly dream of, and not an ounce of happiness to go with it. But who needs happiness? It never kept a single aching belly full.
Natasha reaches for the hand cream she keeps in the nightstand. There are creams for everything. Her hands, her feet, her elbows, her face, the skin beneath her eyes, the skin on the rest of her body... She squeezes out a dollop of sage-scented cream into her palm and begins methodically working it into her skin.
Long before he came home, she finished her night time routine with all the creams and ointments and things she needs to keep the luster and vitality of her skin, clinging to her beauty for as long as she can. But, the hand cream gives her an excuse to work her fingers over the back of her left hand.
"I don't need delicate." Natasha's voice is clipped. With her back turned against him, there's no need to keep all her shields up. She's dragged herself through the Quarry and the special kind of hell that is a Cardinal's Banquet. She's not made out of the porcelain the mags like to reference when describing her skin.
The painting in Tony's office is striking. Each time Natasha sees it, she forgets how to breathe for a moment. It feels just like shoving a shard of sharpened glass between the ribs of the man who helped her to the middle of the maze. It looks like the light flickering out in his widened eyes. Some days, she can't look at the pictures on the walls of the apartment, other days, she stares at them for far too long. Chasing a feeling she wants to forget, but can't. Like pressing fingers against a fading bruise.
"Blackwork will be fine." She screws the top back on the bottle of hand cream and tucks it back into the nightstand.
"If you're done, I'll put the tray away." Housekeeping can pick it up in the morning.
no subject
But if it's one thing Natasha's learned in this life -- through experience -- it's that you can't have everything. Even the Cardinals, at the pinnacle of power, don't have it all. There's an emptiness in their hearts, where empathy should sit. In her own slow path upwards, Natasha has had to carve away pieces of herself. Perhaps that's what happened to all of them. As they made their way up, they sliced themselves thinner and thinner, until they were a shadow of humanity.
The last time Natasha was truly happy (not the pale simulacrum that passes for happiness in the Volary), was on the streets of one of the outer sectors. Before she knew anything of the luxury of the Volary. If she went back there, could she ever be happy again? Eating tasteless protein bars and scrambling to get by every second of every day?
Could she even do it? Or has she given up any practical knowledge of how the world works in exchange for the intricacies of the Volary?
Doesn't matter. Natasha will never go back there. If she knew about Tony's little jaunts down to the outer sectors, she'd feel equal parts enraged -- what right does he have, to wander down and pretend that he is one of them? -- and envy.
Happiness in abject poverty, and unhappiness in the lap of luxury. But nothing could ever convince her to return to the misery of her youth. Not even the warmth of true joy she remembers from back then. It didn't take much. Bucky's arms wrapped tight around her and the sound of a smile in his voice--
She squeezes her eyes shut and forces away the image as quickly as it slipped in. (Like a blade aimed straight at her heart.) She will have everything a woman in her position could possibly dream of, and not an ounce of happiness to go with it. But who needs happiness? It never kept a single aching belly full.
Natasha reaches for the hand cream she keeps in the nightstand. There are creams for everything. Her hands, her feet, her elbows, her face, the skin beneath her eyes, the skin on the rest of her body... She squeezes out a dollop of sage-scented cream into her palm and begins methodically working it into her skin.
Long before he came home, she finished her night time routine with all the creams and ointments and things she needs to keep the luster and vitality of her skin, clinging to her beauty for as long as she can. But, the hand cream gives her an excuse to work her fingers over the back of her left hand.
"I don't need delicate." Natasha's voice is clipped. With her back turned against him, there's no need to keep all her shields up. She's dragged herself through the Quarry and the special kind of hell that is a Cardinal's Banquet. She's not made out of the porcelain the mags like to reference when describing her skin.
The painting in Tony's office is striking. Each time Natasha sees it, she forgets how to breathe for a moment. It feels just like shoving a shard of sharpened glass between the ribs of the man who helped her to the middle of the maze. It looks like the light flickering out in his widened eyes. Some days, she can't look at the pictures on the walls of the apartment, other days, she stares at them for far too long. Chasing a feeling she wants to forget, but can't. Like pressing fingers against a fading bruise.
"Blackwork will be fine." She screws the top back on the bottle of hand cream and tucks it back into the nightstand.
"If you're done, I'll put the tray away." Housekeeping can pick it up in the morning.