EVENT #011

[larkers]

WHO: Everyone on Earth in Meadowlark's world.
WHERE: The Aerie, a different world.
WHEN: Late July 2512.
WHAT: The first log of our AU event, taking place in an AU world that puts on battle royale events to cull the massive overpopulation.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Overwritten minds, horrible dystopian conditions, and more!

> EVENT #011

On the morning of July 26th, every living person on Earth will be spirited away from where they were mere moments before. Just like that. Hover cars will descend slowly in transit, trains will come to a stop without a screech of their breaks, and the streets throughout every single of the 104 megacities will be left barren, empty, and lifeless. Even those lost and hidden, not seen for months, are swept gently away with the rest of their brethren. No stone will go unturned.

The world upon their return may pick up where it's left off, or it will be changed in some way. Will it be July 26th when everyone finds themselves back where they were standing before? Or will something else happen during this time? Now that the supposed lifeblood of this planet is gone, what will happen in their absence? The world may not be able to go on how it had been.

Perhaps the more terrifying question is this: if something is powerful enough to steal away every person, every single one capable of thought, ideas, conflict, war, and more, what else could happen?

Perhaps it's for the best that it may be awhile before anyone has to worry about that.

For now, they've entered a world that's one week away from its next Quarry event: a place where The Aerie's criminals fight to prove they deserve to keep their life.

> THE WORLD ENDS WITH YOU (THE AERIE)

The Aerie is a structure that should not exist.

Made of steel and concrete, it gives off the impression that its guts were arranged haphazardly, as if an amateur surgeon had pulled them out and tried to put them back in again. Steel beams stretch out between buildings, connecting them together. There may have been a wall of concrete around this beam once upon a time, but it splintered and fell away, exposing its insides and opening up a pathway that people have taken for granted in the past fifty to a hundred years. Power lines hang in loose tangles throughout this little world, ready to fall away at the slightest breeze, then splinter and spark.

Most of the insides of The Aerie are barely preserved. Trying to do that would be an impossible task: there are too many people, too many who live in concrete layered on one another like stacks of broken shelves, too many who pass through open maws of ruptured pathways, crawling up onto the roof of a business for what they think is a shortcut to a higher level. Brittle walls that splinter off into clouds of chalky white dust are everywhere and anywhere.

How The Aerie came together was once a majestic feat: a place for people to live, thrown together as extinction surged forward like a towering beast on the horizon. There was a mix of minds behind the action, as well as a hollow sense of desperation. Even those who brought The Aerie into being knew that their lives were on the line. It was a matter of "make this work" or die. So, they made it work.

What's truly impossible about The Aerie isn't the hulking structures merged together at all manner of impossible angles, but the outer layer of this little world, looming overhead in shimmering, constant glory. The people of The Aerie are protected, safe; the world outside is a nebulous, uncertain mess of greys and greens and reds and blues. Storms surge just outside of the wall of The Aerie with sharp, constant bolts of lightning that batter the surface overhead. Once upon a time, the people of this little world feared those bolts cutting through and destroying their home. But it's been long enough now. No one lives in fear of what's outside, and no one wonders, not anymore. After all, the people who made it outside were never seen again. For a time, some people could watch through the clear walls as these escapees' bodies turned to irradiated mush with only bones left behind. In time, those bones withered away to dust. And with them, their memories were forgotten.

Within The Aerie, life goes on, just as it must: riddled with fear, with survival often depending on the ability to escape notice.

Only two parts of The Aerie remain unscathed, untouched by the passage of time and haphazard construction of this refuge:

The Volary, which stands tall and pristine at the heart of The Aerie. Lights burn within The Volary all day and all night, showing signs of life that most of the people outside of its walls will never see for themselves.

And then the Quarry, a structure built in haste and out of necessity. The same people who brought The Aerie together also made the Quarry. At its base are a series of office buildings, setting up monthly arena events where the guilty fight to show that they deserve to survive.

These two things are the source of all the fear in The Aerie. It's what keeps everyone's mind off the crumbling walls, the storms outside, and the miserable, unending passage of time.

> SOAK UP THE GLORY (THE VOLARY)

When The Aerie came into being, so did The Volary. Far from fragmented like the rest of this tiny, tiny world, it stands pristine, with brown bricks lining its exterior, and strong steel beams holding it strong within. Either through its making or its care, The Volary hasn't suffered from the hands of time like the rest of the world. Anyone outside of The Volary doesn't know the truth, though they could likely guess.

Inside of The Volary lives the members of Parliament: the newly-joined Magpies, the comfortable Rooks, and the looming and most powerful, the Cardinals.

The Cardinals live at the very top. Even after over two hundred years, the Cardinals remain impenetrable. New members are accepted into their ranks from time to time, granted secrets of a bygone era, but the rest of the world remains ignorant to their knowledge. At the heart of this structure is a cult, a belief system; they are the ones who decide if The Aerie lives or dies. For now, it continues to live. Of course, any other path would lead to their devastation as well. They may be nearly immortal, but they aren't truly untouchable and eternal.

Beneath them are the rest of Parliament, cocky in their comfort. Many were born into it, but some were raised into the ranks, finding their own footholds. Sometimes these elevations seem random; sometimes these promotions happen with purpose, with someone driving to catch the eye of a Rook who's looking for someone like-minded to have around them.

Outside of the Magpies, the Rooks that were once Magpies, and the once-members of The Congregation outside, everyone seems blissfully ignorant of the dilapidated world outside. There are some workers from the outside world who know, and some Carrion lucky to have their place among the elite—but there is a sense that some things shouldn't be spoken about, or else they may need to be responsible for it all. While the outside begins to age without any sign of renewal, this compound lives on—untouched, unbothered.

The Volary is set up in levels. The very bottom is where all the businesses that serve the people up above are located. It's where animals are raised and butchered, and where food is prepared before it's brought up to the upper levels. There are numerous common areas, but these can be rented out for any whim of any members of Parliament. Even the businesses themselves can be shuttered for the day, with preferred chefs invited to the upper levels to prepare meals to deal with these circumstances. (Someone from the Congregation can train as a chef in the Cotillion, even if they've never handled food of this nature their entire lives. It's a good job to have, as a number of favored chefs have been elevated to Magpies.)

Beyond the shops is the first level of living quarters for the various members of Parliament. Many Magpie and Rook suites are side by side, though some Rooks prefer not to be housed next to a newcomer and have made their preference known throughout the years. These suites are designed and adapted to its inhabitant's every need, and if someone is born into the family, they inherit their family's suite once someone dies. How is it that there could be space for all the members of Parliament, and so little room outside of the walls of this compound? Consider that yet another question that members of Parliament don't need to concern themselves with.

At the uppermost levels are the suites belonging to the Cardinals. Unless explicitly invited, no one is allowed onto these floors. Numerous Carrion have died throughout the years because they wandered up the wrong set of stairs, knowing that risk was looming over them.

And at the very top is where The Conclave meets. Newly elected members of Parliament visit this room once to receive their powers, only they recall nothing. No one knows what happens within the inner walls of The Conclave. Some have attempted to spy throughout the years. Needless to say, that didn't go well.

The Volary is the home of the pampered, the rich: the people who can ignore the dying world beyond them. Even those inheriting a sense of importance feel as if they've done enough—when they clearly don't do enough. At least those stuck outside may find themselves walking through the heavy front doors of this compound one day. Too bad it's based upon the powers of Parliament, and whether they deign to let someone inside. The only good news is that someone can be buzzed in via their power. That gives a real personal touch, right?

> NO WAY TO LIVE (THE CONGREGATION)

Outside of The Volary, The Aerie is set up in sectors, these sectors acting like rings that move further and further from The Volary up and down throughout The Aerie. Almost by necessity, the rings closer to The Volary are populated by Parliament's favorites. The upkeep around here is better: not pristine, but far from as bad as it gets as someone travels to the outer sectors. Many who have made a name for themselves in the Quarry live in these inner sectors, close to the people of Parliament. Many believe that the inner sectors are still tended to because members of Parliament would hate to face up to the fact of their world dying, and it may not be far from the truth.

In addition to better upkeep, the inner sectors experience less Shrike patrols, with the people allowed to live a life that allows them to remain ignorant to the world around them. They may not be Parliament, but their life in these sectors affords them the feeling of comfort. They don't have to fear their ceiling caving in; they don't have to fear a pipe bursting at an unfortunate moment; they don't have to fear wrongful arrest because they looked at someone the wrong way. It takes a lot for those from the inner sectors to have their lives ruined—but it's not exactly impossible. Of course, this is also where The Cotillion is kept, with numerous buildings and dormitories maintained for its students.

The further and further someone goes away from The Volary, the more life within The Aerie becomes difficult. The worst part is this: no one knows any better. They know the crumbling walls, the faded and peeling wallpaper, the revealed steel beams. They know the frequent Shrike patrols. They know that if they commit a crime, it's on them: they deserve whatever comes their way.

How does someone work in order to get by in these outer sectors? They can help man the bars, because drinking is as much a way of life here as it is back in the regular world. They can help upkeep of The Aerie. Someone can easily enter a trade alongside their compulsory schooling, especially if they aren't special enough for Cotillion training. Electricians are needed throughout. Maintenance of trains is needed throughout. Plumbers are needed throughout. And rations? They come by way of processing plants connected to hydroponic farms. More than a few times throughout the years, these plants have suffered breakdowns, and there have been ration shortages. But don't worry: Parliament continued on eating as if nothing changed outside.

Rations are given out three times a day through numerous rations checkpoints in each sector. These rations are like tasteless protein bars: enough to provide someone the meal they need, a bland mixture of carbohydrates, protein and fat sprinkled with essential nutrients, and little more. Attempts to make them more flavorful throughout the years have failed. Badly. It's probably better that they're bland little morsels. The good news is that they're filling. That may be the only good news.

Life isn't all misery and pain, even if job prospects are largely unfortunate if you're nothing special and the food is literally nothing to talk about. There is a thriving popular culture within The Congregation. There are numerous television shows and movies depicting the distant past, or even a brighter present: one in which the people of The Congregation managed to come together and make their lives better. Oddly enough, these don't tend to act as propaganda. They're just badly written, but done with an eye on hope and perhaps a better life. There are sports and games, though no official leagues have started up, almost certainly because they would compete with the Quarry for airtime.

Members of the Congregation are able to travel anywhere they like within The Aerie thanks to trains, with the only sector the train lines don't access being The Volary. They can peer down over the city, seeing a blurry line of grey all merging together, with people living their lives as best as they can. These trains go near the surface of The Aerie, too, granting someone a close up of the world outside, and reminding them that life could be much, much worse. It could be gone altogether.

> SO SHALL IT BE (QUARRY PREPARATIONS)

With one week remaining until the next Quarry event, preparations continue within The Company's headquarters. Located at the base of the arena out of necessity, The Company's offices are pristine and lifeless in nature. White walls, white ceiling tiles, and white chairs: nothing varies from anything else. How does it remain so surgical at all times? One can only wonder.

Numerous Quarries are being prepared at any given moment, with the televised sensations planned months in advance. Some plans are scrapped depending on competitors. Given the recurrence of Snipes, there are moments where plans need to be changed, where tension needs to be brought in. An arena designer may have to scrap his entire vision for a backup plan.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—The Company is a well-oiled machine. Need some crunch time to make sure a Quarry event is ready on time? The underlings at The Company are used to working long, long days to make it work.

The Quarry this time around is unknown, though there are suspicions of what it might be.

As for those waiting to enter the ring: they're free to live their lives, but many of them are undergoing talent training and preparation for the big event. They're going through interviews, getting sized for any costumes, and being asked to tell their stories. Some of the Snipes may be more than ready for this, while the Guineas will need to figure this out for themselves.

> A WILL TO FIGHT (THE KESTRELS)

Littered throughout the Congregation is a group that's been budding for a while. As much as this world is all they've known, there are some who believe that they deserve something better. The Quarry is unfair, and all throughout the many sectors, there are signs that The Aerie is breaking down and dying, barely keeping it together. These are people who may be afraid, but want to fight despite that fear.

Some of them have made themselves known: bearing a tattoo of a kestrel where others can see. Others hide who they are, but they're waiting. Planning. They strike when they can, but they know that time is running out. There are tiny safehouses throughout, typically through hatches underneath small local businesses that are sympathetic to the kestrels themselves. These people aren't members, but they put themselves at risk every day to protect this movement.

So, they have their sights set on this upcoming Quarry. It's time to bring change to The Aerie—or die trying.

> GOALS FOR THIS LOG

Either through talking ICly or OOCly, we'd like to have the following goals outlined and submitted to our comments below:

What is the Kestrels' plan in all of this? What do they intend to do?
This can include trying to find and meet with Prometheus, just as a note! Overall, we'd like an idea of what they'll be attempting with the upcoming Quarry so that we can work it into the next log.

What is the theme for the next Quarry arena?
We'd like to have some idea of a theme, as well as some submitted puzzles! We know that we're the kings of Vague Ass Puzzles, so feel free to be vague. We just want to give our Quarry participants something to look forward to.

Are there any other factors we need to consider?
Parliament upheaval? Plans to find out what Parliament is doing? Anything else that might come to mind? This is more loose!

We're giving a loose deadline of DECEMBER 7 with the next log going up on DECEMBER 12.

> FINAL OOC NOTES

Welcome to part one of our year-end AU event! We meant for this to be primarily be a description log to start play, especially since we feel that most of our critical information is in our Planning Post. We suggest that you do any necessary planning there for your select crews there, as well as use the "DM" system on Warbler for private stuff.

Of course, our questions thread is still open.

Since it's come up in the past: since all characters are in the AU, please feel free to do a catch-all post of anything you might want! Flashbacks! Anything open prompt-wise! Go wild with this stuff. This is always available during events, but we wanted to be explicitly clear here given the nature of this event.

As for mod-run social media, we have a post here on the network where we'll be steadily adding things throughout the event!

Our November Activity Check goes live on DECEMBER 1. AC for the month of December will be check-in only. It's a weird holiday season, but it will undoubtedly still be stressful for all of us.

Our next reserves will open on NOVEMBER 23 and our next application period will open on DECEMBER 1. We intend for all new or returning applicants to be kept outside of the AU. We have a special plotting opportunity and NPC ready for this scenario to help people integrate. However, if you have a friend who's apping to tap into the AU, let us know—we're not 100% married to our plans, but we worried about any new players apping into such a convoluted scenario after so much plotting has already taken place.

That's all for now. Have fun and for those of you who celebrate, have a Happy Thanksgiving! 🦃

> NAVIGATION

Comments

[nonstopnarcissist]

"I couldn't let her do that to you." Not 'to us' because for him? it's a reminder, but not as painful of one as it is for her. It's something he built that gutted him, but they all do. Reasons he drinks. Reasons he plans so carefully for the next step so he could one day stop. But for her? It'd be a unique hell. One he wouldn't abide. "You've got enough shit to deal with."

And that's a hair too honest, a hair too earnest, and he has to cover somehow. "I mean, I am a handful."

For a moment, a beautiful, gilded moment-

He thinks he sees her. Part of who she is under all the calculation, under the masks, the poise, the perfection. Sees the woman at the core of it all that she fights so fucking hard to protect to say alive, to stay sane-

And that little ember flares hot in his chest again.

All it'll ever do is burn him. The warmth it promises an intoxicating lie but sentiment sparks all the same. Asymmetrical honesty and he can't help but mirror the motion, corner of his lips crooking up, brows lifting with innocent insouciance. She cuts him off before he can get a quip in, the kiss soft, gentle- and one he leans into.

Not to turn it into something, not with intent but- stepping out on a limb.

They might never be in love, life doesn't work that way. But- affection is safe enough, right? He keeps it chaste. Keeps it kind. Lets the barest sliver of that sputtering ember in his chest through- not for the perfect woman ever so often on his arm, but the one with the low laugh and crooked smile. The one as broken as he is in somewhat complimentary ways.

The survivor.

He breaks away, resting forehead to forehead for a moment, breathing. Being. Sex has been easy, sex is always easy, and she's amazing, she's perfect, but this? This is more intimate than fucking and, again, not something they do.

Not something that's safe to do. To want.

"Eat, sleep, right. All those pesky human necessities-" He crackles a soft laugh, reaching over to the charcuterie board for a slice of spiced, dried sausage, offering her one as well. She'll decline, he knows she'll decline but- it's a thing. A way of promising what's his is hers, that he means it.

[bornrussian]

I couldn't let her do that to you.

The words that follow are lost to the static that buzzes through Natasha's ears, a steel band wrapping around her lungs and tightening until she can barely draw a clean breath.

In some of the lower levels of the Congregation, Tony Stark is known as the engineer of death. His traps have ended more than one life. Torn apart families. It's that odd dichotomy, knowing that tomorrow he'll go to work and try to build a more entertaining death machine, and yet, here and now he cares.

They're all, Natasha thinks, cogs in a relentless machine. Stuck in a dizzying pattern with no escape.

The deflecting joke is a relief -- as always -- and she offers him a fortified smile. The steel band relents around her chest, and she draws a deep and shaky breath.

"Don't sell yourself short. You're two handfuls for sure."

They keep skating too close to each other. It's dangerous territory. This arrangement works best if it stays purely business, if they both remember the agreed upon boundaries. Because if he ever wants more-- she won't be able to give it to him. All she can offer is surface, if he wants depth, they're both out of luck.

Perhaps the brief kiss was a mistake. The way Tony leans into it has her lungs constricting again. Sometimes, Tony kisses her like he might care about more than what she looks like on his arm, or how good she makes him feel in bed. It's terrifying. Natasha has kissed so many men (and women) that she's lost count, but she can count on the fingers of one hand, the number who gave a shit about her. She doesn't know what to do with it.

Her eyes drift shut under the press of his forehead and carefully, she matches his breath to his. This, is why she feels guilty. Another woman could be what part of him craves, but if she was ever built that way, she lost one of the crucial pieces for it in the Quarry.

"Be far easier if we weren't born with human bodies with needs," Natasha agrees, slowly pulling her defenses back up. She can't afford to keep slipping like this.

He offers her a slice of something and Natasha crinkles her nose before shaking her head.

"I've already brushed my teeth." It's a good segue to put some distance between them. She pushes to her feet and walks around the bed to her side. She sits down with her back against him and watches the lights of the city, her hands curved around the edge of the bed.

"A compass rose is going to be good." Back to business. "Enough symbolism to get people talking."

[nonstopnarcissist]

Too much. Too much, tipping his cards, wanting something that's not on offer-

He knew what this was when he pitched the idea, knew what she had to give and promised himself he wouldn't want more. Greedy bastard that he is, he should've expected this. That it's taken so long is something of a surprise but-

Tony's emotions are his problem. They've always been his problem. He won't lay his weaknesses at her feet, not when she's the one that has her head on straight. They part, she settles comfortably and he- focuses on picking through the platter. Something light, something filling. Luxurious. He's never known anything different for all that he spends time on the trains, in the bars.

Playing tourist.

Back to back she can't see his grimace, can't notice how the routine of pick, lift, bite, chew, and swallow has gone thoroughly mechanical. Too many bodies on the line, too many people connected-

Too many people in The Company getting caught up in, what? Trying to force change from the outside.

That doesn't actually work, people tried, ended up in the quarry, and died. It has to happen from the top down. Reasons they're sitting in bed back to back, planning a permanent addition to their skin, trying to find the right spin. Work the narrative angles like it's a Quarry and he hates-

so much he hates-

But that's the system. That's the great meatgrinder that is the Volary and if he can't get up that last fucking rung? It's all for naught.

So.

No more distractions. No more indulging in the fluttering, sputtering ember in his chest. This is work. A business arrangement. Trust bought and sold with the promise of security.

Running that through his mind keeps him quiet and contemplative, has him rolling over onto his back once he's done, staring at the ceiling. "I got a guy, former contender, did some of the pieces we've got on the walls here, the one in my office at the Company-"

Visceral, violent, vague shapes and movement that depict loss and struggle and it's graphic. Sharp designs against pale canvas like ash or blood on snow. "I'll talk to him tomorrow, he'll be at a thing."

Someone asked him once if he was a masochist- or collecting trophies, the way he associates with Champions, contenders of Quarries he's designed. More the former than the latter-

It's far, far too late to actually help any of them, help should've come before they were entered in the first damn place but- it's selfish. Trying to ease his conscious. Trying to atone in subtle, social ways. "Blackwork good for you? I know another guy that does something a little more delicate, but-"

Up to her.

[bornrussian]

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.

[nonstopnarcissist]

"No, but you're allowed to want something different." Something else they never talk about and his voice is lower and...resigned rather than irritable. She is exactly what she needs to be in order to make this work. And that's- that's fine. that's been fine, that will remain fine. But trying to winnow out and read what she might actually want that he could give beyond security has been like staring into an empty, fathomless void.

There aren't many people he wants to earnestly provide for-and even fewer on that list that will let him.

Bucky lets him fix up his arms, trusts him with the occasional meal, the solid, aching understanding that comes from their relationship with the Quarry. Rhodey, Rhodey used to let him do silly, outrageous projects, make anything his mind could dream up for a laugh, a smile.

Natasha wants what every woman wants but only because the women of the station she's working for wants them. It's all- veneers of paint and cream and masks that spiral all the way down to bone.

It's never bothered him, why does this bother him? Because they're on the edge of it, a few weeks out from a whirlwind announcement, engagement, ceremony, and if the Quarry goes well?

That last rung. It's all so very close.

"You're allowed a say. Your skin's still yours." Which is- enigmatic and a little embittered more on her behalf than anything else.

Without a word he takes the tray rather than letting her handle it- she needs whatever space he can offer after the reminder of the maze and he- needs to get his head on straight. Stop imagining camaraderie where there is none.

Stop wanting the impossible.

Far from the bed he's got half a mind to duck out, head back to the office. Nap there and get a few more hours in but that might upset the delicate balance they've achieved or- worse yet- make her assume he's upset with her- and he isn't. Can't be, won't be. So.

He detours to his walk-in and strips down, changing out of his work clothes, tugging up comfortable silk before padding barefoot back to the bed, sitting on his side to start up his nightly routine of rubbing in similar formulas of lotions for his face, his hands, buffing his nails. there are teams for this but- he'd always rather self-maintain. It's easier that way. "I've got an early day tomorrow. I'll try not to wake you up when I head out."

[bornrussian]

There might not be any accusation or frustration in Tony's tone, but Natasha feels chastised all the same. Her gaze cuts from the view down to her hands, and her right thumb rubs over the webbing between her left thumb and fore finger.

Want is a tricky thing.

Once upon a time, Natasha wanted so many things. She wanted a steady job that would pay enough for her and Bucky to get a place of their own. She wanted a bed with real pillows and more than a single blanket to share between them. She wanted to know what Bucky's mouth would feel like under hers, what he would taste like. She wanted double rations, or to take a moment out of an otherwise shitty day to watch the soap she liked. She wanted to taste champagne. She wanted something to ease the hunger gnawing in her gut. She wanted to own a pretty dress or two, and a winter coat that would actually block out the cold. She wanted Bucky to have never been caught. She wanted so very badly for him to win in the Quarry. Then she wanted to survive. Then when she did, she wished for death, but her damn survival instinct carried her through.

Now, all she wants is to be safe.

It's too encompassing a want -- too big -- to allow for anything else. Besides, what is there for her to wish for now? Designers send her pretty dresses by the dozen just as long as she uploads a picture of her in them to her Warbler. Champagne and food flows freely at each party she attends. There's nothing left.

How does she explain to him -- a man who has never gone hungry a day in his life -- that her skin hasn't been hers since she got picked up for stealing and immediately sentenced to trial in the Quarry? That wanting is a dangerous thing, and something someone like her can't afford?

Words grow big in her mouth and press down on her tongue. They taste like accusations, so she locks her jaw against them, swallows them back. Hums something that might be agreement but definitely isn't an argument.

Before she shores up a response, the bed dips with his sudden departure and Natasha's stomach sinks with it. He leaves the room and her eyes slip shut. She tucks both knees up against her chest and wraps her arms tight around them. Like if she just holds on tight enough, she can push down the sudden ache in the emptiness beneath her ribs.

Not until she hears his steps -- thank goodness he's not a quiet man -- coming back down the hallway does she straighten and let her feet slip back down to the floor. His words close a door between them.

Maybe they're meant as a kindness. They hit like a failure.

This time, Natasha doesn't take the time to walk around the bed, she just clambers across it and settles on her knees half behind him. One hand curves against his shoulder, seemingly for balance, before she slides it to the nape of his neck, fingertips brushing through the soft hairs there. Intimate. Affectionate. Perfectly calculated.

See? It says. We're on the same team still.

There are things she can never give him -- love, a biological heir -- but anything that's hers is his. It's just that most of what she has to offer is surface. A clay vase baked into tempered steel. Nothing inside.

"Let me," she says softly, holding a hand out for his moisturizer. "If I do your face while you do your hands we'll get you into bed faster."

They've grown accustomed to each other's routines. Half of hers happen in the bathroom, away from prying or curious eyes, but there's enough she takes care of right at the bedside to allow him a glimpse behind the curtain. He's less circumspect about his. Enough so that she knows they mirrors hers pretty perfectly other than the scents and the beard oil.

[nonstopnarcissist]

Part of the magic of performance is a suspension of disbelief. Letting yourself get immersed in the illusion, the fantasy- Tony hasn't leaned into that too terribly hard since the delightful moment he realized there was more to Natasha than biting wit and grace. After their earlier moment of uncomfortable honesty?

Letting himself fall back into the performance scrapes raw and ragged against the gnarled tangle of emotion in his chest. He doesn't flinch so much as go carefully still, jaw working against everything unsaid.

He knows, has known, continues to know that she will not trust him past a certain point- no one does. No one but Bucky, it seems, and that's a grace he doesn't know how to hold or treat kindly. It comes with the rank, the territory, and it's- he's tipped his hand too much. Been too honest, too forthright, and overstepped grossly in the process. For a moment he's still and silent in all the ways he normally isn't, hanging in the carefully curated calculation of her projected care.

It's perormative.

It's a satisfactory performance.

It'd be rude to not respond in kind.

One long, soft exhale, the last sighs of whatever fragile understanding they had beyond the usual before he closes the door on that notion entirely. Understood. Here he shall not reach or tread, boundary established, made, respected. When he urns his head to meet her gaze- the press smile is on. The small, secretive one, like he's conspiring with whoever's on the other end. "You do know how I appreciate efficiency."

Like it's a joke, and it is. Like the earlier heart to heart didn't happen and- it's easier that way, isn't it? They both play their parts and maybe they pull this thing off.

Maybe.

He passes along the moisturizer and palms the kit he uses for his cuticles and nails, keeping them neatly buffed and trimmed, the nailbeds oiled.

[bornrussian]

It's like watching a magician get ready for his next trick, watching the emotions flicker across Tony's face. With a flourish, he turns on the Great Tony Stark with the million bell smile.

This is where the guilt sits in Natasha's chest like a rock.

Sometimes there are little hints -- glimpses, really -- that Tony might want this to be more than it ever can be for her.

If she was a better person, she'd slip the ring off her finger, leave it on his pillow after he's gone to work, and disappear out of his life forever. There are plenty of women who'd look beautiful enough on his arm to help him climb to the top, who are capable of loving him. Without her in the way, he'd have a chance to find them.

(It's funny. When they first met, Natasha was set on despising him. The most famous of the Quarry designers, she still remembers the interview where he spoke about designing the Maze at the center of her Quarry. The careless arrogance ground into her nerves like broken glass. He didn't care there were people who fell into his traps, just that they worked. That they were clever.

Turns out, Tony Stark is a force of nature in person. His charm practically its own entity.

Natasha can't be sure when she first looked at him and saw, rather than the Architect of Death, a Good Man deserving of love. But here they are. And as each day passes, the guilt grows a little bigger, its edges sharpening.)

But, Natasha is not a better person. She's the worst version of herself, and he is everything she's worked for all these years. Every sacrifice and scheme, everyone she's stepped on, and every heart she's ever broken -- including her own -- has brought her here. Giving up now, would make it all for nothing. Out of all the Rook's -- Blake excluded, perhaps -- he's the kindest one she's ever met.

When she first laid down her plan, she never dared to dream that the faceless Rook in her scenario could be kind as well as handsome. It's usually one or the other and Rooks and Cardinals hardly favor kindness.

She got lucky.

His smile draws hers in return. It's the one she wears for parties; bright and shallow.

"It's one of your better traits."

Gently, she dabs little dots of moisturizer onto his face in curving arcs before she twists the lid back onto the jar. In silence, she works it into his skin with soft circular motions. Using the task at her excuse, she lets herself trace the lines of his face. Her thumb runs down the memory of a crease between his eyebrows, then it fans across the crinkled lines around his eyes.

They work in tandem through his bedtime rituals, Natasha's touch light and gentle, her eyes never quite meeting his. Once they're done, she sinks back on her knees in the bed and runs her hands over her thighs.

"You should wake me. Tomorrow." An olive branch of sorts. "I need to get my day started. Plenty to do."

If beauty appointments, maintaining her social media presence, and meeting with a stylist counts as plenty.

[nonstopnarcissist]

It's almost medatative. Painting on another layer of concrete between himself and the world. Regrouting the wall between him and Natasha from where he knocked a few bricks loose. It's no fault of hers he made a few assumptions based on, what? Points of commonality? The barest, tiniest drops of affection? His old vulnerabilities were well known in his youth. Give him approval, give him the tiniest scraps of care and he'll blind himself to everything else as he binds himself to you.

Older, wiser, scarred and embittered- he hides it under a cheap trick and a cheesy one liner. Rhodey had been the last person he allowed that close to him- and he died for it.

Barnes keeps butting up against that brick wall and Tony can't shove them back in place fast enough to shore up against it.

Projecting that need on someone that he's done harm by doing is job?

He knows better. He does. Convincing the rest of him to get with the program, that's the bitch.

He keeps his eyes on his hands, preferring to focus on the ritual of buffing and smoothing and clipping, working lotion into his palms and wrists, rubbing a specialty ointment over the thin scars over his heart from the explosion that killed Rhodey. Easier to not look her in the eye and see a shallow pool. Easier to hide.

"Sure." His lip quirks in a half-hearted half-grin, eyes flicking up to meet hers before darting away. "I'll be out late tomorrow so- don't wait up for me."

Work.

Organizing Publicity outings for their announcement.

Sending stylists to his employees to make sure they get one last shot at saying something to someone they care about before they're tossed in the Woodchipper that is the Quarry.

[bornrussian]

Somewhere, between Tony walking through the door and this moment, there was a spark of something and as per usual, Natasha doused it before it could flicker into a flame.

His sure is met by an easy smile that is all surface as Natasha nods. Like they're both winning here. Carefully, she unfolds her legs from underneath herself and steps onto the cold floor.

Rather than returning immediately to her side of the bed -- he gave her the one closest to the window after he caught her staring at the view one time too many -- Natasha passes by the soft arm chair in the corner. Her robe slips down her shoulders with a rasp of silk against silk, and she drapes it across one of the arm rests in a pool of silk and feathers.

"I have the charity gala," she reminds him. The dinner alone is an excruciating four hours. Then add on the mingling and dancing after and suddenly it's way past midnight. "You might actually beat me home for once."

Home. The word slips across her lips like it means nothing. She pads back to the bed like the remnants of her heart don't ache in her chest. She tucks her legs in underneath the covers and lays down on the soft and clean sheets. A servant changes them daily. Another luxury Natasha thought she'd never get used to, that she now takes for granted.

"You should sleep." Natasha settles on her side, back turned against Tony. This was easier when they just fell into bed occasionally after parties that ran too long. When he sketched out calculations on her skin of how long it'd be before he made her fall apart, and she did her best to beat his math, before they both fell asleep in each other's arms exhausted and covered in a light sheen of sweat.

"You'll need your wits about you tomorrow."