The Avengers

The Avengers

They were seated in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where I sat as possible in the long room. There were five of them. They weren't talking, and they weren't eating , though they each had a tray of food infant of them. They weren't gawking at me unlike most of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them. But it was none of these things that caught my attention.

They didn't look anything alike.

There were three guys; one I could tell was strong, he looked like he might be the captain of the volleyball team, and I was pretty sure you wouldn't want to get in the way of one of her spikes. He had short black hair parting to the left.

Another had hair hanging to his shoulders; there was something intense about him that made him look edgy. It was kind of weird, but for some reason he made me think of this actor I'd seen in an action movie a few weeks ago, who took down an entire army with a machete. I remembered thinking then that I didn't buy it—there was no way the actor could have taken on that many bad guys and won. But I thought now that I might have bought it all if the character had been played by this guy.

The other guy looked taller than the others, he had short dirty blonde hair. There was something kind about this guy, kind of like the guy you'd expect to see volunteering at an animal shelter.

The two girls there looked like total opposites. A blonde and a red hair. The blonde one looked like the schools prom queen, her hair was on a ponytail and she had a slight fringe covering her forehead. The red hair was the smallest in the table, she looked younger than the other four, who could easily be in college.

Totally different, and yet, they were all exactly alike. Every one of them was chalky pale, the palest of all the students living in this sunless town. Paler than me, the albino. They all had very dark eyes—from here they looked black—despite the range in their hair colours. There were deep shadows under all their eyes—purple shadows, like bruises. Maybe the five of them had just pulled an all-nighter. Or maybe they were recovering from broken noses. Except that their noses, all their features, were straight, angular.

But that wasn't why I couldn't look away.

I stared at their faces, so different, so similar, were all insanely, inhumanly beautiful. The girls and the guys both—beautiful. They were faces you never saw in real life—just airbrushes in magazines and on billboards. Or in a museum painted by an old master as the face of an angel. It was hard to believe they were real.

I decided the most beautiful of all was the smaller girl with red hair, though I expected that half of the student body would vote for the blond prom queen girl. They would be wrong, though. I mean, all of them were gorgeous, but the girl was something more than just beautiful. She was absolutely perfect. It was upsetting, disturbing kind of perfection. It made my stomach uneasy.

They were all looking away; away from each other, away from the rest of the students, away from anything in particular as far as I could tell. It reminded me of models posed oh so artistically for an ad—aesthetic ennui. As I watched, the short dirty blond haired guy, with the kind face, rose with his tray—unopened soda, untouched apple—and walked away with a quick, graceful lope that belonged on a runway. As he glided though the back door he past another girl that shared the exact same features as the rest. She also had blonde hair and was significantly shorter than the guy who walked past her. I followed her as she made her way to the others, who hadn't changed.

"Who are they?" I asked the girl from my Spanish class, whose name I'd forgotten.

As he looked up to see who I meant—though he could probably guess from my tone—suddenly she looked at us, the perfect one. She looked at my neighbour for just a fraction of a second, and then her dark eyes flickered to mine. Long eyes, angled up at the corners, thick lashes.

She looked away quickly, faster than I could, though I dropped my stare as soon as she'd glanced our way. I could feel my blood rush to my face. In that brief flash of a glance, her face wasn't interested at all—it was like she had called her name, and she'd looked up involuntary response, already having decided not to answer.

My neighbour laughed once, uncomfortable, looking down at the table like I did.

She muttered her answer under her breath. "Those are the Avengers," She had a quick glance towards their table and continued, "There's Tony Stark, James Barnes, Pepper Pots, Natasha Romanoff, Yelena Belova and the one who just let is Steve Rogers. They all live with Dr. Vostokoff and her husband."

I glanced sideways at there perfect girl, who was looking at her tray now, picking a bagel to pieces with thin, pale fingers. Her mouth was moving very quickly, her full lips barely opening. The other four looked away, but I still thought she might be speaking quietly to them.

Then I finally remembered that my neighbours name was Maria.

"They're all very . . . good looking." What an understatement.

"Yeah!" Maria agreed with another laugh. "They're all together  though—Tony and Pepper, James and Steve. Like dating, you know? And they live together." She snickered and wagged her eyebrows suggestively.

I didn't know why, but her reaction made me want to defend them. Maybe just because she sounded so judgmental. But what could I say? I didn't know anything about them.

"Well if they're not related then it doesn't matter." I said, wanting to change the tone but not the subject.

"Oh, Yelena and Natasha are sister but the others aren't related. Dr. Vostokoff is really young. Early thirties. All of them are sort of adopted."

"Sort of?"

"I'm not sure if they are adopted or some kind of foster kids."

"They look old for foster kids."

"They are now. Pepper and James are both eighteen, but they've been with Mr. Shostakov since they were little."

"That's actually kind of amazing—for them to take care of all those kids, when they're so young and everything."

"I guess so," Maria said, though it sounded like he'd rather not say anything positive. As if she didn't like the doctor and her husband for some reason . . . and the way she was looking at their adopted kids, I could guess there might be some jealousy involved. "I think Dr. Vostokoff can't have kids, though," she added, as if that somehow made what they were doing less admirable.

Through all this conversation, I couldn't keep my eyes away from the strange family for more than a few seconds at a time. They continued to look at the walls and not eat.

"Have they always lived in Forks?" I asked. How could I never have noticed them during my summers here?

"No. They just moved down two years ago from somewhere in Alaska."

I felt a strange wave of pity, and relief. Pity because, as beautiful as they were, they were still outsiders, not accepted. Relief that I wasn't the only new comer here, and definitely not the most interesting by any standard.

As I examined them again, the perfect girl looked up and met my gaze, this time with obvious curiosity. As I immediately looked away, I thought that her look held some kind of unanswered expectation.

"Which one is the girl with reddish hair?" I asked. I tried to glance casually in that direction, like I was just checking out the cafeteria; she was still staring at me, but not gawking like the other kids had today—she had this frustrated expression I didn't understand. I looked down again.

"That's Natasha. She's hot, sure, but don't waste your time. She doesn't go out with anyone. Apparently nobody here are good enough for her," Maria said sourly, then grunted. I wondered how many times she'd turned her down.

I pressed my lips together to hide a smile. Then I glanced at her again. Natasha. Her face was turned away, but I thought from the shape of her cheek that she might be smiling, too.

After a few more minutes, the five of them left the table together. They all were seriously graceful. It was a strange thing to watch them in motion together. Natasha didn't look at me again.

I sat at the table with Maria and her friends longe than I would have if I'd been sitting alone. I didn't want to be late for class on my first day. One of my new acquaintances, who politely reminded me that his name was Clint, had Biology II with me the net hour. We walked to class together in silence. He was probably shy like me.

First Sight

I didn't sleep well that night, even after I finally got my head to shut up. The constant whooshing of the rain and the wind across the roof wouldn't fade into the background. I pulled the old quilt over my head, and later added the pillow, too. But I couldn't fall asleep until after midnight, when the rain finally settled into a quiet drizzle.

Thick fog was all I could see out my window in the morning, and I could feel the claustrophobia creeping up on me. You could never see the sky here; it was like a prison cage I'd imagined.

Breakfast with Nick was quiet. He wished me good luck at school. I thanked him, knowing his hope was a waste of time. Good luck tended to avoid me. Nick left first, off to the police station that was his wife and family. After he left, I sat at the old square oak table in one the three non-matching chairs and stared at the familiar kitchen, with dark panelled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and while linoleum, floor. Nothing had changed. My mum had painted the cabinets eighteen years ago, trying to bring some sunshine into the house. Over the small fireplace the adjoining, microscopic family room was a row of pictures. First a wedding picture of Nick and my mum in Las Vegas, then one of the three of us in the hospital after I was born, taken by a helpful nurse, followed by the procession of my school pictures up to this year's. Those were embarrassing to look at—the bad haircuts, the braces years, the acne that had finally cleared up. I would have to see what I could do to get Nick to put them somewhere else, at least while I was living here.

It was impossible, being in this house, not to realize that Nick had never gotten over my mum. It made me uncomfortable.

I didn't want to be too early to school, but I couldn't stay in the house anymore. I put on my jacket—thick, non-breathing plastic, like a biohazard suit—and headed out into the rain.

It was just drizzling still, not enough to soak me through immediately as I reached for the house key that was always hidden under the eave by the door, and Locked up. The sloshing of my new waterproof boots sounded weird. I missed the normal crunch of gravel as I walked.

Inside the ruck, it was nice and dry. Either Odin or Nick had obviously cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint. The engine started quickly, which was a relied, but loudly, roaring to life and then idling at top volume. Well, a truck this old was bound to have a flaw. The antique radio worked, a bonus I hadn't expected.

Finding the school wasn't difficult; like most other things, it was just off the highway. It wasn't obvious at first that it was a school; only the sign, which declared it to be Forks High school, clued me in. It looked like a collection of matching houses, built with maroon-coloured bricks. There were so many trees and shrubs I couldn't see its size at first. Where was the feel of the institution? It thought. Where were the chain-link fences, the metal detectors?

I parked by the first building, which had a small sign over the door reading FRONT OFFICE. No one else was parked there, so I was sure it was off limits but I decided I would get directions inside instead of circling around in the rain like an idiot.

Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than I'd hoped. The office was small; there was a little waiting area with padded folding chard, orange-flecked commercial carpet, notices and awards cluttering the walls, and a big clock ticking loudly. Plants grew everywhere in large plastic pots, as if there weren't enough greenery outside. The room was cut in half by a long counter, cluttered with wire baskets full o papers and brightly coloured flyers taped to the front. There were three desks behind the counter; a round, balding man in glasses sat at one. He was wearing a t-shirt, which immediately made me feel overdressed for the weather.

The balding man looked up. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Y/n Fury," I informed him, and saw the quick recognition in his eyes. I was expected, already the subject of gossip. The Chief's daughter, the one with the unstable mum, come home at last.

"Of course," he said. He dug through a leaning stack of papers on his desk till he found the ones he was looking fro "I have your schedule right here, Y/n, and a map of the school." He brought several sheets to the counter to show me.

He went through my classes for me, highlighting the best route to each on the map, and gave me a slip to have each teacher sign, which I was to bring back at the end of the day. He smiled at me and hoped, like Nick, that I would like it here in Forks.

I smiled back as convincingly as I could.

When I went back out to my truck, other students were starting to arrive. I drove around the school, following the line of traffic. Most of the cars were older like mine, nothing flashy. Ay home, I'd lived in one of the few lower-income neighbourhoods that were included in the Paradise Valley District. It was a common thing to see a new Mercedes or Porsche in the students lot. The nicest car here was a brand-new Volvo, and it stood out. Still, I cut the engine as soon as I was in a spot, so that the earsplitting volume wouldn't draw attention to me.

I looked at the map in the truck, trying to memorise it now; hopefully I wouldn't have to walk around with it stick in front of my nose all day. I stuffed everything in my backpack, slung the strap over my shoulder, and sucked in a huge breath. It won't be that bad, I lied to myself. Seriously, though. this wasn't a life and death situation—it was just high school. It's not like anyone was going to bite me. I finally exhaled, and stepped out of the truck.

I pulled my hood down over my face as I walked to the sidewalk, crowed with teenagers. My plain black jacket didn't stand out, I was glad to see, though there wasn't much I could do about my height. I hunched my shoulders and kept my head down.

Once I got around the cafeteria, building three was easy to spot. A large black "3" was painted on a white square on the east corner. I followed two unisex raincoats through the door.

The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped just inside the door to hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. I copied them. They were two girls, one a porcelain-coloured blonde, the other also pale, with light brown hair. At least my skin wouldn't be a standout here.

I took the slip up to the teacher, a narrow woman with thinning hair whose desk had a nameplate identifying her as Ms.Mason. She gawked at me when she saw my name—discouraging—and I could feel the blood rush into my face, no doubt forming unattractive splotches across my cheeks. At least she sent me to an empty desk at the back without introducing me to the class. I tried to fold myself into the little desk as inconspicuously as possible.

It was harder for my new classmates to stare at me in the back, but somehow, they managed. I kept my eyes down on the reading list the teacher had given me. It was pretty basic: Brontë, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Faulkner. I'd already read everything. That was comforting ... and boring. I wondered if my mum would send me my folder of old essays, or if she would think that was cheating. I went through different arguments with her in my head while the teacher droned on.

When the bell rang, a pale, skinny girl with blonde hair leaned across the aisle to talk to me.

"You're Y/n Fury, aren't you?" She gave off the vibe of an overly helpful, chess club type.

"Yep," as soon as the word fell from my mouth, everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look at me.

"Where's your next class?" She asked.

I had to check my bag. "Um, Government, with Jefferson, in building six."

There was nowhere to look without meeting curious eyes.

"I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way..." Definitely over-helpful. "I'm Sharon," she added.

I forced a smile. "Thanks."

We got our jackets and headed out into the rain, which had picked up. Several people seemed to be walking too close behind us—like they were trying to eavesdrop or something. I hoped I wasn't getting paranoid.

"So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?" she asked.

"Very."

"It doesn't rain much there, does it?"

"Three or four times a year."

"Wow, what must that be like?" she wondered.

"Sunny," I told her.

"You don't look very tan."

"My mother is part albino."

She studied my face uneasily, and I stifled a groan. It looked like clouds and a sense of humour didn't mix. A few months of this and I'd forget how to use sarcasm.

We walked back around the cafeteria, to the south buildings by the gym. Sharon followed me right to the door, though it was clearly marked.

"Well, good luck," she said as I touched the handle. "Maybe we'll have some other classes together." She sounded hopeful.

I smiled at her—in what I hoped was not an encouraging way—and went inside.

The rest of the morning passed in about the same way. My Trigonometry teacher, Ms. Varner, who I would have disliked anyway just because of the subject she taught, was the only one who made me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. I stammered, I could feel the heat rushing through my cheeks, and tripped over my own boots on the way to my seat.

After two classes, I started to recognise some of the faces in each room. There was always someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask me questions about how I was liking Forks. I tried to be diplomatic, but mostly I just lied a lot. At least I never needed a map.

One girl sat next to me in both Trig and Spanish, and she walked with me to the cafeteria for lunch. She reached my shoulders in height and had long dark black hair. I couldn't remember her name, so I smiled and nodded as she rattled on about teachers and classes. I didn't try to keep up.

We sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, who she introduced to me—couldn't complain about the manners here. I forgot all their names as soon as she said them. They seemed to think it was cool that she'd invited me. The girl from English, Sharon, waved at me from across the room, and they all laughed. Already the butt of the joke. It was probably a new record for me. But none of them seemed mean-spirited about it.

It was there, sitting in the lunch room, trying to make conversation with seven curious strangers, that I first saw them.

Disclamer for Life and Death

so basically this story is based on Stephanie Meyer's book life and death, the story of Edythe and Beu. I got the book given to me not long ago and when I read it I got major Natasha vibes so I decided to write it.

Basically is the exact same story that Stephanie wrote with very minor changes so I wanted to make it very clear that this is not my work so I don't get banned or something for copy write. Basically I just changed the characters and made them all from Marvel.

One thing I wanted to make clear as well is that in this story anyone can like whoever regardless of gender. Kinda off like She-Ra where nobody comes out or anything like that cause is so normalised.

Choosing the characters was fun. I had a little of debating Choosing who Steve and Bucky would play, cause on one sense Archie and Edythe get along really great like Steve and Nat but on the other sense Bucky has the mysterious past like Archie Though I liked the Jessamine vibes Bucky gave. Another thing is that I had no idea what to do with Bruce which is why I made him Phil.

Also I am aware that this was a gender reverse from Twilight but I haven't read twilight so I'm not sure if there is much of a difference or what but anyways hope you enjoy this.  

Any questions feel free to ask meanwhile enjoy the story.

ONCE AGAIN THIS IS NOT MY WORK

THIS BELONGS TO STEPHANIE MEYER.

I gain an enemy?

When we entered the classroom, Clint went to sit at a blacktopped lab table exactly like the ones I was used to at home. He already had a neighbour. In fact, all the tables were filled but one. Net to the centre aisle, I recognised Natasha Romanoff, sitting next to that single open seat.

My heart started pounding a little faster than usual.

As I walked down the aisle to do my required intro for the teacher and get my slip signed, I was watching her, trying to make it convert. Just as I passed, she suddenly went rigid in her seat. Her face jerked up toward mine so fast it surprised me, staring with the strangest expression—it was more than angry, it was furious, hostile. I looked away, stunned, going red again. I stumbled over a book in the walkway and had to catch myself on the edge of a table. The girl sitting there giggled.

I'd been right about the eyes. They were black—coal black. Mrs. Banner (I vaguely noticed that she shared a last name with Bruce) signed my slip and handed me a book with no nonsense of instructions. I could tell we were going to get along. Of course, she no choice but to send me to the one open seat in the middle of the room. I kept my eyes down as I went to sit by her, confused and awkward, wondering what I could have done to earn the antagonistic glare she'd given me.

I didn't look up as I set my book on the table and took my sea, But I saw her posture change from the corner of my eye. She was leaning away from me, sitting on the extreme edge of her chair and averting her face like she smelled something bad. Inconspicuously, I sniffed. MY shirt smelled like laundry detergent. How could that be offensive? I scooted my chair to the right, giving her as much space as I could, and tried to pay attention to the teacher.

The lecture was on cellular anatomy, something I'd already studied. I took notes carefully anyway, looking down. I couldn't stop myself from shooting the occasional glance at the strange girl next to me. Through the entire class, she never relaxed her stiff position on the edge of her chair, sitting as far from me as possible, with her hair hiding most of her face. Her hand was clenched into a fist on top of her left thigh, tendons standing out under her pale skin. This, too, she never relaxed. She had the sleeves of her white henley pushed up to her elbows, and her forearm flexed with surprisingly hard muscle beneath her pale skin. I couldn't help but notice how perfect that skin was. Not one freckle, not one scar.

The class seemed to drag on longer than the rest. Was it because the day was finally ending, or because I was waiting for her tight fist to loosen? It never did; she continued to sit so still it looked like she wasn't even breathing. What was wrong with her? Was this how she usually acted? I questioned my quick judgement on Maria's sour grapes at lunch today. Maybe she wasn't just resentful.

This couldn't have anything to do with me. She didn't know me.

Mrs. Banner passed some quizzes back when the class was almost done. She handed me one to give to the girl. I glanced at the top automatically - one hundred percent.

I glanced down at her as I slid the paper over, and then instantly regretted it. She was glaring up at me again, her long, black eyes full of revulsion. As I flinched away from the hate radiating from her, the phrase if looks could kill suddenly ran through my mind,

At that moment, the being rang loudly, making me jump, and Natasha Romanoff as out of her seat. She moved like a dancer, every perfect line of her slim body in harmony with all the others, her back to me, and she was out the door before anyone else was out of their seat.

I sat frozen in my seat, staring blankly after her. She was so harsh. I began gathering up my things slowly, trying to block out the confusion and guilt that filled me. Why should I feel guilty? I hadn't done anything wrong. How could I have? I hadn't actually even met her.

"Aren't you Y/n Fury?" a female voice asked.

I looked up to see a somewhat squared faced girl, light brown eyes, and blonde hair at shoulder length, smiling at me in a friendly way. She obviously didn't think I smelled bad.

"Yeah," I replied, smiling back.

"I'm Carol."

"Hi, Carol."

"Do you need any help finding your next class?"

"I'm headed to the gym, actually. I think I can find it."

"That's my next class, too." She seemed thrilled, though it wasn't such a big coincidence in a school this small.

We walked to class together; she was a chatterer—she supplied most of the conversation, which made it easy for me. She'd lived in California till she was ten, so she got how I felt about the sun. It turned out she'd been in my English class also. She was the nicest person I met today.

But as we were entering the gym she asked, "So, did you stab Natasha Romanoff with a pencil or what? I've never seen her act like that."

I winced. I guess I wasn't the only one who had noticed. And, apparently, that wasn't Natasha Romanoff's usual behaviour. I decided to play dumb.

"Was that the girl I sat next to in Biology?"

"Yeah," she said. "She looked like she was in pain or something."

"I don't know," I responded. "I never spoke to her."

"She's weird." Carol and I lingered by the girls dressing room. "If I got to sit by you, I would have talked to you."

I smiled at her before walking towards the gym teacher. She was kind and seemed to like me. But that wasn't enough to make me forget the last strange hour.

The gym teacher, Coach Clapp, found me a uniform, but she didn't make me dress down for today's class. At t home, only two years of P.E were required. Here P.E was mandatory all four years. My own special version of hell.

I watched four volleyball games running simultaneously. Remembering how many injuries I had sustained—and inflicted—playing volleyball, I felt a little nauseated.

The final bell rang at last. I walked slowly to the office to return my paperwork. The rain had faded away, but the wind was strong, and colder. I zipped my jacket up and shoved my free hand into a pocket.

When I walked into the warm office, I almost turned around and walked back out.

Natasha Romanoff stood at the desk in front of me. Impossible not to recognise her tangled red hair. She didn't seem to notice the sound of my entrance. I stood pressed against the back wall, waiting for the balding receptionist to be free.

She was arguing with him in a low, velvety voice. I quickly picked up the gist of the argument. She was trying to trade from sixth-hour Biology to another time—any other time.

This could not be about me. It had to be something else, something that happened before I got to the Biology room. The look on her face must have been about some other problem. It was impossible that a stranger could take such a sudden, intense dislike to me. I wasn't interesting enough to be worth that strong of a reaction.

The door opened again, and the cold wind suddenly gusted through the room, rustling the papers on the desk, waving through my hair. The girl who came in merely stepped to the desk, placed a note in the wire basket, and walked out again. But Natasha Romanoff's back stiffened, and she turned slowly to glare at me—her face was ridiculously perfect, not even one tiny flaw to make her seem human—with piercing hate-filled eyes. For an instant, I felt the oddest thrill of fear, raising the hair on my arms. As if she were going to pull a gun out and shoot me. The look only lasted a second, but it was colder than the freezing wind. She turned back to the receptionist.

"Never mind, then," she said quickly in a voice like a silk. "I can see that's impossible. Thank you so much for your help." And she turned on her heel without another look at me, and disappeared out the door.

I went robotically to the desk, my face white for once instead of red, and handed him the signed slip.

"How did your first day go, Kid?" he asked

"Fine," I lied, my voice cracking. I could see I hadn't convinced him.

When I got to the truck, it was almost the last car in the lot. It seemed like a haven, already the closet thing to home I had in this wet, green hell. But soon I was cold enough to want the heater, so I turned the key and the engine roared to life. I headed back to Charlie's house, trying to think of nothing at all.

There are six on the table

That night it was finally quiet. I fell asleep fast, exhausted.

The rest of the week was uneventful. I got used to the routine of my classes. By Friday I was able to recognise, if not name, almost all the kids in the school. In Gym, the people on my team learned not to send the ball in my direction. I stayed out of their way.

Natasha Romanoff didn't come back to school.

Everyday, I watched, pretending I wasn't looking, until the rest of the Avengers entered the cafeteria without her. Then I could relax and join in the conversation. Mostly it entered around a trip to the La Push Ocean Park in two weeks that Carol was putting together. I was invited, and I agreed to go, more out of politeness than a strong urge to hit the beach. I believed beaches should be hot, and—aside from the ocean—dry.

By Friday I was totally comfortable entering by Biology class, no longer worried that Natasha would show. For all I knew, she'd dropped out of school. I tried not to think about her, but I couldn't totally erase the worry that I was responsible for her continued absence, ridiculous as it seemed.

My first weekend in Forks continued without incident. Nick worked most of the time. I wrote my mum more fake cheerful e-mails, got ahead on my homework, and cleaned up the house—obviously OCD wasn't a problem for Nick. I drove to the library Saturday, but I didn't even bother to get a card—there wasn't anything interesting I hadn't read; I would have to visit Olympia or Seattle soon, and find a good bookstore. I wondered idly what kind of gas milage the truck got . . .and winced at the thought.

The rain stayed soft over the weekend, quiet, so I was able to sleep.

People greeted me in the parking lot Monday morning. I didn't know all their names, but I smiled at everyone. It was colder this morning, but at least it wasn't raining. In English, Carol took her now-normal seat by my side. We had a pop quiz on Wuthering Heights. It was straightforward, very easy.

All in all, I was feeling a lot more comfortable than I had ever expected to feel here.

When we walked out of class, the air was full of swirling bits of white. I could hear people shouting excitedly to each other. The wind was freezing against my cheeks, my nose.

"Wow," Carol said. "It's snowing."

I looked at the cotton fluffs that were building up along the sidewalk and swirling erratically past my face.

"Ugh." Snow. There went my good day.

She looked surprised. "Don't you like snow?"

"Snow means it's too cold for rain." Obviously. "Besides, I thought it was supposed to come down in flakes—you know, each one unique and all that. These just look like the ends of Q-tips."

"Haven't you ever seen snow fall before?" she asked incredulously.

"Sure I have." I paused. "On TV."

Carol laughed. And then a big, wet ball of dripping snow smacked into the back of her head. We both turned to see where it came from. I suspected Sharon, who was walking away, her back towards us—in the wrong direction for her next class. Carol had the same idea. She bent over and began scraping together a pile of white mush.

"I'll see you at lunch, okay?" I kept walking as I spoke. The last thing last thing I wanted was a wad of dirty ice melting down my neck the rest of the day.

She just nodded, her eyes on Sharon's back.

I kept a sharp lookout on the way to the cafeteria with Maria after Spanish. Mush balls were flying everywhere. I had a binder in my hands, ready to use as a shield. Maria thought I was hilarious, but something in my expression kept him from lobbing a snowball at me herself.

Carol caught up to us as we walked in the doors, laughing, her usually sleek hair turning frizzy from the wet. Her and Maria were talking animatedly about the snow fight as we got in line to buy food. I glanced toward that table in the corner out of habit. And then I froze where I stood. There were six people at the table.

Maria pulled on my arm.

"Hey? Y/n? What do you want?"

I looked down; my ears were hot. I had no reason to feel self-conscious, I reminded myself. I hadn't done anything wrong.

"What's with Y/n?" Carol asked Maria.

"Nothing," I answered. I grabbed a soda bottle as I caught up to the end of the line.

"Aren't you hungry?" Maria asked.

"Actually, I feel little sick," I said.

She shuffled a few steps away from me.

I waited for them to get their food, and then followed them to the table, my eyes anywhere but the back corner of the cafeteria.

I drank my soda slowly, stomach churning. Twice Carol asked, with a concerned tone that seemed little over the top, how I was feeling. I told her it was nothing, but I was wondering if I should play it up and escape to the nurse's office for the next hour.

Ridiculous. I shouldn't have to run away. Why was I being such a coward? Was it so bad to be glared at? It wasn't like she was actually going to stab a knife in me.

I decided to allow myself one glance at the Avenger's table. Just to read the mood.

I kept my head turned away and glanced out of the side of my eye. None of them were looking this way. I turned my head a little.

They were laughing. Natasha, James, Yelena, and Tony all had their hair entirely saturated with melting snow. Steve and Pepper were leaning away as Tony ruffled his dripping hair toward them, leaving a wide arc of splatters across the front of their jackets. They were enjoying the snowy day, just like everyone else—only they looked more like a scene from a movie than the rest of us.

But, aside from the laughter and playfulness, there was something different, and I couldn't quite figure out what that difference was. I examined Natasha, comparing her to my memory of last week. Her skin was less pale, I decided—flushed from the snow fight maybe—the circles under her eyes much less noticeable. Her hair was darker, wet and slicked down again't her head. But there was something else. I forgot to pretend I wasn't staring as I tried to put my finger on the change.

"What are you staring at, Y/n?" Maria asked.

At that precise moment, Natasha's eyes flashed over to meet mine.

I turned my head completely toward Maria, shifting my shoulders in his direction and making my hair cover my face. Maria leaned away, surprised by my sudden invasion of her personal space.

I was sure, though, in the instant our eyes had met, that she didn't look angry or disgusted as she had the last time I'd seen her. She just looked curious again, unsatisfied in some way.

"Natasha Romanoff is staring at you," Maria said, looking over my shoulder.

"She doesn't look angry, does she?" I couldn't help asking.

"No." Maria looked confused, then she suddenly smiled. "What did you do, ask her out?"

"No! I've never even talked to her. I just . . . don't think she likes me very much," I admitted. I kept my body angled toward Maria, but I could feel goose bumps on my neck, like I could feel her eyes on me.

"The Avengers don't like anybody . . . well, they don't notice anybody enough to like them. But she's still staring at you."

"Stop looking at her," I insisted.

She snickered, but finally looked away.

Carol interrupted us then—she was planning an epic battle of the blizzard in the parking lot after school and wanted us to join. Maria agreed enthusiastically. The way she looked at Carol left little doubt that she would be up for anything she suggested. I kept silent. I wondered how many years I would have to live in Forks before I was bored enough to find frozen water exciting. Probably much longer than I planned to be here.

For the rest of the lunch hour I very carefully kept my eyes at my own table. Natasha didn't look like she was planning yo murder me anymore, so it was no big thing to go to Biology. My stomach twisted at the thought of sitting next to her again.

I didn't really want to walk to class with Carol as usual—she seemed to be a popular target for snowballs—but when we got to the door, everyone besides me groaned in unison. It was raining, washing all traces of the snow away in clear, icy ribbons down the side of the walkway. I pulled my hood up, hiding my smile. I would be free to go straight home after Gym.

Natasha speaks

Carol kept up a string of complaints on the way to building four.

Once inside the classroom, I was relieved that Natasha's chair was still empty. It gave mea minute to settle myself. Mrs Banner was walking around the room, distributing one microscope and box of slides to each table. Class still had a few minutes before it started, and the room buzzed with conversation. I kept my eyes away from the door, doodling idly on the cover of my notebook.

I heard very clearly when the chair next to me moved, but I kept my eyes focused on the pattern I was drawing.

"Hello," said a quiet, musical voice.

I looked up, shocked that she was speaking to me. She was sitting as far away from me as the desk allowed, but her chair was angled toward me. Her hair was dripping wet, tangled—even so, she looked like she'd finished shooting a commercial. Her perfect face was friendly, open, a slight smile on her full, pink lips. But her long eyes were careful.

"My name is Natasha Romanoff," she continued. "I didn't have a chance to introduce myself last week. You must be Y/n Fury."

My mind was whirling with confusion. Had I made up the whole thing? She was totally polite now. I had to say something; she was waiting. But I couldn't think of anything normal to say.

"H-how do you know my name?" I stammered.

She laughed softly. "Oh, I think everyone knows your name. The whole town's been waiting fro you to arrive."

I frowned, though it wasn't as if I hadn't guessed as much.

"Oh," I looked away awkwardly.

Luckily, Mrs. Banner started class at that moment. I tried to concentrate as she explained the lab we would be doing today. The slides in the box were out of order. Working as lab partners, we had to separate the slides of onion root tip cells into the phases of mitosis they represented and label them accordingly. We weren't supposed to use our books. In twenty minutes, she would be coming around to see who had it right.

"Get started," she commanded.

"Should I go first, partner?" Natasha asked. I looked up to see her smiling a dimpled smile so perfect that I could only stare at her like an idiot.

She raise her eyebrows.

"Uh, sure, go ahead," I sputtered.

I saw her eyes flash to the redness spreading across my cheeks. Why couldn't my blood just stay in my veins where it belonged?

She looked away sharply, yanking the microscope to her side of the table.

She studied the first slide for a quarter of a second—maybe less.

"Prophase."

She switched out the slide for the next, then paused and looked up at me.

"Or did you want to check?" she challenged.

"Uh, no, I'm good," I said.

She wrote the word Prophase  neatly on the top line of our worksheet. Even her handwriting was perfect, like she'd taken classes in penmanship or something. Did anyone still do that? She barely glanced through the microscope at the second slide, then wrote Anaphase  on the next line, looping her A like  it was calligraphy, like she was addressing a wedding invitation. I'd had to do the invitations for my mum's wedding. I'd printed the labels in a fancy script font that didn't look anything as elegant as Natasha's handwriting.

She moved the next slide into place, while I took advantage of her diverted attention to stare. So close up, you'd think I'd be able to see something—a hint of a pimple, a stray eyebrow hair, a pore, something—wrong with her. But there was nothing.

Suddenly her head flipped up, eyes to the front of the class, just before Mrs. Banner called out, "Miss Romanoff?"

"Yes, Mrs. Banner?" Natasha slid the microscope toward me as she spoke.

"Perhaps you should let Miss Fury have an opportunity to learn?"

"Of course, Mrs. Banner."

Natasha turned and gave me a well, go ahead then look.

I bent down to look through the eyepiece. I could sense she was watching—only fair, considering how I'd been ogling her—but it made me feel awkward, like just inclining my head was a clumsy move.

At least the slide wasn't difficult.

"Metaphase," I said.

"Do you mind if I look?" she asked as I started to remove the slide. Her hand caught mine, to stop me, as she was speaking. Her fingers were ice cold, like she'd been holding them in a snowdrift before class. But that wasn't why I jerked my hand away so quickly. When she touched me, it stung my hand like a low-voltage electric shock.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, quickly pulling her hand back, though she continued to reach for the microscope. I watched her, a little dazed, as she examined the slide for another tiny fraction of a second.

"Metaphase," she agreed, then slid the microscope back to me. I tried to exchange slides, but I had no grip on my fingers, and I ended up dropping both. One fell on the table and the other over the edge, but Natasha caught it before it could hit the ground.

"Ugh," I exhaled, mortified. "Sorry."

"Well, the last is no mystery, regardless," she said. Her tone was right on the edge of laughter. Butt of the joke again.

Natasha calligraphic the words Metaphase and Telophase onto the last two lines of the worksheet.

We were finished before anyone else was close. I could see Carol and her partner comparing two slides again and again, and another pair had their book open under the table.

Which left me with nothing to do but try not to look at her . . . unsuccessfully. I glanced down, and she was staring at me, the same strange look of frustration in her eyes. Suddenly I identified that elusive difference in her face.

"Did you get contacts?" I blurted out.

She seemed puzzled by my apropos-of-nothing question.

"No."

"Oh," I mumbled. "I thought there was something different about your eyes."

She shrugged, and looked away.

In fact, I knew there was something different. I had not forgotten one detail of that first time she'd glared at me like she wanted me dead. I could still see the flat black colour of her eyes—so jarring against the background of her pale skin. Today her eyes were a completely different colour; a strange gold, darker than butterscotch, but with the same warm tone. I didn't understand how that was possible, unless she was lying for some reason about the contacts. Or maybe Forks was making me crazy in the literal sense of the word.

I looked down. Her hands were clenched into fists again. Mrs. Banner came to our table then, looking over our shoulders to glance at the completed lab, and then stared more intently to check the answers.

"So, Natasha . . . ," Mrs. Banner began.

"Y/n identified half of the slides," Natasha said before Mrs. Banner could finish.

Mrs. Banner looked a the now; her expression was skeptical.

"Have you done this lab before?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Not with onion root."

"Whitefish blastula?"

"Yeah."

Mrs. Banner nodded. "Were you in an advanced placement program in Phoenix?"

"Yes."

"Well," she said after a moment, "I guess it's good you two are lab partners." She mumbled something I couldn't hear as she walked away. After she left, I started doodling on my notebook again.

"It's too bad about the snow, isn't it?" Natasha asked. I had the odd feeling that she was forcing herself to make small talk with me. It was like she had heard my conversation with Maria at lunch and was trying to prove me wrong. Which was impossible. I was turning paranoid.

"Not really," I answered honestly, instead of pretending to be normal like everyone else. I was still trying to shake the stupid feeling of suspicion, and I couldn't concentrate on putting up a socially acceptable front.

"You don't like the cold." It wasn't a question.

"Or the wet."

"Forks must be a difficult place for you to live," she mused.

"You have no idea," I muttered darkly.

She looked riveted by my response, for some reason I couldn't imagine. Her face was such a distraction that I tried to not look at it any more than courtesy absolutely demanded.

"Why did you come here, then?"

No one had asked me that—not straight out like she did, demanding.

"It's . . . complicated."

"I think I can keep up," she pressed.

I paused for a long moment, and then made the mistake of meeting her gaze. Her long, dark gold eyes confused me, and I answered without thinking.

"My mother got remarried," I said.

"That doesn't sound so complex," she disagreed, but her tone was suddenly softer. "When did that happen?"

"Last September." I couldn't keep the sadness out of my voice.

"Ans you don't like him," Natasha guessed, her voice still kind.

"No, Bruce is fine. A little young, maybe, but he's a good guy."

"Why didn't you stay with them?"

I couldn't understand her interest, but she continued to stare at me with penetrating eyes, as If my dull life's story was somehow vitally important.

"Bruce travels most of the time. He's a scientist and he's constantly changing labs with different kinds of research," I half-smiled.

"Have I heard of him?" She asked, smiling in response, just enough for a hint of dimples to show.

"Probably not. He switches research a lot, which is why he moves around a lot."

"And your mother sent you hers that she could travel with him." She said it as an assumption again, not a question.

My hunched shoulders straightened automatically. "No, she didn't. I sent myself."

Her eyebrows pushed together. "I don't understand," she admitted, and she seemed more frustrated by that fact than she should be.

I sighed. Why was I explaining this to her? She stared at me, waiting.

"She stayed with me at first, but she missed him. It made her unhappy . . . so I decided it was time to spend some quality time with Nick." My voice was glum by the time I finished.

"But now you're unhappy," she pointed out.

"And?" I challenged.

"That doesn't seem fair." She shrugged, but her eyes were still intense.

I laughed once. "Haven't you heard? Life isn't fair."

"I believe I have heard that somewhere before," she agreed dryly.

"So that's it," I insisted, wondering why she was still staring at me that way.

Her head tilted to the side, and her gold eyes seemed to laser right through the surface of my skin. "You put on a good show," she said slowly. "But I'd be willing to bet that you're suffering more than you let anyone see."

I shrugged. "I repeat . . . And?"

"I don't entirely understand you, that's all."

I frowned. "Why would you want to?"

"That's a very good question," she murmured, so quietly that I wondered if she was talking to herself. However, after a few seconds of silence, I decided that was the only answer I was going to get.

It was awkward, just looking at each other, but she didn't look away. I wanted to keep staring at her face, but I was afraid she was wondering what was wrong with me for staring so much, so finally I turned toward the blackboard. She sighed.

I glanced back, and she was still looking at me, but her expression was different . . . a little frustrated, or irritated.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly. "Did I . . . Am I annoying you?"

She shook her head and smiled with hand her mouth so that one dimple popped out. "No, if anything, I'm annoyed with myself."

"Why?"

She cocked her head to the side. "Reading people . . . it usually comes very easily to me. But I can't—I guess I don't know quite what to make of you. Is that funny?"

I flattened out my grin. "More . . . unexpected. My mum always calls me her open book. According to her, you can all but read my thoughts printing out across my forehead."

Her smile vanished and she half-glared into my eyes, not angry like before, just intense. As if she was trying hard to read that printout my mum had seen. Then, switching gears just as abruptly, she was smiling again.

"I supposed I've gotten overconfident."

I didn't know what to say to that. "Um, sorry?"

She laughed, and the sound was like music, though I couldn't think of the instrument to compare it to. Her teeth were perfect—no surprise there—and blinding white.

Mrs. Banner called the class to order then, and I was relieved to give her my attention. It was a little too intense, making small talk with Natasha. I felt dizzy in a strange way. Had I really just detailed my boring life to this bizarre, beautiful girl who might or might not hate me? She'd seemed almost too interested in what I had to say, but now I could see, from the corner of my eye, that she was leaning away from me again, her hands gripping the edge of the table with unmistakable tension.

I tried to focus as Mrs. Banner went through the lab with transparencies on the overhead projector, but my thoughts were far away from the lecture.

When the bell rang, Natasha rushed as swiftly and as gracefully from the room as she had last Monday. And, like last Monday, I stared after her with my jaw hanging open.

Carol got to my table almost as quickly.

"That was awful," she said. "They all looked exactly the same. You're lucky you had Natasha for a partner."

"Yeah, she seemed to know her way around an onion root."

"She was friendly enough today," Carol commented as we shrugged into our raincoats. She didn't sound happy about it.

I tried to make my voice casual. "I wonder what was with her last Monday."

I couldn't' concentrate on Carol's chatter as we walked to Gym, and P.E. didn't do much to hold my interest, either.

Carol was on my team today. She helpfully covered  my position as well as her own, so I only had to pay attention when it was my turn to serve; my team knew to get out the way when I was up.

The rain was just a mist as I walked to the parking lot, but I was still pretty damp when I got in the truck. I turned the heat up as high as it could go, for once not caring about the mind-numbing roar of the engine.

As I looked around me to make sure the way was clear, I noticed the still, white figure. Natasha Romanoff was leaning against the front door of the Volvo, three cars down from me, and staring intently in my direction. The smile was gone, but at least so was the murder—for now, anyway. I looked away and threw the truck into reverse, almost hitting a rusty Toyota Corolla in my rush. Lucky for the Toyota, I stomped on the brake in time. It was just the sort of car that my truck would make scrap metal of. I took a deep breath, still looking out the other side of my car, and cautiously pulled out again. This time I made it. I stared straight ahead as I passed the Volvo, but I could see enough in my peripheral vision to know that she was laughing.