I Gain An Enemy?

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.

Moving to Forks

January 17, 2005

My mum drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. Though it was January everywhere else, it was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, and the sky was bright blue. I had on my favourite t-shirt—the Monty Python one with the swallows and the coconut that Mum got me two christmases ago. It didn't quite fit anymore, but that didn't matter. I wouldn't be needing t-shirts again soon.

In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington Stat, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this insignificant town more than any other place in the United States of America. It was from this town and its depressing gloom that my mom escaped with me when I was only a few months old. It was in this town that I'd been forced to spend a month every summer until I was fourteen. That was the year I finally started making ultimatums; these past three summers, my dad, Nick, vacationed with me in California for two weeks instead.

Yet somehow, I now found myself exiled to Forks for the rest of my high school education. A year and a half. Eighteen months. It felt like a prison sentence. Eighteen months, hard time. When I slammed the car door behind me, it made a sound like the clang of iron bars locking into place.

Okay, just a tad melodramatic there. I have an overactive imagination, as my mom was fond of telling me. And, of course, this was my choice. Self-imposed exile.

Didn't make it any easier.

I loved Phoenix. I loved the sun and the dry heat and the big, sprawling city. And I loved living with my mum, where I was needed.

"You don't have to do this," my mum said to me—the last of a hundred times—just before I got to the TSA post.

People think we look so much alike that we're mistaken as twins. It's not entirely true, though I don't look much like my dad at all. Her chin is pointy and her lips full, which is not like me, but we do have exactly the same eyes. On her they're childlike which makes her look like my sister rather than my mum, and although she pretends not to she loves it.

Staring at those wide, worried eyes so much like my own, I felt panicked. I'd been taking care of my mum for my whole life. I mean, I'm sure there must have been a time, probably when I was still in in diapers, that I wasn't in charge of the bills and paperwork and cooking and general live-headedness, but I couldn't remember it.

Was leaving my mum to fend for herself really the right to do? It had seemed like it was, during the months I'd struggled toward this decision. But it felt all kinds of wrong now. Of course she had Bruce these days, so the bills would probably get paid on time, there would be food in the fridge, gas in the car, and someone to call when she got lost........She didn't need me as much anymore.

"I want to go," I lied. I'd never been a good liar, but I'd been saying this lie so much lately that it almost sounded convincing now.

"Tell Nick I said hi."

"I will."

"I'll see you soon," she promised. "You can come home whenever you want—I'll come right back as soon as you need me."

But I knew what it would cost her to do that.

"Dont worry about me," I insisted. "it'll be great. I love you, Mum."

She hugged me tightly for a minute, and then I walked through the metal detectors, and she was gone.

It's a three hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle, another hour in a small plane up to Port Angeles, and the an hour drive back down to Forks. Flying's never bothered me; the hour in the car with Nick, though, I was a little worried about.

Nick had really been pretty decent about the whole thing. He seemed genuinely pleased that I was coming to live with him sort of permanently for the first time. He'd already gotten me registered for high school, and was going to help me get a car.

But it would be awkward. Neither of us was what you'd call extroverted—probably a necessary thing for living with my mother. But aside from that, what was there to say? It wasn't like I'd kept the way I felt about Forks a secret.

When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining. It wasn't an omen, just inevitable. I'd said my goodbyes to the sun.

Nick was waiting for me with the cruiser. This I was expecting, too. Nick is Police Chief Fury to the good people of Forks. My primary motivation behind buying a car, despite my serious lack of funds, was that I hated driving around town in a car with red and blue lights on top. Nothing slows down traffic like a cop.

I stumbled off the plane in Nick's awkward, one-armed hug.

"It's good to see you, Y/n," he said, smiling as he automatically steadied me. We patted each other's shoulders, embarrassed, and then stepped back. "You haven't changed much. How's Y/M/N?"

"Mum's great. It's good to see you, too, Dad." I wasn't supposed to call him Nick to his face.

"You really feel okay about leaving her?"

We both understood that this question wasn't about my own personal happiness. It was whether I was shirking my responsibility to look after her. This was the reason Nick'd never fought Mum about custody; he knew she needed me.

"Yeah. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure."

"Fair enough."

I only had two big duffel bags. Most of my Arizona clothes were too permeable for the Washington climate. My Mum and I had pooled our resources to supplement my winter wardrobe, but it still wasn't much . I couldn't handle both of them, but Nick insisted on taking one.

It threw my balance off a little—not that was ever really balanced, especially since the growth spurt. My foot caught on the lip of the exit door and the bag swung out and hit the guy trying to get in.

"Oh, sorry."

The guy wasn't much older than me, and he was a little bit shorter than me, he stepped up to my chest with his chin raised high. I could see tattoos on both sides of his neck. A small woman with hair dyed solid black stared menacingly at me from his other side.

"Sorry?" she repeated, like my apology had been offensive somehow.

"Er, yeah?"

And then the woman noticed Nick, who was in uniform. Nick didn't even have to say anything. He just looked at the guy, who backed up a half-step and suddenly seemed a lot younger, and then the girl, whose sticky red lips settled into a pout. Without another word, they ducked around me and headed into the tiny terminal.

Nick and I both shrugged at the same time. It was funny how we had some of the same mannerisms when we didn't spend much time together. Maybe it was genetic.

"I found a good car for you, really cheap," Nick announced when we were strapped into the cruiser and on our way.

"What kind of car?" I asked, suspicious of the way he said "good car for you" as opposed to just "good car."

"Well, it's a truck actually, a Chevy."

"Where did you find it?"

"Do you remember Odin Odinson down at La Push?" La Push is the small Indian reservation on the nearby coastline.

"No."

"Him and his wife used go fishing with us during the summer," Nick prompted.

That would explain why I didn't remember him. I do a good job of blocking painful things from my memory.

"He's in a wheelchair now," Nick continued when I didn't respond, "so he can't drive anymore, and she offered to sell me his truck cheap."

"What year is it?" I could see from the change in his expression that this was the question he was hoping I wouldn't ask.

"Well, Odin's had a lot of work done on the engine—it's only a few years old, really."

Did he think I would give up that easily?

"When did he buy it?"

"He bought it in 1984, I think."

"Did he buy it new?"

"Well, no. I think it was new I the early sixties—or late fifties at the earliest," he admitted sheepishly.

"Ni—Dad, I dont really know anything about cars. I wouldn't be able to fix anything that broke, and I couldn't afford a mechanic..."

"Really, Y/n, the things runs great. They don't build them like that anymore."

The thing, I though to myself ... it had possibilities—as a nickname, at the very least.

"How cheap is cheap?" After all, that part was the deal killer.

"Well, kid, I kind of already bought it for you. As a home coming gift." Nick glanced sideways at me with a hopeful expression.

Wow. Free.

"You didn't need to do that, Dad. I was going to buy myself a car."

"I don't mind. I want you to be happy here." He was looking ahead at the road when he said this. Nick had never been comfortable with expressing his emotions out loud. Another thing we had in common. So I was looking straight ahead as I responded.

"That's amazing, Dad. Thanks. I really appreciate it." No need to add that he was talking about impossibilities. Wouldn't help anything for him to suffer along with me. And I never looked a free truck in the mouth—or rather engine.

"Well, now, you're welcome." he mumbled, embarrassed by my thanks.

We changed a few more comments on the weather, which was wet, and that was pretty much it for conversation. We stared out the windows.

It was probably beautiful or something. Everything was green: the trees were covered in moss, both the trunks and the branches, the ground blanketed with ferns. Even the air had turned green by the time it filtered down through the leaves.

It was too green—an alien planet.

Eventually we made it to Nick's. He still lived in the small, two-bedroom house that he'd bought with my mother in the early days of their marriage. Those were the only kind of days their marriage had—the early ones. There, parked on the street in front of the house that never changed, was my new—well, new to me—truck. It was faded red colour, with big, curvy fenders and a rounded cab.

And I loved it. I wasn't really a car type of girl, so I was kind of surprised by my own reaction. I mean, I didn't even know If it would run, but I could see myself in it. Plus, it was one of those solid iron monsters that never gets damaged—the kind you see at the scene of an accident, paint unscratched, surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car it had just destroyed.

"Wow, Dad, it's awesome! Thanks!" Serious enthusiasm this time. Not only was the truck strangely cool, but I now I wouldn't have to walk two miles in the rain to school in the morning. Or accept a ride in the cruiser, which was obviously worst-case scenario.

"I'm glad you like it," Nick said gruffly, embarrassed again. It took only one trip to get all my stuff upstairs. I got the west bedroom that faced out over the front yard. The room was familiar; it had belonged to me since I was born. The wooden floor, the light blue walls, the peaked ceiling, the faded blue-and-white checked curtains around the window—these were all a part of my childhood. The only changes Nick had ever made were switching the crib for a bed and adding a desk as I grew. The desk now held a second-hand computer, with the phone line for the modem stapled along the floor to the nearest phone jack. This was one of my mother's requirements, so that we could stay in touch. The rocking chair from my baby days was still in the corner.

There was only one small bathroom at the top of the stairs, which I would have to share with Nick, but I'd had to share with my mum before, and that was definitely worse. She had a lot more stuff, and she doggedly resisted all my attempts to organise any of it.

One of the best things about Nick is he doesn't hover. He left me alone to unpack and get settled, which would have been totally impossible for my mum. It was nice to be alone, not to have to smile and look comfortable; a relief to stare out the window at the sheeting rain and let my thoughts get dark.

Forks High School had just three hundred and fifty-seven—now fifty-eight—students; there were more than seven hundred people in my junior class alone back home. All of the kids here had grown up together—their grandparents had been toddlers together. I would be the new kid from the big city, something to stare at and whisper about.

Maybe if I had been one of the cool kids, I could make this work for me. Come in all popular, homecoming queen, volleyball player or a cheerleader. But there was no hiding the fact that I was not that girl. Not the class president, not the bad girl on the motorcycle. I was the kid who looked like she should be good at basketball, until I started walking. The girl who got shoved into lockers until I'd suddenly shot up eight inches sophomore year. The girl who was too quiet and too pale, who didn't know anything about fashion or new makeup products or anything else I was supposed to be into as a seventeen year old girl.

Unlike other girls, I didn't have a ton of free time for hobbies. I had a check book to balance, a clogged drain to snake, and a week's groceries to shop for.

Or I used to.

So I didn't relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that I didn't relate well to people, period. Even my mother, who I was closest to of anyone on the planet, never understood me. Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. :ole ,aunt what o saw as green was what everyone else saw as red. Maybe I smelled vinegar when they smelled coconut. Maybe there was a glitch in my brain.

But the cause didn't matter. All that mattered was the effect. And tomorrow would be just the beginning.

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.

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.

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Warnings!!!

Angst

Not me

You never wanted to know what a broken heart felt like, but if someone were to ask you, you would say it’s the same as having broken ribs. Nobody can see it, but the pain is agonizing every time you breathe.  

You remember the first time you ever laid eyes on her from across the room. She looked happy but even from a distance you could tell her eyes held a story like no other. You remember laughing when your friend Kate said, "Love is when you look into someone’s eyes and see everything you need,” but the moment that her green eyes met yours, suddenly it didn’t feel so laughable. You looked back and she was gone. You remember mentally hitting yourself for not gathering the courage to get up and talk to her. You caught her figure as she left the small Café you were currently sitting in and watched her leave your line of vision.

You had never been more thankful towards Kate then the day she forced you to a club. All you wanted was to stay home and cuddle with your favourite being in the world, Fetcher, your pet owl. He was your brother, you confidante and at that time the reason for your existence. Fortunately, Kate lured you out using her most prized weapon…chocolate chip cookies.  

“WOULD YOU QUIT POUTING?” Kate had screamed so you could hear her through the blasting music of the club.

“NO! I’m going to be spending my Sunday morning looking after your drunk ass NOT to mention you’re going to have a very nasty hang over!” You replied, raising my voice so I could be heard.  

“Well, you could try mingling around, it’s not my fault you’re here pouting,” she yelled back. Just as you opened your mouth to respond, you felt a soft tap on your shoulder. Hastily turning around, you froze on your spot the second you realised who it was. You looked at her and shamelessly stared at her facial features. From her stunning green eyes to her pink plump lips, that you didn’t realise were moving until Kate gave you a shoulder bump to bring you back to reality. When you focused back on the beautiful stranger, you found a clear smirk on her face whilst she looked at you expectantly.  

“Uh, I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?” You let out a nervous laugh as you felt you blood rush to your cheeks. She giggled and you found the sound like a perfect lullaby, something you knew you could never get tired of listening to, no matter how many time you heard it.  

“I was wondering if this seat was taken, and if I could buy you a drink?” She nervously bit her lip and as you heard the words leave her mouth you knew that your face was just as red as her hair. No girl has ever asked to buy you a drink.  

“Uh yeah, I would love that. I’m Y/n , by the way.”

“Natasha.”

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” you winked and mentally high fived yourself when you noticed her blush.  

June 17: probably one of your favourite memories, you remember it quite fondly. You were layin down with Natasha’s head on your lap, a peaceful silence surrounding you both. You were thinking really hard about those three words that were on the tip of your tongue, that no matter how ard you tried they wouldn’t leave your mouth. You felt like a coward but this was the you first relationship so you didn’t know how long you were supposed to wait.

“Babe?” You heard Natasha’s angelic voice pulling you out of your thoughts.  

“Yes, baby girl?”

“I was thinking…” she continued speaking but you couldn’t hear anything she was saying, too focused on the way her lips moved, not caring that she was mid-sentence. You kissed her. She was surprised but responded just as passionately.  

“I love you.” You said. She didn’t reply and you staring panicking, had you said the right thing? Was it too soon? You were about to apologise when she said, “I love you too.” You felt your grin spread across your face. She kissed you and you both quickly got lost in each other, melting in each other’s embrace.  

Out of all your memories you couldn’t decide which day was the happiest of your life, whether it was when you first met, first kiss, first time, first I love you, maybe when you proposed and she cried, as she screamed yes, or maybe when she sealed your fate and you heard her say the two fateful words come out of her mouth. “I do”. Or maybe when she came running and brought you into a bone crashing hug when she got her dream job. Although she had to leave for seven months, before she could relocate home, you knew you’d make it work. It was painful to see her leave on that plane; you could still taste the saltiness on your lips from the goodbye kiss. As the plane took off, you remember desperately praying that the next 7 months passed by quickly.  

Facetimes every day, good morning and goodnight text became the new normal in your life to communicate with the girl you were desperately in love with. She told you all about her co-workers and what the city was like. Although it was hard, you made it. The seven months flew by and you found yourself back at the airport but this time you left happier with the love of my life in your arms.

Tuesday 25th of May. The one day you wish you could forget. The memory is still very much imprinted on your brain. You had a late day at work and came home exhausted, all you wanted to do is sit down and cuddle your wife to forget the awful day you had. As you entered the house you spotted the purple blouse you had gifted her for her 25th birthday laying next to brown trousers.

It was at that moment that you knew.

You weren’t sure exactly how you knew, but you did, and you never wished to be more wrong in your life, but you saw the physical evidence right in front of you when you walked into your bedroom. The sight brought you to your knees. The harsh sound of your knees meeting the floor alerted your wife and her ‘friend’. As you both locked eyes you noticed the instant guilt and shame on the same eyes you fell in love with. Your vision clouded and you could no longer bear to stand in the place you once called home. Hearing Natasha’s shouts of your name you walked away as fast as your legs would let you when they felt so weak.

You found shelter in an old cottage. Two weeks later she arrived at your door. You didn’t want to let her in, but you didn’t have the heart to send her away after all, this was hers as well. You invited her in knowing you would have to prepare for an emotional conversation. That’s a mistake you wish you could take back more than anything. You both sat down, a silence that was once peaceful between you both turned into an awkward tension. When Natasha realized that you weren’t going to break the silence she spoke.  

“I knew you’d be here,” she said. You could tell by the look in her eyes that she was thinking back to all those memories the both of you had made. And so were you. Then reality came crushing down and you remembered why you were here in the first place.

“Who is he?” You winced when there was a noticeable crack in your voice.  

“His name is Steve, I met him at a conference meeting for work,” she told me.

“How long? And why?” You asked, looking up when you were met with stunned silence.

“How Long? And why?” You demanded, rising from the couch.  

“F-five months,” She stuttered. You sat down feeling so void of any emotion but being overwhelmed by it all at the same time.

“Why?” you quietly breathed out.

“I-I don’t know, I-it all happened so fast and next thing I know we were kissing and without noticing I fell in love with him. I swear it was never my intention to hurt you like this,” She admitted refusing to meet my eyes.

If my world wasn’t already broken beyond repair it certaintly was now. I could no longer keep my tears hidden.  

“Why are you telling me this?” You whispered

“I need you to sign this.”  

The memories are blurry as your brain still refuses to believe this happened, but you remember storming out after refusing to sign the divorce papers. You couldn’t do it. How could you? You loved her no matter what. You begged her to reconsider, screamed that you could make it work but yet she chose him. So, you walked away from best thing you ever had. You felt worthless and rejected. No other emotion ever made itself known, not even sadness.

And now here you were sitting on the top of a tree watching down as you saw Alexie lead her down the aisle once more, though you weren’t the one on the receiving end, you promised yourself you would be there for her on her happiest day. As you heard the vows and the declaration she looked up, shock evident on her face as you both locked eyes for the last time.

You lost your fight a long time ago, the second you gave her up, but as you stared at each other you realised that giving up doesn’t always mean you’re weak. Sometimes it means that you strong enough to let go, even if it kills you in the process. She will always be you greatest love, and the most painful goodbye.  

Maybe in another lifetime she would choose you.

Nick Makes a speech

Y/m/n = you middle name

The next day was better . . . and worse.

It was better because it wasn't raining yet, though the clouds were dense and black. It was easier because I knew better what to expect of the day. Carol came to sit by me inEnglish, and walked me with me to my next class, with Chess Club Sharon glaring at her all the way there; that was kind of flattering. People didn't stare at me quite as much as they had yesterday. I sat with a big group at lunch that included Carol, Sharon, Maria, Clint, and several other people whose names and faces I now remembered. I began to feel like I might be treading on water, instead of growing in it.

It was worse because I was tired; I still couldn't sleep with the rain beating the house. It was worse because Ms. Varner called on me in Trig when my hand wasn't raised and I had the wrong answer. It was miserable because I had to play volleyball, and the one time I didn't dodge out of the way of the ball, I hit two of my teammates in the head with one bad volley. And it was worse because Natasha Romanoff wasn't in school at all.

All morning I was trying not to think about lunch, not wanting to remember those hate-filled stares. Part of me wanted to confront her and demand to know what her problem was. While I was lying awake in bed, I even imagined out what I would say. But I knew myself too well to think I would really have the guts to do it. Maybe if she hadn't been so abnormally beautiful.

But when I walked into the cafeteria with Maria—trying to keep my eyes from sweeping the place for her and totally failing—I saw that her the rest of her adoptive siblings were sitting together at the same table as before, and she was not with them.

Carol intercepted us and steered us to her table. Maria seemed thrilled at the attention, and her friends quickly joined us. I tried to tune into the conversations around me, but I was still uncomfortable, waiting for Natasha's arrival. I hoped that she would simply ignore me when she came, and prove that I was making a big deal out of nothing.

She didn't come, and I got more and more tense.

I walked to Biology with more confidence when, by the end of lunch, she still hadn't showed. Carol, who was starting to seem weirdly, I don't know, territorial about me, walked by my side to class. I hesitated for a second at the door, but Natasha Romanoff wasn't here, either. I exhaled and went to my seat. Carol followed, talking about an upcoming trip to the beach. She lingered by my desk till the bell rang, then she smiled at me wistfully and went to sit by boy with braces and something close to a bowl cut.

I didn't want to be arrogant, but I was pretty sure she was into me, which was a strange feeling. Back at home, nobody noticed me. I wondered if I wanted her to like me. She was sort of pretty and everything, but her attention made me feel a little uncomfortable. Why was that? I really hoped it wasn't because of the time I'd spent staring at Natasha Romanoff yesterday, but I was kind of afraid that was it. Which was about the stupidest thing possible, really. If I based my reaction to someone's looks off a face like Natasha's, I was doomed. That was fantasy, not reality.

I was glad that I had the desk to myself, that Natasha wasn't here. I told myself that again and again. Still, I couldn't get rid of this annoying feeling that I was the reason she was gone. It was ridiculous, and egotistical again, to think that I could affect anyone that much. It was impossible. But I couldn't stop worrying about it.

When the school day was finally done, and the red in my face was fading away from the latest volleyball incident, I changed quickly back into my jeans and heavy sweater. I rushed from the locker room, before Carol could follow me out. I hurried out to the parking lot. It was crowded now with fleeing students. I got my truck and dug through my backpack to make sure I still had what I needed.

It was no secret that Nick couldn't cook much besides fried eggs and bacon. Last night, I'd requested that I be assigned kitchen detail for the duration of my stay. He was willing enough to let me take over. A quick search revealed that he had no food in the house. So I had my grocery list and the cash from the jar in the cupboard labeled FOOD MONEY, and I was headed to the Thriftway.

I gunned the thunderous engine to life, ignoring the heads that turned in my direction, and backed into a place in the line of cars that were waiting to exit the parking lot. As I waited, trying to pretend that the earsplitting rumble was coming from someone else's car, I saw the the rest of Natasha's siblings walking up to their car. It was the shiny new Volvo. Of course. I hadn't noticed their clothes before—I'd been too mesmerised by their faces. Now that I looked, it was obvious that they were wearing stuff that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Attractive as they all were, they could have worn garbage bags sacks and started a trend. It seemed like too much for them to have both looks and money. Though, as far as I could tell, life worked that way most of the time. It didn't look like it bought them any popularity here.

But I couldn't really believe that. The isolation had to be something they chose; I couldn't imagine any door their beauty wouldn't open for them.

They looked at my noisy truck as I passed them, just like everyone else. Except they weren't anything like anyone else. I saw one of the guys—Tony it must be—had his hand casually on the hip off a blonde girl with a slight fringe framing her forehead. Though he seemed pretty sure of himself, I was still kind of surprised he felt comfortable doing that. Not that that she wasn't hot—she was super, mega hot—but not . . . approachable. The blonde girl caught me looking, and the way her eyes narrowed made me turn straight ahead and punch the gas. The truck didn't go any faster, the engine just grumbled even louder.

The Thriftway was not far from school, a few streets south, off the highway. It was nice to be inside the supermarket; it felt normal. I did most of the shopping at home, and I fell easily into the pattern of the familiar job. The store was big enough inside that I couldn't hear the tapping of the rain on the rood to remind me where I was. When I got home, I unloaded all the groceries, reorganising the cupboards till everything was in a place that made sense. Nick's system was kind of haphazard. I hoped nick wouldn't mind, that he wasn't OCD about his kitchen the way I was. Once I was satisfied with the organisation, I worked on the prep for dinner.

I kind of have a sixth sense about my mum. I realised, as I was sticking the marinade-covered steak into the fridge, that I hadn't let her know I'd made it yesterday. She was probably freaking out.

I ran upstairs two at a time and fired up the old computer in my room. It took a minute to wheeze to life and then I had to wait for a connection. Once I was online, three messages showed up in my in-box. The first was from yesterday, while I was still en route.

"Y/n," My mum wrote.

Write me as soon as you get in. Tell me how your flight was. Is it raining? I miss you already. I'm almost finished packing for Florida, but I can't find my pink blouse. Do you know where I put it? Bruce says hi. Mum.

I sighed, and went to the next. It was sent six hours after the first.

Y/n, Why haven't  you e-mailed me yet? What are you waiting for? Mum.

The last was from this morning.

Y/n Y/M/N Fury, If I haven't heard from you by 5:30 p.m. today I'm calling Nick.

I checked the clock. I still had an hour, but mum was known for jumping the gun.

Mum, Calm down. I'm writing right now. Don't do anything crazy. Y/n

I sent that, and then started the next, beginning with a lie.

Everything is great. Of course it's raining. I was waiting for something to write about. School isn't bad, just a little repetitive. I met some okay kids who sit by me at lunch.

your shirt is at the dry cleaners - you were supposed to pick it up Friday.

Nick bought me a truck, can you believe it? it's awesome. It's old, but really sturdy, which is good. You know, for me.

I miss you, too. I'll write again soon, but I'm not going to check my e-mail every five minutes. Relax, breathe. I love you. Y/n.

I heard the front door bang open, and I hurried downstairs to take the potatoes out and put the steak in to broil.

"Y/n?" my father called out when he heard me on the stairs.

Who else? I thought to myself.

"Hey, dad, welcome home."

"Thanks." He hung up his gun belt and stepped out of his boots as I moved around the kitchen. As far as I was aware, he'd never shot the gun on the job. But he kept it ready. When I'd come here as a child, he would always remove the bullets as soon as he walked in the door. I guess he considered me old enough now not to shoot myself by accident, and not depressed enough to shoot myself on purpose.

"What's for dinner?" he asked warily. Mum was an imaginative cook, when she bothered, and her experiments weren't always edible. I was surprised, and sad, that he seemed to remember that far back.

"Steak and potatoes," I answered. Nick looked relieved. He obviously felt awkward standing in the kitchen doing nothing; he lumbered into the living room to watch TV while I worked. I think we were both more comfortable that way. I made a salad while the steak cooked, and set the table.

I called him in when dinner was ready, and he sniffled appreciatively as he walked into the room.

"Smells good, Y/n."

"Thanks."

We ate in silence for a few minutes. It wasn't awkward. Both of us like quiet. In some ways, we were good roommates.

"So, how did you like school? Make any friends?" he asked as he was taking seconds.

"Well, I have a few classes with this girl named Maria. I sit with her friends at lunch. And there's this girl, Carol, who's friendly. Everybody seems pretty nice." With one outstanding exception.

"That must be Carol Danvers. Nice girl—nice family. Her dad owns the sporting goods store just outside of town. He makes a good living odd all the backpackers who come through here."

We ate in silence for a minute.

"Do you know the Avengers?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"Dr. Vostokoff's family? Sure. She's a great woman."

"They—the kids—are a little . . . different. They don't seem to fit in very well at school."

I was surprised to see Nick's facet red, the way it does when he's angry.

"People in this town," he muttered. "Dr. Vostokoff is a brilliant surgeon who could probably work in any hospital in the world, make ten times the salary she gets here," he continued, getting louder. "We're lucky to have her—lucky that her husband wanted to live in a small town. She's an asset to the community, and all of those kids are well behaved and polite. I had my doubts, when they first moved in, with all those adopted teenagers. I thought we might have some problems with them. But they're all very mature—I haven't had one speck of trouble from any of them. That's more than I can say for the children of some folks who have lived in this town for generations. And they stick together the way a family should—camping trips every other weekend . . . just because they're newcomers, people have to talk."

I was the longest speech I'd ever heard Nick make. He must fell strongly about whatever people were saying.

I backpedaled. "They seem nice enough to me. I just noticed they kept to themselves. They're all very attractive," I added, trying to be more complimentary.

"You should see the doctor," Nick said, laughing. "It's a good thing she's happily married. A lot of the hospital staff have a hard time concentrating on their work with her around."

We lapsed back into silence as we finished eating. He cleared the table while I started on the dishes. He went back to the TV, and after I finished washing the dishes by hand—no dishwasher—I went upstairs to work on my math homework. I could feel a tradition in the making.