— @deliveranse asked: ❛ 𝙸’𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎. — 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎. ❜
𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 - 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑, all crimson, all cruor : ALL THAT THEY KNOW & CRAVE, all that hurts them. their rhythm is a simple one — KISS MY WOUNDS, I’LL KISS YOURS ( until the night no longer needs us, until we no longer need each other, until the dark onslaught of never ) — have they ever known any other ? it is this perpetuity, burrowed in the very root of her veins, that calls a skeptic’s brow to her features, & a scold to her tongue. ‘ 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚠,’ SAID TO THE TENTH & NTH TIME UNDER ANOTHER DECADE’S MANHATTAN MOON, ‘ 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 ? ’
❝ i don’t need to do anything, matthew —— isn’t that the point ? ❞ she is beside him in an instant, peeling the HEMATIC fabric of his suit from his wounded skin & pressing the height of his frame down to sit. THIS WOULD HAVE BEEN UNFAMILIAR, a day ago, a month ago, years ago, when all they admitted to was what they used to have, & have not. BUT NATASHA ROMANOVA IS A REMEMBERING WOMAN : her heart will scar before her body, keeping all manner of things in arterial memory — THE RIGHT & THE WRONG, THE SMILE & THE GRIMACE, THE LOVE & THE PAIN. is it any surprise that here, in the dim light of an apartment she has mapped & memorized, belonging to a man who knows well her kisses even when they pretend it not so, that she admits to caring for him ?
( we follow a simple tune, you & i, why don’t you let me remind you ? )
❝ stay put for me. ❞ for me, she says, so that he will hear her & remember. she presses a kiss to his cheek. ❝ I’LL GET THE BANDAGES. ❞
