Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Your hands felt grimey, like something was under the beds of your fingernails, or a sheen of something was layered over your palms. Thin yet viscous the feeling washed over your hands, forcing a clench to your jaw and a slight tweak to one of your eyebrows. You reach into the pocket of your jeans, fingertips searching for the artifact, the potion that would cure your hands of this accursed feeling. Searching nigh frantically, you reach deeper into your pocket, only being met with your wallet and keys.

Fuck. You were out of hand-sanitizer.

The scowl etched itself further onto your face as you stood behind the register counter of your work, watching the clock with high internal anticipation and waiting for your break to finally come. Patrons of the mall you worked in meandered in front of your store’s windows, mocking you with their freedom, with their serenity, with the fact that their hands hadn’t made contact with someone who had so much grease in their hair that it seemed to naturally slick itself back.
Second by second time ticked on, your mind whirling and plotting your course of action as the minutes passed slothishly. The bathroom would not provide a long enough solace from the imaginary sludge on your hands, its not like you could steal the soap dispenser and take it with you to the register. You cant go ask Maria for help, she threatened to chase you with her belt if you went into Victoria’s Secret during her shift again (she loathed watching her coworkers try to flirt with you, a feeling only outweighed by the disgust she felt when being asked about you following your departure).
With your two best, or at the very least cheapest, options being inconveniently unavailable, you grit your teeth and finally leave the store for your break.
Step by step you walked across the sprawling, neutral toned floors of the mall. Your eyes squinted at how bright your destination was, a far cry from the grungy, black walls of your storefront. Framed in blue decor and the clashing scents of florals and vanilla sugar scrub, you took in the Bath and Body-Works with a sense of finality. You entered the semi-foreign plane in the same way a black-hole would enter a church: ripping, tearing, yet silent and focused in your journey.
All in the search for hand sanitizer.

Natasha Romanoff was very accustomed to a particular subset of customers appearing throughout the day: moms, men with bland taste in cologne, teenage girls who enjoyed impossibly variable and limited scents of body spray or candle, the usual. None of them were inherently disinteresting, but after a while they became sort of standard. Maybe one would get upset at a raise in price or the lack of a particular item and there’d be a little fight in them, but overall the customers were a bit one note.
Natasha likes to think that’s why she was drawn to you when she first laid eyes upon you.
You were new, at least new enough to give her something to look forward to. Your skin was etched with swirls of ink that formed sigils she had yet to learn, your pants had rips and chains dangling from them and your shoes scuffed the ground slightly when you moved. Your shoulders were back, your head held high as you perused the outlet, your hands carefully considered each bottle you picked up. They were covered, all parts except for the index finger and the thumb, by dark gloves. A rather interesting fashion choice given everything, but who was Natasha to truly judge when she was so enamored by the mannerisms cloaked beneath the presumably soft fabric. She watched as you raised small bottles to your face and carefully considered each scent, nose crinkling slightly when as you breathed in, the grimace on your face growing as the tinted and glittered concentrations passed through your hands. You finally stopped at a lightly pink hued bottle, probably a floral scent. The object looked foreign in your hands, you carried it as though it was going to burn you through the fabric, if the store was crowded someone might’ve thought you were carrying a weapon as you checked your other options.

Softly a voice chirped out beside her, higher than her own though from a face with similar features; with similarly forested eyes and similarly flaming hair, Wanda Maximoff was always one to attract attention.
“God she looks like she just stepped out of some grunge music video… can she just like. Go already?”
Natasha rolled her eyes and snorted softly, looking at her fellow red-head with curious eyes.
“And you don’t when you’re off work? I mean come on you have like ten rings on, I saw you touch up your eyeshadow just now too.”
Wanda’s face contorted into one of mild shock and offense, her hand reaching out and gently pushing her coworker to the side. “THATS-” Her eyes shifted quickly to the side, noting how yours met hers before your gazes broke from each other, embarrassment flushing her features,
“That’s different. I don’t look like some stoner Alice In Chains reject-”
“No, you look like Avril Levigne’s stunt double.”
“Whatever, I’m taking that as a compliment, you’re taking the next customer though.”
The taller of the two scoffed, looking down at Wanda with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms, undoing them to lean her elbows down onto the register counter.
“You mean the only other person here? Its 11 am on a Wednesday, we aren’t exactly swamped.”
“Well I have to do inventory sooo, good luck!”
The bewitching red-head scampered off quickly, entering some closet as though it were a portal away from the conversation at hand. To do what, Natasha had no earthly idea, she had done inventory when she started her shift after all.
The furrow in her brow was soon replaced with a practiced smile and straight standing posture as you walked up to her register. You somehow managed to look more interesting following your approach, silver twinkling against and inside of your skin, smoke-like blue lines forming waves and artworks across your arms. They seemed to be intentional in their composition, hiding spots of discoloration and roughness, of pinched and twisted sections, the telltale signs of flames having lapped at those very spots during some fateful previous happening.
God and you were somehow even more striking up close, your glare lightening up ever so slightly as your eyes met, gloved hands carefully placing down sanitizer and a small tube of lotion. The scents didn’t match at all, not that Natasha cared.
You looked as though you had been composed by one of the artists she had to study in her university lecture hall, or like you were carved from stone with rough hands solely to spell her doom.

You were beautiful, and Natasha Romanoff did not know what to do with that.

As the two of you stood there, you let out a low chuckle and raised a single, perfectly manicured brow, “Are you gonna ring me up or are we going to keep watching each other?”
Natasha’s service forward smile faltered for a brief moment, a smirk growing on your face as you watched her armor crack. The light dancing in your eyes was playful, a stark contrast to how vicious the smirk on your face felt.
She looked down at your shirt, the familiar lanyard of every suburban mother’s least favorite store dangling against your chest, pins for various bands and other such brutal artworks lining the badge-holder. She recognized a couple of artists, even listened to some of them in her spare time. The mix of older and newer acts around your neck was intriguing, she began to wonder if it was part of your uniform or if you truly listened to everything you had a pin for.
“And here I was thinking you’d be an easy customer since you know the horrors of the job.”
Your shoulders shrugged upward, flippant attitude and easy smirk still present as Natasha scanned the two items you had presented her with before.
“Easy? I’m far from easy, doll. What’s life without a bit of challenge.. What you call difficult I call keeping things interesting.”
The pet name brought a slight red tint to the cashier’s ears, it had slipped from your tongue so easily it could have been rehearsed. Natasha had been flirted with at work before, it’s bound to happen when you’re an attractive woman who works well, anywhere frankly. There was an edge to your words though, a teasing lilt that made Natasha unsure of herself. Was this you, or were you playing with her? Only time, and possibly actually ringing you up, would tell.
Too bad it’d be a bit before she rang you up. You two were alone in the store and she wanted to see that damn-near infuriating smirk wiped off your face before you left.
“Interesting isn’t always good. I think you’d know that with where you work, wouldn’t you? Or are the people who come in buying boob pillows and mud-flap girl lava lamps just a casual thing for you.”
You stepped closer to the counter, and with the motion the red-head before you caught a whiff of your cologne… something smoky and wooded and intrinsically you. It lured her in as you spoke, a siren’s call emanating from your torso.
“If you think that's interesting, you should see what comes from the back… I’m sure we could find something that's to your liking there, might help you get rid of some of that tension you’re very clearly keeping pent up.”
“I’m sorry, are you trying to call me a prude?”
You laughed at the insinuation, a low and dangerous feeling sound that sent a shiver up Natasha’s spine with how rough it was, like you didn’t make that sound very often.
“No, Tash, you’re far too pretty to be like that… I’m just saying that you probably don’t have someone taking care of you in the way that you deserve.”
She sputtered at the insinuation, hands quickly scooping the products you had placed before her into a paper baggie with the store’s logo printed boldly on it. Her name sounded right coming from your lips, no matter how shortened.
“How did you..”
Your grin softened as you tapped your chest, her hand raising to mirror your action and feeling the hard plastic of her nametag underneath her fingertips. She had forgotten she even put in on, and before she could look at yours you had taken the bag on the counter and turned around, looking over your shoulder as you walked away and out of the store.
“If you ever want to try to relax, try and find me”

When you walked out, Natasha swore she felt her chest ache. Probably just because you were annoying, thats what she told herself. Not because your sharp smile punctured her thoughts, or because she wanted to know how your hands felt beneath the gloves. Not because she wanted to know the story behind your tattoos, and how low they went. Certainly not because she wanted to hear you say her name again. Just because you were insufferable, and full of yourself, and had the audacity to tell her about her sex life-
Wanda walked out of the back soon after you left, wired headphones leading from her bag to her ears, and suddenly Natasha had something else to worry about.

Your day dragged rather slowly after your purchase, people walking in and out of the shop you watched over, one searching for jewelry, another for a cd, another for a certain piece of lingerie you were almost certain his girlfriend would hate, all in and out until it was time for you to clock out. It was 2 pm, that would give you enough time to maybe smoke a cigarette before Maria got off work and you carpooled back to your shared apartment. You didn’t have any classes to worry about for the time being, a small blessing of the day. Dealing with your fellow students and disgusting customers in the same day might’ve been your limit. There was only so much one biochemistry major could handle after all. Flicking open your zippo, you took from the pack of cigarettes in your pocket, carefully selecting and lighting the long and slender item, putting it to your lips and breathing in deeply. The taste of smoke and menthol spread across your tongue, comforting in its familiarity, warmth spreading across your lungs and buzzing inside your throat. The burn was comfortable now, the habit had begun as a way to get over your fears.. Now it acted as a way to remember her. After around 5 minutes, you watched the familiar dark hair and shorter frame of your dearest roommate and friend exiting from the food court of the mall, fierce under the sun as she stepped towards your pontiac. You dropped your cigarette, stepping on it to ash it out and opening the passenger door for your companion, slipping into the driver’s seat soon after she gets in.
You lazily glanced over at her with no good intent, shifting the stick of your transmission and peeling out of the mall parking-lot, sliding her a small bottle of vanilla scented lotion before your hands became too busy with driving.
“Miss me? I got you a little something while I was out.”
Maria opened the bottle and began lotioning her hands immediately, looking at you with suspicious eyes as her palms rubbed together. “What did you do, you don’t get me things unless you think I’m going to be mad at you.”
“Well thats a lie, I got you that stapler for your desk.”
“You don’t get me nice things unless you think I’m going to be mad at you. What did you do.”
You groaned and glanced at Maria again, you do so wish she’d be more trusting of you, though her trepidation makes sense as the person who knows you best.
“I didn’t do anything, but I’m starting to think that I should have if this is going to be how you react to a gift. I had to go get hand sanitizer, saw it, thought of you. That’s all.”
Maria pursed her lips, her deep brown eyes boring holes into the side of your face, studying your features as you pulled the car into your parking spot. Her voice softened ever so slightly as you both left the pontiac.
“I thought you said you were going to stop smoking, blue.”
You did promise her that, didn’t you. She took new years resolutions a lot more seriously than you did, you guess.
“Its… just to relax. I only had one today.”
She crossed her arms as you unlocked the door to your shared space, knowing eyes meeting yours and catching you silently in a lie. Shame ran hot down your cheeks and spine as she stared at you, plopping herself down on the couch and kicking her feet up onto the coffee table; you hate when she does that.
“Just for that, you get to cook tonight. I want greek tonight.”
Rolling both your eyes and your sleeves up your arms, you headed to the kitchen. There was no harm in prepping your meal a bit early.

Being a teaching assistant for a class in your minor was an odd experience, yes you performed well in the class and continued to remain educated on the topics of discussion, but it always feels a bit odd to have some level of jurisdiction over people who effectively have no real place in your life or future goals. Eastern European Philosophy with Dr. Lensherr was a shockingly delightful class, and it was either this or TA for Religious Philosophy with Dr Wagner, between the two you much preferred the older gentleman’s demeanor. He was kind to the youth, but no-nonsense regarding his coursework and expectations, both of himself and of his students. With the new semester came new faces and new challenges, but the same coffee order you had learned the old professor enjoyed, two cups warming your hands as you walked in, button-up shirt and jeans handing off of your body attractively. You were used to the stares by now, though they were more common in your STEM courses, philosophical types tended to be more in tune with body modification than the future doctors of America were. Dr Lensherr smiled quickly at you as he took his drink into hand, taking his place in front of the lecture hall as you went to the side, looking quickly over your annotated papers and books. He held the quiet, imposing sort of authority you would expect an older gentleman to have, his voice ringing clear above the murmur of the newest inductees to his curriculum. You had heard the speech once before, there was no real need of yours to tune in heavily, so instead your eyes scanned the room.
Usually you werent one to search among the student body, however today an instinct called out for you to do so.
An instinct that led to your eyes meeting bewildered green ones, flamepoint hair marked distinctly in one of the upper rows, some blonde man next to her smiling wildly and lightly elbowing her arm. Her jaw was dropped slightly as the two of you stared at each other, her posture straightening once the professor gestured towards you.
“...If you find yourself having troubles with the material outside of my office hours, or would perhaps like a mind closer in age to your own to discuss with, then I would direct you to no other than your TA. Her office hours are printed in your syllabus underneath mine.”

You couldn’t believe it, and neither could she, though it showed in different ways on your faces.
The hot girl from the mall was in your class, technically “your” student no less.
This is bound to be interesting, should she need help at all. Silently you prayed to whoever would listen that she would, if only for the chance to get her alone.

Chapter Text

There was no way there wasn’t some cruel trickster god watching and ruling over Natasha’s life right now. That would be the only explanation, or at least the only plausible one, for what her morning has held, and what her life has become. First her cat yaks a hairball into her pointe shoes; next she finds out Clint is in her philosophy class with her (Hes a civil engineering student for christs sake, what does he need to know about the classical thought of the Eastern Bloc?); finally there was the glaring, tattooed problem standing at the front of her lecture hall like they belonged there: you. Maybe you were just a student from the previous lecture period sticking around to ask a few questions, that could be possible if she ignored the coffee in your hands and the bag filled with study material over your shoulder. The opposite proved true as you leaned against the desk at the center of the room, listening intently to the professor introduce himself and his material, eyes scanning the room before they met hers, catching her like a fly in amber.
Your outfit was possibly the antithesis to what you were wearing when you first met, a well pressed button up over stylish jeans that somehow had just the right amount of bagginess. Your belt was a statement piece in the way it split the two halves of your body, your arms were crossed in front of yourself, hiding those same gloved hands she had focused on only a day before. Natasha briefly experienced a flash of what it must feel like to be a school-girl with an impossibly taboo crush on her teacher, except nothing about what she was feeling was exactly clandestine. There you were, enthralling and perfectly acceptable for her to stare at; there you were, catching her eye with your sharp grin and easy demeanor; there you were, making it impossible for Natasha to focus on the material in the syllabus as your deceptively careful hands worked over what looked to be a worn paperback.
She felt a sharp prod in her side, a quick elbow jabbed at her arm belonging to a certain blonde archery team captain. She already knew the face he was making, it would be that same shit-eating grin he put on whenever he was proven right or finally got the chance to tease Natasha about something. She knew the exact expression, and yet she turned to look at him anyway. She took a deep breath, steadying herself and mentally preparing for whatever verbal bullshit was about to come her way.

“So if I push your mouth closed are you gonna smack me or? Cause its been hanging open for a solid 20 seconds and I’m starting to think something might fly in there.”
His tone was hushed, partly out of a desire to not be called out by Dr. Lensher, partly so that he wouldn’t hurt his own ears. Natasha remembered off-handedly that Clint was still adjusting to his new hearing aids, making a mental note to try not to drop anything around him or play her music too loudly for a bit.
Her eyes pierced through his as she stared at him, glaring softly before turning to her printout of the syllabus, taking a highlighter and beginning to mark important deadlines.
“I was centering myself.”
The archer snorted a laugh, twirling a pen across his knuckles.
“Centering yourself on what? The professor? I didn’t take you as the hot for teacher type Natty.”
A quick flash of bile rose in Natasha’s throat, her hand immediately reaching out to swat at the blonde at her side.
“That’s disgusting, he’s like 70-”
Clint huffed out a laugh through his nose, keeping his gaze locked ahead on the whiteboard before them,
“You’re telling me your type isn't rich and published holocaust survivor? You’re crazy, he could pay your tuition.”
“The operative there is he, now shut up I’m trying to pay attention.”

Paying attention would be easier said than done during the 50 minute period. Whether it be because of your spotlighted presence in the front of the room, or because of the two sorority girls two rows ahead of her giggling and whisper-talking in their high pitched voices, Natasha would refuse to admit. Eventually the red-head’s proverbial torture was brought to an end, syllabus thoroughly covered, and teaching assistant thoroughly observed. Leaving the lecture hall with her best friend/greatest annoyance, Clint gave her a quick goodbye after forcing her to promise to study with him later on. With both of them in upper-division courses for their respective majors, the idea of a parallel study session was more appealing than usual: the essays for Professor Fury’s comparative law and politics course weren’t going to draft themselves.
Leaving both the lecture hall and the sight of you behind, she took the now color coded syllabus into her hands, looking at where the office hours for the course would be held. Dr Lensherr was well known in the sphere of European Cultural study, maybe she should try to go speak with him in private sometime this week. She was in the market for an internship after all, and of her current educators she could see herself getting along with him the best despite his… aggravating.. Taste in teaching assistants.

Fridays at 1:40, Greymaulkin hall, she’d arrive, politely introduce herself, and slowly build a bond with him through her insights and interest in his topics of study. She could feel the internship entering her grasp, provided that not too many other students get the same idea.

Your busy schedule rarely afforded you a moment to yourself, opportunity for solitude was few and far between with your research, work schedule, and even the presence of your roommate in your shared home. You liked to think thats why you valued your student office hours so much at the current time, none of the assignments out currently were particularly difficult, and none of the philosophical theories your students were reviewing currently were too intense to grasp without perhaps reviewing required material. For now, and at least for the first week or so, you’d have your desk, your empty space and gentle afternoon light, and the shelves of literature that guard the small potted plant standing at attention on the corner of your workspace. Maybe you could use this time to complete some of your own difficult coursework, lord knows Orgo II isn’t going to study itself, and your project proposal wasn’t going to write itself, now that you thought about it. Office hours without students were a boon, you felt: two whole uninterrupted, paid hours for you to relax, catch up on work, and maybe even watch a youtube video Maria swore to god was the funniest thing on earth. Settling into your office chair, the same one you had fought the department on fixing due to its absolutely tragic lower lumbar support, you closed your eyes for the briefest of seconds before a light rapping at your door broke your heaven-sent silence.

Sighing deeply, you put on a face of pure professionalism; permission to enter lightly passing through your throat and out of your mouth as a certain, vaguely and importantly familiar redhead stepped through the gateway into your realm. A smirk played at your lips, her hands gripped a small stack of papers that were no doubt carefully considered and organized. Her eyes flashed with confusion, perhaps even betrayal, when they met yours. When she spoke, her tone was sharp, cut with annoyance and laced with something deeper; you couldn’t help but find it pleasant, the thinly veiled emotion spoke the volumes that she was reluctant to reveal.

“What are you doing here.” The question was simple, straight shooting, to the point. So would be the answer.
“Well, these are my office hours. Did you read the syllabus? It's printed clearly across the top, right under Dr. Lensherr’s.”
Pale hands placed paler papers onto the wood of your desk, riffling through print-outs rapidly to find a well marked and expertly highlighted slip of papers. Evergreen eyes poured over the 12-point print before turning it towards you, manicured nails tapping incessantly at the professors name and the block of time beside it. “No. This clearly states right here that Dr Lensherr is supposed to be here right now, not you.”
You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms across your chest, eyebrow raising as you peer up at the red-head.
“Doll, I’m not going to look at a syllabus I wrote. Dr Lensherr’s hours are Tuesday, two hours after class. He had to cancel them this week due to an emergency with his husband.”
Natasha stood for a minute, taking both a breath and a seat before you, her brows furrowed as she looked ahead at you. Her eyes were sharp, studying, looking for some proverbial crack in the armor presented to her.
“Well the syllabus you wrote is inaccurate then. I’d appreciate it if you could print me a new one so I can actually get the help I need.”

You could feel the irritation rising in your chest, a tight smile pulling itself across your face, the two of you staring each other down over the highlighted slip of paper. How dare she insinuate your work was a mistake? You knew damn well what you were putting onto that program, and you know damn well exactly what was detailed on that parchment.
“The syllabus isn’t inaccurate, if it was someone other than yourself would’ve complained by now, several someones in fact. I understand that you’re frustrated, but whatever you need help with I’m sure I can handle. If not, I can pass it on to your professor.”
The statement was twofold in the emotion it held for you, a mix of the desire to help the redhead before you and a valiant attempt at allowing things to remain professional. Easier said than done at the moment when all you could focus on was her. How the sun ran its beams through her flame-point hair, how clear her skin was and the level of care you knew she put into herself, the lines of lithely built muscle around her shoulders and triceps, how everything in the room from your aloe vera plant to the breeze of the air conditioning unit seemed to lean in her direction…
And the burning, defiant annoyance that grated in your chest at her accusation of poor quality from you.
You were good at your job, so good in fact that you could choose to ignore the curiosity and desire that swelled in your chest, the same feeling that had begun to choke your thoughts when she walked in. Beautiful women had always been a weak point of yours, but weak points were no excuse to ruin the hard work you had put in over.
You watched as Natasha clenched her jaw, picking up her stack of papers and setting them back down once they were properly arranged. A long breath signalled her reluctant bowing-out of the “argument”, as well as her disappointment in the matter.

“Unless you’re in charge of internships for pre-law students, I doubt you could do anything that would help me.”
You leaned back in your seat, distancing yourself from the siren song that was Natasha’s physical presence before you. She was here out of ambition, necessity even, not out of a cry for help per se, but in an attempt for guidance. She needed a shepherd in this moment, someone older and wiser and better connected, but instead all that sat before her was you.
You combed your thoughts for any mentions Dr Lensherr may have made regarding student opportunities: Teaching Assistant opportunities, extra seminar opportunities, the closest thing to what she was looking for would be a fellowship.
It wasn’t exactly pre-law exclusive but, a sanctioned research opportunity with one of the oldest and most accredited university libraries in the nation would definitely look good on any Harvard-hopeful’s resume.
“I’m not in charge no, but if you can prove yourself to me I’d be more than comfortable helping you apply to opportunities throughout the semester and writing a letter of recommendation, doll.”
Natasha’s brow furrowed, heat rising in her ears again at your casual use of the pet name, she couldn’t tell if you were messing with her or if you were truly just well… like this.
Teasing, cloying, at the tip of her tongue and fingers like something unknown and sticky hidden deep within some pastry she had yet to try. You were so self assured as you sat before her, folded hands and straight posture, as her eyes scanned you for what felt like the 5th time, she couldn’t help but visually trace the inked lines that ran up and down your forearms.
The way you entranced her was infuriating when put in combination with how self-important you felt to be, with how you held your head so high, with how scrutinizing yet gentle your gaze was.
It almost made her want to believe you could help her.

Almost.

“Why would I need your letter of recommendation? I doubt people would take the opinion of a TA very seriously during the application process.”
“No but, they might find some value in the word of a published biomechanics researcher. I like to think that gives me a little bit of traction here. If not that then maybe my work on philosophical analysis of the Purgatorio with Dr. Wagner.”
The russian’s eyes slowly blinked at you from across the desk, as if she was processing something so ridiculous it actively slowed her thinking time.
“Excuse me-?”
“You didn’t think I was just a pretty face at the front of your class did you, Tash? I’ll have you know I am very accomplished in my fields.”
Natasha froze to her seat, simply staring at you. Your features were a mixture of deadpan amusement and grim seriousness, it was almost as though you could feel how she had previously underestimated you in her thoughts. Here you were, a genuine shot in the dark for her to take, and yet she had no idea who you truly were or what that shot would entail.
You were attractive, and confident, and educated.
You were cocky, and biting, and imposing.
You were sat before Natasha Romanoff, offering what could be the opportunity of the lifetime.

All she had to do was ask, and so she did.

“You said I’d have to prove myself. What’d you mean by that.”
Her mind whirled at the possibilities of what you could ask for her to do, it felt as though her future was a small and delicate bird that you had cupped into your hands at that very moment.
She couldn’t tell if you were going to crush it or help it take flight.
“Well, Dr Lensherr is impossibly particular when it comes to his work and the work he sponsors. We could meet weekly to work on your fellowship proposal, compile some research, maybe even get you into a conference if you play your cards right.”
“Weekly? Isn’t that a bit much? Aren’t you going to be busy with other responsibilities?”

The red-head had a point but, you wouldn’t tell her that. You wouldn’t tell her how you’d probably just move your research block into late night hours, or how you’d most likely contact someone about her fellowship as soon as she left your office. You wouldn’t tell her how you were going to stick your neck out for her.
You certainly weren’t going to tell her that you just wanted, craved even, an excuse to see and feel her up close every week.

“It’ll show me that you’re dedicated, but if you can’t handle it then…”

She bristled at your doubt, no matter how playful in tone it was, no matter how the afternoon light danced in your eyes and across your skin as the two of you conversated.
“I can handle anything you’d throw at me if it means I’ll get where I want to be.”

She was honest, brutally so.
Yet another interesting thing about her to explore, to pick apart. You’ll have to see just how deep, how ingrained that brutality is, how far it goes, if iron isn’t just the color of her hair but a taste that coats her words and her spirit.

“It’s a deal then.”