Archive of Our Own ^beta

If Talia was here, she would know that the smile curling Natasha's lips — painted a deep red — is a warning sign. Something to be wary of. She would be even more aware of the danger of Natasha's downcast gaze, that seeing only that sliver of green is another warning sign.

Likely, if Talia was here, Natasha would not be about to kill everyone else in the room.

But Talia is not here.

If Talia was here and Natasha still felt the need to kill everyone in the room, she'd show off a little — she knows herself well enough to know this.

But Talia is not here.

So when Natasha cuts through the room, she goes for speed over beauty.

If Talia was here, she would find even the functional lunge that Natasha uses to gut someone while avoiding the blade of the other beautiful indeed — Natasha is a monster who has been trained to wield beauty like a blade and as far as Talia is concerned is incapable of doing anything without loveliness. Even the splash of blood, thick on her arms and smattering like stars over her face, is lovely, at the end.

But Talia is not here, and Natasha feels more beast than beauty, regardless what anyone else would think.

Natasha considers the blades she's holding for a moment. She'd come in with nothing, of course, had stolen these off of the first man she'd killed — or no, she'd left those in the belly of one of the others, hadn't she? She'd gotten them at some point, in any case.

She flips one, tests the balance, and drops it. The other gets flipped, balanced, considered, and she bends down to clean the last of the blood from it. It isn't as good as things she already owns, but she doesn't have those with her, and now that she's in the compound it's probably a good idea to finish her walk through with something in her hand.

After all, there is no doubt that the rest of them had been warned already. And while she is always more than happy to go after a problem teeth first, the blade is certainly faster.

Blades often are.

Talia hears the commotion early. Nothing terribly loud or dramatically noticeable, of course, the guards are highly trained to slip in and out of shadows. But still, she knows what the rotation should be and when there are more near silent foot falls, then the shifting sound of silks and more and more foot falls passing the door, she knows something has happened.

But despite being held prisoner — for all her father says "guest" there are guards at her door and she isn't allowed to leave — she's been able to track the days.

They had a date, two days ago that she hadn't been able to attend.

She'd know that Natasha would come for her, if she didn't appear, but it's still flattering to know it only took her two days to discover where Talia was being held and come. Talia had expected between three and five days.

Two is — two is a statement. It's a statement Talia had been hoping for, secretly, but not one she was relying on.

The fact that she knew Natasha would come was enough, was more than enough.

But two days, well. She's driven.

Talia sips her tea and waits. The compound is large, after all.

After a while she rises to choose a book to read and settles back with it, but still she listens.

There is more swish of cloth and more silent feet past the door, as the day drags slowly on, before the sounds of violence begin to come. Softly, at a distance. Cries wrenched from throats that try to stay quiet, the chime of metal meeting and sliding, the dull fleshy thud of bodies falling.

She hums and rises to set the water boiling. She adds gunpowder green and lemon verbena to the metal tea pot. She pours boiling water over it once, pours it out, pours water over it twice, pours it out. The third time she pours water over it she allows it to seep, dropping in a fist sized pack of sugar.

She pours the rest of the steaming water into a basin, places two hand towels beside it, and goes back to waiting.

When the knock comes at the door — shave and a haircut, not the single polite tap of the guards — she has to fight down her smile.

"Enter," she says.

The sight of Natasha opening the door takes her breath away. She's too well trained not to take notice of the bodies that litter the hallway, some pinned to the walls like butterflies on their own blades, others limp and bleeding sluggishly into the stone of the corridor, but the draw to look back at Natasha is magnetic.

"I'd apologize for being late, but you're the one who stood me up." Natasha says, a vision in red. Talia realizes the cloth underneath is white and she has to fight to breathe.

She's a crimson bride.

She's incredible.

Talia wants to press close until she's as messy, as stained, but she holds herself still as Natasha goes to the basin and rinses her hands and then her face. There is still blood behind her ear, caught in the hair at her temple.

Natasha smirks, knowingly, and lowers herself to sit across the table.

The hand that Talia uses to pour her tea is steady, for all that she's consumed with lust.

Natasha drinks deeply of the tea, her eyes pinned to Talia, and Talia couldn't look away if she wanted to.

"Come with me," Natasha asks, for all that she doesn't up-speak, Talia knows it's not an order. Knows that it's still her choice.

She inclines her head and rises gracefully. Natasha rises as well, and rounds the table. Talia doesn't protest when Natasha pulls her tight, wets her with blood, and drags her into a drugging kiss.