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"How did you find me?"
Natasha tilted her head, an eyebrow raised as she shot a questioning look at Petra. Petra shifted in her seat uncomfortably, ashamed of her question, and Natasha's expression softened without her permission.
"You were on the cover of a business magazine," Natasha's voice is still as nimble and deep as she remembered— the accent had truly faded away and now it sounded like the default American intonation while Petra's never really left. She started wondering, at that moment, if she wanted it to fade, if she wanted to lose that smudge of her authentic self. "It really wasn't hard to connect the dots— your address is literally printed in the back with the advertisement for the hotel..."
Petra's jaw clenched and she looked away, avoiding the redhead's figure. The day of that photoshoot was still so fresh on her memory— it wasn't the first, but her nerves were spiked as if it were. Rafael had noticed it, smiled endearingly and called her adorable for still getting nervous and shy of being on camera, of getting her picture taken. She powered through all of the photoshoots, interviews, photographers during parties wanting a snap of the happy couple, and she never looked uncomfortable.
That is, if whoever was looking wasn't paying attention.
Natasha paid attention. A lot of attention.
"Are you here to take me back?" Petra's question came in a quick and dry tone, but Natasha can hear the tremble, the slight pitch change when Petra said back. Natasha can see Petra's eyes filling with tears which the blonde subtly — but not subtly enough — swallows.
The little pang of guilt in her heart comes and leaves as quick as bacteria multiplies itself. Natasha had been in that position before; someone she knew from her past returning after seeing her in a moderately public setting. The only difference is that Natasha wasn't there to take Petra back — back to the Red Room, back to their personal hell — as the person that visited her had been
"I just wanted to know if you were okay." Natasha spoke softly, leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees, green eyes searching for Petra's response in the lines of her face.
Petra still avoided looking at her former colleague. She wanted to fall into those arms and sob and apologize for running away and leaving her behind, but her whole body seemed to not want to move. Her voice doesn't want to come out as much as she wants to say how glad she is of seeing Natasha alive.
Natasha's own anguish is hidden, not unlike Petra's, so displayed as they were. The redhead could hide it all effortlessly, mask it behind her many rehearsed faces from years of training. She noticed Petra hadn't lost that ability completely.
She was just selective of who deserved to see the real her.
"Veta..." Natasha whispered, hands dangerously close to Petra's, flinching back as she heard a catch on Petra's breath at the nickname.
"That's not my name," Petra finally spoke, "No one has called me that in years." Her sentence ended in a sob she quickly caught and swallowed, a shaky but deep breath to pull herself together.
"I don't know Petra Solano," Natasha insisted, eyebrows furrowing slightly, and finally, finally, Petra's eyes met Natasha's.
Petra swallowed again. "I stopped being Elizaveta the second they took me in." Her voice was supposed to be charged in venom, as Petra intended it to come out, but all Natasha heard was hurt, resentment. As if the Room stole Elizaveta from her.
In a way, it truly did.
The Room stole Natalia from Natasha, too.