Work Text:
You would think that once you’ve been the coldest you’ll ever be, the rest of the world would seem warmer. And you’ve been cold, very cold. You’ve looked up at the stars glittering icy in the night sky and felt the blood in your cheeks freezing, literally freezing, the air so cold that each breath you take into your warm, wet lungs feels like it will collapse your chest.
Many years later, when you cannot be mistaken for a child even casually, you watch a television program meant to teach children science (you were not taught science; it was not something the Red Room had considered important for you to know). The program explains that there is no such thing as “coldness”, only the absence of heat. When things become cold, their particles slow down, get closer together. You imagine little bodies in tattered coats huddling against each other, breath coming in fragile white puffs.
The scientist on the program inflates a balloon and puts it in a freezer. A clock shows time passing and when the freezer is opened, the balloon has all but collapsed in on itself. It is placed on a kitchen counter, the clock reappears, and when you see it again the balloon is back as it was.
You repeat the experiment yourself, to be certain it wasn’t a camera trick. You've known about expansion and contraction forever but it's never been put this way to you before. You've always thought of coldness as a thing, something real and present and trapped beneath your skin. It's disturbing to imagine it as a lack of something else.
The experiment works.
You go out to tan by the pool and read French poetry and try to forget all about it. You have never been so cold as you were in Moscow, but it was not enough to keep you warm in Chicago, in Rjanvik, in Nome. It is a disgusting August day in Manhattan (89.6°F/32°C Humidity 78% No wind Conditions hazy) and memories of little bodies so cold they have stopped shivering do nothing to change that. You sweat.
A sudden splash and your book is soaked -- Clint has found your bag of balloons and filled them at Stark’s sink. He grins, cheeky, and lobs another at you from the enormous bowl he carries at his hip. The balloon bursts itself precisely against your sternum, and now your face and hair are dripping. You purse your lips, put your ruined book aside, and pick up the pressurized water pistol you have waiting beneath your chair. There is a handgun tucked into the folds of the towel at your back, but it won’t be necessary.
“You’re going down, Barton,” you declare, leaping to your feet and hitting him full in the face with the first shot.
He gives a joyous whoop and begins pelting you with balloons. They all hit, but he doesn’t pay attention to the path of his retreat as he dodges your super-soaker’s spray. It is a simple matter to maneuver him to the edge of the pool at precisely the correct moment that the motion of his throw overbalances him and he falls into the water. When he comes up for air you are standing at the side of the pool, water gun aimed at his head.
“That’s a lot less threatening when I’m already wet,” he points out, squinting up at you.
“You ruined my book,” you reply, ceding nothing.
“You looked hot,” he protests. He wipes his face with a hand and grins. “Well, I mean, you always look hot --”
Another blast of the super-soaker neatly interrupts the rest of his sentence. As he splutters, you toss the gun aside and perform a cannonball into the deep end. Your mass is small, but you know how to clutch your legs to your chest and land against the surface to maximum effect. When you emerge, waves are still splashing against the walls of the pool. You tread water which you know is held at a steady 78°F/25.6°C. It’s lovely. You kick your legs, arms akimbo, and your smile is open, easy. Warm.
“I hate you, Barton.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies blithely, relaxing onto his back to float away.