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Yelena burrowed into the warmth and clung to it tighter. It was comforting, soft tendrils curling around her, enveloping her, keeping her safe in a way she hadn’t known she’d wanted so badly. She took a deep breath in, feeling her lungs expand and her limbs loosen, a partial sadness diffusing out.
Maybe it was the fact that she knew she didn’t have anyone who would wrap around her like this, the current lack of loneliness, that caused her to realise something was amiss. Her eyes flung open and she felt a pull in her chest for wrenching away from the embrace. Her hand clasped tightly around the other person’s forearm, while her other grasped for her knife as she planted her knees.
Where was her knife?
Redirecting herself, sharply twisting the arm she had in her hand behind the person’s back and reaching for an empty bottle, the arm is sharply twisted out of her hold and she’s decisively shoved off and flipped over by the other person. A knee on her back pressed her down into the mattress.
“Yelena! It’s me! It’s me.”
“Natasha?”
She feels the weight pushing her to the bed release.
What is she doing here?
What was I doing?
Where is my knife?
I don’t have my widow bites.
…
Natasha knows.
A small part of Yelena can’t help but think of it as a consolation.
Natasha is here.
In rearview, it’s obvious it was Natasha, who else would have been there… She should’ve known, not been so brash. Though, for once, she knows the blame is not on herself. The fostering she’d had forced her hand.
Muffled yells in the night. The smell of metal rising with dull thuds of struggle. Girls shaking to stay silent, unfound. The choking darkness.
She had survived. She had made it out.
Why couldn’t her mind do the same?
Natasha places her hands around her sister’s face, so softly as if holding something precious, afraid it’d break. The green eyes are delicate, her gaze featherlight, trying so desperately to understand while so in fear the simple act would scare her off. They see the relentlessness, the light so forcefully gagged, then afterwards too tired to reemerge, the disquiet apprehension in Yelena that Natasha felt a quiet rage for. Though she knew it was her own doing, the disappointment in herself at how she had managed to cause her own sister to feel this way about her.
“I’m sorry, Yelena.”
She bows her head to meet Yelena’s and sniffles, pressing back tears she regrets. They burn her eyes and Natasha can’t believe herself. She can’t believe how far she had let the both of them fall, let herself fail.
“I’m so sorry сестренка.”
She feels Yelena crumble, leaning into her more, placing her hands on Natasha’s shoulders, her joints loose and her limbs heavy after so long. She feels her shake as she cries, her shoulders falling forwards to protect herself. Natasha places her hands there then pulls her sister in, wrapping her arms around her tight.
“Are you okay?” Yelena doesn’t reply so she continues. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“You weren’t just means to an end, you are so much more, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. For everything.” Natasha tries, she tries so hard and her tears fall anyway, her words falling off as her throat tightens. “Please, don’t go,” she breathes out, her voice hollow like meringue shells, soft and petal light, cracking and loud when they fall. “It’s okay, everything will be okay, no matter what,” she whispers and she hugs her sister tighter as she gasps on her sobs.
Yelena heaves with her cries, she knows half heartedly she should try and stop but after so long of waiting for her sister, for her in the Red Room; for her acknowledgement in Budapest and St Petersburgs; for her familiarity in the Tower, the tears rushed out, and Natasha held her, so close as if they were one and she holds onto her sister as her lifeline, a reprieve from everything, everything that had been collapsing in and holding her head under water. She tries to speak, the words only exist as incoherent gasps so she just sits with what she’s been missing.
“I care, Yelena. I care so much about you and I’m so, so sorry I didn’t notice, but I’m here now. I just want you to be okay.”
Natasha doesn’t know what to do, she doesn’t know how to handle this situation, she was never taught this, only shown herself this way to so few. So she just tries to be of comfort, to make up for even a fraction of the time they’d lost.
Eventually Yelena feels her cries subside and only uneven breaths are there, but Natasha doesn’t pull away, so neither does she.
Natasha breaks the silence by letting her arms fall slack, leaning back on her heels. “We’re okay. We’ll be okay.” She kisses Yelena’s forehead and brushes back loose strands of hair with her fingertips, stroking away tears.
Yelena looks up at her sister with red rimmed eyes, colour seemingly leaking into the whites of her eyes,
“I’m sorry too Natasha.”
“I’m so sorry for what I did yesterday, Мне очень жаль, что я тебя ударил. And everything before that and everyth-”
“No. No, stop. Yelena, stop. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re not a burden. You never have been and you never will be, not in Ohio, and definitely not here, and I’m so sorry I made you feel that way. You’re incredible and it kills me you don’t realise it like I do.” Yelena’s questioning gaze wedges a dagger between her ribs.
“I’m sorry about the other people and how I treated you; how we’ve all been treating you. I should’ve tried harder and I realise and I can see it now, I’m just so sorry, it couldn’t have been sooner.” She takes a breath, averting her eyes, “So please, don't apologise.”
Yelena falls quiet, not knowing now quite how to respond. She wants to say sorry, for being so sensitive, imposing on her life, for making Natasha feel like she had failed and now that she couldn’t, she’s left speechless.
Natasha sighs, reaching out to gently push back the hair that had fallen onto Yelena’s face again. “Here, let me braid your hair, it’s falling out.” She gestures for her to turn around and she takes her hair into three strands.
Yelena closes her eyes, breathing deeply. Natasha was adept, like how she was with everything, gathering new pieces of hair into the braid each time, freeing her face and her neck, the gentle brush of her fingers against her scalp, familiar. They don’t say anything and she lets her mind rest for this moment, to not overthink, have the words just spoken settle unfiltered.
Once Natasha pulls away, she turns around, instinctively reaching up to feel the updo. It’s neat, as expected, but the style of it surprises her. It was one sleek dutch braid, starting from the crown of her head, like how Natasha liked. It was how she had done her hair when they had first seen each other again, Yelena remembered from watching the warm red stitches of the braid as they sped down the streets of Budapest. However, now was tied at the base of her head, the rest falling freely.
A brief memory of her complaining about the scratchy stiff feeling of braids on her neck comes to mind, in Ohio when Melina had done her hair before soccer, she was sure Natasha wouldn’t have remembered it from then, but the thought is still nice. It had been her biggest pain then, though, she remembers, it was mainly because the braid meant she couldn’t swing her blonde waves dramatically and made it seem shorter than it was when she had been trying so hard to evade the hairdresser and grow it out. Natasha had offered to do her hair before soccer from then on after Melina had grown weary and jokingly threatened to chop it all off.
Natasha smiles and Yelena smiles back.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Mhm.”
And this time, it was true, a more honest answer than any she had given in a long time.