Work Text:
Natasha's pencil stops in the middle of writing the number five leaving it looking like a little upside down question mark because—that's wrong. She's wrong again because these are meant to be long division without remainders and that, right there, is a remainder. The sound of the pasta water bubbling away is too loud in her ears.
In a burst of quick fury, she harshly erases her work for the third time. Little eraser bits fly everywhere with the force of her erasing. Her wrong answer, and the one before that, and the one before that are all still visible, one on top of the other. Natasha scrubs the end of her pencil harder until—the paper tears.
For a second she just stares at it, the paper all worn through by her mistakes, and then hot anger flashes through her body. She slams her pencil down on the table even though she'd really just like to crumple up her homework and never look at it again. Between her tight-clenched teeth she makes a sound between a groan and a growl.
"What's wrong, Natasha?" Her mom asks over Yelena's little-kid babbling, turning slightly from where she's snapping off green-bean ends into the kitchen sink.
Natasha's throat feels tight and upset. "I can't do this question," she whines, aware she's doing it but not able or wanting to sound like anything else. It's dumb she can't do it. This should be easy, it's only grade five work and she's supposed to be smart! In math she's always slower than the other kids.
"Okay, calm down," her mom says, sounding calm but also a little bit chastising. "I'll go get your dad to help—he should be off the phone with work by now." Natasha knows he's been working hard so he can get promoted, so eventually he'll be able to get what they need for the mission. It'll take a while. A year more, at least. (She hopes it'll be longer.)
With a soft smile and a ruffle of Yelena's blonde hair, she leaves. For a second, it's quiet apart from the water-boiling noises.
Then, "Macaroni macaroni macaroni!" Yelena bounces in circles happily with her doll as she sing-songs. "We're gonna eat macaroni!"
Natasha doesn't respond, just staring blankly at the next four questions that she still hasn't done. She hates homework.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," she says, irritation flickering as she runs a finger over the tear in the paper, the layers of hard pencil marks that couldn't quite be fully erased. Then, there's a Barbie on her paper. Light hair cut choppily, sticking out in little bits, and blue marker scribbled randomly as a terrible attempt at makeup. Most importantly, it shouldn't be on her homework. "Go away, Lena."
"Fine." There's only a second of pouting before she, seeming perfectly content, skips back off into the kitchen.
While Yelena does whatever it is that she does, Natasha leans her face forwards onto her hands. The pressure pulls her skin back to stretch tightly over her forehead. She's tired. She feels…
"Look, Barbie, we're makin' macaroni!"
Natasha glances up—her eyes blow wide as she sees Yelena there on her tiptoes, reaching for the pothandle sticking out slightly over the edge of the stove. She sees it before it happens, but for a long second she doesn't say anything all, frozen in place. By the time she tries she's too late—when her sister's name escapes her mouth the pot has already tipped over. The water falls as if in slow motion. Natasha's eyes squeeze shut the split second before it happens, too cowardly to watch.
And Yelena wails, high and horrifying and Natasha feels like she's going to throw up as she scrambles out of her chair, socks slipping on linoleum as she careens into the kitchen.
She's on the ground. Yelena is on the ground screaming, her face red half from tears but the other half horribly vivid and bright, the skin wet looking and already bubbling with shining blisters. It's all down the left side of her face, from just below her eye down her cheek, neck, shirt soaked to her chest. There's a curved line raised up by her collarbone where the edge of the pot must have hit. Half-boiled noodles are scattered everywhere.
"MOM!" Natasha shrieks, terror pulsing through her veins.
Yelena reaches her grasping chubby kindergartener hands towards Natasha, tears streaming down her face. Jittering panic shoots through her chest as she rips at the wet clothes that hold hot water pressed up against her skin. She's yanking Yelena's shirt off over her head when she screams even worse, and Natasha's hands fly up to her face, tangling in her hair because the soft skin of Yelena's collarbone was stuck to the shirt, and is still now stuck to the shirt which is seperated from her body.
"Sorry, I'm sorry!" She's crying too, hot tears slipping down her cheeks.
Then there's quick-loud footsteps as their mom runs in, takes one look at the scene and immediately curses in sharp Russian. It must be bad then, because they're supposed to speak only English on the mission, Yelena doesn't even know they're Russian. It must be really, really bad. Yelena is still crying and screaming as Mom scoops her up and puts her bodily into the kitchen sink in a smooth fast movement. The wails continue as the faucet pours cool water over her red blistered skin.
"What happened! Natasha, what happened?!" Her dad shakes her roughly by the arm when she doesn't reply. "Why weren't you watching her!"
Natasha can't do anything but gasp and cry uselessly, hands scrabbling at her chest as if she can dig through and rip out the thing in her heart thats going so fast and painful it might explode.
"Alexei! We have to call 911!" Dad curses in low Russian, too, dropping Natasha's arm and hurrying to the phone. She slides to the kitchen floor, surrounded by wet macaroni and water. She feels like she's dying, which isn't fair because she's not even hurt. Yelena is hurt bad, and they're calling an ambulance which is bad because it draws attention and questions and all their papers are fake and—this is bad bad bad and it's all her fault!
She'd seen it happening before it happened and just sat there! Let it happen! Yelena's still screaming and crying, voice scratchy and weaker from all the yelling, red and blistered and her pretty child-face and body won't be the same. Won't look the same or move the same, not with the scars sure to bloom over her face-neck-chest-shoulder. Had she thought of that? Is that why she didn't say anything in that split second, because if this happens maybe they can't take Yelena and make her a Widow when it's all done?
Natasha can't remember if she'd thought that earlier. She doesn't think she did, but she's thinking it now and isn't that bad enough?
She's the worst sister in the world. She's going to throw up.
Yelena doesn't stop crying even for a second.
There's macaroni everywhere.