capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

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(no subject)

WHO: Natasha & (little) Matt
WHERE: Natasha's brownstone
WHEN: The early days of kidplot??
WARNINGS: N/A…
SUMMARY: All of Natasha's boyfriends are twelve.
FORMAT: Whatever!

Natasha liked to sleep in. She was a busy person, rigidly scheduled by nature and habit. But those slow, peach-colored moments of hazy halfsleep, when she let herself take them, were the most luxurious thing she knew.

And so it was morning and so Natasha was stretched out long on her bed, not quite awake but not asleep either, unaware of what had happened to Matthew. And, for all her paranoia, unsuspecting.

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Matt woke up in his bedroom that was not his bedroom and wiped the sleep out of his eyes. He recognized this place from the last time, this pristine house that was like something out of a magazine or on TV. This was Natasha's house, he remembered. What he didn't remember was how he got here or why. Maybe Natasha would know.

He approached her bedroom door after reacclimating himself to the brownstone, considering for a long minute as to whether or not he should knock first, speak first, or just barge in. Ultimately he opts for all three.

"Um, excuse me...?" He called, knocking and turning the doorknob, though he was careful to avert his eyes just in case she was naked or something. Gross. "Ma'am?"

Natasha wasn't naked, but she wasn't dressed, either. But she didn't mind, not around Matt. She wouldn't have minded, even if he could see.

It was rare that she allowed sleep to cloud her mind, because Natasha lived her life tight as a wire. That was why sleeping in was such a luxury, and why she didn't immediately notice anything was wrong.

"What? I'm sleeping."

He poked his head into her bedroom and just sort of stood there, staring at her awkwardly. There was something a little strange about invading her space, even at age nine he could figure that much out. But she was an adult and he was a kid, and as much as he wanted to be independent, he knew he'd need her help.

"Ma'am, I think something is wrong. I thought maybe you could help me go home. Or at least find May and Julia again." He remembered them from the last time, too. The older kids had been kind to him, they'd given him tacos and let him watch movies. Maybe Natasha would know where they were staying.

She wasn't ready to deal with this. Why was there a child in her bedroom. She sat up, abruptly, but not without grace, and narrowed her eyes into squints.

"How did you get here?"

The duvet fell over her like a mountain, with many small white peaks.

"Uh..." He panicked just a little. Was she mad at him? Had he done something wrong? He faltered a moment, stammering slightly as he continues, "I woke up here. In the other bedroom."

Normally, of course, Natasha would knit herself together. She'd face down threats too big and too strange to have a name for and do it all with a seamless veneer of professionalism. That was what Natasha was, a professional.

But here in her small temple to her own privacy she could have some room to fray. That was a comfort too— human weakness, being able to let it show.

"Please tell me that I'm dreaming."

It was a distinct possibility. God knows her subconscious was full of nasty tricks. But this wasn't the first time the Porter had tried something like this, either.

Matt shook his head quickly, unsure if he should keep talking or let the grown up figure this all out on her own. A lot of times adults didn't like it when kids butt in with their two cents. But Matt didn't think he</i< was dreaming, and if he wasn't then Natasha probably wasn't either. "I think we're both wide awake, actually."

"That wasn't what I asked." She sighed. It wasn't fair for her to take this out on the kid— Natasha knew that.

"Go wait outside," she said, more kindly, now. "I'm going to get dressed." He could agree to that, right?

"Okay," he said, looking briefly scolded as he retreated from the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Part of him worried that maybe he had done something wrong and that Natasha was angry with him, but another, more rational part of him wondered if perhaps she was just as confused about all of this as he was. Either way, he trusted that she'd emerge from the bedroom and know how to fix everything.

She didn't know how to fix everything— in fact, she knew some things were beyond fixing.

Here was another thing Natasha knew: that making something seem was more important than making something be, some times. So she washed her face, pulled her hair back into something smooth and neat, and went outside.

"Alright," she said, her face in a line. "What do you want to do?"

By this point, Matt was already examining the assortment of objects that were waiting for him in the living room. All the important books, the nice furniture, the clean, orderly way in which things were arranged. He wasn't used to such pristine surroundings, so he made a real effort not to disturb any of it.

When Natasha reappeared, he stood up straight and was careful not to knock anything over. "Could I have something to eat? And then could I go home? I want my dad."

That maybe made him sound like a baby, but he was tired of fronting and playing brave. There wasn't anyone around to tease him about it, so he may as well admit that more than anything he just wanted to see Jack.

"I can get you something to eat," she said, trying to make her voice kind. She knew how to talk to children, but not what to say— especially not like this. "But you can't go home just yet."

Natasha could lie, of course. She could always lie.

She had never been a little boy and had never cared to understand them. When she was young Natasha had made her own escapes. Boys didn't come into it until later. "It will be a kind of adventure."

The idea of an adventure temporarily blinded Matt to the fact that he couldn't yet go home. It was a suitable distraction for a child his age, and one he could thoroughly get behind. He looked up at Natasha and nodded eagerly.

"Will we get to go places? Will there be fighting?" True adventures equated to battle in the mind of a boy raised around physical violence. The idea of venturing to someplace far away also held appeal.

There wasn't going to be any fighting.

"Maybe," she said. "But if you want to go places, you can't make any mess."

Maybe this was how she should try talking to Clint.

He could handle that. His father had raised him to be obedient, if nothing else. So he nodded in agreement to this deal.

"Okay, I promise I won't make a mess." Then, he added, "Do you know why I'm here again?"

"No," he shook her head. "I don't know why, but I have some ideas about what and how." That blasted machine had done this before, after all. Natasha remembered, even as she tried not to.

"Will you need my help to fix it?" Matt gave her a concerned, but hopeful look, helping to contribute and control a bit of the situation. Even as a child, he wanted a small shred of control over what was happening to him. He didn't want to feel useless or helpless. "I'm good at helping. I could be your assistant."

"No, Matthew," she said, pressing her hands together, almost like a prayer. "I can't fix it. It's something that has to fix itself."

It was a very Russian virtue— endurance.

"How long do you think that will take?" He stared up at her, hope slowly starting to trickle out of his expression. He liked it better when things were straight forward, when a clear solution was in sight. This all seemed too complicated, too over his head and he didn't like that.

"My guess is a week. Maybe shorter, not longer." That was the pattern, after all. These flukes— they never lasted longer than a week.

"I think you can be brave for that long."

Matt nodded in complete agreement. "I'm really good at being brave. I practice all the time."

She laughed a bit, sadly.

"It's a good thing to practice. You never know when you'll need to be brave for real."

Thankfully, Matt was unaware of the sadness and took what she said at face value. "My dad says stuff like that sometimes. I gotta be a man and be brave and never give up."

"Your father loves you very much, doesn't he?"

Natasha had never known her father, perished before her memory could keep him. She didn't wonder what he was like. She assumed he was a man who died young, in a fire. And she found other ways to keep herself warm.

There was Ivan, of course. A long time ago, he had been quite kind. And it was the truest strain of her mercy that she could remember him at his best, and not at his worst.

"Yes. My dad is the best."

Matt's little face twisted into a fleeting pout. He wasn't on the verge of a tantrum or tears, and he wasn't scared. But talking about Jack wasn't especially easy. Nothing about Jack was easy. Matt knew that his father had purpose for the way he lived his life and treated his son, but that didn't mean the boy always liked or understood those reasons. As an adult, he could process it, but the nine year old child could only answer in a stilted voice and wonder if he'd be in trouble for leaving home without asking.

"Thanks for letting me stay here. "

It hadn't occurred to her that she had a choice. When he said that, she realized that she maybe did. There were probably other people who were having this problem, she could probably hire a nanny for a week. Something like that.

But she rejected all those things the second that she thought them. Natasha was always overprotective when it came to Matt.

"I wouldn't let anyone else take you."

At that, he smiled, though he wasn't exactly sure why. He felt safe with her, safe, comforted, maybe even wanted. He didn't understand why he felt that way, nor did it occur to him to question it. He just felt it, and he was okay with it.

"I like your house, Natasha. It's big. You must be really rich."

"I'm just lucky." She hadn't gotten the money through precisely legal means, but it hadn't had precisely legal beginnings.

She didn't feel bad about it.

"You're real lucky." They both were, though he didn't quite understand the extent. All he knew was that this big apartment in this nice part of town seemed safer than most places he'd grown up near. "Is this place all yours?"

She didn't know what she could tell him— there were so many inconstant rules about knowing the future and not knowing, so many ways the friction of whens could explode the world and leave everyone to die. Natasha hate time travel.

So she lied. She didn't like lying, either. But at least she was good at it.

There was a slow nod. "I paid for it, anyway."

"Someday I want a house this big." Matt nodded firmly, though he hadn't actually put that much thought into it. He still somewhat craved the coziness of his small home back in Hell's Kitchen. "Did it take a long time to save up for it?"

"No." Natasha had gotten the money from swiping from old KGB slush accounts. It had never occurred to her to feel guilty; she thought she was owed.

"It took me a while to pay for, though."

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