I'm lying to you // Natasha Romanoff x OC Odindottir

Chapter 10 - A Brick Could've Been More Convincing

Cyrus' pov

"So," Pepper begins, as I join her in her office, "it took you two years to tell me all that?"

"Uh..." I trail off, noticing how bad that sounded when said so plainly, "Yeah," I admit.

"Well, after Tony near damn got me killed last year, I've decided to steer clear of your hero bonanza," she sifts through a small stack of letters, before her eyes pause on one. Lifting it to the bright light, the dim outline of the SHIELD emblem appears.

"What does Fury want with Stark Industries now?" I ask curiously. As she carefully opens the letter, I get the sudden feeling that we're being watched.

"It's for you," she states, confused. Handing me the partially opened letter, I see a large, red, stamped massage:

DC, TONIGHT
(AND UNBLOCK ME)

The red lettering fills up most of the SHIELD-printed paper, but - due to my curiosity - I decide to investigate a little further. Forming an orb of ultraviolet light in my hand, the clear shape of the Black Widows' emblem appears in the corner.

"Subtle," I tut, knowing that it was just for show: it was unlikely the most infamous assassin in the world was writing in lemon juice for a serious cryptic message.

"More hero stuff?" Pepper asks after a moment, still staring at where the orb had been just seconds before.

"Something like that," I respond, truly not sure of what Natasha wants. As I turn to leave, Pepper reminds me to visit her again soon.

"I'll be back with in the week, I'm sure of it," I try to assure her. Attempting hard to conceal my slight limp, I make my way to the door, "See ya, Pep."

~~~~~~

Racing through the streets of Washington DC, I pull up just outside of a small, gated doorway. Looking utterly out of place in the run down area, I make haste in my trip. I fiddle with the keys of the gate and the door, letting them swing open slowly.

"Home, sweet home," I mutter to myself, used to having to be so cautious.

I creep up the stairs, gun outstretched  and fully-loaded in my hands. As move to through the front door, the faint sound of a violin hums throughout the apartment. Rounding the corner to my lounge, the stocky figure of an old friend stands in the darkness.

Playing the final note to perfection, he sighs a little and bring the violin down from his shoulder.

"Nice place," the familiar voice greets me, "but not one fit for a Queen."

"I was never Queen, Holstagg," I remind him bitterly, "merely Odin's daughter; an accomplice."

I flick on the lights to be faced with a time-beaten man. His previously blemish-less face is now a crisscross of tired wrinkles and age-old scars. His proud stature resides to an ached one, his shoulders sagging like the weight of time was on his back. His clean and well-kept attire was battered by unknown enemies, worn and frayed by the nine realms.

But most noticeable of all: his smile. The previously chipper and bright one - which shone like the vast, gold architecture of Asgard - was all but gone. The trade mark glimmer in his eye - which could simultaneously make the ladies swoon and the children giggle - had dried up in the deep well of time.