NIGHTMARE ▹ Natasha Romanoff

twenty.

Svetlana Rostov fucking hated the beach. She hated the sand, and the stupid water and screaming children. She hated getting her hair wet and the ridiculous obsession with being barefoot on a landscape of hell. Svetlana Rostov hated the beach, yet when Natasha broke into a grin at the sight of the foaming waves and gentle bleed of the sky, Svetlana saw how it could grow on people. If all beaches had red-heads this beautiful on them, she supposed she could manage.

"What?" Svetlana started at the sudden voice breaking her stream of consciousness and realised she was staring. Natasha was watching her with a slight curious smile. They hadn't spoken much since the plane, simply a brief exchange to cement their cover stories at the airport; playing simple, young American tourists off to explore Europe. Svetlana's New Yorker accent hadn't been so bad, if she said so herself. Saying nothing in reply, she shook her head, clearing her thoughts. 

The place was a empty, surprisingly considering its beauty, but the lack of population was not unexpected. Her ex-mentor wasn't stupid enough to choose a tourist spot to house whatever the fuck he was doing.

The reality of the situation was beginning to sink in slowly. It hit her in bits and pieces; the best sort of slow destruction, really. You might see Ivan again, her brain taunted, followed by a cacophony of mixed emotions. And then, the realisation that she might have to kill him. Her head was a whirlwind. The press of sand beneath her feet as she stood just behind her American counterpart barley helped distract her. "So?" Natasha finally broke the silence. 

Svetlana chewed on her lip. Glanced at Natasha; turned away again. Rubbed a finger over an old scar on the back of her palm. "You've got sand in your hair," she said curtly, tapping her own scalp to show. Natasha frowned slightly, looking  annoyed. 

"This might seem funny to you now, but if we don't find—"

The blonde dimmed her speech out mentally, blurring the noise against the crowing of some devilish beach bird and the lull of the waves. Svetlana watched sunlight glint off the dancing waves, head tilted to one side. There was a small cliff side curving into the bay, a ways down from where they were standing. Svetlana swallowed. "I'm starving. Are you hungry? I'm hungry."

Natasha sighed. "Are we really going to play this game?" Svetlana could feel her pissed off stare. 

She turned to her, placating. "Come on. Shouldn't be espionage-ing on an empty stomach, подру́га."  Natasha's deepening scowl didn't really seem to resonate with the sentiment. 

"Come on, Americana," she pleaded, trying for a smile. Walked closer to her, leaning in slightly, so that their heads angled towards one another. The red head's eyes widened minutely; she reeled in her surprise immediately, schooling her face into nonchalance. "Don't you trust me?" Svetlana said, quieter, mouth tilted away from the crashing waves. She watched her kind-of-enemy's face; those starling eyes, hair tousled in the wind, bow lips parted slightly. 

A simple curt nod was her only reply, and Svetlana smiled, loosely gripping her wrist and tugging her from the shore. She had seen a small café a while back. Natasha barely stumbled as Svetlana started, nimble and fluid to catch up with the Russian's quick strides, but Svetlana could feel her tense beneath her fingers; felt her pulse pick up as she made their way off of the sand. And when she glanced  back, she could have sworn the woman's cheeks had picked up a soft red tint, burning up, like her hair in the golden burnish of the sun.