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

Chapter 18 - What Switcheroo Stick was Shoved Up your Ass

6 months later

Cyrus' pov

"There's an organisation in the-"

"Take a break, Nat," I huff, slouching down on the deep, leather arm chair, "every place or person you go to fight: they know it's you."

"You know I'm better than that," she fires back in exasperation, pacing across the bare-wood floor, "I don't know how long I have to form a new cover and-"

"'I need it to be good one'," I quote her, earning myself a pointed glare, "I know, you told me a thousand times. But here you are, still cooping up here with me like an bohemian art scholar in the movies; you smile so little that I'm struggling to remember what it looks like; you come home at such anti-social hours of the day so often that I've nearly quit worrying whether you're bleeding out on a street corner-"

"I never asked you to stay!" she yells, wheeling around to face me as she finally snaps, "I never asked you to live the 'artisan life' with a trained killer; I never asked you to try and make me smile; I never asked you to care..."

Her words trail off as she gazes out of the window. Not knowing quite how to respond, I lean around the large back rest of the chair to observe her. Noticing her fixed stare on the opposite rooftops, I try to start a more calm conversation, "Honey, we can-"

"Shut it," she snaps, however she doesn't take her eyes from the window.

I furrow my eyebrows in confusion, not understanding what warranted such a response, "I'm trying to-"

"GET DOWN!" vaulting over the waist-height bookcase, she tackles me into the corner. A golden blast ricochets around the now-illuminated apartment. Waves of energy spray out in every direction, ripping through plaster, wood and brick wall alike. Shuddering to a tentative silence, pluming dust clouds billow through the now open-plan apartment.

"Stay here," she hisses in my ear, moving to one of the weapons stores. Grabbing her wrist, I give her a firm head shake 'no'. With a roll of her eyes, she shakes me off, "I don't know about you, but I don't fancy staying here like sitting ducks."

"I know who it is," I whisper back, hearing the rhythmic blundering of several boots coming up the outside stairs.

"Woopie-do for you!" She mutters sarcastically, rifling through the cabinet of pistols and knifes, "I guess you guys can have a friendly catch-up while they try to kill me."

"They won't kill you if I tell them not to," I decide to ignore her comments for the sake of time, "and even you can't escape them-"

She snaps her gaze to me, an insulted scowl firmly set on her features, "You don't know what I could do if I put my mind to it."

"I don't doubt you, sweetheart," I smirk, the clanging boots growing ever louder, "but escaping the Asgardian 'task-force' is quite a different kettle of fish-"

The front door slams off its hinges with a deafening thud. Using the new cover of dust to conceal her dodging, Natasha scurries off like a skilled spider (an apt description, I must say).

Unlike the red head, I stand proudly as I brush down my casual, oversized suit jacket. Out of the dusty air, a spear hurtles directly at my face from 'the aether' (another great description, in my opinion). Dodging and grabbing it mid-flight, I redirect the golden shaft to block two incoming blows. Straining under the sheer force, I knock their relatively unguarded legs from under them. Stomping into their helmets, I make sure they'll be asleep for an hour of so.