Dancing With Our Hands Tied- Natasha Romanoff

10- cherry

CW: VIOLENCE
"I do things wrong
You thought I might
You say I'm going to miss you when
You leave and you are probably right"- Peach

*

Quinn

The pages are thin. Stuck together with spilt sugar and old age. I flip to the middle, skimming each page quickly. Each page turn is heard in the completely silent house.

I was desperately trying to distract myself. For the past three days, everyone in the compound has been on edge. Most waiting for their mission, I was only nervously rereading the letter I found in my room. But with Natasha always somewhat near, only really leaving my side when I went to sleep, it was easier.

But then Steve got a call, and withing ten minutes they were all on a quinjet, flying off. For the first two hours, I tried reading, watching tv, even tried training. So now I am here, in the kitchen, with a recipe book that looks older than me.

When a deep red covered the page, I stop. My fingers skim down the page.

Cherry Cobler.

Seems easy enough.

With zero, known, experience in baking, I am pulling out the ingredients. Maybe I'll find a skill I didn't know I had.

I very quickly realize that I was not some professional baker before the fire. My cherry mixture is finished, taking double to time the recipe said it would take. I'm rereading the same instruction over and over, trying to decipher it.

A small noise pulls me from the book, it was barely audible. The sound of footsteps above me. I take a few steps backwards, my hips hitting the counter. I reach my hand back to the knife block, pulling out the silver chef's knife. The noise has mostly disappeared.

Abandoning the kitchen, I slowly make my way upstairs.  A sound begins again, much softer than before. I follow the noise of something brushing against a wall down the dark hallway. I tighten my grip around the handle of the knife tightens. I stop in front of the door to noise is coming from the opposite side of.

No one can hurt you here.

I wrap my hand on the knob, twisting the door open. The shadows are thick, but the moonlight is enough to make it clear the room is empty. Something brushes and I look down to see a fluffy white cat, rubbing against my calves.

"Goddammit Bucky." I mutter as my shoulders relax. I pat Alpine's head, rubbing the bridge of my nose.

When I turn around, I immediately run into something solid. I take a small step back, staring at a muscular chest. Sparing a glance upwards an unfamiliar smirk stares back at me. He's young, must be older than me, but still has a young face. His teeth are bright enough to be visible in the dark hall.

"What's wrong? Don't tell me you didn't miss me." His hands wrap around my shoulders and push me into the hallway wall.

Remembering the weapon in my hand, thrusting the blade towards him. It skims his side when his hand caught my wrist, twisting my arm, causing the handle to slip from my grip. I throw my head forward, landing him right on the nose. He recoils back but recovers in time to stop me from reaching the kitchen knife. One of his hands pushes me back, close to the wall, the other grips my chin.

"Don't fuckin' do that again." Blood is starting to flow from his nose.

"Who the hell are you?" I try to pry myself from his grip.

His smirk grows again. "Come one, don't play this game with me." He leans in close to me. "I'm a friend of your fathers." His eyes are looking for a sign or recognition in mine. Unable to give it to him, I instead knee him in the crotch. When he pulls back, I sprint down the hallway.