𝑻𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓 ✘ 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐅𝐅

{6⁵} {REALITY}

∆ {6⁵} {REALITY} ∆

Two Years After the Snap

NATASHA ROMANOFF GLARED at the bottle in front of her. She loathed the way that the amber liquid tempted her so greatly, to just take a sip. It was some of the alcohol that Tony had left behind in the move, a year and a half ago now, and so far, she'd been able to resist the temptation. But before now, Roxi hadn't been away for long. Sure, there had been some weekends where she knew that Roxi's head was so quiet that the woman was cautious to be around her, in case something went wrong. There'd been those few nights, too, when Roxi had gone to nearby countries to visit their memorials. She never stayed long, and when she came back, her black book was always more ragged, and thicker.

She'd run out of space only a third through the States' memorial, and instead of getting a new one, or stopping - giving herself a break from the blame she forced upon herself as Natasha had implored her to - she simply added more pages. Each set looked different, some stained by the sun and some wrinkled by rainfall, and Roxi had needed to start using a string to keep all of the paper in place. There were barely any blank spaces, any bare paper, save for one page.

Roxi had left the notebook on the counter when she'd come back from Canada, and Natasha had decided that it was perfectly within her right to look through it, in concern for the woman she loved. She'd held it carefully, the cracked and dirtied cover so different from how it had been in New York when she'd found Roxi in the medical bay on the helicarrier, when it had still been fairly pristine and well-kept. Natasha hadn't even learned what it was until after Sokovia, in their two years of quiet homeliness, and even then, it was a result of Wanda's encouragement. Each page was written in careful handwriting, solely in black ink. Except for that one page. When Natasha had found it, her throat had begun to become sore, and as she gently traced her fingers down the list of names. This page was written in red, each name having its own space, and unlike the rest of the pages, Natasha recognised the names written there.

Sam Wilson, Peter Parker, James Buchanan (Bucky) Barnes, T'Challa, Stephen Strange, Nick Fury, Maria Hill. Wanda Maximoff.

The last name was written further from the rest, and from the look of the less legible writing, Roxi's hand had been shaking. A random pattern of lines and dots were scrawled around it, and the only way that Natasha had some vague idea what it was was because she'd watched Roxi ink it onto her wrist with a ballpoint pen almost every day for the past year and a half. Some of the other pages had been dotted with the marks left from tear drops, and yet none stained this page. Natasha hated the fact that she could still remember exactly how she'd felt when she'd read the last name, because all she'd been able to think about was how Roxi had felt when she'd written it, and that sort of searing pain was something that she couldn't wish on anybody.

Now, it was a different kind of burning that filled her. Longing for blankness, for her feelings to leave her alone. Some part of her envied Roxi in that aspect; she'd been empty of everything since they'd been to the Garden. She knew that the alcohol would help her with that. Help her forget, help her escape, if only for a few hours.

But she also knew what would happen afterwards, the consequences she would endure, and the spiral she might fall into. She'd never been particularly inclined towards alcohol before, even less so once Roxi had begun to tell her stories of her childhood, at which point the desire faded. Over the past few years, she'd only drunk small amounts of alcohol that she knew she could handle; she couldn't risk losing herself. But with no-one to distract her, what had happened in times that felt so recent and so much time to herself, lines had begun to blur.

So she'd got out the bottle a few hours ago and set it on the table in front of her, when her mind had still been hazy from sleep, and had been contemplating opening it ever since. A slightly dusty glass sat beside it - just a small one, something in her mind was still whispering - though both remained untouched.