Blackout | Matt Murdock

interlude iv | michaela and the itsy bitsy black widow

When it comes down it, Michaela should have expected this. At least, the possibility of it, if not the finer details. She spends so much of time envisioning worst possible scenarios, and yet – this never even occurred to her, not once.

This, of course, being the current situation where she's dangling from the half-dropped ladder of a fire-escape and Natasha Romanoff, AKA the Black Widow, AKA the most terrifyingly competent woman in New York, is standing at the mouth of the alleyway, arms crossed, lips quirked into the beginnings of a either an amused smile or a predatory smirk.

"Uh," Michaela says, with all the eloquence of the skittish, ever-so-unfortunate misshapen deer she currently resembles. Her feet are swinging from her latest attempt at using some sort of momentum to hoist herself back up the ladder, she's undoubtedly sweating clean through her suit, and she's almost positive her mask has slipped and is only covering half her face, maybe less.

The Black Widow lifts a brow at her predicament, her eyes sweeping over Michaela from head to twitching toe. She's kitted out in her usual gear, black catsuit a counterpoint to the vibrant red of her hair and the luminous green of her eyes. Her hair's grown out since Michaela last caught a glimpse of her on the news, cut just below her shoulders and expertly styled so that not a single strand is out of place.

And then there's Michaela, looking like a fool, as per usual.

One day she'll meet an Avenger when she isn't externalizing her hot mess vibe, and her self-confidence will be all the better for it.

"Do I need to get a broom?" the Black Widow asks, her voice pitched just loud enough for Michaela to hear her clearly. The amusement's coming out full force now.

A broom? Michaela glances down at herself, frowning, then – Ah. Right. A broom, like you'd use to knock a pesky pet down from an unsupervised perch. She lets her gaze drop further, down to the ground. Can't be that far of a drop. She'll just, you know, bend her knees, absorb some of the shock. Right? Totally, that's justifiable.

"No, no, no, that won't be necessary—" Like it's a genuine offer, fuck her life. Michaela grimaces to herself behind what's remaining of her mask. Her fingers flex around the rusted metal rung of the ladder, gauging the tender soreness of her upper arms and shoulders. Hanging out isn't gonna be an option for that much longer – her upper body strength has always been a little lacking, she'll admit it, but in all fairness, it's never been much of an issue before she got into the hero gig. Where the hell's Spider-Child when she really needs him?

Up or down, dumbass, pick one!

She picks down, because the possibility of falling on her ass and-or face is still preferable to having the Black Widow witness her pathetic struggle to haul herself up onto the first landing of the fire escape. She lets go and doesn't actually have time to brace herself (should've done that before, probably), so she wobbles on the landing, hissing out a sharp exhale at the resulting jolt of pain that knifes through her ankles and calves. Fuck, don't let her have a limp, don't make this worse than it already is—

By the time she's standing upright, tucking one foot up against the opposite leg because it fucking stings and with her luck she probably did fuck up her ankle, the Black Widow is much closer, only a few feet away. Michaela checks a flinch as she locks eyes with her; she's silent on her feet and that's not remotely surprising, but that doesn't mean she was prepared for the reality of it. Like, yeah, Matt's got the ninja thing going on, but when he's just Matt he makes an effort to make at least some noise, so Michaela doesn't jump right out of her skin whenever he walks over to her. The Widow has a different mentality, and that's cool, that's fantastic, she shouldn't compromise herself for anyone, let alone one slapdash vigilante from Hell's Kitchen who she just caught dangling from a fire escape like a whole-ass idiot.