[ for many, death is frightening. for others, death is imminent.
for the hands of yelena belova, they belong to death. she used to be nothing but a merciless weapon at the mercy of death itself, and her hands; they are stained red with the blood they have spilled in their wake. but she wants to wipe that slate clean now, wants to scrub at her skin until there is none left — to rid herself of the gore and of the sins they've committed, but how can she when she was made to destroy? when it is all she has ever known?
yelena thought she might have been different, she thought she might have been immune to the destruction that death leaves behind even if it surrounds her like the plague. call it denial, call it a coping mechanism, but she talks to the vest strapped to the passenger seat of her old, blue pick-up truck like it's natasha. as if she was actually there and as if yelena's not actually making the drive to the outskirts of cincinnati, as she speaks — to natasha's grave. but when she looks over, it's just fanny sticking her head out the window. which is, honestly, pretty close.
as soon she turns off the ignition and puts her car in park, fanny runs ahead of her and follows the path up the hillock. the walk to the graveyard always serves as a reminder to how she human she is, that no matter how much of a superhero natasha was; she is still dead. yelena can't hear her voice or hold her hand because her coffin is buried six feet underground — she says her coffin, because there is no fucking body in that coffin, and all she has left is this gravestone with her name engraved on it.
a part of her hopes that she's not gone in the sense that she is no longer living, but rather in the sense that she is off the grid and living her life the way she would have wanted to. (or the way yelena would have wanted her to; with a husband and a child, working as a teacher.) but a large part of her hopes that, one day, she will hear natasha whistle back when she hears the tune leave yelena's lips.
every time she comes to visit, there are less and less little trinkets and flowers than the last. it's so unfair, yelena thinks, that the world is not praising natasha to the heavens for all she has done in the shadows, behind the silhouette of the men she fought so hard alongside. natasha did not get a fancy statue with her doing her silly hero pose, no, all she gets is this tombstone. but it is still a fancy stone that makes yelena tear up.
yelena mourns differently than others; she is busy and angry half the time, the other half she is busy and numb.
but she's supposed to be on vacation, so imagine her annoyance when she hears the sound of leaves crunching behind her. she doesn't turn around to see who it is since fanny doesn't bark or make a fuss, because it must be valentina. valentina, whose three calls she screened yesterday before turning off her burner phone— ]
You're not supposed to be bothering me on my holiday time, you know.
graveyard meet cute!!
for the hands of yelena belova, they belong to death. she used to be nothing but a merciless weapon at the mercy of death itself, and her hands; they are stained red with the blood they have spilled in their wake. but she wants to wipe that slate clean now, wants to scrub at her skin until there is none left — to rid herself of the gore and of the sins they've committed, but how can she when she was made to destroy? when it is all she has ever known?
yelena thought she might have been different, she thought she might have been immune to the destruction that death leaves behind even if it surrounds her like the plague. call it denial, call it a coping mechanism, but she talks to the vest strapped to the passenger seat of her old, blue pick-up truck like it's natasha. as if she was actually there and as if yelena's not actually making the drive to the outskirts of cincinnati, as she speaks — to natasha's grave. but when she looks over, it's just fanny sticking her head out the window. which is, honestly, pretty close.
as soon she turns off the ignition and puts her car in park, fanny runs ahead of her and follows the path up the hillock. the walk to the graveyard always serves as a reminder to how she human she is, that no matter how much of a superhero natasha was; she is still dead. yelena can't hear her voice or hold her hand because her coffin is buried six feet underground — she says her coffin, because there is no fucking body in that coffin, and all she has left is this gravestone with her name engraved on it.
a part of her hopes that she's not gone in the sense that she is no longer living, but rather in the sense that she is off the grid and living her life the way she would have wanted to. (or the way yelena would have wanted her to; with a husband and a child, working as a teacher.) but a large part of her hopes that, one day, she will hear natasha whistle back when she hears the tune leave yelena's lips.
every time she comes to visit, there are less and less little trinkets and flowers than the last. it's so unfair, yelena thinks, that the world is not praising natasha to the heavens for all she has done in the shadows, behind the silhouette of the men she fought so hard alongside. natasha did not get a fancy statue with her doing her silly hero pose, no, all she gets is this tombstone. but it is still a fancy stone that makes yelena tear up.
yelena mourns differently than others; she is busy and angry half the time, the other half she is busy and numb.
but she's supposed to be on vacation, so imagine her annoyance when she hears the sound of leaves crunching behind her. she doesn't turn around to see who it is since fanny doesn't bark or make a fuss, because it must be valentina. valentina, whose three calls she screened yesterday before turning off her burner phone— ]
You're not supposed to be bothering me on my holiday time, you know.