Subsisting
Upstate New York
2019
Steve is uncomfortable. Or, something close to it. The word doesn't quite seem to fit the situation, or the way his chest has tightened and his muscles are tensed. Two and a half months later - putting them nearly nine months into the scrambled mess of the life they're facing - and the feeling hasn't budged an inch. He wishes it would. Every day he finds himself in this same spot, standing with his ass leaned against Tony's favored workbench. Sometimes for hours, until he forgets where he is and expects the other man to strut in already on some tangent. Occasionally he arrives to find Happy or Rocket already drowning the world out with the aforementioned billionaire’s music, reminding each of them of what they’ve lost.
Sometimes he can only bear to occupy the space for a number of minutes, until the air feels thick in his lungs and his resolve crumbles. Sometimes he runs. It's weak, he knows, but there are ghosts in every corner of the lab.
Today, he’s been there for so long that he’s sure they’ve missed lunch. That one thought is enough that his mind pulls violently back to Pepper bringing them dinner, in the late nights where Tony was developing them all new equipment and enrapturing him with theories of their future and a time where the Avengers would no longer be necessary. Looking around now, Steve is sure this isn’t what he had in mind. They’ve been rendered useless in the aftermath of their loss, stumbling over and around the same plans and ideas and schemes and their search for anyone who could potentially provide an assist.
Across the room, Rocket lets out an unsatisfied snarl and scatters a stack of papers off of the tabletop and to the floor. He proceeds to throw a fit, cursing and muttering rapidly to himself while his fur bristles and his tail goes straight. The outburst is a welcome distraction. Steve waits until the raccoon has calmed and faces him to raise both brows, more than aware that he’s going to get an at length explanation of the other’s ire whether he indicates he’s invested in it or not.
“This Flerken shit doesn’t even make half a ceager of sense!” His claws click as he paces, adjusting his vest in his agitation. “What ain’t entirely incoherent wouldn’t even look realistic if I were suffering from freeze stroke!”
Steve understands most of that, by now. A Flerken is some alien creature of unknown power and origin, that no one wants to closely encounter to properly document. A ceager is some sort of currency, common in lower tier dwellings. Freeze stroke is... Well, okay, he’s pretty sure Rocket is just mixing up sayings with that one. He nods, feigning understanding, and leans a little more heavily on the workbench.
“Tony had a thing for making himself impossible to understand.” Steve comments offhandedly, gaze falling to the papers strewn around them. “He was pretty good at it, if you hadn’t noticed.”
Sneering at him, the smaller mammal drops from his elevated spot to the floor. He picks through the papers before coming up with one that is heavily stained with what looks to be coffee, but upon closer inspection the enhanced human is pretty sure it’s just soy sauce. It looks old, certainly not in Tony’s handwriting. The writing is more looped and fluid, but slanted in the same manner as the man’s own scratch and just as uneven in sizing and spacing. The angles make it hard to read, but simpler times full of mission reports and debriefing with the one and only Stark Supreme give him an advantage here.
“Look.” Rocket thrusts the paper toward the blond, who takes it between long gentle fingers and takes his time examining it up close. “This is some.... some... terran movie garbage. Footloose.”
The raccoon looks so pleased with himself at the correct naming of the movie that Steve can’t bring himself to point out the obvious differences in play. Or the fact that Footlooseis rather commonly considered decent. The scribbles across the paper are paired with a rough sketch of a large machine, as well as some tiny orbs? Tubes? The original owner of the paper certainly wasn’t an artist. Steve can just make out something about Pyns? And microscopic levels of life. Something about travel through... He isn’t sure. The handwriting runs into itself so badly it looks like the owner was drifting off while detailing.
The more he squints at the page, the more distorted it seems. Maybe his eyes have crossed. Steve blinks comically in an attempt to right himself, dutifully ignoring the roll of the eyes Rocket gives him. There’s something familiar in the long limbs of the capital ‘L’ and the exaggerated curves of the ‘?’ at the end of a few unanswered queries. Something that picks at the edges of his brain and tickles old chunks of memory, whispering voices that hardly seem familiar.
“Okay, I get it, you’re uneducated.” Rocket snips at him after a while, hopping up to snatch the paper from his grip carelessly. It makes the man’s heart ache. “Just starin’ at it like your optical processor is malfunctionin’.”
He said they couldn’t get through a test run without something malfunctioning. The words ring through his mind with the distant lilt Tony always had when he was rambling thoughtlessly while he worked. Too dangerous and unreliable and unrealistic for continued research and trials.
“Howard rejected the project.” Steve finds himself blurting unconsciously, and he feels stupid with the realization the swooping letters and tall punctuation are familiar with good reason. He hasn’t thought about his time with the older Stark in years, so long he struggles to accurately remember his voice.
Rocket turns to face him again, paper hanging precariously from his claws. “Who the hell is Howard?”
“He was -“ A genius in their time, kind of an asshole, a good friend, the man who searched for him for years, who shaped technology today, the man who helped make him Captain America, who helped created S.H.I.E.L.D. None of those things seem like an appropriate response. “- Tony’s father.”
“That helps us how?” The furry miscreant sighs at him.
Steve juts a finger toward the paper. “He wrote that. In the early 70’s.”
“Okay.” Rocket extends the first vowel, reminiscent of the original resident of this lab. “That supposed t’ mean somethin’ to me?”
“Right.” Steve’s mind is still trying to catch up, caught between side-by-sides of two dark haired, intense eyed men years apart and incredibly different and similar in strides. “He was working with a physicist, some particles to manipulate mass?” It comes out sounding unsure, like a question, because this really just isn’t his area of expertise. “There are sketches of containers and machines.”
“I know, myeyes still work.”
“It's not like I can make sense of all of it, either.”
“Well damn, pretty boy.” Rocket has already returned to his papers and diagrams, comparing them to the small scale models Tony must have assembled before everything. “I would never have guessed.”
“Look -"
Steve is cut off when he catches sight of the blueprint underneath some of the documents. It’s only a small corner exposed, but he can clearly make out PDS - 5, followed by what look like rough measurements and scales for size. Just behind his own roaming internal wondering about Tony and Howard and how the Starks have twined themselves into the years of his life, he struggles to latch onto a memory. It seems like forever ago, now.
A nagging snippet of time highlighted in sympathetic greys with splashes of yellow, moments where they seemed to be on the right track. Late nights with dark liquor and piss yellow Asgardian ale. Partially intoxicated tangents on grey matter particles, and conductors, and Badassium and ion cores. Magnetically confined plasma and anti-magnets. Retelling old stories with new details, new meanings. Quick jokes and sloppy laughter, wheels turning and chairs spinning. Diagrams and haphazardly slapped together holographic powerpoint presentations.
What feels like a galaxy away, Rocket is still ranting. Gruff and irritated, claws tapping against metal echoing off of the walls. Tail flicking and rotating so quickly that multicolored fur is left amongst the abandoned papers. The raccoon's words move sharply through Steve's ears, only recognizable in clipped vowels and short sentences. The words themselves are lost somewhere between a suit of armor around the Earth and if we don't do this it will be done to us.
On their own, his feet take him to the other workbench. Our very strength incites challenge. One step at a time. Challenge breeds conflict. Left. And conflict breeds catastrophe. Right. Oversight is not an idea that can be dismissed out of hand. Left.
Using more care than his companion has in their time at the Avengers Facility, Steve curls his fingers around papers and documents and schematics, stacking them off to the side. They should sort it, he's sure, but that's a task for another time. For now he just moves it all aside. A lopsided tower of information that hasn't been of any use to them. And underneath, an unfinished blueprint full of red inked notations and scratched out bits of text and numbers. The thickly outlined drawings and diagrams showcase a number of varied metal plates and power sources and outputs.
Steve stretches the paper out, using a couple pens laying about to keep the sides weighed down. Not that he can make sense of much of the contents regardless. But some of it is, quite literally spelled out for him. Underneath the PDS - 5 is Planetary Defense System Shield. And then to the lefthand side, a number of scrawled and marked through statements.
Attempt 1: g.m. particles w/ plasma as deflectors. g.m. particles react badly with polarized plasma, stabilizer needed. future trials must account for intrinsic spin and magnetic moment.
Attempt 2:use of antimagnets, metamaterials to replace plasma. reverse ions in power cells to hold positions. too much effect on magnetic fields, m.m. causing disruptions. discharge = kablooey w/ reversed ions. do not attempt w/ plasma, increased temperatures and materials combined could cause uncontrollable ignition.
Attempt 3: harness contained plasma windows, g.m. particles, superconducting wire, electromagnetic pulses, upgraded repulsors fitted for wide range. repulsors require too much energy, charging impossible in space, increase size of plasma windows to ensure coverage.
Attempt 4: increase g.m. particle distribution, reintroduce metamaterials, test to replace ions. adjust outputs to increase reaction areas. ion power cells the only ones compatible and stable with g.m. particles and plasma. assisting with containment of gas membranes. metamaterials no-go. new source for additional refraction and cloaking necessary.
Attempt 5: place more power cells, reduce superconducting wire to prevent friction in rotation and divergence from course. reengineered repulsors to maintain distance in orbit. attempt to introduce vibranium in small scale reactor chains, channel and sto
It cuts off there. The sizing scale on the right that whatever simulations he did were nowhere near the size necessary to even begin to pull this off. Just below the measurements are clearly frustrated comments, littered with vague insults and curses, alluding to the inability to sustain some of these safely in the long term without different power sources or constant maintenance. Neither was really an option.
”So he was a total bucket-case, huh?” Rocket startles him when he appears, perched on the edge of the table. Steve had forgotten about him, forgotten where he was. When he was.
“Basket-case.”
”Huh?”
”Basket-case, not bucket-case.” When he looks up, Rocket is still frowning in confusion. “The saying, you’re mixing it up.”
Curling his lip, the smaller of the two shakes his head. "Does it matter?" He asks and Steve supposes it doesn't. "You understood what I was sayin', ain't my fault you Earthlings have too many fucked up turns of phrase to keep track of."
Steve expects that to be the end of it, when he shrugs to concede the point. But Rocket doesn't move from just beside him, head cocked to one side as he looks over the P.D.S. again. He does eventually pace to the other end of the paper to get down and squint for a better look at some unidentified and unfinalized version of the contraption. The gears turning in his head are nearly audible when he balances a paw on the paper to stretch and compare the notes to the figures listed above. A moment, maybe two, and then he's lurching back up to his full height with a startled noise.
"Could've been on to something." Rocket says suddenly, so quickly that the terran beside him nearly misses it entirely. Small, furry digits snatch up a pen and he furiously starts to add his own notes in dark blue, abstract lines of words and numbers that could have no meaning at all to anyone aside from himself. "Just..."
The blue ink settles beside black and red corrections, short thick writing neighboring thin slanted letters. An unfamiliar addition. It's good, it's necessary, but it feels wrong. Steve has to step away, retreat. He falls back to his original spot, finds himself dropping into a wheeled seat that belongs to someone else. The world seems to have shrunk in the months they've had in this new life, and now this room does the same.
Attempt 5: place more power cells, reduce superconducting wire to prevent friction in rotation and divergence from course. reengineered repulsors to maintain distance in orbit. attempt to introduce vibranium in small scale reactor chains, channel and sto svrn cndtrs + pls wre, tssrct
Tokyo, Japan
2019
There are still days where Natasha wakes up and lays with her eyes closed, a thousand miles away, and imagines herself groggily navigating the Avengers Facility to find the common room for coffee.
Clint, already seated with his ass on the counter and a coffee with a dash of creamer for her. Steve, and usually Sam, debating across the table of their breakfast about baseball. Bruce and Tony on the couch caught in a moment of normalcy, commenting on whatever they've put on the television. Pepper's voice coming from Tony's phone, pleading for him to focus and stop putting her on speakerphone to enjoy cinema with them. Rhodey begging for them to just, please, for once, let me enjoy the movie, I'm only in town for a week. Vision hovering over the stove with Wanda at his elbow, schooling him on how to cook a proper meal. Thor, when he chose to drop in, trying to sneak a taste of their concoctions.
But when she opens her eyes, she's in the same place she has been for months.
Greeted by bland grey walls and the distant hum on monitors warming up, Natasha rises. The underground facility is cool, calm, heart-achingly quiet. She dresses with the dull yellow glow of the lights, nothing but the sound of her boots echoing off of the walls when she exits the room she's claimed as her own. The hallways are much the same, empty and quiet, broken only by open doors and the occasional display mounted to the wall.
Being one of the smaller S.H.I.E.L.D. set-ups, this place has never been particularly full of life. It only housed thirty operatives, maybe, in its prime. Following the snap it, along with most of their other hideaways, has been left empty in a way that was never intended. Fury had never left any active stations empty, for surveillance and security purposes. If her were still here, she's sure he'd be grimacing at even the idea. Not that Coulson had been enthused upon their arrival either, but it was expected.
Speaking of her lone comrade, he's already in the control room when she enters. His shoulders are hunched and clothes rumbled, head rotating side to side to ogle a muted video and some paperwork. Judging by the look of him, Natasha is fairly sure he hasn't slept. That might even be the exact spot she left him when she forced herself to vacate the room last night in an effort to rest.
"I was beginning to wonder if I needed to wake you myself." Coulson comments when she seats herself beside him to look over whatever he has. "Have you ever slept past noon before?"
"No." Natasha glances up at him, catches the way his gaze lingers on her unbrushed curls and wrinkled shirt.
"You have now." He informs her, using one hand to turn his monitor enough for her to see.
It says the time is 13:52, which is significantly later than she expected. Natasha frowns at it as if that will make the time change, but the minute only goes up by one and she rubs at her eyes. They're not in a particularly time sensitive situation, at least, so it's nothing to get upset over. It does, however, mean she's missed a check-in Steve had set for 08:00.
"I answered when Captain Rogers called." When she looks up, Coulson is still watching the video on his screen with his hands curled together in his lap. "Nothing to report."
Natasha wants to say she's grateful, but mostly she finds herself bitter.
"You should try to sleep." She finds herself saying, and the older man turns to face her. "Or go get us lunch, if you're going to use up the last of your energy arguing with me about it instead."
Coulson frowns, but when his stomach rumbles in agreement he sighs and pauses the video, using the armrests to push himself from his seat. "Shawarma?"
"Anything sounds good right now." Natasha admits, trying for joking. But her tongue is number as the bitterness invades her tastebuds and throat.
Over the last year, she's tried not to be. She truly has. She's tried to find things to lighten the weight of being left to survive in their new world. She's tried to put her nose to the dirt and focus on digging up something useful. She's tried to pour all of her efforts and time and attention into finding their resident archer. She's tried to forget. She's tried to move on. She's tried to remind herself that it's a process, it's not easy, they've never been here before. She's tried to push past it all.
Nothing has worked so far, and none of those things work in the present. All this time they've been handed, and they can't find a single thing to make progress or change anything.
One year. Twelve months and two weeks. Three hundred and seventy-five days. Nine thousand hours. Five hundred and forty thousand minutes. Thirty-two million four hundred thousand seconds. It's long enough that it feels like a lifetime, passed by so quickly it's as if reality has bent and twisted around them to distort the flow of time as they know it.
As if knowing the spiral her thoughts have taken, a light 'ping!' comes through the thick wristband on her person computer, paired with a flashing green screen with an O and an X at the bottom. The rectangular display turns green, and reveals a picture of Shuri with a wide grin and bags under her eyes, arm thrown over Bruce's shoulder while he tries to match her smile. They're both wearing traditional Wakandan garb, the former in purples and blues while the latter dons greens and browns.
It was taken a few months ago. When Shuri asked Bruce to be a part of the Wakandan Constitutional Council, or to at least attend their gathering, and the Wakandan Design Group. He had sounded more anxious and uncomfortable than eager, when he called to tell her. Shuffling around and muttering and making noncommittal hums, likely pacing around the lab the newly inaugurated Queen of Wakanda had arranged for him during his prolonged stay near the beginning.
"Okoye says the T-ay-fa Ngoa don't think it's a good idea." He had said, and she heard someone correct him in the background, she had thought it sounded like Vision but it was too muffled to tell for sure. "Taifa Ngao. Tribal elders." And then, much quieter: "Only three of the Council survived the snap. They're concerned outside influence during this reformatory period is harmful and, to be honest, I have no idea what I'm doing so -"
But he had gone. And they hadn't totally hated him. Shuri had thrown him a party, dressed everyone up in complimentary colors and featured Thor's cooking and musical stylings. The younger girl had sent her a file full of photos and videos, gems of joy in a mine full of loss, along with only 'visit soon' and a punching emoji.
Natasha accepts the call, and the wristband clicks as a tiny projector pushes out from the front. From the top pops an orb, which scans the surroundings in an off-white light, then flashes. It drops back in, fitting seamlessly. The projector in the front hums and, from the feet up, a hologram of Shuri stands in front of her.
The colors are muted and she's not entirely opaque, but the bright fuchsia and light grey gear still calls her attention. Her updated gauntlets match, though only one is currently equipped. They're outfitted with short, thick spikes around the wrist and retractable claws of the same bright hue, the rest of the feline adjacent handwear is grey as well. The opposite wrist has three large, heavy metal bracelets. The pink-purple stones embedded in each one match everything else, so it is likely safe to assume her gloves morph from that.
Shuri's feet are bare, nails painted orange, though an anklet with lettered charms hangs from one. Visible from this angle is are two T's, and an S. Around her neck is a familiar tooth shaped necklace, and just below the line of her shorts is a round pouch. The cover is flipped to the side to reveal what looks like a number of small patches in various colors, though Natasha has no idea what they're for.
"Ah, you're officially awake." Shuri reaches up to fuss with one of two braided buns as she looks around. "Nakia and I had bets running on whether you would rise before the sun falls. I won, if you were concerned."
"Who's to say I wasn't busy?" The older women leans back in her seat, one brow rising. "Or having a party of my own?"
"You're only jealous that it was too spur of the moment to invite you." The russet toned girl faces her again with a huff. "Phil already turned on you, anyway."
Sighing, Natasha offers a placating smirk. "I should have known he would."
Her holographic companion nods, and fusses around for a moment, moving closer. When she gestures for Natasha to move one of the chairs she complies, and is rewarded with the sound of a chair being maneuvered around on the other end. Her commitment to the setting is astonishing and panders to the silly side of the spy-turned-superhero. It brings her smirk to a soft smile, smooths out the lines she's beginning to accrue around her eyes.
Shuri shakes her gauntlet adorned hand twice, fingers spread, and the metal pieces silently shift and pull apart, sharpened pieces hiding away. As she sits she angles her arm so that they slide into place, taking the opportunity to point at the older woman.
"What are you going to do about that?" She asks, and Natasha reaches a hand to her face in confusion. "No, no, your features are carved by the divine as always. Your hair."
"My hair?" Natasha draws a blank, hand dropping as she looks down at the blonde around her shoulders. "...You called to talk about my hair?"
"Well, kind of." The admission is laughable, but surprising enough to keep her silent. "I noticed last week, your red is coming back. It's to your ears now. Do you plan to color it?"
This is such a bizarre topic, despite how obvious and casual it is. The last person to fret over her appearance was Tony. Or Pepper, when she was able to attend events and get ready with her. Maybe even Clint, in the times she looked worse for wear and he inevitably was there for her. She really has to think about it.
Making the drastic leap from deep red to platinum blonde had been an obvious choice when they had to go on the run. She'd worn wigs before, many times for missions and to go incognito or collect information. But that was a hassle long-term, and clearly unreliable. Unrealistic. So the change, and the chop with it, were necessary but uncomfortable. Steve had reassured her, even joined her and allowed Wanda to do them both at once. He trimmed his head and left his facial hair, dyed everything a few shades darker than his natural color to be a dusty brown. And she had lost her length and pulled the signature color out from the ends to her roots, erased the red from her person.
"No, I don't think so. We're not wanted, so it's not necessary anymore." Natasha shrugs minutely, raising her gaze to the other girl again.
Giving a shrug in response, Shuri looks her over thoroughly again. "I suppose." She grins conspiratorially. "The Bombshell look was good for you, I'm obligated to admit it."
"It was different, and before you ask: I certainly didn't have more fun as a blonde." She laughs, a short release of breath and endorphins that makes her wonder how long it's been since she really laughed last. Shuri shows her amusement in a snort, knowing the entire disappear fiasco was anything but enjoyable. "After we finished, Wanda told me I was only going to attract more attention."
Vision had noted that they were all too recognizable to rely on disguising themselves, anyway. They would need to find places where people didn't want to turn them in. In vivid detail, she can remember him promptly transforming himself into regular Joe. Virtually unrecognizable, he smiled, making a joke about irony and noting that Tony would be proud of his advancement in comedy. Steve and Sam's expression, and her own she is entirely aware, were worthy of a photo.
For the life of her, Natasha isn't sure why she brought it up. Half of the people in that memory is gone. Taken by the wind as dust and ash, or brutally disassembled by Thanos. Except her. Except Steve. Except Vision, body or not.
"That tracks." Shuri says. She laughs, head tipped back and shoulders bouncing. "It's incredibly hard to believe none of you were recognized during your rebellious stint."
And suddenly, the sickening grief caught in her lungs is gone. In its place is the music of Shuri's laugh, low and contagious. It mingles with the one bouncing through her head, higher and sharper and out of breath as Wanda (always in on the joke, always eager to partake in fun after getting to experience it over suffering) tried to recover. Another, choked with disbelief but boisterous as Sam struggled to convey his approval. Steve bent at the waist with his own coughing guffaws. Vision, steady but unpracticed, joining in good-naturedly.
For the first time, the recollection of years gone by doesn't make her stomach churn. It was a fond moment, and Sam would berate her for not looking back on it and being able to recapture that feeling. For, as she overheard him telling Steve numerous times, forgetting that they would want you to be happy and not remembering the way they would want to be remembered and just because someone is gone doesn't mean they shouldn't make you smile.
That reaction would have been shared by most of them, really.
She's reminded of meeting Sam, the way he told the story of his partner. He had smiled the whole time, warm and fond. Natasha had wondered then, still does now, at his ability to see through the shadows. Rare stories from Wanda of her brother, of their lives, of the man he aspired to be, and of the future they looked out for. The way she spoke with such maturity for her age when she told them of Pietro's desire to live every moment as one to be remembered and to remember each one with nothing but the best, and how she would do the same for him.
Thoughts - memories, puzzle pieces scattered across a tabletop - Vision picking through bits of information and a life of knowledge before his life was his own and questioning what that really meant for any conscious being. Posing inquiries none of them could answer, about whether or not the stone in his skull and the life it lived before him were his own, and whether or not it gave him life in the same way most mortal beings grasped it. In the recent weeks, even after all these years and experiencing death twice in a matter of minutes, he seems to question everything even more.
Flashes of Steve, one hand resting on the cryochamber containing what was left of Bucky Barnes. Looking at her over his shoulder like he was going to fall the moment he let go of the chamber because what if he only asked for this because it's what he knows. He had left, like Bucky had told him to, like he knew he had to. For months he looked haunted by a man on the ice.
Natasha had asked if he was going to be okay, doing what they had. His answer had come without hesitation, so quickly it was obvious the topic was one he had been considering for too long.
The first man out of time had reminisced on being brought back from the ice, of adapting to new life, of finding his lifelong cohort and everything that put them on the capture or kill roster. "I was still Steve Rogers, even if everyone else saw Captain America. Coming back from that, being able to cross the bridge over what could have been -" and she had regretted asking, sour with guilt as he recounted his struggles "- it was hard. I wished I could forget it, stop walking through memories in my dreams. When I got to... when I saw Peggy, I knew there was nothing I could do to change it."
For seconds that felt like years, he had stared past the ice crusted glass at the broken man behind the Winter Soldier. The Ghost. "Bucky doesn't have that. Even what he does remember goes against everything he knows. He knows being the fist of Hydra. He doesn't have anything, anyone, to remember. I don't know if I could have come back from that. I was lucky to have that. And now -" Natasha doesn't know what he was going to say, only what he changed his words to in a moment of defeat. "He might not be here when we get back."
Not a day later, they had left Wakanda. Left him. Taking him on the run would only hurt him, cause him distress. And Steve had admitted his company could hinder the recovery process, cross wires, and his aching care for the other man was outweighed by the the desire to do what he knew was best.
So Natasha closes her eyes for a beat, and only that, allows her shoulders to relax at the mirth filled chortles that jump through her skull. They were happy. They would want her to be happy.
Shuri breaks her train of thought, jostling her from the memories and the echoes of words drifting through her ears. Natasha opens her eyes and remembers to smile this time.
"If you had requested, I could have manufactured something to obscure your features." Shuri sighs, putting her chin in her hand. "I was hoping to test run some equipment, but Captain Braveheart made you all leave before I could."
"We had asked for enough already." Natasha replies, shaking her head. "You had all done enough for us. Steve was already trying to help do the cleaning chores to repay you."
"I kn-ow!" Shuri groans, holding out the vowel. "Staff wouldn't stop talking about it, mama kept asking when I was going to clean up after myself without a daily chart for even task distribution." She lowers the pitch of her voice and straightens her posture in an imitation of Ramonda that is terrifyingly accurate. "He's a phenomenal influence umntwana, you would do well to take after him. Respectful, aware, contributing. Just do not be such a umphathi weengxaki."
"I see." Natasha hums, even though she does not. "Did he tell you to watch your language during his visit?"
"Yes!" The dark skinned girls slumps in her seat again, picking at her nails. "Mama and T'Challa were practically enamored for it. I swear, they were having a turf war over him." She sighs, jutting out her upper lip. "The cute white boys always win everyone over."
"He's not nearly so straight edge behind closed doors."
Shuri goes uncharacteristically quiet, hyperfocused on chipping away the polish on her nails. "He was quiet today, during our check-in." She puts in eventually, finally making eye contact. "Didn't even clap back when I told him his age was affecting his looks." A thoughtful look crosses her features. "I'm not sure he ages physically, though. Sergeant Barnes' serum caused constant cell reproduction and replacement as well as revitalization and showed no signs of aging during his time in or brought out of cryo..."
"Yesterday he complained Rocket was particularly aggressive recently." Natasha wonders if this is her real reason for calling, and decides to try Steve herself when they're done. "They're likely on each other's nerves."
"Perhaps." Another pause, a grimace. "He threw a fit today, throwing papers and screaming up a storm. Thor tried to placate him and he stormed off. I believe his statement was 'you're all useless, and this is a waste of his precious time, but also fuck everyone I'm finding a way off of your inferior planet...' or at least something along those lines."
"He's frustrated." Natasha reasons, having grown more fond of the raccoon over their time in contact. He reminds her of Tony in a bit of a nastier, meaner way. "It's understandable."
"We're all frustrated." Shuri snaps, more harsh than the other has ever seen her. Her hands are in tight fists in her lip, lips in a thin frown, brows angled downward as she glares at something out of side off to the side. "He's the only one talking about giving up."
"We are." Is her careful agreement. Upsetting the younger girl more with the blunt, coarse words won't help. "Infighting won't make anything easier."
"He started it!" The loud outburst is startling, makes Natasha's brows raise and calm expression shift to a silent question. Shuri taps her foot and seems to wait for an argument or reprimand, though she won't receive one. Abruptly, dark red fills Shuri's cheeks and she looks down. "I'm sorry. You're right."
"I understand." Natasha reaches up the rub the crease from the top of the bridge of her nose, and buy time to figure out how to say what she needs to appropriately for the situation. Trying to coddle her or lecture her won't do any good, she's not a child. She needs to be treated like an equal, handled like a partner and not a sidekick. "Everyone is doing their best. He'll blow off some steam and next week, we'll try again. No one is giving up."
"Yet." Shuri intones, looking at her but through her.
"Stop." Holding a hand up, the green eyed woman waits until the younger girl seems even slightly focused on her. "Not everyone is capable of handling this in the same way."
All that earns her is a hum. "We are at an impasse."
"Shuri -" She sighs, but the comment is interrupted quickly.
"Coulson said you've found agent Barton, still in Tokyo?" The question is answered with a nod, and Shuri hums again. "That's the first thing anyone has accomplished in over eleven months." Natasha doesn't have a rebuttal for that, either. "People are starting to go back to normal."
"Some people move on." The words feel distant in her mouth. "Not us."
"Not us." Shuri concedes.
But she still looks like a scolded toddler, frowning down at her hands and pulling her shoulders down and knees up. Natasha is struck by how young she looks - is. It's easy to forget with her intelligence, position, and the way things are now. At the beginning of the year she turned nineteen, had only been sixteen when her father died. Always looking upbeat, always finding some glass ceiling to shatter with enthusiasm. Yet curling in on herself in the tall chair, the years granted to her by maturity and knowledge and trials fall away. She's nothing more than a kid, keeping up with and sometimes blowing right past all of them.
"After I get Barton," Natasha starts, "I'm - we're - not going straight back to New York."
"Oh?" Shuri's attention is drawn by that, heels returning to the floor as she leans forward. "Doing some sightseeing?"
"I said we need to find everyone we can. Turns out, he beat me to it." Natasha swivels her chair to the monitor behind her, transferring a few files. "We thought he was playing street sweeper with criminals."
"Is he not?"
"Not entirely." She doesn't mention the gruesome scenes he's been leaving behind in his seemingly random vacation destinations. "Take a look."
Shuri does as advised, pulling the files out and taking a few moments to scan them while Natasha waits. A few times she flips back and forth, likely comparing the few who have connections to each other. The number of them is surprising in and of itself, there's no telling how Clint managed to locate any of them. His methods are likely somehow related to the goons he's approached. Only a couple have legitimate given names, most featuring only aliases and secondhand information.
"Hold on..." The quiet disbelief in her tone causes pause. "I know this one."