"Any way you want them is fine," Natasha said, waved a hand towards the refrigerator to indicate that he was free to go looking through it. There would probably be something in there he could cook with, she probably had a carton of eggs somewhere, but the idea of making a decision right now - even about something as simple as how she liked her eggs, it felt completely beyond her. Her tastebuds were probably out of commission enough as it was, given how much coffee she'd had last night, how much more she was about to make, and it felt like a betrayal, almost, that it hadn't helped. Coffee always helped. It was the one thing that ever reliably walked her back from nightmares.
Though maybe its magic properties didn't apply so much when it wasn't a nightmare. When it was just a shitty night. Another one in a long string of shitty nights, more of which she could see unfurling in front of her, now, unending, at least until she was old and unlovely enough that no one would care. It would be a long time til then.
Her eyes flooded, suddenly. Unexpectedly, and it stunned her. That wasn't a thing she did anymore. And certainly not over nothing. She turned her back to James abruptly to reach for the pot, carrying it over to the sink so she could start rinsing the dregs of last night's brew out. It had dried out, leaving a crusty ring around the inside, and she turned the water hotter, reached for a sponge to scrub it out even though there was hardly a point to it.
"You should know that I hate it when people do that," she said, her back to James and her voice taut over the running water. "Tell me how they think I'm feeling. Tell me about the cost of things, as if I don't know. It was a lie about sex, James, that's all. Sex doesn't cost me anything anymore and a lie about who I'm fucking costs even less. So if I'm telling you I'm fine - I'm fine. I am. And I don't need you telling me I'm not, I don't need you telling me that I'm not living up to some reaction you think I'm supposed to be having - "
It was a run-on sentence now, her voice going higher, tighter, words spilling out faster as though the more quickly she talked, the better she could staunch whatever the hell was happening in her eyes.