WHERE. Natasha's Apartment WHEN. After the Magic Party WHAT: Natasha gets information about the multiverse from a tipsy Clint Barton WARNINGS: None STATUS: In progress.
The old door to Natasha's apartment always sticks a little bit when she tries to push it open, the wood having swollen and the hinges sagging over years of just doing it's best trying to be a door. She could probably fix it if she tightened the screws that held it to the wall, but she worried she might miss the fact she had to shove her shoulder against it to force it opened. That ritual was important to her; rituals were important to her.
For five years, it was rituals such as these that had kept her grounded; her way of coping with the failure she couldn't run away from. She knew that no one blamed her specifically for the success of Thanos' plans, but that didn't matter. She blamed herself enough. On top of that, there was no real shaking the fact that she thought Thanos was responsible for the absurdism of this place. Steve shared her suspicions, she knew that Tony did too, but it wasn't a theory she wanted to spread to many people. Mass panic never helped anything.
She smiled at Clint, but Barton couldn't see her because he was leaning with his forehead against the yellowed wallpaper of the hallway. She'd invited him back here primarily because she wanted to know more about what he did concerning the multiverse; she also invited him here because she thought he might die unless she kept him up long enough to force him to drink some water. She reached into the darkened apartment and turned on the small lamp that sat on the entryway table, preferring dim warm light to the harsh overhead bulbs.
Guiding Clint into the small apartment by the crook of his elbow, she turned him in the direction of the kitchen island and hoped he'd figure out the rest of his own while she slipped the strappy backs of her stiletto sandals off. As uncomfortable as they were and as happy as her feet happened to be, she still had to admit that they were better than pointe shoes.
"It must be so strange for you." She said, walking on the balls of her feet across the smooth tile of the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator to get out a bottle of sparkling water, then two wine glasses from the cupboard. "Meeting versions of people you know. How do you even know, for certain, that I'm really Natasha Romanoff and this isn't just some elaborate game we're all playing?"