running up that hill

fortune seemed to favor us

Date: May 28th, 2015
Location: Avengers Facility -- in a break room.
Summary: In which Natasha and Thor gossip like fishwives have very serious discussions indeed.

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Stark’s warehouses were well on their way to becoming a small city. It was impressive, really, how quickly the old tech had been cleared aside and life breathed into these creaking, metal bones. Natasha made sure to keep her appreciation for the power of Stark’s money quiet. There would be no living with the man if he thought her impressed; especially not when the application of his resources was more a sign of Potts and Hill’s skill than his own. Their hands could be seen throughout the facility—Pepper’s eye for human comfort and Maria’s S.H.I.E.L.D. practicality stood in stark contrast to, well, Stark.


The facility was a constant buzz of activity, with recruits sprinting along newly paved trails, sprays of sparks dancing over shiny new equipment. Trucks brought workers and work through the woods to their secret sprawl of land. It was familiar, this urgent need to build, to fight. There were few places in the facility untouched by the roar of construction, fewer still where her skin didn’t prickle at the rush of people. She was a leader now, and leaders were always being watched.

The world had reeled after the loss of S.H.I.E.L.D., the slow extermination of HYDRA, and they were trying to fill a vacuum. Stones and gods and metal and madness had rushed into the void and it had fallen to her to try and conquer it. The thought of being that senior, that in charge of dealing with that nightmare, was more than a little strange. Rogers would lead them into battle, of course, and he would unite them with that beating, bleeding heart of his—but she was at his side, and for the first time people wanted her to be more than just a shadow. They were looking to her like she knew how to be anything more than poison and red and whatever it takes.

It was a lot for a woman to take in, Avenger or not. What she wouldn’t give to be halfway around the world, slipping through a marketplace in Madripoor with a thousand other souls.


The break room she had found was surprisingly pleasant—Natasha suspected that Stark had had precisely nothing to do with its construction or design besides funding it. The hum of construction was like the pulse of a distant engine, like the facility was hiding among the clouds. That was where any resemblance to the Helicarrier ended—the room was awash in the golden light of the setting sun and tasteful art. It was almost feminine in the midst of clean white walls and military function. Benches with filigree and potted orchids and leather bound novels basked like satisfied cats. It was indulgence without luxury, entirely civilian, entirely delightful. Natasha made a mental note to send Potts and Hill especially nice Christmas gifts this year.

There was a bar with kettles and pots, delicate French presses, a basket of fruit, a half-empty platter of scones. A technician dozed in a seat that would not have looked out of place in Baba’s sitting room. Potts and her grandma chic once more—Natasha’s lips twitched into a smirk. She looked rather out of place here, in a crisply tailored leather jacket, dark boots and pants—freshly put together after a long day in the heart of the facility, putting the team through the ringer.

Preparing a cup of tea, she found herself gravitating to the window—mindful to let the undoubtedly overworked technician rest—to watch the grounds below. Recruits and workers scurried like little ants, building something greater than themselves. Natasha leaned against the windowsill, oak façade covering steel. Her ribs ached with every steadying breath—she wondered if the metal bones of this new home did the same.

round every dark and twisted bend