[She tilts her head back to meet his eyes when he stops in front of her. For a moment, bangs tickle her forehead -- she hasn't worn her hair like that since... it's been a long time -- before her hair settles into something more familiar. Still red, but shorter, with a bit of a curl to it.
It's all wrong.
The dream has never changed before, and now suddenly everything seems to be in flux. Out of the corners of her eyes, she can see shadows passing across the cliffs, making the dreary landscape seem to flicker. Everything is changing. Everything but him.
Natasha's eyes narrow. He's an odd choice for her subconscious to pick to work through whatever guilt still sits at her core. If that's what's happening. Give her five seconds and she could list five people more suited to play psychopomp here.]
How? It doesn't end until I fall.
[Natasha has tried. She forgets in which iteration of the dream, but it was before she lost count of the nights she's woken from it more tired than when she settled to sleep. She doesn't like to think about it. The fruitless waiting. The eternity spent sitting on gray and unforgiving rock, cold seeping into her bones. The steady howl of the wind cutting through her mind until she couldn't take it anymore.
She never tried that one again.
Natasha doesn't look at the edge behind her. She doesn't have to, she can feel it]
If you try to take my place, I'll have to stop you. There's enough blood on my hands already.
[The dream obliges her. Blood -- hot and slick -- coats her hands, drips down her fingers in thick and heavy droplets that splash down into the gray dust at their feet.]
no subject
It's all wrong.
The dream has never changed before, and now suddenly everything seems to be in flux. Out of the corners of her eyes, she can see shadows passing across the cliffs, making the dreary landscape seem to flicker. Everything is changing. Everything but him.
Natasha's eyes narrow. He's an odd choice for her subconscious to pick to work through whatever guilt still sits at her core. If that's what's happening. Give her five seconds and she could list five people more suited to play psychopomp here.]
How? It doesn't end until I fall.
[Natasha has tried. She forgets in which iteration of the dream, but it was before she lost count of the nights she's woken from it more tired than when she settled to sleep. She doesn't like to think about it. The fruitless waiting. The eternity spent sitting on gray and unforgiving rock, cold seeping into her bones. The steady howl of the wind cutting through her mind until she couldn't take it anymore.
She never tried that one again.
Natasha doesn't look at the edge behind her. She doesn't have to, she can feel it]
If you try to take my place, I'll have to stop you. There's enough blood on my hands already.
[The dream obliges her. Blood -- hot and slick -- coats her hands, drips down her fingers in thick and heavy droplets that splash down into the gray dust at their feet.]