clandestinement | Unexpected Aid

Unexpected Aid - for wereperrito

The burning wing of the laboratory facility is just a smudge of smoke on the horizon when the snowmobile dies beneath her. Natasha blinks in confusion for a moment, then tries to restart it. Tries again. Notices, finally, that the fuel gauge rests on empty, which is distantly worrying, but less so than the fact that she no longer feels the cracked ribs, or the roughly bound wound that punches through the meat of her thigh, or the laceration along the side of her head that has turned her hair to a frozen, bloody horror in the alpine wind.

Of course it's empty. She'd had barely enough time to steal a vehicle in the chaos of the explosion she'd set off to cover her escape, let alone find one in ideal condition to make it to her rendezvous point. Just more proof that an op designed for two people is a disaster for just one, even one at the top of her field.

Natasha smacks dash of the snowmobile with one hand in helpless frustration, then slides off the saddle - and keeps sliding, wounded leg going out from under her in the snow. She digs in her pack for a moment until she finds her communicator and - no signal. Of course there isn't. This entire network of valleys is a dead zone, which is what had attracted her attention in the first place.

No choice but to get to her extraction point - which would be difficult enough on foot if she were whole. She estimates it's at least 20 miles off, and that's if her tunnel vision hadn't been bad enough that she veered off course. At least she can't hear the sound of engines approaching. The pursuit had dropped off half an hour ago.

Maybe because they knew her fuel would run out, and expected her to bleed out and be easy enough to find and mop up later.

She bows her head, then snaps upright again when exhaustion tugs at her, forcing herself to her feet. Her leg holds this time, but she should probably find something to use as a walking stick if she wants to stay standing.

She makes it all of a mile from the vehicle, in an increasingly-weaving line, before her leg goes out from under her again, and she falls, clutching the gnarled branch she'd picked up along the way to give her some semblance of control in her descent. Black spots dance at the corners of her vision, and when she shakes her head to try to clear them, they flood inward, and her stomach rolls in protest.

Her last coherent thought is that it's a bitter sort of irony to have survived the death of half the universe only to wind up here, alone in the forest, because the one person she'd been absolutely certain she could count on had decided abruptly that it was more important to chase ghosts than to try to put the rest of a broken world back together.

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"It'll be fun," Natasha says, and chances another bite of soup. This time, her stomach doesn't protest quite as much, as though it's considering the possibility of actually being hungry in a productive sort of way.

"I can't remember the last time I actually had time for a card game."

That wasn't during a stakeout or an undercover op, at least.

"You are usually very busy, then?" Jack guesses. He grins over his soup, teasing, "Then these next couple of days will either be very good for you, or very bad for me."

There's an edge of nervousness to the statement, though. Because if he can't get her to take his pain pill to knock herself out, she's going to have to explain what he's really doing here sooner than later. It could, in fact, be very bad for both of them.

"I keep myself occupied." Which is perhaps the understatement of a lifetime. What had started as a need to not slow down and stare the enormity of her losses in the face has transformed into filling a genuine need. There are far too many people who've looked at the deaths of half the world and decided to make things worse.

The throb in her ribs as she shifts her position reminds her that she might have to begin counting some of her nearest and dearest in that number.

"Luckily for both of us, I'm in no shape to start literally climbing the walls."

"Believe me, I am very glad of that," Jack promises. "I will try to keep you distracted as much as I can." When he can. He has no idea how distracting he'll be thumping and rattling around in the basement. Probably too distracting.

At least first there will be cards. And more soup. He even has bread they can toast up, later. "I am not sure what questions are safe to ask you. Do I ask where you are from? Or is that classified?" Not that he thinks she's necessarily government (and he still hasn't put together that she's that Natasha), but it's a handy short-hand for something she doesn't want to tell him.

"Russia, originally. New York, more recently," she says, without any real hesitation. Both those pieces of information are matters of public record, if he recognizes her, and unlikely to endanger anything if he doesn't.

"Asking's safe; I don't bite. I just can't answer everything. Wouldn't want to drag you into any more trouble than I already have."

He pauses, his spoon halfway to his mouth. He squints at her. Russia and New York. Natasha. Red hair. Dangerous mission and protective friends.

"Natasha," he asks slowly. "Does your last name, um, happen to start with an R?" He's not sure if that's better or worse. (Worse. It's definitely worse. An actual Avenger is not going to take his pitiful excuses to disappear below readily, and probably not going to stay put when he starts snarling and prowling around and rattling chains in the basements.)

"Yeah," she says. "I'm that Natasha." She smiles a little bit wryly, and sets her spoon down. "Starting to wish you'd left me out in the snow yet?"

Without any knowledge of his tendency to run mad and furry on the full moon, her assumption is that his hesitance comes from realizing belatedly just how much trouble she could potentially drag him into.

"Of course not. Of course I'm not," Jack says immediately, shaking his head quickly, almost dog-like. "You're a hero. You shouldn't have to die freezing in the snow. Though the timing could be, um, it could be better," he finishes a little lamely.

He has to tell her. She might decide to try and put him down if he does, but he did leave her guns at the site of her vehicle, and he could just lock himself in the basement early. It's not like she's not too injured to really do him much harm. But he has to tell her.

There's a moment's pause as she studies him, brow creasing slightly. "You're not just talking about the storm," she decides, opting not to touch the hero comment. Heroes don't let their little sisters die. Heroes don't let half the damn world die.

Sometimes heroes lose. It happens. Jack has lived long enough to have learned that lesson more than once.

He looks hang-dog at the statement, but nods. "There is a reason I'm out by myself in the middle of nowhere. And if you had collapsed a mile away from it tomorrow or the day after, you wouldn't have to find out why." Of course, if it was tomorrow he might have been too grumpy and sore to find her. He sighs, scrubs a hand over his hair, and pulls himself back up. "But you're here now. So."

"You're starting to sound a little ominous there, Jack," she says, tone mild and not at all betraying the fact that she keenly feels the absence of any significant weaponry. She doesn't think he's likely to mean her any harm - not when he went to the trouble of hauling her in and patching her up - but something has definitely shifted, and not for the better.

Jack's expression goes a little more morosely apologetic at that. He can recognize an attempt to mask nervousness with humor. "I know. Um, what do you know about werewolves, Natasha?"

"Pretty much just what I've seen in the movies," Natasha replies. "Involuntary transformation, high prey drive, severely disproportionate threat response, may or may not retain any sense of higher reasoning or have any clear recall of an episode."

Her gaze flicks towards the wall of white beyond the window. "I'm going to go out on a limb and guess the fact that the moon probably isn't going to be visible isn't really relevant."

"All pretty much true," Jack sighs. "I have a room in the basement I will lock myself in once the sun goes down, but the change won't happen until moonrise. Whether I can see it or not. So long as you do not open the door to look in, you should be safe." He thinks. He hopes. The cellar is very secure, but if he can smell her and thinks she's a threat-- he hopes he won't think she's a threat. "But I might make a lot of noise down there. I didn't want you to be curious."

"Curious is one word for it," she says, just a little bit dryly.

She looks back at him, expression thoughtful. Except for the entirely predictable trigger, and the fact that it makes incarceration a practical method of temporary risk management, it sounds not entirely dissimilar to the Hulk.

"How battered will you be in the morning?"

"It depends on how... upset I get, down there, but even at the best I'm usually pretty sore afterwards. Those pain pills are mine," he explains sheepishly. "I will recover quickly, though. Just a day or two. And I can still handle keeping you fed and playing cards and things."

"Anything I can to to keep you from getting upset?" she asks. It isn't entirely out of kindness - she has a vested interest in making sure he doesn't have reason to test whatever security measures he has in place too thoroughly - but it isn't entirely self-interest, either. He's been kind to her, at not-inconsiderable risk to himself. The least she can do is not make this harder on him than it absolutely has to be.

"Aside from spontaneously developing the ability to teleport between now and moonrise."

"Not moving around much," Jack says. "Not moving off the couch at all until moon set would be best, actually. Being non-threatening, which I think, since you're injured, takes care of itself." He pauses, then holds out his hand, as if hoping she might put hers into it. "Knowing your scent might help. It's helped in the past."

She looks briefly bemused, but reaches over to rest her hand in his, suppressing a wince as even that relatively small motion tugs at her injured ribs. Not moving around much won't be a problem - she could be mobile, if she has to, but it won't be anything approaching pleasant.

"Sounds manageable. As long as nothing goes catastrophically wrong up here."

"I know better than to say everything will be fine, because then everything will not be fine," Jack says, "but we will do everything we can to keep things fine, at least." And with that, he bends down over her wrist to inhale deeply, sniffing up her arm to her elbow and back down again. It might tickle.

"Yeah," she says, a hit of amusement creeping into her voice, along with a stiffness in her posture that suggests she's suppressing a laugh that would only be painful. "That sounds about right."

It does tickle, and her fingers twitch slightly as she forces herself to endure and not pull away. He isn't hurting her at all, while jerking back would - and would, she thinks, run the risk of being interpreted as distrust or disgust, and not just inconveniently sensitive skin at the inside of her elbow.

At least it only lasts about fifteen seconds or so, before Jack sits back and lets her go. "I don't know if it will help. But it might. There are still several hours before I have to go down, but--" He shrugs and picks up his stew again, looking a little self-conscious. "--you needed to know. If you have any other questions, I will do my best to answer them."

"Dangerous offer to make to an intelligence operative," she says with a quick flicker of a smile, and reaches over - slowly, carefully, but still not without a twinge of pain - to squeeze his shoulder. "Are all of your senses enhanced? Or just your sense of smell?"

The squeeze gets her a warm little smile. It's nice, when someone can continue to act normal no matter what they know about him. Of course, she's a superhero, she's probably seen a lot stranger than one werewolf. He's heard stories about what the Avengers have done. Natasha has been to space.

And he certainly doesn't mind answering questions, intelligence operative or not. "Just smell and hearing, a little bit." He looks a little embarrassed and adds, "I, um, I'm a little colorblind. Just red-green, but it is still noticeable."

"Must make driving a bit of a pain," she says, because positional awareness only goes so far. "Please don't tell me you're allergic to chocolate. That would just be a tragedy."

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