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The long dirt road winds through the forest like a shed snake skin, curling unseen into the darkness beyond. His tyres, top of the line - he can afford that now, crunch over gravel as in the distance, a porch light comes into focus. That is his target.
The house is small but well cared for. It is the kind of home in another life, if he had made different choices, they should have settled down to enjoy retirement. Instead he is here, on a chilly night well past, under usual circumstances, it would be appropriate for a house call, looking up at what for too short of time was once his home.
Beyond the house lies a lake, the moon's glow highlights black ripples across its surface. If he is quiet enough, he can hear its gentle lap against the rocky shore, he remembers the sound from memory, evenings spent watching its slow movements in the low light. Tonight he can not hear it, only the rustling of leaves and the call of the forests night birds and—
“How is Yelena?”
A quiet, little spider. He turns to find her leaning against his car, as beautiful as she always is and smirking in that teasing way she does whenever she has the upper hand.
“Yelena is Yelena,” he shrugs, a gesture that leaves more questions than answers but she nods instantly in understanding. “She does not tell me much. I give the wrong answers I think.”
“She visited a few weeks ago. Seemed better than when I last saw her, though I don’t think she has time to feel any different.”
“They keep us busy,” he offers.
“So I imagine,” she smiles then, “What are you doing here, Alexei?”
Another shrug, “I was just in the neighbourhood.”
It had taken him three hours and twenty-four minutes to drive here. They both know that. They both also know she tracks his movements, that she would have watched his slow approach via a dot on her screen and yet did not tell him to turn around, let him get through her security without injury. He takes that to mean something.
“Have you eaten?” she asks and when he shakes his head says, “I will make us something,” and walks past him through the door, leaving it open for him to follow.
The living room is as it was when they set the house up a few years before, some new trinkets and books, plants lining the windows but for the most part it remains unchanged. He looks across the mantel, a low fire simmering below, at the collection of photos from their years in Ohio - precious memories taken from the albums she stole back; a family picture on the beach, a birthday party, his he thinks, little Yelena, little Nat… His heart clenches as he looks away, a sting appearing between the centre of his eyes. A bad memory - not something he can think about too often, he won't survive if he did.
Their bedroom – her bedroom, his brain corrects, is small and cosy; a queen size bed with a mattress she chose with him in mind, pale green curtains that he chose because they reminded him of where he grew up and for some reason she allowed. In the left side of the wardrobe hangs three spare shirts that he forgot, and with this discovery comes a pang that she is here alone and delight that he has not been replaced, both thoughts bring immediate guilt. He is the one who has put them in this position.
The kitchen has always been his favourite room, he likes the herbs growing along the windowsill and shiny copper pans hanging from an over-sized pot rack that was already here when they moved in. It is a warm family space, somewhere to eat buttery toast and look out at the water as slowly time passes. Melina stands in front of the stove, flipping grilled cheese sandwiches from one side to the next, her brow raised as she turns. “Finished your snooping?”
“I don’t snoop, just investigate,” he smiles and grins wider as her eyes roll.
On the fridge are more photos, Nat from a few years before, a candid of the girls sitting by a bonfire when they first moved in but amongst these snapshots are now carefully cut clippings; articles and photos of him and Yelena, The New Avengers? printed in big block letters over a particular photo where he looks older than his years. “Everything you ever wanted, yes?” she smiles when she catches him looking and there is no anger in her words but he wishes there was.
They eat on the couch, an old tradition from Ohio days, her legs folded under her as she pours them low glasses of vodka from their homeland, cheap stuff but it tastes like happier times. When they finish, she pours another and twists to face him, relaxed and open as she adjusts for comfort. “How are you?”
He misses her more than life itself, but everytime they try to build a life together he makes mistake after mistake and it is not fair to hurt her this way again. She reaches out to touch his cheek, and he can not help but melt into her palm, “There have been better days.”
“I assumed you were here to show off your new-found glory. Now, I am not so sure,” she goes to pull away but he captures her hand beneath his and holds it in place, tilting to press a kiss to the pulse of her wrist. “Has something happened?”
“Tired is all,” he lies and moves to tangle their fingers together, before bringing them to his lap. “The work of heroes is relentless. I will survive.”
“That is all?”
“That is all.”
“It is not like you to lie to me.”
How can one explain to their soulmate the hole that is missing without them? That he is not himself when not with her and their daughters, that only when beside her can turn off the performance that is his life. You wanted this , a voice in his head replies and he bites his tongue from the words that want to escape. “I just wanted to come home and see my wife,” he says and doesn't realise his mistake until seconds have passed. Home - this is not his home anymore. It is wrong to still think of it as such, it is wronger to still think of her as his anything when there is such a carven between them right now, but he has thought of her as that for almost thirty years and it is a habit that is too hard to change, especially when it is a thought he still thinks of as true.
He sees the way her lips twitch, a telltale sign that he has hurt her without trying, but she only rubs her thumb across his skin, “Well you are always welcome. You know that… Will you stay the night?”
“If it's no trouble,” he responds and nods to the couch below them. “I have missed this old thing. Some of the best sleep of my life.”
“If you say so,” she murmurs and pulls her hand from his. “I will get you a blanket,” she says and slips into the darkness of the hallway.
Sleep evades him.
That is not unusual. But he expected to rest easy here, too many feelings he supposes, confusion in his brain making him toss and turn and only a single door away is the woman who occupies every spare thought in his mind, close but yet so far, he’s not sure which is worse.
There is a creak from somewhere in the darkness and then there she is, appearing like an apparition, like his thoughts alone have summoned her. “Cant sleep?” she asks.
“Too much on my mind I think.”
She nods, knowing exactly what he means. “Would you like some company?”
He smiles as he opens his blanket and allows her in, the couch too small to lay side by side so she climbs over him, wedging herself between his body and the couches back until they can curl around each other like roots of a tree. He rubs along her spine like he did when they were decades younger, and listens to a pleased sound escape her throat. “Feeling nostalgic?”
“Just cold,” she says as if the lie will get past him. “You are like a furnace. No need for heating when you are around.“
Alexei chuckles and holds her closer, proves he is good for something as she relaxes against him, fingertips running through his chest hair until they find a chain. And in the lowlight she does not look surprised when she tugs the metal to find it looped through a silver ring that is monetarily worthless but means more to them than words can express - she only touches it gently and tucks it beneath the loose material of his shirt once again.
He wants to kiss her, but he didn’t not come here for that , he’s not sure that is something she would even want - not that it has happened since he left all that time ago. Once when she was visiting New York, another after Nat— but he doesn’t want to think about that time, grief makes people do strange things.
What Alexei wants from being here, he is unsure; only knows that where Melina is he wants to be. It has been six months since he last saw her, two before that and he had loved her every day before and since… It was not meant to be like this. What he has given up for the love of glory.
“Sleep Alexei,” she says. “We will work it out in the morning.”
This woman, too observant for her own good, so much smarter than him and not once has she made him feel inadequate for that fact. But she knows best, so he follows her orders and just like that, drifts off into a peaceful sleep.
Comfortable and safe, with his wife by his side.
For once, his dreams are pleasant. Tender and warm, with none of the recent nightmares that have sunk their claws into him. He dreams of more memories; the girls climbing trees in the summer, their first real christmas, crawling into bed with Melina every night, messy kisses and soft lovemaking, the first time he had told her he was in love with her. Uncertain times but easier than the lives they lead now, and who is to blame for that? Him again? Or the people that made them?
He wakes at dawn. Birds chirp somewhere beyond the window as peach coloured light paints the walls in warm hues. On his chest, Melina's head rests against meat and sinew, and he can not help but kiss across her skull before carefully slipping from her arms.
Outside it is colder than he remembers, hot steam rising from his skin and small puffs of smoke emitting with every breath but he does not feel the chill, not really. The lake glistens behind him as he begins to chop wood, log after log after log until her woodpile is stacked precariously but still he cuts more, wanting to feel his muscles burn like they so rarely do, wanting to feel exerted - which is even rarer. He does not know how long he works for, only that the sun is higher than when he began and the frost that covered the grass has partially melted.
When he finally looks up she is leaning against the porch railing watching him, the jacket he arrived in last night wrapped around her small form and there is something so touching about the sight that his body fills with liquid warmth. “Did I wake you?” he asks and moves forward, looking up at her as he brushes her bare ankle through the wooden slats.
“Yes but it is okay. Come inside, it's too early for this,” she tuts softly and moves back through the door.
He places logs on the fire as she moves around the kitchen, and he is struck by how easy it is to fall back into this tender domesticity. Moving around each other as in well-practiced choreography as he joins her; coffee poured, toast buttered, he touches her hip as he reaches for the sugar and in return she brushes a wayward crumb from his chest as she passes by. It is devastating in a way, how naturally they move together.
“I miss being here,” he says as they settle back on the couch, large bay windows giving them a view as the world comes to life outside of this sanctuary; birds landing by the waters edge, a light breeze moving through the trees and they are so close that without trying, the length of their sides brush against one another. “I always forget the peacefulness.”
“Peaceful, yes,” she hums. “But you become too restless when made to stand still.”
He turns to face her, “I could always try again, hm? If you could make room for an old man.”
She lets out an amused huff as she turns in response, fingers lightly tugging at his beard, “You must be where the action is. This life is not what you want.”
Always so smart, this woman. He presses his forehead to hers, “Then you could come back to the city with me, I will speak to Va–”
“ That is not the life I want,” she interrupts, eyes closing as if in great pain. And he understands, they moved half-way around the world to be closer to their daughters and Melina is deserving of nothing but the peaceful life she has built herself here; her gardens and research, an occasional assignment if she sees fit and a slow life with routines he is no longer a part of. Her life is better without him in it, he thinks. Better when he is not— “I want you. Always, Alexei, ” she says interrupting his thoughts, “but not if it costs me my freedom.”
She knows him too well.
“I do not like being apart. It does not feel right,” he says and moves her hand over his heart. “Hurts when I think about it.”
“Frustrating man. You have always been a romantic.” But they both know it is not that.
He is not sure who moves first, the tentative touch of lips and then another, where tongues meet and cheeks are cradled between warm palms. But it is her who crawls over him, who smiles when he whispers, I miss you, and they both know that they will never deny the other of this. It has never been just sex between them, even when it was, when they were still young and did not know each other, he thinks he worshiped her even then. Hardened hands meet soft skin, she is still as perfect as she was all that time ago, the newer parts of her; scars she does not want to talk about and fleshy knubs of healed wounds, are still loved as equally as the old. Alexei kisses them as he lays her back and makes his descent, stopping only when she gasps and tangles fingers through his hair until after minutes, she shivers and pulls him upward. Tastes herself on his tongue.
They are so, so good at this. Made for one another. Clinging as he slides inside, soft pants and eyes rolling back as they fit so perfectly, it could only ever be fate that brought them together. He has not been with anyone else since he met her, loyalty unwavering and he can not tell if that is pathetic or not. He does not ask if she has been with anyone else, he does not care, only worries each time if she still wants him. They roll against each other, slow movements, taking time that will too soon come to an end as they kiss. And he can not help but think of how she tastes like home.
“Do you love me?” he asks and watches as her mouth opens in pleasure, brows furrowing as release moves closer until she is within its hot grip.
“Yes,” she moans. “So much.”
She adjusts, pushing him back so she can straddle his lap, giving them what they both need with the familiar movements of the past. Muscle memory and the careful observations only lovers can recognise. “I love you,” he says as he kisses her brow, “I have only ever loved you, Melina.”
“I know,” she says and trembles, and how can he not follow such beauty?
Afterwards, they linger. There is time for this. Duty not calling for a few hours more and so they take their time, laughing and loving until the sky begins to darken and they know he must go. But still he dresses slowly, kisses her neck as she helps him with his jacket, he has never been ready for this to end even when his actions say otherwise and he thinks that is one of his worst traits, that he can leave something so perfect for something as shallow as glory. “Will you let me come and see you when I get back?”
“If that is what you want.”
“Honey, I want to know what you want,” he says and hopes her answer remains the same. “If I am disrupt–”
She stands on tip toes as she kisses the corner of his mouth, “You’re not. I like when you're here, Alexei. Reminds me of good times.”
“It does not hurt you?”
“It does but so many things do these days. I forget the others when you are here,” she says and watches as he kisses her hand. “Bring Yelena with you. She works too much.”
He nods in agreements, two parents making decisions for their adult child. It feels good. “It is not healthy for her. You will take care of yourself until we are back?”
A small smirk, raised brow - he likes that she still finds him amusing. “If you do the same when playing hero.”
“Always,” another kiss pressed to her knuckles.
Her smile falls, eyes turning serious, “Take care of her, Alexei.” And they both feel the loss of what they dare not speak. The daughter that they were not there to save…
“Always,” he says again with new meaning, an unspoken vow that they both agree too. Yelena’s life above their own. He takes a final kiss, lingering and soft, and they cling longer than they should for whatever is afforded by this pseudo-relationship that they both will never leave and both never want to.
“Come back to me,” she breathes against his mouth and then just as suddenly moves away, retreating up the porch steps and disappearing into their home like she was never there to begin with. He feels the loss. Knows it is his own fault.
And just like that, he is alone once again.