RESURRECTION OVERTURE ▹ barnes-romanoff

twenty-one.

Svet makes a face from where she's been squished into his chest between the two sisters. She's not so bothered by the whole 'child assassin' — murder and sabotage bit, it's just... her dedushka smells really funny... Natasha immediately scoffs and shoves him viciously away. With one more threatening look, she takes Svet's hand to free her from Alexei's grasp and then marches them both down the slope. The big man watches after them with a hurt expression, though still holding tightly to Yelena, kissing the top of her head.

"Okay. You can..." Even she slowly peels away from his tightened grip, "No. Let go of me now. You smell really bad."

Alexei stands on the hill, arms still outstretched, smelling bad and standing alone.

As the sun starts to set over the orange and purple horizon, they continue down a long dirt road and seems to lead into nothing but more wilderness.

"So." Yelena is the first to break the silence, "Are we there yet?"

"You'll know when we're there."

Svetlana jumps at the sound of Alexei grinning and snorting, not at all sure what this could mean. That is until that same sound comes from down a grassy hillside where a small compound with high fences and razor wire, a small garden, a noisy pig pen, and a woman await.

My grandmother, Svet assumes carefully. She looks like one of those statues she saw briefly when in Europe, in some of the books she stole in a safe house she can barely remember. The women is tall and lithe, all muscle, with dark—hair and dark eyes that time and experience have given depth.

These people around her stare at each other, decades later and older and irreparably changed yet also still somehow the same.

Svet peeks up at Natasha who's looking off into the distance, trying in vain to school her expression.

"Honey." Alexei smiles, "We're home."

The severe—looking woman stares at them. Then she walks by, without saying a word, and they watch her go.

"Come on, girls," her grandfather motions them onward towards the main house.

They have no choice but to follow.

"Welcome to my humble abode." The woman, Melina, murmurs as they step through the front door, "Make yourself at home..."

It's exactly the sort of place Svetlana might imagine a home would be. Startlingly normal and wonderfully comfortable. So many windows and curtains and a dining table with five chairs, enough for each of them. A bud of warmth begins to grow in the center of Svet's chest.

"Let's have a drink," the older Black Widow heaves a heavy sigh, disappearing from sight.

Feeling curious now, Svetlana follows Natasha studiously into the kitchen. It's much the same as the rest of the house — homey, quaint, cozy even. She tries to picture a family of her own moving about in this kitchen, but it wasn't easy. She can picture her papa and she can picture her mother, but they are separate entities. They are like two parallel lines, forever a distance apart, never to meet.

Melina moves aside a false wall in the panty to reveal a gun locker and the picture of a happy family fades. It isn't at all surprising; they all are spies and assassins, after all. Besides, it doesn't matter so much. Svet is far more used to weapons and ammunition than she ever will be to warmth and safety.

"Hey, no funny business," Natasha warns.

As she sets down her rifle, the woman looks almost hurt at the insinuation, "I am putting away my weapon."