NOVEL WEB Arc 6 - Ch 2: No More Quips?
Chapter 69
Arc 6 - Ch 2: No More Quips?
Date: Friday, June 10, 2011.
Location: Queens, New York
The imposter Spider-Man was knocked backward into the hallway by Peter Parker. A tense confrontation in the narrow confines of Gwen Stacy's apartment ensued as Peter raced after the figure who had invaded the sanctuary of his girlfriend's home.
Peter lunged forward, cocking back his fist to deliver a powerful blow. But as his knuckles shot toward the masked face of his opponent, they were caught in an iron grip that matched his strength. Peter's eyes widened in shock behind his mask. Since donning the red and blue suit months ago, Peter had faced all manner of criminals and villains. He was accustomed to overpowering thugs and petty crooks effortlessly with his enhanced abilities. But now, for the first time, he found himself evenly matched. Straining against the vice-like grip on his fist, he wondered how this was possible.
Twisting his captured arm, Peter broke the impostor's hold and leaped into a backflip, landing in a crouch several feet away down the narrow hallway. The doppelganger turned to face him, mirroring his stance. A tense silence descended, broken only by Peter and the faux Spider-Man's measured breathing.
The imposter was a mirror image, clad in a replica of Peter's costume.
"Who are you underneath that mask?" Peter asked, finally breaking the tense silence.
The doppelganger remained mute.
Peter barely dodged the incoming blow, the imposter's fist sailing past his ear. There was no warning, no tingling sensation of incoming danger from his spider-sense. The missed fist opened into a hook, catching Peter by the neck and yanking him off balance. Before he could react, his opponent's knee slammed brutally into his gut.
Peter doubled over with a pained gasp as the air rushed from his lungs. The world spun dizzily around him.
Capitalizing on Peter's disorientation, the false hero clasped his hands together, bringing them down in a hammer strike upon Peter's back. He crumpled to the floor with a resounding thud.
The moment Peter hit the floor, he knew he was in trouble. Getting the wind knocked out of him was nothing new but this was different. As he lay there, bruised and sucking air, the full weight of the situation sank in. This was no two-bit villain to be quickly webbed up and handed over to the cops.
He didn't have long to reflect. Peter scrambled to rise but was too slow. The imposter's foot slammed into his ribs with crushing force, launching him through the air to crash through the bedroom wall in an explosion of plaster and wood.
Agony blazed through Peter's side as he tumbled into the Stacys' bedroom, the impact jarring his already battered body. Only a lucky landing on their bed kept him in the fight. Gasping, he forced himself upright. He had no time to catch his breath before the door splintered inwards and the doppelganger stalked through.
Peter dove into a roll, narrowly avoiding a punch that shattered the nightstand behind him. He came up swinging but the double anticipated it, blocking the blow. What followed was a dizzying exchange of attacks. Neither gave ground as they traded devastating hits. They crashed through furniture and destroyed the drywall, oblivious to everything but the singular goal of destroying their opponent.
Each of the doppelganger's blows was aimed to exploit every opening and wear Peter down. Peter fought back gamely, matching his double's attacks. But it quickly became clear that the imposter's aggressive tactics and sheer physical power pushed him to his limits. Fists and feet landed with meaty thuds that echoed off the walls of the demolished room. The faux Spider-Man launched himself towards Peter, twisting his body to deliver a spinning kick aimed directly at his head. Peter narrowly ducked the strike, rolling away with the agility that had always been his trademark. But no sooner had he avoided the kick than he was relentlessly forced back on the defensive.
The battle raged wildly around the demolished room, possessions and debris scattering as they collided. The doppelganger aimed a crushing blow as he descended, one that Peter barely managed to block despite summoning all his strength. The impact resonated through Peter's arms, reverberating through his bones.
He found himself locked in a desperate battle against an imposter wearing his costume and wielding his strength. The false Spider-Man unleashed powerful blows that Peter struggled to defend against. Peter dodged and blocked on reflex alone as the doppelganger pressed his advantage relentlessly.
Searching for an opening, some way to shift the flow of the fight, Peter's counterattacks grew increasingly desperate.
In a moment of inspiration, Peter aimed his wrist, hoping to immobilize his foe. With a flick, he webbed the imposter's foot to the floor. Victory seemed at hand as the doppelganger thrashed against the unyielding webs. He charged, ready to capitalize on the opening.
But the false Spider-Man possessed shocking strength.
He tore his leg free from the floorboards, ripping a chunk of wood with it, still entangled with the webbing.
Peter's haymaker met only empty air as the doppelganger spun and unleashed a powerful roundhouse kick. The blow caught Peter full in the chest, launching him across the room to crash painfully into the building's outer brick wall. The kick shattered the remains of floorboards stuck to his foot, freeing him completely.
Before Peter could rise, the imposter advanced, wielding his web-shooting powers in a mockery of Peter's failed tactic. The false Spider-Man bound one of Peter's hands to the brick wall behind him. Peter struggled in vain against the imposter's webs, desperate to free himself, but the false Spider-Man was relentless. With a quick flick of his wrist, he fired more webbing, encasing the free hand Peter had been using to try and free his trapped one.
Now, Peter found himself with his wrists bound together and still attached to the brickwork.
The webs formed a tight inescapable bond, like handcuffs made of the strongest cable. The webbing was too resilient, but Peter refused to submit. Bracing his feet against the wall, every muscle in his body straining, letting out a guttural yell as he fought against the adhesive. With a final heave, the webs tore free from the wall, though his hands remained hopelessly bound together in webbing.
With his hands still tied, Peter had to adapt.
As the false Spider-Man rushed in, Peter backfliped, narrowly avoiding a knockout blow. He landed in a crouch, bound hands held defensively in front of him. The doppelganger pressed the advantage, raining down blows on the vulnerable hero. Peter blocked and dodged as best he could, but his restraints slowed him.
And then Peter heard it. A low chuckle emerged from his opponent.
The doppelganger was laughing at him.
Peter's predicament amused him as he continued his beat down. He set his jaw, ignoring the pain. He had to find a way to turn this around, and fast.
The blows rained down relentlessly upon Peter Parker, punishing him mercilessly. He could only block and dodge as best he could against the savage onslaught. But the restraints binding his arms slowed him, and Peter found himself being battered like a training dummy.
The doppelganger's low, cruel chuckle echoed with each devastating strike as he amused himself with Peter's helplessness. Jaw clenched, Peter ignored the blossoming agony and focused.
In a moment of desperation, Peter resorted to a classic Spider-Man tactic...
He taunted his foe.
"Why don't you take off that mask?" he goaded, affecting a mocking bravado. "Let's see how pretty you are under there."
The barb momentarily caught the doppelganger off guard, his rhythm faltering. Peter had been hoping for just such an opening. Seizing the opportunity, he put his plan into motion as the imposter roared in rage, charging straight for him. Even bound as he was, Peter's reflexes took over. He leaped over the oncoming doppelganger, executing a tight inverted half-twist in midair.
As he landed directly behind his foe, Peter snaked his bound arms around the attacker's neck and locked his legs around the torso in a vice-like grip.
The sudden grappling hold shifted the fight's dynamic entirely. Leveraging his strength, Peter squeezed, attempting to choke the doppelganger into submission.
The doppelganger thrashed violently, seeking to dislodge Peter. But he clung on with relentless determination, his survival instincts overcoming exhaustion and pain. The two grappled furiously. But where the doppelganger was driven by rage, Peter was fueled by grit and desperation. For now, it was enough to keep him locked on.
Peter Parker's arms burned with exertion. The imposter's struggles grew weaker, its movements more sluggish, until finally, it went limp in Peter's grasp. Warily, he loosened his grip, ready to react if it showed any signs of fight left.
But the imposter remained still.
Peter untangled himself with slow, pained movements, his body battered and beaten from the brawl. As he pulled away, the heavy silence that had descended on the room was shattered by a raw, anguished sob.
His head jerked up. Gwen.
Ignoring the screaming protests of his abused muscles, Peter limped urgently toward the living room. The sight that awaited made his heart clench. Gwen knelt on the floor, cuts and bruises marring her skin, cradling the lifeless body of her father. Captain Stacy had been impaled by a wood beam from the china cabinet when the imposter knocked him through it. His blood stained Gwen's hands as she clutched him.
Peter moved closer, grief and guilt settling heavily on his shoulders. He had failed. The captain was gone, leaving behind a yawning chasm of loss evidenced in Gwen's wrenching sobs. Peter's bound hands prevented him from reaching out to offer any comfort.
There was nothing he could do.
Captain Stacy was dead.
And at that moment, standing uselessly nearby, Peter had never felt more powerless.
The grief that permeated the room was palpable, a heavy weight that pressed down on them all. Gwen turned her tear-streaked face toward Peter, lips parting as if to speak when her eyes went wide with alarm. That subtle shift in her expression was the only warning before disaster struck.
Without his spider-sense, and dulled by exhaustion, Peter reacted too slowly. The imposter behind him seized the opportunity and slammed a brutal blow against the back of Peter's head. Stunned, Peter could do nothing as the false Spider-Man unleashed a barrage of punches directed at his face.
The room had been filled with quiet mourning only moments before. Now there was only the sickening thud of flesh striking flesh as the imposter ruthlessly attacked. Then, silence descended, broken only by a chilling laugh from the fake hero.
"I can't believe you fell for that," the pretender jeered, his voice dripping with cruel mockery. "Playing dead has to be the oldest trick in the book." The arrogance and disdain in his words cut through the heavy silence.
Peter lay unmoving, finally succumbing to the repeated blows. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth to pool on the floor. The imposter stood over him, fists still clenched, as Gwen looked on, helplessly horrified.
The impostor Spider-Man stood over the unconscious Peter.
"Who's prettier now, Peter?" he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.
"Think that'll heal in time for graduation pictures?" His laughter was a chilling sound, underscoring his brutal actions, and the disdain in his words.
"Oh, no more quips?"
The imposter waited for a response, but when none came, he finished, "Didn't think so."
Across the room, Gwen Stacy observed the horrific scene unfolding before her in helpless horror. It was like a nightmare made real. But even as she watched, Gwen could feel her strength rapidly fading. The adrenaline that had sustained her through the initial shock was gone, leaving her alarmingly lightheaded.
Glancing down, Gwen saw the crimson trail left in her wake as she had crawled across the glass-strewn floor of the living room. The realization of her dire situation came too late. Darkness crept into the edges of her vision. With a soft sigh, she slumped to the floor.
Kaine surveyed the aftermath, gleeful, but his celebration of triumphing over Peter faded when he realized noone remained to join in. The still forms of Mr. Stacy and Peter lay where they had fallen. And Gwen...
Kaine's demeanor shifted as he took in Gwen's condition.
Her blonde hair fanned out, her body was limp and unmoving. She bled from multiple cuts, but one large laceration on her quadricep was the worst. The sight pierced through his frenzied haze in a stark realization.
"Oh no. Gwen. What did they do to you?" he murmured. His voice was laced with sudden concern, contrasting his previous brutality. His mind scrambled for justification. "This was their fault," he said to himself. "If Peter hadn't come, if your father wasn't home, none of this would have happened." The twisted logic absolved him, or so he thought.
Kaine approached Gwen's prone form, movements now gentle, intentions shifted. Carefully lifting her, he whispered a promise, "Don't worry Gwen, I'll save you."
In his mind, he had recast himself as the hero, willfully ignoring the grim truth that his actions had directly led to her peril. His mind spun as he tried to figure out what to do next. He was no doctor, and Dr. Warren was the only one he knew. However, Warren specialized in genetics, not medicine, and Kaine knew the scientist would likely lock him up forever if he brought Gwen back in this condition.
Especially after what had happened with his last lab assistant.
Leaving her on a hospital doorstep briefly crossed Kaine's mind, but the thought left a bad taste in his mouth. It seemed too detached, impersonal, after everything that had transpired between them. As much as he hated to admit it, guilt was creeping in, cracking his facade. In his indecision, Kaine's thoughts circled back to Peter Parker against his will. What would Peter do in this situation? Who would he turn to? The answer came grudgingly.
Tyson.
Parker's friend had proven reliable in crises before. Swallowing his pride, Kaine realized Tyson was his best option to get Gwen the help she needed, even if it meant relying on someone he considered an adversary.
Having made his difficult choice, Kaine held Gwen as gently and carried her to the nearest window. With the injured girl secure in his arms, he launched himself out into the night, web-slinging across the city toward downtown and Tyson's apartment.
The last rays of the setting sun painted the evening sky in vibrant hues as Kaine arrived at the balcony of Tyson's downtown apartment with the limp form of Gwen still cradled carefully in his arms. During their journey across the city, she had not stirred, and her continued unconsciousness added another layer of worry to Kaine's already anxious state of mind.
Finding the apartment dark, Kaine's initial knock went unanswered. Growing frustrated and desperate, he pounded on the glass door until it shattered. The sound echoed through the silent interior.
"That ought to get his attention," he muttered, unaware of the irony that his method of seeking help was tinged with the same aggression that had defined his earlier actions.
Stepping into the dark apartment, Kaine's eyes struggled to adjust to the lack of light. Making his way to the entryway, he found the switch and flicked it on.
"Tyson?" he called out tentatively.
Only silence greeted him.
The apartment was empty.
Tyson's absence left Kaine frustrated, the person he had reluctantly pinned his hopes on was nowhere to be found. He paced the length of Tyson's darkened apartment while Gwen lay unconscious in the center of the living room, near the entrance.
"Why does Peter get it so easy?" Kaine burst out, his voice ragged with frustration. The empty room offered no reply but silence. He had hoped to enlist Tyson's aid with Gwen, but the man was nowhere to be found. Kaine felt the bitter sting of abandonment. Once again, Peter seemed to have all the support and resources he could ask for, while Kaine was left to fend for himself.
Kaine's thoughts spiraled downward into resentment. Tyson's absence was no accident. The man was conspiring against him, intent on stealing Gwen away.
"I knew it," he growled under his breath. "He's trying to take her from me." Rage boiled up inside Kaine, blinding hot.
With a wordless cry, he lashed out, smashing his fist into the nearby terrarium.
Glass exploded outward, shards skittering across the hardwood floor with a musical tinkling. Kaine's chest heaved as he stared down at the wreckage, but the act of destruction did little to calm the storm inside him. He was adrift, lost in turbulent waters of anger, jealousy, and despair. Somewhere beneath it all lay concern for the unconscious girl at his feet. But as Kaine resumed his pacing, muttering to himself, his thoughts were consumed by the injustice of his plight.
He had trusted Tyson, and counted on his aid in saving Gwen, only to find himself abandoned in his hour of need. Now she lay unconscious and helpless while Kaine faced impossible odds alone. He muttered angrily to himself, cursing Tyson's name. That backstabbing coward had probably planned this betrayal from the start.
He wanted to leave Kaine to fend for himself. So be it.
But there would be a price to pay.
"If Tyson refuses to help me save Gwen, then I'll make him regret it," Kaine growled, his voice laced with cold determination. "I'll take away everything he loves. His home, his possessions, everything."
Kaine's gaze fell upon the ruins of the glass terrarium.
Even the empty fish tank must have meant something.
He looked around realizing that this apartment meant a great deal to Tyson. He remembered having Thanksgiving dinner here when Tyson had gathered those closest to him.
With vicious satisfaction, he set about destroying everything in sight, overturning furniture, tearing paintings from the walls, flinging glassware and valuables. The once pristine suite became a war zone, utterly demolished by Kaine's unrestrained rage. His message was clear.
Tyson had failed him, and now he would lose everything.
When the suite lay in shambles, Kaine paused to admire his handiwork. Then his gaze fell upon Gwen's motionless form, and sadness pierced his heart.
"I tried to help," he whispered. "It's their fault, not mine. I tried to be the hero."
With a resigned sigh, Kaine turned and headed for the balcony. Without looking back, Kaine fired a webline and swung away into the night.
— Rogue Replacement —
Waiters in crisp uniforms glided between tables, as Tyson and Natasha entered the restaurant inside the Four Seasons. After Stark's afternoon ceremony, they settled on dessert. They were led to a secluded booth in a far corner of the dining room. The table was adorned with fine china and delicate glassware that caught the soft light. Their presence was marked only by the gentle clink of silverware and murmured conversation, the intimate setting gave a measure of privacy from the other patrons.
After placing their order, and receiving their drinks, Natasha leaned in. "SHIELD has reactivated Project PEGASUS," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Barton was assigned as one of the guards." Tyson raised an eyebrow, at Natasha's revelation.
"PEGASUS had been shut down for years. Whatever they've got going on, it's important enough to bring in Hawkeye as extra security," she continued. "This lines up with what you said was going to happen."
Tyson lifted the wine glass, his thoughts turning inward as he swirled the ruby liquid pensively. A distant look clouded his mismatched eyes, betraying that his mind was parsing the implications of Natasha's revelation.
This was what had been weighing heavily on her mind.
"You're going to leave," he stated, his voice tinged with resigned certainty. It wasn't a question. Tyson had already accepted the inevitable truth, knowing her thoughts after their earlier kiss.
Natasha felt compelled to explain her decision, wanting to lay out her rationale. "You said that when things go down, I'm on a mission, undercover. Fury just offered me a mission to investigate stolen Stark Industries weapons in Russia. I don't have to take it..." she trailed off, torn between her sense of duty and her desire to stay.
Tyson interrupted softly, "But it tracks with my vision." His quiet statement acknowledged the connection between what he knew would happen and her new assignment, validating her inclination to accept it.
His mind raced for alternatives, unwilling to let go so easily. His voice carried hope as he proposed, "The school year is almost over. I could come to Russia for the summer."
But Natasha slowly shook her head, red curls bouncing in dissent. "That's sweet, but you have too much to do here," she countered gently.
Undeterred, Tyson persisted, "Felicia and her team can handle the acquisition of Trask Industries."
Yet Natasha quickly pointed out the flaw in his plan. "Felicia already has her hands full running your other operations. Plus, there are Mirage's shows that only you can put on."
Tyson found no rebuttal to that, his role as Mirage was irreplaceable. "Will you go after Dreykov now that you know he's alive?" he asked, "Or look for Yelena?"
Natasha's gaze dropped to the table, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. He leaned back in his seat, studying Natasha's face. He could see the conflict brewing behind her emerald eyes, the struggle between duty and personal desires. The mention of Dreykov and Yelena seemed to stir something deep within her, a mix of emotions flickered across her face.
"I could," she said slowly, lifting her eyes to meet Tyson's. "But it would be years earlier than you said I do." Tyson nodded, understanding. Yet he could see the longing in Natasha's eyes, the desire to right wrongs and reunite with her sister. Natasha took a sip of her wine, using the moment to gather her thoughts. "It's not just about timing," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "If I go after Dreykov now, I might not be prepared. If she's being controlled, like you mentioned, I don't have a way to break that."
Tyson listened intently, noting the subtle shifts in Natasha's body language. Her shoulders tensed slightly, and her grip on the wine glass tightened.
"There's also the risk of changing too much," she continued. "If I act now, based on what you've told me, who knows how it might affect everything else? The future you've seen could be completely altered."
Tyson nodded, acknowledging the validity of her concerns. He reached across the table, his hand covering hers in a gesture of support. "It's your decision, Nat. Whatever you choose, I'll back you up."
Natasha's lips curved into a small smile, grateful for his understanding. "I appreciate that," she said softly. "But I think... I think I need to let things play out as they're meant to. At least for now."
"Or I could come with you," he suggested, "Fair shot I could override the mind control on Yelena. Or at least mitigate it."
Natasha considered his words, touched by his offer of support. Yet she slowly shook her head.
"You need to stay here," she replied firmly, though not unkindly.
Tyson searched her face, looking for any sign of doubt behind her stoic features. But Natasha's mind was made up.
"Alright," he conceded, though his tone betrayed his lingering concern. "But the offer stands if you change your mind. Just call me."
Natasha's lips quirked in a hint of a smile. She reached across the table, her hand covering his in a brief, meaningful squeeze.
"I know," she said softly. "And thank you. But this is something I need to do on my own. I know I can fix this, but if you come, who knows what will happen."
Tyson turned his hand beneath hers, the protection of his gloves allowed their fingers to intertwine. "I understand," he murmured. And though reluctant, he did understand her need to face this alone, and he couldn't blame her.
Natasha's closing remark sealed the argument.
"Besides, after graduation, you promised the girl on the phone that you'd hang out."
Tyson's frown deepened at the reminder. He had indeed promised Jubilee that they'd hang out post-graduation. Even though he'd invited her to Mirage's debut show in April, and spent the day with her in Monaco, Jubilee's excitement for their post-graduation plans was palpable even through the phone. Tyson knew he couldn't disappoint her.
He slumped back in his chair as the weight of resignation pressed down upon his shoulders. "What about us?" he asked.
Her eyes, usually so guarded, flickered with vulnerability. "You know there isn't another person who I feel for the way I do about you," she confessed, but she pressed on. "From my memories, you know how missions can go."
Her gaze drifted away, lost in the ghosts of her past. The silence that followed was deafening, filled with the weight of their unspoken fears.
It was Natasha who finally broke the silence. Her voice carried a note of resolve as she stated, "There will be time to figure things out when everything is settled and we know we're all safe." A hint of optimism threaded through her words. "No need to rock the boat so soon... Besides, if your vision holds, I'll return in less than a year."
"So, where are you taking the girl from the phone for your date? Some grand adventure?" Natasha asked. Her question carried a playful lilt as the aroma of their freshly arrived desserts enveloped the table.
Tyson let out a weary sigh, his broad shoulders slumping in resignation. He didn't need to voice his thoughts aloud, his body language spoke volumes.
Natasha reached out to grasp his large hand in her slender one, offering a reassuring squeeze. She leaned in, planting a brief, tender kiss on his cheek. The fleeting contact created a bridge, allowing Natasha's emotions to flow into Tyson's mind, enveloping him in a cascade of her thoughts and feelings.
"It's okay. Everything will be okay," she murmured. Her assurance wasn't just empty platitudes. Tyson could sense the earnest conviction behind her words and see her stoic acceptance of their challenging reality within her memories.
Natasha had mastered the art of compartmentalization, a necessary skill in espionage and covert ops. It was her way of coping, of preserving some small semblance of normalcy. And with her kiss, Tyson too could compartmentalize his feelings. He took a moment to gather his scattered thoughts before responding. Though difficult, he knew that going their separate ways was the best option for their futures.
Shaking his head slightly, he finally answered her earlier question, traces of humor now tempering his voice. "You don't have to refer to her as 'the girl on the phone'. You met her at the opening for House of M, remember?"
"I know," Natasha replied, "but it's nostalgic for me to tease you about her like this."
Tyson's eyes glinted with amusement as Natasha gently ribbed him about his mysterious phone companion when she was his teacher and spying on him.
"She's got this fascination with the underground rave scene lately," he explained, "Wants to check out one of those pop-up, word-of-mouth dance parties. The kind that doesn't pay much attention to things like age limits if you know how to find them."
Natasha said, "Ah, to be young and rebellious. I can practically hear the muted thuds leaking from some abandoned warehouse on the city's outskirts."
He rolled his eyes. "You're sounding like my teacher again. Next, you'll tell me stories about how back in your day…" Tyson joked before continuing, "I told her we could hit up any club in the city. I'd use my abilities to bypass the lines and slide right into the VIP section if that's what she was after. I even told her we could meet Jay-Z at the 40/40 club." He shook his head. "But no, she has her heart set on this rave. Wanted to plan the whole night herself... almost like a date."
He let out a small huff of laughter at the paradox. "It's funny that you and my ex call it a date, but Jubilee? She refuses to put that label on it."
Natasha took a thoughtful sip of her wine, contemplating his words. There was a probing note in her voice when she finally asked. "You don't think she's actually into you in that way?"
"It's not that simple," he clarified, "I've borrowed Jubilee's powers before, so there's no doubt she's attracted to me. I felt it through her memories."
He let out a small huff. "But there's more to it. She's outgoing, sure, but there's a shyness buried in there too, a hesitation that holds her back... And then there's her friendship with Illyana to consider. Maybe she's trying to navigate that, to respect what the two of us once had."
Natasha listened intently, focused on Tyson over the rim of her wine glass as she took a thoughtful sip. The crimson liquid left a faint stain on her full lips as she set the glass down with a soft clink against the table. There was a probing note in her voice when she finally responded.
"Relationships, especially those just starting or rekindling from the past, can be complex," she said. "Perhaps Jubilee is being cautious, not just out of respect for your history with Illyana, but also due to the uncertainty of stepping into what might feel like uncharted emotional territory for her." Natasha leaned forward, her elbows resting on the white tablecloth. "It could be lingering respect for your past love, as you said, or even uncertainty about where she truly stands. Not just with you, but within the broader context of your mutual friends. Voicing how she feels aloud could alter your friendship in ways she might not be ready for."
With a small shake of her head, red locks swaying gently across her shoulders, Natasha continued, "However, understanding her feelings through borrowed memories and navigating them in real life are two very different things. It's one thing knowing how someone felt in the past or is feeling in the moment. Quite another to truly understand why they act the way they do."
"Your power spoils you. The rest of us don't have the luxury of knowing how everyone else thinks and feels with a single touch."
"I know, I know," he sighed. "It's just... With my abilities, I can read people so easily. Their thoughts and feelings all come through crystal clear with one touch."
Natasha took another sip of wine before responding. "Perhaps instead of focusing on labels, you should concentrate on what you and Jubilee truly want from each other," she said plainly. "Direct, honest communication can cut through the most tangled webs." Setting her glass down, Natasha met his gaze. "Remember, the bravest thing in any relationship is to let your true feelings be known."
"I had to practically drag a universal threat out of you just to get your real feelings into the open."
Natasha regarded him frankly. "Maybe with Jubilee, you can step out from behind your abilities for a night. Just be Tyson. No powers, no expectations. And see where honesty takes you both."
He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "How can you give such good relationship advice?"
Natasha's mouth quirked up. "What can I say? Years of training in the art of reading people." She lifted her glass in a mock toast.
Tyson set his glass down, his large hand dwarfing the delicate stem. He leaned forward, his broad shoulders hunching slightly as he met her gaze.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.
Natasha's expression softened. "Because I care about you, Tyson," she said, "And I want you to be happy, even when I'm not around."
Her words struck him with unexpected force.
He searched her face, noting the sincerity in her eyes and the slight tension in her jaw that betrayed her conflicted emotions. She continued, "You're not the impulsive, unsure boy who robbed the Federal Reserve. But there is still so much ahead that will test your limits."
"You showed me the future. You showed me my death."
Tyson opened his mouth to protest, to remind her that they would fight to prevent her fate, but she pressed a finger to his lips, halting his words. In that brief contact, she shared flashes of her innermost thoughts; feelings of acceptance and resolve.
"I know," she continued, dropping her hand. "But the truth remains. I may die. And if my life is the price to save countless others, I will pay it gladly. It's my choice to make." Her jaw tensed with determination. "You said it's the choice I did make. It's the one I will make again if needed... And when that moment comes, you will let me make it."
She emphasized, "You will let me go."
Tyson shook his head, unwilling to accept that scenario, but no words escaped him.
Natasha's gaze hardened. "You will." She repeated.
"Even if it's you holding my arm as I hang over that cliff," she stated with finality. Then her features softened once more.
"And if that day comes... I don't want you to face the future alone."
Tyson was in awe of her ability to challenge him while offering complete support. "Thank you for your honesty," he said finally, his voice thick with suppressed emotion. "And for believing in me. It means more than you know."
"Don't think I missed how you didn't say, Yes, or Okay, there." Natasha pointed out, before her lips curved into a coy, almost playful smile as she stated matter-of-factly, "Of course I believe in you. And besides, I don't know why you're getting all emotional about this. I'm not even your girlfriend."
Her teasing words and sly expression briefly lifted Tyson's somber mood, drawing a chuckle from his throat. Her ability to read him and know exactly when he needed a bit of lightness never ceased to impress him. With just a few precisely chosen words, she had made whatever challenges awaited seem far away.
As the waiter cleared the remnants of dessert from their table, Tyson asked with a hint of regret. "So, when do you leave?" He tried to sound nonchalant, but there was an unmistakable wistfulness in the question that he couldn't conceal.
"Tomorrow," she replied bluntly, the single word revealing the fleeting nature of their time together.
Tyson looked at her intently, his mismatched eyes searching her face as he asked the obvious follow-up, "So tonight is your last night in New York?"
Natasha's gaze smoldered like emerald embers, conveying the promise of the night ahead. Her lips curled sensuously, hinting at the delights to come. She lifted her wine glass and finished the burgundy liquid in one motion. The resonant clink of empty glass meeting table punctuated the sultry exchange.
"Yes," she purred, her voice low and throaty. "Do you want to spend it talking in this restaurant?"
The invitation in her tone was unmistakable. Tyson needed no further persuasion. He left a generous gratuity on the tablecloth, not waiting for a check. Taking Natasha's hand, he gently pulled her to her feet, unconcealed desire smoldering in his mismatched eyes.
Her rich, melodic laughter filled the space between them as he led her to the elevator, exuding an intoxicating joy and thrill at the prospect of the night ahead. As the doors slid closed, the complexities of their lives faded into the background, and all that existed was the passion of the present moment.