CHAPTER TWO.




TW: mention of self harm,
descriptions of underweight body.


CHAPTER TWO:
the second first breath.


DEATH...DID NOT FEEL AS SHE THOUGHT IT WOULD.

For one, there was no pain. At all. Not even the usual aching muscles or paralysing exhaustion that always came after a mission, pains that never truly left her body. Nothing throbbed, or burned, or stung. The only sensation she had to take in was an almost uncomfortable amount of warmth, pooling around her body, filling every curve, every crack, pulling her back into the steady darkness she was lying in.

But...Natasha shifted her weight, testing the waters. No pain, still. Maybe whoever was torturing her was new.

She tried to peel her eyes open, wincing as light beamed into her poor pupils. A thin crust of tears and buildup coated her eyelashes, and she rubbed it away, tentatively taking in what she could.

Which, honestly? Was jack shit. She was in a small room, lit only by a window shrouded in thin curtains. Rays of golden light coated the space, but it only illuminated a few spare pieces of furniture. A small table with random supplies scattered across it, bandages and tape and the like. A chair, holding up a pile of clothing all shadowed with gray. And a large bed that she laid in, covered in fluffy baby blue comforters that had almost completely swallowed up her figure.

What a strange start to the end of a life.

Natasha wriggled herself into a seated position, then pulled her limbs out from under the covers, one by one. Strangely, it didn't hurt. She felt strong, despite sleep's desire still cloying and thick. And her limbs — well, they were perfect. Unmarred by the wounds she had been expecting. Only soft, silvery scars looked back at her, and they were faint enough for the average eye to skip right over them.

Even odder. She didn't think the Devil would care about fixing wounds. But, maybe he wanted to make his own, and only cared for perfect canvases.

She was only dressed in her undergarments. Her sports bra clung to her skin awkwardly; someone had seemingly tried to scrub blood from it, but she guessed they had favoured modesty over stains. Natasha slid off the bed and walked over to the pile of clothing.

"Interesting," she murmured to herself, automatically switching to her native tongue. "The devil may wear Prada, but it does not want its subjects to." She sifted through the fabrics. There was a pair of thick grey sweatpants, two tops of the same grey colour, one a t-shirt and one long sleeved. She also saw a large, heavy-knit cardigan. It was pastel purple. It felt soft under her fingertips.

Natasha curled her lip and pulled away. She'd find her own stuff, first. Better that than some stranger's garments. 

The pile of clothes stayed alone on the chair. Finding nothing else of interest in the room — the supplies looked nondescript, and there was no weapon to be found in them — Natasha decided that the only way through, was forward. 

Her hand didn't shake as it found the doorknob, carefully pulling the door open, but it did clench a bit harder than necessary around the cold metal.

A hallway. Again, grey-toned, small. She couldn't see anything of interest, aside from a door that led to a tiny bathroom. But it did lead to a larger open area, so she plunged forward, sliding silently across the carpeted floors.

Voices. Natasha paused, cocking her head to listen in. There were two; it was just them, she assumed. One male, deep and baritone, speaking in a different version of French then she was used to, but understandable nonetheless. The other was female, and much softer than her counterpart. It sounded weak, though she knew better than to underestimate a woman. Her French was much clearer, spoken like she had plucked it straight from the heart of the province. Natasha understood her, much better.

"...une menace," the male voice said. Natasha could only guess he was referring to her. "You and I both saw her coat." She didn't recognise the word he spat after, but the way it was delivered told her it wasn't a compliment. "You cannot trust her."

"Oui, but you also saw the state of the poor soul. She was nearly dead when I found her. She could not pose a threat to me then."

"Yet saving her nearly killed you. You do not call that a threat?"

"I saved a life. I would not take it back. Would you want me to?"

"I—" the male voice trailed off with a frustrated sigh. "You were the one who set our rules. You are the one who is so, so..."

"I felt her, Simon. I could not let her die!"

"Ai, yi yi. I..." once again, the man stopped himself. There was a long moment of silence, before in a lower murmur than before, he just said, "c'est ton erreur a supporter."

Natasha listened as no one spoke. Heavy footsteps thudded against the cheap linoleum; the male voice, she assumed, stomping out of the room. She heard him shout from a distance, hearing him tell his female counterpart he'd be back later. Then a door creaked on its hinges, and it felt shut fast. A dull thud echoed through the space.

She wasted half a minute, just making sure he was gone. When she was certain, Natasha finally moved.

Turning round the corner, she took in everything she could. The apartment was small, but homey. Clearly whoever lived there had been there for a while; everything was well lived in and with a thousand knick-knacks scattered around the place. Tiny golden birds placed on a small shelf, a statuette of a mysterious brunette woman, frozen in the middle of a spin. A tonne of snow globes placed randomly wherever they fit. Natasha paused, staring at one of them. Inside was a miniature cherry tree, with blossoms suspended in mid air all around it. Several pink petals lay at the bottom of the small tchotchke.

Her fingers twitched at her side, eager to reach out and touch the glass, wondering what it would be like to watch the colour bloom. But she didn't move towards it, just curled her lip and turned away, wondering what kind of kidnappers had she run into, with tacky taste and miracle hands.

Like a hound, she followed her nose, tracing the strong, savory scent until it led her to a small kitchen doorway. There she paused, because despite her eagerness to know just who had taken her, well...

There were no good words to describe the woman she found inside; Natasha was sure of that. All the descriptivism she could possibly think up would surely fall flat. But if she had to paint the picture of the strange, elf-like figure in front of her, she would first mention her pale, delicate skin and how it clung in timid sheets to her bones. In fact it seemed like she was just that, skin and bone, holding herself together within a large, fluffy green sweater.

With her face half-turned, Natasha could only see the idea of the woman's features. But they were beautiful, nonetheless. Slender, barely upturned nose, pale lips curved at the corner in a gentle smile. Her long dark hair draped around her, weaving amongst their brown brethren and decorating her skin. And one eye, trained down to the pot in front of her, was flecked with greens and golds and framed with the longest eyelashes Natasha had ever seen on a natural face.

If Natasha hadn't lived the life she had, she would have wondered if her kidnapper was an angel.

As it were, she just took her beauty as a cheap trick, and plunged forward.

"так," she said gruffly, finally alerting the woman to her presence. Ignoring her low gasp of fright, Natasha pressed on, drawing herself higher — though to her dismay, she stood a few inches shorter than her angelic adversary. "ты мой дурак."

Hazel eyes widened in fear and shock. The woman backed away from her bubbling pot, a ladle clutched in her skeleton hands. Natasha dryly noted her trembling, and how lily-white her skin turned, and so quickly. The woman didn't seem like much of a threat. She really seemed only a threat to herself, with how she swayed in the kitchen light. Like she wasn't quite all there.

"I-I am sorry," the woman said. Each word was delicately accented with a French accent. Natasha had noticed it before when she spoke in her native tongue, but it was much gentler in English. Kinder. "I do not know..."

"Who are you?!" Natasha snapped in English. Niceties would do nothing; she needed answers. "What did you do to me?"

Her eyes darted away, back to her pot. She shifted her weight. "I...I do not..."

"I should have died in the alley way," Natasha hissed with all the rage she could muster, drawing forward as the woman shuffled back. She lunged for her wrist and caught it between her fingers. Bone pressed sharp into her calloused palm, and she wondered if one small movement could shatter it. "But I woke up here. Without a fucking scratch on me. Tell me how that's possible."

She gulped. "I...it is a long story. I-I do not know if you would believe me."

Natasha bared her teeth. "Try me. And don't spare any detail."

"Well..." her eyes darted, away from the threat in front of her and back to the stove. "Just...can I finish?"

Of all the things she had expected to hear...it wasn't that.

"What?!"

"I-I don't want your soup to be ruined," she said, tone dripping with both fear and apologies (though the empathetic part of Natasha knew it was her who should be sorry, treating such a soft being so roughly). She looked absolutely miserable, like a baby deer. Or a kicked puppy. Whatever was worse to a normal empathetic soul. "Y-you have not eaten anything, and I do not...I do not want to waste the soup?"

She stared up at the woman, eyes practically bulging as she tried to read her face. But all she got was integrity, shimmering so innocently on the skin like...well, Natasha couldn't think of anything to akin it too, but she could not remember the last time someone was so good and honest to her.

Her grip on the wrist loosened, enough for her to slip out of the hold. She nodded tersely, and the woman immediately hurried over to the pot, ladle poised and at the ready.

"I am sorry," she said again, like she had a reason to be. Her bottom lip trembled. "I just...I promise, I had no bad intent."

Natasha just glared in silence.

"I-I will assume you are hungry?"

"You think I'm stupid enough to eat what you offer me?" she snarled. 

The woman gulped and looked away. "I," she paused, her voice thick with something. It sounded like she was speaking through cloth. "I mean no harm. I just do not want to see you hurt again. Not after..."

"After what, pray tell?"

"Will you please just eat my soup?" she asked again, practically begging her. "I mean no harm. I just do not want to see my hard work go to waste."

Natasha wanted to throw herself a window at that point — if only to escape the strange soul in front of her, who was practically crying for some reason over soup. It felt easier to face death again than to deal with her, some skeletal willow who was all shaking fingers and too-big eyes for her pale face.

Whatever devil she had pissed off, they were too good at their job, presenting this angelic being and testing her limits, playing with her morals like she had any to go off of. There was no way such a woman was real, and if she was it was just a cheap trick, some demon hidden behind a fluffy green sweater. No matter how her tender, verdant eyes glimmered with tears and hope. Or the soup bubbling away, smelling like something Natasha only had as a memory but never really achieved.

She huffed and cursed out the universe under her breath. Louder, she said brusquely, "fine. I'll — I'll eat your damn soup. But you're telling me everything."

To her horror, the woman smiled then, wide and absolutely, horrificially beautiful. "Good. Thank you."

They stood in silence. The woman's eyes darted everywhere but in Natasha's direction. She wasn't quite sure if it was the lack of clothing, clinging to her body that made her uncomfortable, or just the venomous glare that she was sending her direction. Probably both. The woman didn't seem the super liberal type. Nor did she seem that courageous.

"We can sit at the table," she said quietly, spooning hot broth into two bowls. "Just through there. I'll bring these over."

"We'll walk over together."

The woman glanced up at her, then immediately shirked away. "Y-you do not think I would plan something, right? It is only soup."

Natasha shrugged, and didn't reply. But she didn't move until they were both ready, much to the stranger's obvious displeasure. She followed close behind as they headed out of the kitchen. As they brushed out, she almost reached to grab a makeshift weapon — the kitchen was full of sharp and pretty things, and even a fork, or a butter knife, would be something.

But strangely enough, her mind told her that maybe, she didn't have to.

Silently, they both took a seat. Natasha settled back against the barebone chair. Her thighs scraped awkwardly against the rough wood. It wasn't the most comfortable thing, shivering in a blood-stained sports bra and with her ass cheeks bare against the chair. Not that she let that on, of course.

The stranger pushed one of the bowls closer to Natasha, along with a simple silver spoon. "It's still hot. You should start along the edges."

She did not move. 

"I-I wish you would just eat the soup. It is good for you, you know? Lots of root vegetables." She emphasized the 'r' in root oddly.

Natasha raised a brow. "You've given me nothing to trust you or believe you're not stupidly planning my demise in this shitty soup." She didn't miss how the woman flinched at her abrasive remark. "Why would I choose to dine with you, strange devil?"

"I — well —"

"—tell me why I should trust anything about you, actually."

The woman sighed. Her body deflated, shrinking down into the chair, like it was consuming the last crumbs of life left in her. For a long moment, it was quiet again. Natasha almost wondered if she was trying to play the waiting game, hoping that she'd cave before she'd have to admit a thing.

But when the minutes dragged, and nothing happened, the woman finally spoke.

"My name is Josephine," she told her quietly, hands folded over the table, all sharp white edges and ridges. "You can call me Jo."

Natasha didn't say anything. Nor did she touch the soup.

"Can you eat now? Please?"

"No," she snarled, and had half a mind to throw the spoon at the woman, in hopes it'd shut her up. "Continue."

"I...I need to make sure you eat. Please. You have been asleep for a long time, and your body is—"

"—how long, exactly?"

The woman glanced away, curling into herself once more. "I...I found you the night of the twenty-first. It is four...on the twenty-third."

Natasha stared at her. Her eyes would not blink; like even looking away for a second would shift her reality completely. Again, she guessed to herself, not sparing a mental chuckle. It wasn't fucking funny.

"Okay," she said simply. Honestly, nothing else came to mind. What was she to say? "So you found me on the twenty first."

"Yes."

"What were you doing down there?" There, being — honestly, Natasha couldn't really process where she was. Her mind was too exhausted, still, to process the nightmare of her last mission. Just that she was supposed to die, and... "Were you working with them?"

The woman folded her hands awkwardly on the table, staring into her soup. Natasha noted idly how large they were compared to the rest of her body. She was skin and bone, grey and green tinged, but the hands were still stronger than the rest of her. It looked strange on such a delicate being, to have such capable, fingers.

"I-I was..."

"God, speak faster," Natasha drawled, stabbing her spoon into her soup. Not to eat; as a distraction, from how much she wanted to stab it into skin. "I hate waiting."

She glanced at the spearing utensil and gulped. "I do not leave the house much. I-I do not do well with it."

"With what?"

"The world," she said quietly, sounding ashamed. "So...so I was confused. Lost. If you will believe me, I do not remember how my feet led me."

She did believe her. And that was a fault in itself, because the greatest lies are hidden in the most feeble of bodies. If this strange creature really had resurrected her, who was to say she couldn't do more? Worse?

Natasha stirred her soup idly. "Dangerous place to find someone like you."

"I know. Again, I-I would not have been there, if I had known better."

"But you found me."

The woman looked up at her. Her large hazel eyes poured over centimetre of Natasha's blank expression, trying to rip the smallest of holes into her mask. She lingered on her eyes, green tickling the tiniest of lashes, the smallest specks of red amongst the brown. 

"I did found you. Un fantôme."

Natasha tilted her head back a tad, viewing the woman through half-lidded eyes. She ignored the grammar error in the sentence, focusing more on the choice of words after. Phantom. "Was I dead?"

"No."

"You sound sure."

The woman nodded slowly. "You would not be here, if you were dead."

"Mm. And here I thought you were a miracle worker."

"No." She sounded sure then, spitting the word across the table like it was poison. "Do not call me that. No god would birth me."

"Ah. So," Natasha leaned forward, pushing her bowl away with her forearms. She didn't miss how the woman flinched. "Are you a demon, then? Am I in hell?"

"No."

"You sound less sure."

She frowned. "I...my name is Josephine."

"You already said that. Try again."

"Can you please eat your soup? I will try it too, show it is not bad."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Forget the damn soup. I want answers. Are you some vessel here to punish me? 'Cause, forgive me, but I'm not really into that kinda thing." 

That was a bit of a lie. But she'd be damned to indulge this maybe-not-a-demon with those details, not when the mere mention of religious deities were making her ashen.

"I am not a demon. I just...do not know what else I can confirm."

"So how can you be sure?"

She looked a little perturbed. "Would I not know? Would I not derive pleasure from torturing you?"

"You have a point. You're not good at the typical whips and chains. Though, your avoidance of answers is getting painful..." she rolled her spoon between her long fingers. "All I've got from you is a fake name—"

"—it is a real—"

"—it's fake," Natasha cut in brusquely. "I know a liar. That's not your real name. And I'd be fine to take that omission if it was all. Names are power, I won't judge you from hiding yours. But you're telling me you're a recluse with some magical fucking gift you're terrified of, with a male accomplice who was against your decision? In this fairy-puke apartment with all your doo-dads and knick-knack shit?"

She stared at her, eyes wide. Something glistened against the whites. Natasha hoped she wouldn't cry. That sounded obnoxious.

"So. Why were you down there? So late?"

"I was lost."

That didn't seem like a lie...but it didn't feel like the entire truth. So she pressed closer.

"How'd you get lost?"

The woman bit down on her bottom lip again. "I was...I-I was running."

"From?"

"Men."

"Did you know them?"

"No."

Natasha cocked her head. All of that was true. She could glean that it was a one-off experience; the woman wasn't often on the run. But...it didn't seem like the first time.

"So you go down a few too many wrong paths, trying to get away from strangers. Do you know what they wanted?"

"N-no."

She bared her teeth. "That's another lie, sweetheart. You're walking on thin ice."

"I-okay, I do. But I cannot tell you, please!"

"And why not?"

"Because you are police," she gasped, and that time a tear did roll down her cheek, fat and gleaming in the dining light. "You will take me and my husband and I cannot have that. Please, I will do what you would like, I will give you everything, but let that be a trade! Your life, for mine?"

Natasha tilted her head. She tried to think about what she had on her when she passed out. No I.D for S.H.I.E.L.D, not with uniform traded in for a skimpy dress, and the attempts at a disguise that had so quickly blown to shit. She couldn't remember having a weapon. Nothing but her bones and the damned red slip of fabric barely clinging to her. So...

"Why would you think I was with the police?"

"You cannot trick me with mind games. I know what I believe."

"It's not a trick," she replied coldly. "I'm just curious."

The woman did not answer, dragging out her silence again for more long, long moments. Her long fingers danced like pale spiders across the table. They were beautiful. The hands of a pianist, maybe, or a painter; designed to make art and make beauty. But there was something terrifying about them, how the bone pressed grooves into the table when she faltered a step and held too hard.

"Are you...not police?" She finally said, looking up.

Natasha did not say anything, to that. But her gaze didn't falter.

"I am not one, to know trust easily. I have had to learn that even family will stab their knife, into your back." The woman bit her lip. "I will not lend you any faith, either. My gut tells me you are dangerous."

She leaned in a little, quirking her brow. She wondered if she looked as dangerous as the woman proclaimed. Because in her underwear, leaning into strange soup and exhausted, it didn't feel so much like it.

"Why did you save me, then? Your friend didn't think it was such a good idea."

"Friend? I—" she cut herself off, nodding. "You mean my husband. You heard us talking?"

Husband. Interesting. She didn't know if that one-off mention of a partner was just for intimidation, but the way the woman talked about him now, he sounded a bit more real.

"You speak French?"

Natasha shrugged. "So do you."

The corner of the woman's lips lifted a fraction. "You are correct. Yes."

"So?"

"So..."

"You'd just bring a dangerous stranger into your home?"

The woman hesitated. Her fingers shivered. "I...it is a longer truth, then just a few short words."

That made her teeth grind. She could stand an interrogation. She might be impatient but she'd be damn good at her job when necessary. But playing games with a wisp of a woman, green eyes and fluffy cardigan, some saviour with a poor sense of English and a foolish idea that she gave a shit about the morality of life —

— it was really, really starting to get on her nerves. 

"Explain to me this, sweetheart, if you won't be straight me on that." Natasha derived a little satisfaction from how violently the woman's cheeks coloured, so quickly, at a simple pet name. She almost wanted to do it again, just to watch the bloom. "What the hell happened that night? In between you finding me, and me ending up here."

The woman tilted her head, almost like a cat, wide eyed and curious. "You wish to know how I got you here?"

"What? No. I want to know how I survived." Natasha's nose scrunched. "What else would I be asking for?"

Her cheeks grew darker red. But from a different embarrassment, that time. "Oh. Sorry. I — yes. Okay."

She had been in America long enough to learn the language and to adapt. But not long enough to pretend to really know it. Or, maybe it was just that she didn't leave the house enough to pick everything up. Her conversations must not be with many native speakers, Natasha gathered, and her partner seemed to encourage French, not English.

The woman was strange. Obviously; anyone could deduce that. But her reasons...Natasha couldn't quite figure out those, just yet. Why she stayed inside, seemingly all the time, but was in the worst possible place in New York City to be, the night of the twenty first...

"Can you try the soup?"

Natasha shook her head. "Answer my questions, first."

"What if you pass out from hunger?"

She rolled her eyes. "I've been through worse, sweetheart. Stop distracting me and just talk."

The woman across from her stared at her for a moment, jade eyes glinting over her expression in pious detail, as though committing the face to perfect memory. As she did so, her cheeks grew pinker, and Natasha watched in amusement, and frustration, as the silence dragged on.

Finally, however, it was broken by the woman's frail voice.

"I found you, I thought you were passed," she said quietly. Solemnly. "I had went to check, when you — you spoke."

Natasha glanced away. "Did you hear what I said?"

"I did not understand it. You spoke in tongues."

Russian, she corrected silently. She cocked her head. "So you helped a random, spluttering nonsense stranger. Now...that's where you lose me. Because forgive me for assuming, but you don't look the type to drag a near-corpse through the city and then simultaneously bring it back to life."

"I-I am not."

"So?"

"So," the woman repeated, with a little more fire on her tongue, "I-I will be honest; I do not know why I did what I did. But I do not regret it." Her lips curled downward. "You needed help. I wanted to do a good thing."

"How? How did you do it?! Answer me straight, woman, for once!"

She sighed. All of her dodging, all of her halved answers and skirting remarks, still could not escape the answers. But... "I cannot tell you what you want to know. You want to know how I saved you, fantôme? I do not know the truth. That is all I can give you."

"You're lying."

"I'm not!"

"You are!"

"'I don't want to die'," the woman cried, startling Natasha. "'I don't want to die'; that's what you said to me, fantôme. You told me you did not want to leave the earth so fast and I saw that in your eyes, you were still desperate to finish your journey, in the realm of humans. So I played the fool and I helped you. That's it!"

"That's not it," she fired back, though she felt her voice tremble with the words. She didn't want to linger on the Good Samaritan's actions across from her. She didn't want to believe in selflessness. "You're fucking playing with me. Give me more than that!"

The woman's eyes pooled. Green became glossier as tears bloomed, something akin to frustration nearly forcing them off her bottom lashes. "I can't give you more."

"Yes, you can!"

"No!

"Yes!"

"I-I just," she paused to sniffle, swallowing back tears that they both knew, were inevitable to fall. "I do not know. I do not have more for you, fantôme. P-please do not yell at me!"

Natasha stared at her.

Slowly, a tear fell down the pale skin. It looked like it had always been there, like a part of some renaissance painting she couldn't understand the meaning of.

Something ate at her heart, pulling at some idea of empathy she forgot she had. Her fingers twisted around the spoon in her hand. She wanted to run, or scream, do something to force more panic from the weeping willow across from her. Or at least a part of her did, the part that ached, that snapped at the bit like a little wolf, chained and starved —

— but she had been cut from her bonds a long time ago. And she was supposed to be changed, now. Would she just be proving everyone right, if she reacted the way she was expected to?

 She sucked in a tight breath. Let it sit on her tongue for a long moment. Then exhaled.

"Okay," she mumbled, avoiding the woman's teary gaze. Something apologetic floated to her tongue; she bit it back, in exchange for something easier to spit out. "Fine. I'll make you a deal, then."

"Hm?"

"If I eat your soup," Natasha glanced down to the pushed away bowl, still steaming hot and smelling of rich, gorgeous vegetables. God, she was hungry. "If I eat it, will you give me more answers?"

"I — yes. Some."

"Some?"

"I am allowed my secrets," Josephine, though that wasn't her name, said firmly. Her hands shook. But she wasn't crying, anymore. "If you will not tell me who you work for, I will not tell you everything I keep hidden, either."

Natasha smiled faintly. "You're not a total idiot, I'll give ya that."

"I have lived a long life. A pretty stranger will not derail that now."

The 'pretty' almost made her choke, spoon raised halfway to her lips. Not because she wasn't used to compliments, but because the woman said it so casually, and so innocently — like a child, pointing out a toy in a shop window.

Quickly she shoved the spoon into her mouth. She chewed, slowly despite her efforts to get the damn thing in there, waiting for something bad to happen. But all she tasted was strong, spiced broth and potato and carrot.

"Not half bad," she muttered under her breath, reaching for another spoonful. She avoided her captor's eyes, not eager to read the satisfaction. 

"Thank you."

"Mm." Natasha glanced up from her bowl. Glanced over her too-sharp collarbones, jutting out against the pale silk of her skin. "You should eat too. Y'look like you're about to pass out."

The woman smiled, like she knew something she didn't (which irked Natasha greatly, not that she'd admit it). "Do not worry. I will be fine."

"Right," she said sarcastically, swallowing down a chunk of parsnip. "Can I ask what that's s'posed to mean? Or is that another secret of yours?"

Josephine tilted her head away, towards where Natasha knew her strangely decorated living room was. Her skin gleamed, pale as it was, as cold sunshine tickled it. "I...it is so hard, to put into words. It has been a long time since I have tried to explain it to someone."

Natasha didn't say anything to that, though she wanted to desperately. Answers sat a mere foot away from her, yet she couldn't have them. And even if she could just take them, rip them off the sallow woman and bleed her dry — she didn't want to. Whatever was stopping her, logic or conscience or her somehow still beating heart, she couldn't bring herself to do anything but wait, and listen.

"My body is like a plant," Josephine said finally. Her head turned back to the table, eyes staring down at the bowl of soup. "Someone told me that once. I need sunshine to thrive. With another of that, and nutrients, I am...filled, with energy. So much that my body does not need it all. So I can conserve it, and save it to use for something else."

Natasha raised a brow, but said nothing.

"But this is not normal energy. I can use it in strange ways. Alien ways," she mumbled, tracing the worn lines of the table. "I can give it to others, use it to...fill the spaces where they have run out. Like — for example." She reached out and grabbed a knife, conveniently placed on the table. Natasha hadn't even noticed it — how the hell hadn't she noticed?! 

Without wasting a breath, she ran it across her wrist.

Beads of blood bubbled on the white skin, stark red. Natasha stared, frozen and silent, as it dripped down onto the wood below. Wounds weren't so frightening; she saw them most days, and every night as she descended to sleep. Occupational habits. But seeing it build and flow so readily on someone so small and innocent...something inside her ticked.

But Josephine did not even bat an eye. She clamped a hand down on the wound and sighed. A second later and her fingers lifted, blood stained like the flesh below...but there was no new blood. No nothing.

She slumped back into her chair, blood fingers falling limp. "I am low on energy right now," she said quietly, in a sort of tone that made Natasha wonder if she would just pass out. "So it is not so easy. But when I conserve it, I can do much more than that. And not look so...so lame."

"So, you..."

"I gave your body the strength to fix itself," Josephine said. She rubbed her fingers on her temples, not minding the red stains they left behind. "I cannot explain it better."

"You're a healer?"

"No."

"That's exactly what you just described to me."

"A healer is the essence of good. I cannot tell you what I am, or if that is what you could call me."

Back to the start. Hiding, halving answers, pretending not to know more. It frustrated Natasha. She was too hungry to be fed scraps; she wanted to know it all, to pull the truth out in every long, trembling strand and devour it.

But she knew, that the stranger in front of her would not back down so easily. Nor did she want to force her to, because as annoying as it was to be in the dark, she was given the gift of life. Natasha was civilized enough to recognise that and lay down. For a little while, at least.

"Do you eat? Or are you really just a plant, consuming sunlight and air?"

Josephine shook her head slowly. "I do eat. But I make energy...differently. It is just a waiting game, for my body to make back the weight I shed for you."

So, perhaps the bones she could see were just repercussions of her healing techniques. Natasha squinted at the woman's throat, watching it swallow. Nerves. "How long does that usually take?"

"It depends. I...do not have the math, all laid out."

"It's been two days or so, though. Yeah?"

Josephine looked a little askance. "Like I said, fantôme. I thought you had passed, when I found you. Bringing you from the edge of l'enfer was no easy task."

"You look like you're on death's door yourself."

A small, strained smile licked up the woman's lip. It was too pretty for her. Natasha wished she could rip it from her face, spare her heart from the sight. "It did feel like it, too."

"So—"

"—eat up," Josephine urged. She rose from her chair, wrapping her cardigan around herself like a shield. "Please. Eat. And then you should rest. You are still recovering."

"You can't tell me what to do. I still have questions! And—"

"—I will tell you more later." She didn't leave room to argue, quiet as her tone was. "But I am tired too. And I would like to see you live, ma fantôme. We can talk more after the both of us are in better places of mind."

Natasha stared up at her, spoon poised over her bowl and mouth slightly ajar. As they looked at one another, she did feel the smallest trickle of weariness drip down her spine like a ball of sweat. It lingered on her muscles, folding them in, begging for more rest, even if she had only just opened her eyes.

"You're a witch," she mumbled, lacking the bite her other words usually had. "Aren't you? Some devil creature. Sorceress, or some shit."

Josephine shook her head gently. "I am not a witch. I'm just trying to survive this world, just as you are." She reached out and, as Natasha watched, frozen, patted her shoulder.

Her touch was not as cold as she expected. There was nothing hellish of her fingers, despite how skeletal and ivory they stretched. They were burning warm and Natasha wanted to ask her to press them into every edge of her body, to kiss the back of her throat, to hold her like a baby and let her sob her struggles into her burning flesh. She wanted to yank her hand back, even as it left, and place it around her throat. She wanted to know what it would feel like to have her squeeze the life out of her, so lovingly —

But she didn't move. And she did not act on any of the strange, split-second desires that she had no idea where they came from.

 "Please, eat. And," Josephine yawned. Somehow she looked even more exhausted than before. "Rest up."

Before Natasha could say a word of rebuttal to that, the strange woman whirled away and left, disappearing around the kitchen corner. 

She stared at that spot for a long time, wondering if it was worth it to get up and investigate further. But...strangely enough, she just didn't have the want to do so. So she sat, slowly eating her soup and slowly growing more and more sleepy, wondering just what fresh hell she had gotten herself into.




I know I said I hated the last chapter, but I really like this one. I think the dialogue is some of my best work, which is funny because dialogue is where I usually struggle most. I just felt like it kind of flowed, writing it, easier than it usually would for me. Hopefully that translates lol.

Also, would you like trigger/content warnings at the start of every chapter? I put one specifically here to try it out and warn people because there were specific mentions I was worried about, but I want to keep people in mind when writing, and I know that's become more encouraged in writing. Especially with this book, where themes are going to be much more mature (in like, every sense of that).

Thank you for reading; let me know what you thought.


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