Chapter 22: Domestic Disturbances (and a Taste of Normalcy)
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: ESTABLISH TRUST WITH YELENA BELOVA. RECOMMENDED: FOSTER PROXIMITY AND SHARED EXPERIENCE. CAUTION: YELENA MAY ATTEMPT TO ESTABLISH 'GROUND RULES'.]
"Ground rules? System, my life is a ground rule. 'Don't get permanently dead.' Everything else is negotiable," I quipped as I watched Yelena meticulously clean her weapons in a surprisingly cozy, albeit spartan, safe house apartment in Gabès. She'd agreed to let me stay, temporarily. "For observation purposes," she'd claimed, her voice frosty. I knew better. She was intrigued. And, perhaps, a little less lonely than she let on.
The apartment was surprisingly tidy for an assassin, organized with a brutal efficiency that extended to every aspect of her life. Every knife, every piece of gear, had its place. My presence was an immediate disruption. My travel bag, stuffed with a bizarre assortment of alien trinkets, human snacks, and brightly colored clothing, was a garish splash of chaos in her perfectly ordered world.
"Alright, Adam, time to bring the domestic chaos. She's seen me die. She's seen me fight. Now, she gets to see me try to make toast without setting off the fire alarm. This is where the real trust is built."*
My goal for the next few days was to subtly infiltrate her life, to introduce her to the mundane, the ridiculous, and the occasionally heartwarming aspects of normal human existence. She'd spent her life in the shadows, trained to kill. It was time for her to experience the simple joys of a perfectly ripe avocado.
"So, Yelena," I began, sauntering into the kitchen, which was gleaming with surgical cleanliness. "I was thinking, since we're going to be 'allies' now, we should probably establish some cohabitation protocols. For example, my socks go on the floor. Yours... well, I assume you don't wear socks. Too restrictive for a Black Widow, right? Probably interfere with your silent creeping."
She didn't look up from oiling the barrel of a pistol. "My socks go in the hamper. And if your socks appear on my floor, they will be incinerated."
"Fair enough," I conceded. "Though I think you're missing out on the joy of a truly liberated sock. They just want to be free. Like me. And like you, eventually. From your incredibly intimidating, yet surprisingly endearing, rigid adherence to order."
My first attempt at 'normalcy' was cooking. Yelena survived on protein bars and pre-packaged military rations. I, on the other hand, yearned for real food.
"Alright, Yelena, prepare yourself for a culinary masterpiece," I announced, pulling out a bag of fresh vegetables and a very confused-looking chicken. "Tonight, we make... chicken tagine! A staple of North African cuisine! It involves spices! And love! And a distinct possibility of setting fire to this immaculate kitchen!"
Yelena watched me with a look of growing horror as I haphazardly chopped vegetables, occasionally missing the cutting board entirely. My "Basic Culinary Arts (Chaotic)" skill, which I'd gained from accidentally exploding a microwave in a previous life (not a unique death, sadly), meant I had a vague understanding of ingredients, but absolutely no understanding of proper technique or safety.
"Are you attempting to debone that chicken with a butter knife?" she asked, her voice laced with incredulity.
"It's about improvisation, Yelena!" I declared, narrowly missing my thumb. "It's about passion! It's about a distinct lack of proper kitchen utensils in this ridiculously sparse apartment! Seriously, no garlic press? What kind of spy is this?"
The tagine, surprisingly, didn't set the kitchen on fire. It did, however, taste vaguely of burnt cumin and existential dread. Yelena took one bite, her face a mask of polite revulsion, and then went back to her protein bar.
"It's... unique," she offered, diplomatically.
"See?" I beamed. "Progress! You didn't instantly try to kill me! This is practically a marriage proposal in my book!"
My next attempt was entertainment. Yelena consumed information with the detached efficiency of a machine. News, intel, mission briefings. I decided to introduce her to the wondrous world of streaming services.
"Alright, Yelena, prepare to have your mind blown," I said, setting up my salvaged (and illegally modified) tablet. "Tonight, we watch... 'The Great British Baking Show'! It's all about kindness! And cakes! And people being politely disappointed about soggy bottoms! It's the antithesis of everything you've ever known!"
Yelena watched the screen, utterly bewildered, as a contestant meticulously decorated a cake. "Why are they not fighting?" she asked, genuinely confused. "Where are the weapons? Is this a covert message?"
"No, Yelena," I sighed dramatically. "It's just people making cakes. For fun. For a prize. For the sheer joy of it. There's no hidden meaning. No secret mission. Just carbs. And a lot of very British politeness."
She remained silent for the rest of the episode, her eyes fixed on the screen, a strange, unreadable expression on her face. I could tell her highly trained assassin brain was struggling to categorize this new information. Was this a form of psychological torture? A new form of mind control? Or was it just... cake?
"She's totally intrigued. I can feel it. Soon, she'll be demanding to know who got Star Baker. This is working!"*
Days turned into a bizarre routine. I'd scavenge for more alien tech during the day, expanding my empire, and then return to the safe house, armed with new "normalcy" experiments. I tried to teach her how to play board games (she was terrifyingly competitive). I made her listen to pop music (she claimed it was "aggravating white noise"). I even tried to get her to join me for a very enthusiastic interpretive dance session (that lasted approximately 0.7 seconds before she pinned me against a wall).
"You're disrupting my operational flow," she stated one evening, watching me attempt to fix a leaky faucet with a Chitauri plasma torch (my Basic Energy Weapon Proficiency made me think this was a good idea; it was not).
"I'm broadening your horizons, Yelena!" I countered, narrowly avoiding vaporizing the entire sink. "Think of it as cross-training. Next time you're infiltrating a gala, you'll be able to tell the difference between a Pinot Noir and a cheap sparkling wine! It's a vital skill for a spy!"
She didn't answer, but I caught her, on more than one occasion, subtly observing me. Watching my reactions, trying to decipher my bizarre existence. Her initial fury had mellowed into a perpetual state of exasperated curiosity. She was learning to tolerate my chaos, even if she wouldn't admit it.
And I, in turn, was learning about her. The subtle tells, the fleeting expressions that betrayed her deeper emotions, the way she'd sometimes just watch the sunset, lost in thought. She was still a deadly assassin, but she was also a deeply complex, vulnerable person who had been denied a normal life. And I was determined to give her a taste of it, even if it meant enduring her constant threats and bewildered stares.
"You know," I said one night, as we sat in silence, looking out over the moonlit Gabès cityscape, "for someone who claims to want to kill me, you make a surprisingly good roommate."
She didn't respond, but I saw a faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her lips. A ghost of a smile. Progress. Real progress.
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