bakerstreet | (no subject)

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the ROAD TRIP meme
You know who likes a good road trip? Everyone likes a good road trip! So aren't you glad you get to go on one now? Of course you are.

How it works:
1. Post with your character, with their name | canon and any preferences in the subject line
2. Someone else tags you. Congratulations, those characters are now on a road trip together! To where? Who cares! We only care about the journey here
3. Go to the RNG and get a random number between 1 and 15 to pick your scenario, or combine numbers or make up your own
4. ???
5. ROAD TRIP STYLED PROFIT!

Scenarios:
1: LOST You should have made a left toin at Albuquerque, or maybe you've been holding the map upside down this whole time! Whatever it is, you're hopelessly LOST. Will you make it back on the path to your destination, or will you find a new adventure? ~~Try not to open any hatches.~~

2: Tourist Trap Okay, you're all for seeing the sights, but World's Biggest Doorstopper? World's Smallest Chicken? World's Noisiest Whistle? Do we really have to stophere, too?

3: Car Trouble Maybe you got a flat tire. Maybe your engine's stalled. Or maybe you just overestimated how far you could get on a half tank of gas. Either way, you're broke down on the side of the road and the nearest station is miles away; better get behind it and push!

4: Bad Weather Driving in the rain? No problem. Driving in torrential downpours or a blinding blizzard? Big problem! Better find a way to get out of the storm fast!

5: When Ya Gotta Go... Didn't I tell you to go before we left? Well, even if you did, maybe you shouldn't have had that 44 ounce Super Big Gulp, because there's not another rest stop for miles. Maybe you can find an empty bottle in the back...

6: Road Delays Stuck in traffic? Stuck at road construction? Stuck in a funeral procession? Bridge out? Whatever it is, it's blocking your way. Do you wait patiently, or maybe find your own way around it.

7: Smokey and the Bandit Oh no, those blue lights behind you can't be good. Maybe you should just pull over and accept your speeding ticket like a decent citizen. Or, maybe you should floor it. High speed chase anyone?

8: Night Driving You decided to drive through the night, and now it's one AM and you're all out of coffee. Wake up a friend and make them help you stay awake; falling asleep at the wheel is dangerous!

9: Ghost Town Boy, this town sure is quiet. And... kind of creepy. Oh God, did something in those corn rows just move? I hear banjo music; DRIVE FASTER!

10: Roadkill Good going, you hit an animal. I sure hope you feel good about yourself. Now you've killed the poor- oh, it's still moving? What do we do now!?
10a: The I Know What You Did Last Summer Edition That animal you hit was a little more human than you care for... oh dear...

11: ROAD RAGE That jerk cut me off! How dare he!? I'll make him pay! Or maybe you cut off a less-than-friendly driver of your own, and now he's after you...

12: Carjacked Awww, that was a good lunch. ...Wait, I know this is where we parked... Dude, where's the car!?!?

13: Hitchhiking Who said you needed a car for a road trip? Stick that thumb out and catch a ride where you're going. Maybe you and a buddy are chillin' with the pigs in a trailer, or maybe that nice looking hitchhiker you picked up down the road is not as nice as you thought...

14: Fantasy Car Roads? Where you're going, you don't need roads. If you're in Doc's DeLorean, anyway. Or maybe the car is really Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Or a spy car. Or the Batmobile. Or a Transformer! Whatever it is, this car is NOT normal.

15: Are We There Yet? Roller's choice! Pick your favorite option, or two, or three, or just roll with whatever feels right!

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She chuckles, low and smooth and a little breathless. "Oh, I know I'm very biased. You break all my rules, you know that? I don't get involved with Alphas." And that's real, too. Always too nervous to chance it, not seeing the benefit outweighing the risk. Natasha's personal love life, entirely unlike her professional one, is sparse to the point of nonexistence at times. She's learned to go without when she doesn't feel safe. She rarely feels safe.

"I definitely don't let guys go carting me out to the middle of nowhere without any idea where we're going." Because she's not letting that go, either. He's so perfect, he always knows when she needs to talk, when she needs him to stay silent, when she wants to be touched and when she wants to be left alone. It doesn't matter that the woman he's learning doesn't exist, because she's real right now, and he's working harder to know her than anyone's ever worked to know the real Natasha. She'll take it. If this is the only time he'll mess something up, she wants to remember it. Proof that he's human.

And he hits the brakes.

Literally.

"I know where we are," he announces, and shifts the truck into reverse. Skids back about twenty feet, and takes a right, instead, onto a small dirt road. This should head straight up to the river. He recognizes the old oak stump there, and -- yeah, right place.

"Promise I'll be a perfect gentleman," he assures her, giving her hand a final squeeze and returning it to the wheel. Steering needs his attention, along here.

She squawks indignantly when he hits the brakes and she nearly goes sliding off the seat, letting go of his chin to brace her hand against the dash and hooking her foot around the back of the cab from the outside to keep herself relatively steady. "Careful with my truck."

But he's excited, and she loves seeing that look on his face. Loves it more than she wants to admit. "Perfect gentleman?" She turns her face into his stomach and nips at him through his shirt before sitting up so that she can pull her socks and boots back on. "Is that the nice guy way of saying I'm not getting laid tonight?"

"Trucks are made to be driven," he tells her. "Even pretty ones."

He wouldn't've let her fall. Would have braced her.

A little twitch, at the nip, and a, "hey," in admonishment. "Long as nature cooperates, you can get just as laid as you want, tonight." Insects and such can ruin the mood, in all fairness. But he likes the thought of her, and the truck, and the sound of the river. It's another fifteen minutes up the winding road, but by the time they get up the little mountain, they'll have a beautiful view.

She jams her foot into the second boot, stomps against the floorboards to seat her heel, and then she's pressing herself against his side, hand high on his thigh. Natasha likes the thought of Will and Noel, out in the open, under the stars. It feels right. "That's good," she says, nearly purrs. "Cause I want to get really laid. I can't remember the last day off I had that didn't turn into a marathon of laundry and grocery shopping. I want to enjoy this."

And there's more to that statement than meets the eye. It trickles down through the layers. Noel wants to enjoy her time off with her boyfriend, with the guy who gets her, who keeps her secrets like they're his own. And Natasha wants to enjoy this chance to be the sort of woman she could have been in another life. "So, are you going to tell me why this place is so special? Or do I have to guess?"

"My Daddy used to take me up here on the weekends," he tells her. "We'd go fishing, and I wouldn't catch anything, and he'd catch enough for six people, and then we'd roast over a fire and talk. I never got to spend much time with him. I was a momma's boy. But I loved him."

Everyone knows the story: that his Daddy was in pursuit of a serial killer, that Will was the one who called in the FBI and then cracked the case. To hear the New Orleans police tell it, the FBI didn't do much. Will tells it differently.

"Anyway, there's a camping spot; we can back the truck up almost to the river. It's got a waterfall and a pool up there where one stream joins the main body -- it's a nice spot."

When he starts talking about his father, she takes her hand from his thigh. But she also presses in closer against his side, head resting on his shoulder. The safe detachment of 'Noel' lets her hold on to her denial that this doesn't satisfy her in a very primal way, that she isn't slowly becoming addicted to the ability to just tuck herself against him and feel wanted. She's pretty sure he loves her, and it's equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

Natasha knows all about Will's father, all about his family, but it's not information she can act on. He has to tell Noel, has to decide how well he wants her to know him. "You really miss him." It's not exactly a question, but the option for him to expand is there. If he wants to. She has prepared material about Noel's life, false stories about people that don't exist. But she never tells them. The more time she spends with him, the worse she feels feeding him lies. He's too genuine, to good, too honest and uncomplicated. She doesn't want to taint him. Not when he's giving her one of the most fulfilling experiences she's ever had.

"Thank you." She turns her face into his neck, presses a kiss against his pulse. "I love seeing little pieces of your life that no one else gets to." And the moment gets too heavy, far too much for her to carry on shoulders that aren't actually there. "Unless this is your go-to move to lock in smokin' redheads. Get us addicted to this completely genuine good guy act? Cause if so? Smart."

For him, sex and family are both tied in with love. It's all part of the same thread, in his mind; the people you're close to, they're family, and they're the ones who get to see all the important pieces of you. This place is important.

He leans into the kiss, a soft smile on his lips. "There's only one smokin' redhead I'm interested in." Will has never really wanted sex with someone who's not important to him. She's become important to him.

"Well, good. Cause I can get a little possessive. It's not pretty." For Natasha, sex and family have never been about love. Her history, it's rocky and dangerous, a mine field of near disasters. Red Room did not put a premium on love. The safest sex, the best sex, has always been completely removed from emotions. And then Will happened. She's trying not to think about that too deeply.

This is when losing herself in Noel becomes more about emotional security than actual subterfuge. Because if the feelings are Noel's, they don't count, and they won't have to hurt when she loses them. So there's no pithy banter. Not right now. She just stays moulded to his side as they bump their way down the dirt road, breathing him in and watching the scenery go past out the window as they head up the mountain. This is nice. The quiet, the contentment. This is what she wants to be able to hold on to.

He uses a fork in the road to turn, to back up unto a couple of rough ruts. Flicks the truck off. There's a short slope down to the river-pool, with the main body flowing past below.

He gently untangles himself from Noel, pressing a brief kiss to the crown of her head, and slips out of the truck.

"Here we are," he says, stretching.

She's right behind him, sliding out of the truck and slamming the door, stretching her arms up over her head as she looks around, pulling first one elbow to the side and then the other. "This is beautiful." It's green and lush and alive, the sound of the water and the low level hum of wildlife around them, the warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze keeping it from getting stuffy.

Natasha walks up behind him, wraps her arms around his stomach, presses her nose to the warm patch of skin between his hair and his shirt collar, and inhales. She will never, ever, get enough of the way he smells. But those are heavy thoughts, and she has forty eight hours with a man who makes her blood sing, no suppressants, no responsibilities, and she gives him one last squeeze before she goes running toward the sound of water, laughing and happy. "Come on. I want to see this perfect fishing spot." Which may not explain why she's kicking her boots off again and stepping out of her skirt as she goes. Tank top over her head, bra tossed behind her into some bushes, panties and socks pulled off at the edge of the water.

It's refreshing, not cold, and when she surfaces in the middle of the river, she's still laughing, shaking wet hair out of her eyes. She treads water for a moment, and then tips onto her back, arms spread wide as she floats, entirely without shame.

His eyes follow her, and he lets out an appreciative whistle at her, her body. She's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen -- he's a little biased, admittedly, since the fact that she's his makes her ten times more beautiful.

"And I thought you couldn't look more beautiful," he says, stepping up to the edge of the water. He's started on the buttons of his shirt -- not as quick as her, but certainly heading in that direction.

She giggles, turning her head just far enough to catch sight of him beginning to undress, and then righting herself to get a better view. She swims back toward him slowly, and then waits in the water below him, watching with hungry eyes. "I'd say flattery won't get you anywhere, but we both know that's not true." She loves listening to him tell her what he adores about her - not because she needs the compliments, but because he's so incredibly genuine when he says it. It's never a ploy, never a tactic to get him into her pants. "I bet I'm even prettier up close. You should come get a better look."

Natasha's body is naturally stunning, and honed to perfection through careful planning and meticulous care. It's nothing new for men to be enamoured. But she's usually more detached. Will, though, has the kind of body that's fantastic because it's real. She loves the trim lines of his muscle, faint and built for use, not for show. Nothing about him is decorative. His beauty is functional, and (for at least a little while still), it's all hers. It's a heady thought.

Functional, and, as far as he's concerned, kinda scrawny. But he doesn't mind how he looks next to her, as long as she looks at him like this. The way she likes him makes him feel stronger, calmer, more centered.

He steps up onto one of the rocks and takes a couple steps running, dives in. He knows how deep it is, here.

He surfaces and jerks his head, flipping water out of his hair. "C'mere and let me make sure," he says, treading water.

She loves the way he moves, the way his muscle shifts underneath his skin, bone and sinew and blood in his veins, real and alive. That's what captivates her. He's not a museum piece to put on a pedestal and forget about. He's worth more than that, his value runs deeper.

His voice, a command like a request, he doesn't need to tell her twice. She ducks under the river's surface, looking at his bare skin through the distortion of the water and the dappled sunlight. And when she breaks the surface again to wrap her arms loosely around his neck, her heart is pounding. She can't touch the bottom, but that's fine. She doesn't want the ground beneath her feet. He grounds her.

It's not a one way street, the way she builds him up. He does it for her, too. He makes her feel stronger, calmer, more centered. He makes her feel invincible. "What do you think? Close enough?"

He kisses her, in lieu of answering, and they both duck underwater, briefly. He's in no panic, no hurry to breathe, and he just pulls her close, the movement slow and smooth in the water. Silence: no sound of birds, no breeze, only the low rumble of the waterfall. No touch but with her.

Who the hell needs grounding?

The kiss breaks, and he breaks the surface, again. "I don't know," he demurs, "I might have to look for a while."

Natasha has been drowned. She's been deprived of oxygen as torture and training, and she can't actually tell you which one is worse. But when she dips beneath the water level with his arms around her, there is no fear, no uncertainty. She doesn't kick out for the ground, doesn't move to find herself the air her body knows it needs. She just wraps her legs around his waist and holds on to him and trusts.

"You can look for as long as you want, Darlin'. Just don't let me go and you won't hear me complain." This moment is perfect, the cool water and the warm body and the certainty that there's someone in her life who won't let her fall. Won't let Noel fall. But it's getting harder and harder for her to make the distinction.

Later, he has hot dogs on spits and a fire and some beer from the cooler. The stars are many and dazzling overhead, and the night is warm.

"I like mine charcoal with a hot dog filling," he tells her. "You are free to cook yours how you like them."

"You do realize that if you put me in charge of any food, I will find a way to destroy it, right?" She's leaning back against him with a beer in one hand and a contented smile on her face, looking up at the stars.

After the swimming, the hope of water sex, the unexpected interruption of a couple in a canoe during the attempt at water sex, the twenty straight minutes of laughter, and finally successful sex in the grass while they air dried, she's kind of starving. No way is Natasha letting Noel ruin dinner. And she'll find a way. She's wearing the same clothes from earlier, with the addition of one of Will's sweatshirts. Not because she's cold, but because it smells like him.

And he promptly plucks the spit from her hand, and holds it to the fire himself.

"Then you can let me know how you like it," he says.

There are dirty jokes to be made, dozens of them right on the tip of her tongue, ranging from the incredibly cheesy you know how I like it to wittier offerings like that fast and rough in the grass wasn't too bad or I thought I did let you know, I guess I should make it a point to be louder. Or she could say something startlingly honest, I like anything you give me, and cover it in the veneer of the safety of discussing food instead of anything important.

She decides to pass, letting a raised eyebrow and a little smirk make the joke for her. "Not charcoal," she laughs. "The only chance I ever have at food that's not burned to a crisp is if someone else makes it. I definitely exploit that when it comes to you." And, since his hands are otherwise occupied, she tips her beer against his mouth. It's her offering to the whole process. She'll make sure he doesn't go thirsty, he'll make sure she eats.

Tilts his head back, and his throat works, swallowing the beer down. Lets out a satisfied noise, and leans in to brush his lips over hers. He kisses her a lot -- can't resist it, seems like, when she's close by. Doesn't bother to try and resist it, maybe.

"Happy to be the cook," he says. "You let me make everything spicy."

Natasha has noticed, wonders if it's an instinct of his, keep his taste on her lips so she doesn't forget how much she wants him. Or maybe she tastes as good as he smells, because he smells fantastic. Every time he leans in, her mouth is waiting, because she understands that impulse. Whenever her personal orbit swings close to his, her face ends up pressed against his neck, the tip of her nose at his hairline so that she can breathe him in. She avoids it as best she can when they're not alone, which means that as soon as the apartment door closes behind them, she's on him like a koala bear.

"I like things spicy," she whispers against his lips. They've had contests, seeing who can handle the most heat. Noel always loses. Will's got a cast iron stomach. But she loves the food he makes, loves to sit on the counter and watch him move around the kitchen with an easy familiarity. It feels like normal life, like the kind of thing someone like Noel would be happy to do forever. Even this - Will and a campfire and the sound of the river and the twinkling stars, this is the kind of thing that normal people do with people they love, with people they can't get enough of, when everything is suddenly special because of who you share it with.

Another kiss, and then another, and then another and Will finally manages to pull away and pay attention to the dogs cooking on the spits. When hers starts to show a hint of black, he pulls it out and slips it into a bun for her.

Even she can't mess up adding uncooked ingredients, right?

She can wield a plastic squeeze bottle without disastrous consequences. She takes a bite, to test it, and hums appreciatively, licking a bit of mustard from the corner of her mouth. "Perfect." Then she waits for him to finish cooking his, laughing a little at the fact that it truly does come out of the fire entirely black. "So that's a blackened cajun dog?" He's explained the appeal of blackening chicken and fish to her a couple of times, and she continues to play dumb, because she likes to hear him get passionate about the way New Orleans pours its soul into the food it makes, how it becomes an extension of the people, a way to connect a community. A community he keeps on trying to make her a part of.

That's not unusual. What is a bit odd is how much she wants to let him. Deep undercover, and things aren't progressing as neatly as SHIELD would like. How much time might it end up taking? Another six months? A year? She could coast, she could ride this life for that long and, though she tries to not even think it to herself, she could be happy. She could be happy as Noel, happy as a detective, happy with Will. Where would they be, a year from now, if they got to keep living this life?

That's not how it will happen. If it really drags out that long, Fury will force a response, he'll grab the situation with both hands and shake hard until something falls out. But what if he didn't? What if she could? The longest deep cover op on record with SHIELD lasted almost six years. How much life could she live in six years like this? How much of herself would she lose? How much of what she lost would she actually miss? She doesn't realize how seriously she's staring at him, how open and honest her expression of apprehension and wonder, how vulnerable she's let herself become because she knows he is incapable of taking advantage of her.

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That moment was perfect, I'm timeskipping.

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