"I didn't know that Mr. Ranger had such a way with ladies." Natasha's voice, cool and measured, sliced through the quiet. She stepped fully into the dim light spilling from the house, her arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in a perfect expression of skeptical appraisal. "Especially for those of the… more higher class mutant kind." She let her gaze linger on the spot where Storm had knelt. Ranger remained quiet, his back to her.
"How many has it been now, Ranger?" she continued, her tone deceptively casual, yet each word a carefully aimed dart. "Emma Frost, draped over you like a prize. And now your hands, quite literally, dig for Storm. You certainly delivered a… memorable counterattack to that little thunderstorm she tried to rain down on you." Natasha walked around him, coming into his full view, her eyes, those sharp, assessing spy's eyes, missing nothing. "You really are quite the playboy, Mr. Ranger. A connoisseur of powerful, complicated women, it seems."
Ranger's hand moved slowly to his face, as if to wipe away a weariness that went deeper than mere physical exertion. Then, it moved upwards, his fingers combing through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. His eyes, when they finally came into the faint light, were shadowed, unreadable, yet his lips curved into a smirk that held no mirth, only a raw, almost painful self-awareness.
"And what if I am, Natasha?" His voice was rougher than usual, a raw edge to it. "What if I am a playboy? A collector of fleeting affections? What if I only think of girls, of conquest, all day long?" His eyes, though shadowed, seemed to burn with a sudden, fierce intensity, yet his smirk widened, becoming almost a snarl. "Even if I am all those things, Natasha, I believe it only increases my charm, does it not? Adds to the… allure of the forbidden?"
He took a step towards her, his movements jerky, less fluid than usual. "Women, they want what belongs to others, don't they? They crave what is just out of reach. It's an old, tired story, played out across millennia. And behind those carefully neutral eyes of yours, Natasha, I see just that. Jealousy." His voice was rising now, losing its controlled modulation, cracking with an unfamiliar emotion. "You're jealous that the focus, the absolute, undivided attention I gave you when we snuggled in each other's arms, watching the stars fall in the Grand Canyon, isn't there quite as intensely anymore, is it? You're jealous that the man who you believed understood you more than you understood yourself is now… diversifying his portfolio, chasing not just you, but other alluring, powerful women!"
He was closer now, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "Yet you mask it, don't you? You hide that jealousy, that ache, behind that impenetrable facade you've honed over years of brutal spycraft. You bury it beneath the stoic mask, wrap it in layers of professionalism, convince yourself it's all for the mission, all for the greater good, for the betterment of a world that wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire!" His voice was harsh, almost accusatory.
"You lie to yourself, Natasha! You deceive yourself into believing you are above such petty human emotions! But I know! I know that when I come close to you." his hand shot out, faster than she could react, his fingers brushing her hair, tucking it gently, almost tenderly, behind her ear, a stark contrast to the fury in his voice. "You are out of words. Your quick wit, your sharp retorts, they vanish. The only words that manage to escape are clipped phrases of sarcasm, or hollow recitations of the mission parameters Fury has undoubtedly drilled into your head. You know this, Natasha! You feel it! Yet you are terrified to accept it as truth, to admit that even the Black Widow can feel something as base, as human, as simple jealousy!"
Ranger sighed then, a ragged, shuddering exhalation that seemed to drain the anger from him, leaving behind a raw, aching vulnerability. The sound seemed to shake Natasha to her core, her own composure faltering for a split second. "I don't expect you to accept all my decisions, Natasha. God knows, I barely understand half of them myself. Neither do I want you to change who you are for me. You are… magnificent as you are." His voice softened, became almost pleading. "Yet, I hope you do. I truly, desperately hope you do. And yet, with every fiber of my being, I hope you don't."
He laughed then, a short, harsh, broken sound, and slapped himself hard across the face, the crack echoing in the sudden silence.
"I really am not myself when I am in front of you." he muttered, more to himself than to her, his shoulders slumping.
"A second, Natasha." His voice was strained. He took a deep, steadying breath, then turned and walked towards the sturdy brick wall of the house. And he began to punch. Without Turbo energy, without any of his suit's enhancements. Fist after fist slammed into the unyielding brick. The sound was brutal, sickening. His knuckles split, blood welling, staining the brick. Yet he kept going, each impact a release, a purging. Another punch. Another. The rhythm was relentless, self-punishing.
He stopped, finally, his chest heaving, his breathing ragged. He leaned his forehead against the cool, blood-smeared brick, taking deep, shuddering breaths. "I believe." he said, his voice hoarse but steadier now, "I have calmed myself sufficiently."
He turned back to face her. His face was pale, drawn, but his eyes, when they met hers, were once again as stoic, as unreadable, as her own often were. The storm had passed. "You were sent to gather intelligence from me, Agent Romanoff. So, by all means, ask your questions."
Natasha looked at him, her lips parted slightly as if to speak, but no words came. She had a million things to say, a universe of questions, of accusations, of perhaps even understanding, yet in that moment, she found herself utterly silent.
Ranger's gaze flicked to the almost invisible earpiece she wore. A tinny, urgent voice crackled through the comms, audible even to him in the quiet.
"Agent Romanoff, report! Ask him what happened with Sebastian Shaw. We need confirmation on his relationship with Emma Frost. Now!" The voice was insistent, demanding.
Natasha took her time, her eyes still locked on Ranger's bruised, bloody knuckles, before her gaze lifted to meet his. When she spoke, her voice was low, carefully neutral, the Black Widow persona firmly back in place. "What happened between you and Sebastian Shaw?"
Ranger looked at her eyes, searching for something, anything, behind the professional mask. She looked back, unblinking. "Shaw attempted to absorb my energy." Ranger stated, his voice flat, his emotions seemingly stabilized, locked away. "He took in as much as his unique physiology could process, and then, predictably, he attempted to take more. I simply… facilitated his ambition, broke the established limit of what he believed he could absorb. His arm, as a consequence, experienced a catastrophic, explosive structural failure. The residual energy discharge from that event alerted everyone in the immediate vicinity."
"And Emma Frost?" Natasha pressed, her voice still devoid of inflection. "What is your current relationship with her? Did she incite you to attack Shaw?" Her eyes were as cool and still as a frozen lake. Yet, Ranger thought he saw a flicker, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor deep within their depths.
He couldn't, or perhaps wouldn't, name what hid behind that fleeting vulnerability. "Emma Frost did not incite me to attack Sebastian Shaw." he replied, his voice firm. "Everything I did, I did of my own volition, for my own reasons. And as for my relationship with Emma Frost…" He paused, his gaze unwavering. "She is mine."
Natasha's expression didn't change, but the flicker in her eyes, whatever it had been, was now completely gone, extinguished. "Are you planning on causing further disruption among our mutant allies, Ranger?"
"Not if they refrain from initiating hostilities first," he replied, then raised a hand, palm out, forestalling her next question. With his other hand, he deftly plucked the comm unit from her ear. He held it for a moment, then placed it in his own.
"Director Fury, President Ross, any other interested parties currently eavesdropping." Ranger's voice was calm, carrying an absolute, unshakeable authority, "I am, as you can imagine, in a rather… inhospitable mood at present. So, I will state my intentions with unambiguous clarity. Yes, I am participating in your impending global conflict, ostensibly on the side of the United States and its… current allies. I will fulfill my part of our rather tenuous bargain. However, any attempts, overt or clandestine, to domesticate me, to bring me to heel, to treat me as a mere asset to be deployed at your convenience, will be met with swift, decisive, and quite possibly disproportionate retaliation. This applies whether such provocations originate from your declared enemies, or indeed, from your own ranks."
"If you attack me, or mine, I will retaliate in kind. No, I will not be deploying the full extent of my capabilities in your war, for it is, as I have stated, your war, not mine. My participation is a concession, not an enlistment. During this conflict, should any of you entertain the notion that you are being particularly clever, that you can surreptitiously attack my designated turf, or harm those I consider mine, while my attention is ostensibly diverted elsewhere… I shall immediately cease to be a reluctant participant and instead become your most formidable, implacable, and creatively destructive enemy. Do not touch my clearly demarcated bottom lines, and I shall endeavor not to obliterate yours. I believe I have stated my intentions now with rather stark clarity. Whether you choose to believe the sincerity of my pronouncements, or test their veracity, is, as always, entirely your decision."
His hand, still bloodied, closed around the comm unit. It crushed the delicate electronics into fragments, which he then incinerated with a brief, intense flare of blue Turbo energy, the ashes scattering on the slight evening breeze.
He turned back to Natasha, the stoic mask on his face softening, just slightly, revealing a hint of the earlier rawness, the weariness. "Natasha…" he began, his voice hesitant, then he sighed, the words seemingly catching in his throat. His eyes wandered upwards, to the dark, indifferent sky. "I don't expect an answer to this, not now, not this soon. Perhaps not ever. Yet…" he took a deep breath, his gaze returning to hers, direct, intense, vulnerable. "I will ask you nonetheless. Do you wish for me to be… only yours?"
He held up a hand before she could speak, even if she had been inclined to. "Don't answer lightly, Natasha. Think on it. If your answer, whenever you choose to give it, if ever, is yes… then you are forever mine. And I." his voice dropped, becoming almost a whisper, "am forever yours. I know this is a commitment that seems almost… alien to you. A cage, perhaps, for a spirit that believes it was never truly its own to begin with."
Ranger took a step back, then another, creating a small space between them.
"Take all the time you need, Natasha. All the time in the world. But remember this." his voice was quiet but held an unshakeable conviction, "until such time as your answer is an unequivocal 'yes,' until you yourself declare that you wish for me to be only yours… I will not stop my plans. I will not alter my course."
He paused at the edge of the porch. "And before this war truly begins, Natasha… I will give you a gift. The gift shall give you a choice. What you choose will depend solely on you."
Then, so softly it was barely audible even to her enhanced hearing, he whispered, "Go Turbo: Flight." And with a silent shimmer of energy, he rose into the night sky, a dark silhouette against the distant city glow, and was gone.