Over time, Natasha's anxiety hardens to anger. She's ready to fight. It's ironic, she thinks, that before Sawyer she would never have had the confidence to defend herself like she wants to tonight. Natasha stares out into the night.
Natasha is roused from her stupor by the beep of the key-card machine outside the door. Sawyer walks in, the door bangs against the wall with the force she uses to throw it open. She's six feet of thunder and reproach. She doesn't look at Natasha, just flips open her laptop and starts clicking away. Natasha hears her mutter something about actors not being on their marks. She types for 30 minutes and Natasha turns to rest her forehead on the wing of the chair as her anger grows and grows. Sawyer clips her laptop shut. Natasha can only see the side of her face, but she looks haughty and disdainful.
"Explain,"
"Why?" Natasha's been silent for so long that her voice sounds hoarse and unfamiliar to her own ears.
Sawyer snaps her neck around to look at Natasha. Her face is a picture of incredulity.
"What do you mean why?" Sawyer spits
Natasha repeats, "I mean, why should I explain?"
"Because there are illegal," She pauses for effect, "substances in a room rented for me by my employer."
"I didn't leave them on your fucking desk," Natasha snaps back, "They were in the bottom of my wash bag, in my suitcase."
Sawyer flings her hands up, "I wasn't going through your things. I needed a knife; I left my Leatherman in your wash bag because I used it last night to cut open our new - "
"I don't care about that," Natasha cuts her off.
"What do you care about, Natasha? Do you care about being honest?"
Natasha flinches. Sawyer smiles, flicks her hair over her shoulder.
"Do you care about my career? The one I've been working on since I was 18? I've not had one dime towards college or anything else from my parents since I left home. I've never been out of work since college,"
Natasha nods mutely.
"Then why the fuck are you bringing drugs into what is still effectively my workplace?"
Natasha shrugs.
"All my colleagues are down the hall, Natasha. They have a fucking imprint of my driver's license and my credit card downstairs," Sawyer tosses her wallet across the room and it lands at Natasha's feet.
"I'm self-employed. It's all word of mouth. If people think I'm a fucking coke head or a crack head or a tweaker or whatever, I'm fucking finished," Her accent gets thicker like it does when she's drunk, and she sneers at Natasha.
Sawyer stands up, points her finger in Natasha's face, "You're embarrassing. You embarrass yourself and you embarrass me."
Every one of Sawyer's words is like an arrow. Natasha feels like St Sebastian.
"Why would you do this to me?" Sawyer's voice is high and nasal, "Was it supposed to be a fun, you know, holiday thing, or is it a problem?"
Natasha laughs hollowly, "It's a problem alright."
"A problem, like an addiction problem?" Sawyer takes a deep breath, puffs herself up, "I've got a right to know."
"Do you?" Natasha's voice is low but it easily carries across the room. It stops Sawyer dead in her tracks.
"Well," Sawyer blusters, "Of course I have a right to know. I have a right to know who I am starting a relationship with."
"Why? Do you want a print out of all my medical history or just the bits that might be objectionable to you?"
"Well, obviously n-"
Natasha cuts Sawyer off mid-word, "You know I've got anxiety, but I also have psoriasis. Surprise, bitch! And when I was young I got Henoch-Schonlein purpura. They thought my kidneys might be fucked after that but they seem to work okay. I broke a finger in High School playing basketball," Natasha holds up her wonky, bumpy index finger and casts around for other ailments to throw at Sawyer. While she was talking Natasha had propelled herself up and out of her seat with agitation. Now she realizes how loud she was shouting, and lets her hands drop to her sides, feeling a bit shaken and ashamed of herself.
"Look," Natasha starts again, "If you feel that you have a right to know so that you could choose, what choice would you have made?"
Sawyer opens her mouth, frowns, shuts it again.
"Natasha, that's not - "
She raises her voice, "What choice would you have made?" Her fragile self-esteem is hemorrhaging. She knows the answer, but she wants to hear it from Sawyer's mouth.
Sawyer bites the inside of her cheek for a few seconds, "I can't say that dating a drug user would have been my choice."
At least she has the decency to close her eyes as she says it.
"And to help you make that choice, what sources would you have consulted?" Natasha wants to trip her up.
"What?"
"Where would you have got that information from? Breaking Bad? Fucking – Faces of Meth posters? '10 Before And After Drugs Pictures That You Simply Won't Believe'?"
Sawyer sticks her chin out, "I know about drugs, I'm not as naïve as you think."
"You know Jack shit!" Natasha shouts so loud it hurts her throat. She stops and lowers her volume, punctuates her words with her hands, palms up. She really wants Sawyer to listen and wants Sawyer to know how much she wants her to listen, "I've spent years
