Work Text
It's been a while since Natasha has been home. Staying tied down to one place isn't really suited towards the lifestyle and getting attached at a sentimental face value is too much of a risk for safety. Her home was Russia, the Red Room and the KGB. It was training and no mercy and everything ugly before she met Clint. She spent her youth training to be hard and callous and then she met the Winter Soldier. Her was her trainer in the days she spent as a pawn of HYDRA and the Red Room in the early 2000s. He was merciless and she was terrified of him, the way he’d hit her and bring her to the edge of death, nearly but not quite almost begging for him to kill her. When all was said and done, her teachers sneering that she was useless, the other girls in the Black Widow program spitting at her inability to take down the unbeatable and Natalia Alianovna Romanova crumpled face first praying that someone would kill her, there was James. He had broken her as the person he wasn’t. She glanced up at the shadow towering over her after wincing at her broken jaw, hours after the blood and sweat dried as she laid on the rubber mat, and nearly screamed. He was back to kill her and it was going to be worse than the pain of nearly already breaking every bone in her boy, oh god, please d- The light in his eyes wasn’t the same. There wasn’t the black dilated pupils and the undercurrent of murderous intent. There was something sad, almost as broken as she felt in those hours on the floor, and furious, but not at her. Despite her fear and feeble attempts to shove him off, he had picked her up by the waist and hauled her limp form to her bedroom on the widows’ floor. He couldn’t fix the broken shoulder or sprained knee but he patched her up and handed her a gun. Her eyes were dry from tear stains and she was barely conscious or standing when he shot the next agent who walked through the door. And then he said, “бежать“. And so they ran. They camped out in a remote Ukrainian village for a week before HYDRA found him and dragged him back, kicking and screaming. He had held her and told her how much he hated being the Winter Soldier. How the emotions insider him, the real him, burned into rage when HYDRA turned him back into the monster. They had made love and stupidly made whispered promises of escaping and setting fire to the world of the Red Room. He was as trapped as she was and the both were always meant to be rookie in this greater game of fucked up chess. It’s where she found the only person that understood and, she, stupidly fell in love. And then the inevitable happened and they were seperated for years. The next time she would see him outside of her mind would be Odessa with the nuclear engineer and then Washington. Every time she saw the man she loved after that, all she could see was him trying to kill her. There was no recognition or remembrance in his eyes and it fucking stung. She truly was cursed by fate or whatever gods, laos or deities hated her. Why did she ever think a monster could love? The same metal hands that had fed her ciorba in a shabby cottage without any heating and healed her bleeding wounds with steady hands and a scalpel, the same mouth that had kissed her like they were both dying and the same arms that held her up when she was breaking, all of them a physical juxtaposition of her deathmarked and ill-fated love. Every mission after Iran, every chance to save a life and every happy couple cradling their lover like they were the moon holding the sun in their hands had burned down her throat like bleach. She wanted it so badly but it was so far from her grasp. James was long dead to the world and the only person left was the Winter Soldier. If Rogers thought he was a mess when he realized it was Bucky trying to kill him, she doesn’t want to know what he’d say to her inner turmoil.
So, maybe they were star crossed lovers. Maybe their love was were her civil blood made civil hands unclean. But they made it out and alive. And they are here, together, now and that’s all that really matters to her. They've come back from a mission gone relatively well. S.H.I.E.L.D. had some nets to cast over a town in eastern Latvia and the two of them were available. It’s been a rough start to the new year and, though Natasha knows resolutions are just-pretend, she never feels like she can have the same clean-slate mentality as everyone else. It aches in her chest, some days, how she knows that despite her work in the Avengers and killing Ultron, Thanos or being under S.H.I.E.L.D., she’ll never live down the red in her ledger. The faces of the innocent people she’s killed and the lives she’s ruined will always flash into her mind in the late hours of the night. She’ll bite down on her knuckle as to not scream when she sleeps alone, in fear of warning her mark or team, or claw at her arms and leave angry marks as to distract herself. Perhaps, she knows pain is the best way to punish the monster she truly is. She’ll walk the Compound floors when it’s so unbearable that she wants to run away from the world and never look back. As if she could start over, as if it’s that fucking easy. She’ll head to the gym and train for hours until she slumps into an exhausted heap or walk the streets of upstate New York at 3 A.M. She knows she could have just said no to the mission but Иаков would have just given her that look; the one where he’s concerned behind the cold exterior and where the way his mouth settles into a grim line with the lingering promise of cornering her later in between the bed-sheets and forcing her to be emotionally vulnerable. After she’s loved him for so long and had nothing but despair and an empty bed when she comes home to S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers, years of loathing and self-worth when she catches a glimpse of Clint’s family, to be confronted with someone willing to give her his entire life? It’s all a bit much. Yeah, she’ll pass if it means she won’t have emotions. She doesn’t sleep in the same bed with Barnes most nights. She doesn't know why she kicks him out after sex, aside from the fact that she’s a broken shell of a person. She knows she could never have a normal love life, despite Barton’s reassurances and his picket-fence family, and she feels it in her gut (not her soul because she probably doesn't have one anymore) the loneliness that slowly kills her in the haunting nightmares and flashbacks of the assassin she was before. It was a standard drug bust; cash-only transactions no paper trails, guns and stupid looking slouch hats. They've managed to take out the mob boss head and his main men who manage most of the operation. It’s draining and long; as far as hunting each and every supplier and errand-boy down, she can assess the real threats from the teenage boys just looking to make some extra money or being trapped in by a gang. It wasn't easy work and ‘Tasha was a little too close to getting shot to call it a perfect mission, but what's done is done. It's enough to stop the major influx and supply of A-list drugs like cocaine, heroin and LSD from slipping under the radar into England, France and Germany for a while. The only people dead are the ones who have been costing civilian lives and running their own little circus circuits. She could be upset about how she almost blew her cover or jealous at her boyfriend’s never wavering composure when their entire mission goes to hell. Barnes's ability to switch accents and dialects is still superior, though she'll never admit it out loud.The adrenaline rush is over and she’s out of her disguise as a rich-middle aged woman married to one of the higher-ups in the operations. Her wig was abandoned somewhere on the QuinJet and she’s out of the fake fur that made her skin itch with anxiety. They’re in an abandoned mine-town in northern Arizona in an underground base disguised as a train station. They're both in a standard S.H.I.E.L.D. apartment, floors above the training gyms and office desks planning the next HYDRA take down. She knows the room could be bugged despite two ex-assassins skills and sharp eye, but right here, right now, there's shelter and the promise of enough food in the fridge for a warm meal. The bed they’re meant to share in covered in plain grey-blue sheets that looks like something out of Златовласка и три медведя. There are brandless, average-looking clothing packed in the hidden dark grey cabinets and a small supply of bland eggs, bread, fruit and vegetables in the stainless steel refrigerator. The kitchen is eerily untouched, the set of all black utensils and appliances, a blender, microwave and stove-top oven, looking like the entire set-up is staged. Knowing Fury, everything probably is. The fireplace is just starting to be lit up with the crackle of orange-red light, cushioned with kindling and logs as a metal arm pokes them with an iron. The room is freezing and the thermostat is long forgotten. She’s just showered and she can see the tips of her red hair peeking through the platinum blonde locks that are sopping wet onto the hardwood floors. She’s in a a pair of yoga pants and one of Bucky’s old shirts from his time in Romania. She feels warm. It's unusual. Being smiley and optimistic isn't catered towards her lifestyle or priorities. Also, maybe coming back down from the adrenaline high of a mission gone sour shouldn't fuel this light and calmness to her composure. But it does anyway. Her hair is still wet from just washing it and she's already making her way from the clothing cabinet and bed to the couch adjacent to the fireplace. Barnes is in a tight-fitting tank top and dark navy jeans. As Natasha sits down on the sofa that’s hard underneath her, she sinks her entire weight to the side and eyes the television above James. There’s an infomercial station on display and a man with wrinkles under his eyes advertising a contraption that cuts into hard-boiled eggs. There’s something domestic about spending the night in an impersonal bed and next to the only person she’s truly loved. She can’t explain it. She knows this is her normal, one day, living like the couple they always wanted to be, and the next, pretending they’ve never met and saving lives. The stakes are still high and the tide is coming in; their relationship could be blown to kingdom come by the end of the night, her kicking him out for the umpteenth time or perhaps running off after another explosive fight fueled by her insecurities. But all she wants to do is lay next to him James is standing in front of her, staring at something on her face when she returns from her head to reality and his eyes are blinking with a slight twitch on his left eyelid. A bead of sweat dips from his eyebrows so the sides of his face and into his beard. His black-brown hair is longer than hers and disheveled while still looking orderly. Natasha blinks, ignoring Barnes’ obvious discomfort, while noticing the efforts he’s gone to. In front of her on the nearby wooden table is two cups of a shitty blend of chamomile tea and what looks like his attempt at Solyanka, her favourite meal for when she’s tired. It’s not the worst date they’ve had in the fifteen years they’ve known each other but Natasha can tell James feels unsure, like he’s skating on thin ice and waiting for his relationship crack like a sinkhole beneath his feet. He’s still broken and battered, catching up to the normal life he deserves of the twenty-first century and desperately trying to keep her close while she tries to run. She’s never loved him more. “What?” Natasha blurts out, because she's trying to enjoy not presently dying at the hands of aliens or drug cartels and he’s kind of ruining it. She’s also very much aware that she’ll always break before him. “Does it bother you? The scars?” James’ mouth is turned sideways and his eyes are cold. Natasha reels back like she’s been slapped and blinks slowly as she tries to understand. Her shoulder wound from Washington is displayed as the oversized t-shirt slips off of her shoulder. The scars are white and faded but if she fucks it up hard enough with a sprain or break, the pain and flashbacks come back worse than before. She lifts up her t-shirt just enough to see the bullet wound from Odessa. It’s old and she thought it was behind them. She lets the shirt relax, stands up straight despite James’ scrutiny and narrows her eyes, “What are you implying?” There’s a warning in her tone, a line he’s crossing that she can’t see. He rolls his eyes at that and lolls his head back as he uses his good hand to massage his temples, “You run everytime, вдова, everytime I try to-” “No.” She cuts him off and the pain in her chest is worse. “Not that name. That’s not my name” It’s not his fault but the name he used before he nearly killed her the first time isn’t what she needs to be reminded of right now. Anger flashes in his eyes and his nostrils flare out a bit. “This!’ This is exactly what I mean! I’ll always hurt you, no matter what.” She doesn’t jolt when he yells but every ounce of warmth she felt earlier is now out the window. “What the fuck do you want from me, Barnes?” She’s fed up and can hear the kettle boiling in the back of her mind. She can’t lose him again and she knows she can’t keep pushing him away like this. “I’ve tried to kill you, Natalia. The scars are always going to remind you what a bastard I am,” He says calmly but there’s nothing okay about this situation. It’s like he’s trying to say goodbye when they've just got their shit together. He lifts his metal arm up suddenly towards her face, just inches away, and she flinches before she can stop herself. He notices and clenches his eyes shut as he bites the inside of his cheek.“You’re never going to trust me. I don’t blame you but I thought we agreed to try and do this properly.” His shoulders are hunched and she’s upset him. This was not what she wanted for tonight. “Don’t,” She stops him by standing up from the couch and grabbing his chin. She’s fucked up and she feels out of her element. “just don’t. I trust you. End of story.” “You say you’re a monster but then what am I?” He’s seething now and gritting his teeth. “I’ve killed thousands more than you and you think I care about who you were?! I don’t give a fuck, I, I love you but you keep running from every good thing you deserve. I can't watch you destroy yourself! I can’t be here and watch everything I love ripped away from m-” Before he can blink, Natasha’s lips are pressed against his. She can feel his anger as he grabs her waist and tries to pull her off with his good hand, but she’s persistent. She grabs his metal hand and forces it to be in her hair. That’s when the dams break and the flood comes in. She can feel the switch, one moment pulling and holding back and the next, crashing his mouth into hers, tongues swirling and him backing her into the couch. He’s all she can think of and he’s so damn addictive, the way he demands her mouth and body, thinking she’ll reel back. She doesn’t and presses into his lips with everything she’s been keeping to herself. Her legs are hooked around his waist and the two of them are grabbing each other like it’s the 2000s again. She’s on his lap and he’s sitting up straight and diving into her mouth with every emotion they buried away during their time apart. There’s anger and grief and pain and fear. But more than anything, there’s love. It’s in the way he brushes the hair out of her face as she bites down on his lip and in the way his eyes watch her as he pulls them, chest to chest to stare at each other as they break for air. Weird. Love isn’t something she thought she’d ever have again. “I’m sorry,” She says out of breath and pressing her nose into his metal shoulder as he combs the silver fingers through her hair. “I love you, I’m just shit at showing it. I’m here, I promise and I’m not going anywhere.” It’s not an apology for shit and it doesn’t solve everything they still have to work through but it’s enough for right now. Enough for her to trust him to love her despite how hideous she is on the inside. As they sit on the sofa staring at the fire and television infomercials that night, drinking tea and soup, curled up like there are no troubles in the world, Natasha props her feet on James’ lap and stares at his striking face. After a beat, he stares back with a mischievous light in his eyes and devotion in his smile. It’s then and there, in the middle of the-fuck-nowhere, Arizona at a lonely feeling S.H.I.E.L.D base that Natasha Romanoff realizes something. Huh. She could just slip into the busy, crowded streets of Manhattan and disappear. She’d have a truckload of emotional baggage to deal with but she could do it alone if she tried hard enough. She could leave to Palau or Argentina and be someone who doesn’t have to fight. Maybe she’d be a teacher or a chef or someone, anyone , except the woman staring back in the mirror. But she knows, in the glint of all the insecurity in the reflection, someone lingers in the back of her bathroom in the shadows, patiently waiting for her to accept herself. He’ll hold her like she’s something precious or rare, as if she’s not a fucking serial killer, and force her to break down in tears when she bottles it up for too long. But he’ll be there through everything and she knows that. If she asked him to run away to Russia, he’d do it without hesitating and buy a small cottage and learn to make solyanka properly. If she wanted to leave this life and settle for something of an old married couple of fishermen, he’d be dragging the boat out to sea before she could blink. He’d cross the ocean for her and scour the world for anything if she just asked. She could be anyone before he came into her life. But now, she realizes, she can be someone with him. It’s him and her against the world, come high or hell water. Wherever he is, that’s her home, as cozy and welcoming as anyone else’s. She presses her nose against his and smiles as she curls into his body for the night.