There's Worse Ways To Go

Four

The four of us return to the compound starving. The sun is setting, and Wanda and Vision are in the kitchen again. We sit down at the table, watching them.

"Are Wanda and Vis your own personal chefs?" I ask, half-joking.

"Wanda and I love to cook," Vision says, rocking a pan back and forth on the stove. "It is how we bond."

"It's one of the opportunities we get to spend time together, and we love making meals. I think it's a win-win for everyone involved," Wanda says, opening a can.

"Well, it smells delicious." I turn to Steve. "So, when will I get my suit?"

"And when will I get mine?" Bucky asks.

"Tony is still working on yours, I'm sure he'll set up a meeting sometime soon for you to try it on so he can make adjustments. And Buck, you'll have to talk to him about that."

"That is so not fair."

Steve shrugs, smirking.

The six of us eat dinner together, joking and telling war stories, hoping about our future. While I feel Nat's absence, it seems as though everyone does. And not just Nat, but all the rest of the heroes. I catch their eyes glancing toward the other half of the kitchen table, searching the empty seats and placemats for maybe a face or a body, and then they return their gaze to us, slightly disappointed but ready to join the living again.

That night, I dream of my mother again.

But this time, I am not in the passenger seat. I am behind the wheel, humming a pointless tune, keeping my eyes on the road. The night encloses me in black, trees reaching their shadows over the car. I find myself saying, "Don't worry, honey. I'm taking you home."

I look over and see myself, dressed in the fatigues, dirty and bloody and staring as if I've seen a ghost. I can't take my eyes off myself, my pale face, the bloodshot eyes. I register the headlights but I don't give myself enough time to look at them, and the crash happens before I have time to scream. I hear my own voice yell out, grunt, then silence.

I'm jostled in my seat, a pain ebbing in my stomach and a wetness leaking into my lap. The steering wheel is pressed into my chest, making it hard for me to breathe.

"I'm alright, honey. We're alright," I hear my mother's voice say.

"Mom?" I see myself say.

I look over at her, at me, and see her more bloodied than before. I struggle against the wheel, my grip going weak. I don't hear the footsteps, I don't sense the body outside next to me. I just feel the sharp jab against my neck, my throat making a strange sound, then my limbs thrashing wildly.

It is an out-of-body experience, yet I am still trapped inside.

I hear myself screaming, which I know is internal because in past dreams my mother never could cry out. I hear her screaming in the passenger seat, pushing and pressing against the crushed metal to no avail.

This is a nightmare. This is a nightmare. This is a nightmare.

I bolt upright, still hearing the screams from within my dream. But I realize it's me. My throat is tight from the sound, and just as I register this my bedroom door bursts open, Natasha taking a few strides through.

She sees me, relaxes just slightly at me not being in imminent danger, and lets out her breath.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

I pant, sensing how sticky I am from the sweat. I can feel the puffiness of my eyes from tears I must be crying, the stiffness as I open and close them. "I'm fine. Really. It was just a dream. I'm sorry for waking you. Go back to bed."

Natasha stays frozen, staring at me. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Christ, no."

She closes her eyes with relief. "Oh, thank god."

I crack a smile through my pants, and she smiles back at her triumph.

"Please, Nat. Go back to sleep. I'm fine. I just need to collect myself."

I think she's going to obey, turning around and heading for the door, but instead, she closes it and pads back over to me. She sits down on the edge of the bed. We sit together in this silence for a moment. I don't have enough energy to tell her to go back again.

Then she puts her hand on my blanketed knee, palm up, offering it to me. I smile shyly, sliding my fingers into hers and weaving them together. She pulls the sleeve of her other arm over the base of her hand, reaching up and wiping the tears from my face.

I breathe out, closing my eyes as she cleans me up, and when she takes her hand away I rest my chin on my fist and sit. Natasha's thumb strokes mine.

"What were you up to today?" I ask.

"Did you miss me?" she smiles.

"A little," I admit.

Her smile flickers a moment, not expecting that answer from me. "I was visiting my sister."

"You have a sister?"

She nods, sighing. "I've never told anyone but Clint that."

"I'm honored," I say, smiling at her. "What does she do?"

"She's a widow, like me. Goes around the world finding others and giving them the antidote for the Red Room."

"Red Room..."

"Do you have any siblings?" she says, changing the subject.

"Two brothers. They're in the military as well. Followed the family's footsteps."

"Where are they deployed?"

"Afghanistan."

"Have you heard from them?"

"Nope. You sort of become a different person when you're trained, you know? You don't want to keep the people you love close to you because you fear that what you learn and experience about death and killing might rub off on them. You want to keep them safe. Even if you're pushing them away."

Natasha stares at me so intensely I think I might start on fire. Her hand squeezes mine tighter.

"I know exactly what you mean."

"Yeah. So we fell out of touch. But I miss them. I wish I could see them again."

"You will. One day."

"I hope you're right."

I feel myself drifting off to sleep again. I yawn, eyes closing. In my semi-unconscious state, I sense myself being lowered back into the pillows, my hand still tight in hers. Now is when I fully descend into sleep.

When I wake in the morning Nat is gone.

I didn't have any more dreams that night.