𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗡 | 𝗡. 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗙𝗙

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Natasha had never considered herself to be a fan of physical touch.

Of course, it wasn't like she'd had much of it to begin with—in the Red Room, the only physical contact you had consisted of fighting, fists hitting their marks, a game of life or death. In the Red Room, there was no time for affection, and Natasha had never thought to seek it out from her peers because it wasn't something she'd ever experienced.

Later in life, there were only two kinds of intentions people had when they tried to get close to her—Natasha had only known hands who had wanted to either hurt her or use her, and so it wasn't a surprise that she'd grown rather averse to close proximity with other people.

On missions, this didn't matter. Her discomfort didn't matter when it was between success and failure, and so she sucked up whatever shit she had to put up with, allowing hands to grab her ass if it got her close enough to her target, the occasional misogyny forgiven momentarily if it gave her a lead in her case, and she did it all with a smile even if their eager hands made her feel sick and dirty, their snide comments sitting heavy in her thoughts as they reminded her of how Dreykov had spoken to her, the attention he'd given her because she'd been his favorite.

In the grand scheme, none of it mattered. On missions, she was only a weapon, and weapons got the job done no matter how many nicks or blows damaged the blade.

When she wasn't a weapon, though, when she was just Natasha Romanoff, she gave herself the ability to draw her own boundaries. Even if the freedom wasn't in full, it wouldn't do her any good to waste it—if she didn't like something, she didn't do it or let it happen.

She didn't like physical touch. So, she didn't tolerate it from others.

Very few people did she allow that from. Clint was one, but, even then, they weren't very touchy anyway. Clint respected her space and often knew how much she needed and where her limits were. It allowed her to be comfortable with things like sitting next to each other, playful jabs, sharing a bed on occasion when the mission called for it. 



It was nice and safe—perfectly aligned with her needs.

Yet, those needs seemed to change when she was with Truth Castello. All of her prior rules fell out the window with one flash of her smile, Natasha's normally stoic facade melting away in her presence. Suddenly, Natasha didn't mind the closeness, finding her proximity alluring. Maybe it was because she knew she would never betray her in that way, maybe because she knew Truth was just as equally, if not more, averse to physical touch due to the unfortunate similarities in their upbringings, an unspoken understanding between the two that allowed them to let their guards down for just a few, crucial minutes. It allowed Natasha to be open for once, taking solace in the touch of her hand or the warmth of her hugs in times she needed it most.

Even so, it didn't change the fact that Natasha was so terribly out of her depth. She had no idea what she was doing, especially when it came down to her to provide comfort—or, worse, to be sought out for comfort—but she must've been doing something right if her current situation was of any indicator.