Claws of Fate

Laying Low

The distant thrum of helicopters echoed above, cutting through the chaos like a knife. The weight of what just happened still hung in the air, but there wasn't time to process any of it. Not now.

"S.H.I.E.L.D," one of them muttered. Our escape suddenly more urgent. We broke into a sprint, weaving through the blinding searchlights and shadows.

But then... that scent. It was faint at first, weaving its way through the smoky air and all the chaos, but unmistakable. That same sharp, acrid scent I'd picked up at the mall earlier. The one that cut through the air while I had been... while I was kissing Natasha. My mind wanted to push it away, bury it under the urgency of the situation, but it clawed its way back to the surface like an unwanted truth.

I stopped dead in my tracks, the hairs on my neck bristling. "It's him," I growled, voice low, barely a whisper, but Steve and Natasha heard it clear as day. "The guy from earlier. The escalator. The mall."

Steve tensed beside me, muttering a name under his breath. "Rumlow."

Of course, it was. This day just couldn't get any worse. Or maybe it could, considering the weight I felt hanging between me and Natasha. She was just as focused on the mission as I was, but the tension between us wasn't fading; if anything, it was thickening, intensifying. And not just because of the job at hand.

I should have been fully focused, but her scent lingered in my memory too. That moment back at the mall, where everything shifted. It clawed at the edges of my mind. The kiss... the heat of it, the pull that I refused to acknowledge but couldn't forget. It had been impulsive. Strategic. That's what I'd told myself. But now, with Rumlow's scent dragging us back into this mess, I couldn't help but feel the weight of something deeper.

I was an idiot to even let myself feel anything beyond survival. I should know better. I've lived too long and seen too much to fall into the same traps of vulnerability. Yet here I was, risking my life for her, someone I could barely stand most of the time. Someone who looked at me with that same fiery disdain. And now? I had to shake this. Shove it down. She's just another mission, another face in a long line of people I've had to fight beside.

"Keep moving," Steve's voice broke through the thick fog of my thoughts, his gaze sharp as ever. We followed, weaving deeper into the shadows. But it wasn't just Rumlow's scent that had me on edge. It was the fact that, deep down, I was still willing to throw myself in the fire for her, for Natasha. Even after everything. Even when she wouldn't hesitate to throw another verbal punch or remind me how much she didn't trust me.

It scared the hell out of me—this feeling. This sudden, irrational fear that maybe, just maybe, I was letting her in too far. Too fast. I've fought wars, I've stared down death more times than I can count, but the idea of getting close to her, of letting her break past my defenses? That was a whole different kind of danger. One I wasn't prepared for.

For a split second, I could feel the weight of it all. The cost of letting someone get close—how quickly they could be ripped away. But then, as quickly as it came, I shoved it back down. Because that's what I do. That's all I know how to do. Keep fighting. Keep pushing.

"Rumlow," Steve repeated as if his name alone would keep us tethered to the mission.

I clenched my fists, pushing away every unwanted feeling, every intrusive thought. It wasn't about Natasha. It couldn't be. Not right now. Right now, it was about surviving the next few minutes. But damn if that wasn't becoming harder by the second.

The rumble of the fight was long behind us now, but my muscles still tensed, my senses heightened, straining to pick up any lingering threats. I led the group far enough out until I couldn't smell the bastards anymore, the familiar acrid scent of Rumlow fading into the night. Only then did I start to relax.