Requested by tainted_dreams. Sorry it took so long. I hope this lives up to your expectations!
Steve and Natasha get married.
Natasha stares at her reflection. It doesn't look like her. Maybe that's because she never imagined that this would become her reality. Maybe it's because she'd already accepted a long time ago that this day would never happen. She sort of feels like she's in a dream, or perhaps this mirror is a window to some parallel universe. But when Natasha moves, the image in the mirror moves. She chides herself for being silenced with awe by the simple laws of light and reflection.
The image is simple, but breathtaking. Her red-blonde hair is her plaited around her head in an elaborate braid, soft and silky, the bright red reaching through the locks of gold. The white of the gown is a soft, polished white, not harsh, or eye-searing, but creamy, spotless. The classic dress is sleeveless, leaving the pale skin of her shoulders and arms exposed, along with every scar and blemish, some reminders of the past, remnants of scattered memories, some a record of just last week's events.
Tiny white lines, sunken deep, trace over the pale skin like paint on a canvas, occasionally mingling with the brighter red marks of more recent battles. A number is tattooed on the back of her left shoulder, tiny, but she hates it all the same. Red Room serial numbers. At first she was self-conscious when trying it on at the fittings (those that she so hated), scared that it showed too much; she didn't want everyone seeing those marks, the many constant brands, most reminders of times she longed to forget. They were ugly, imperfections that could never be corrected. A broken mirror, cracks spidering across the previously perfect glass. But then she had convinced herself that she didn't care, that they were her friends and it's not like they could care less about a few blemishes. They were reminders of violence, but also of the times she felt most united with the others, of the many battles they had fought together, the solidarity. And that made her smile. So she chose this style and wore her scars, visibly and proudly.
Delicate gossamer petals are scattered down the front, attached to silk branches that reach down to the skirt, where shimmery patterns fade into existence as it swishes. Minuscule lines of silver trace lightly over it, only visible when caught by the light.
Steve had smiled when he saw it, and called it perfect. He'd actually said she didn't have to wear the traditional white gown if she didn't want to; he knew it wasn't really her thing, and she could wear whatever she wanted. But she wore it anyway, picked out the simplest one in there: no frilly sleeves, no long train, flouncy skirt. She knew, no matter what he said, he would be happiest if she did wear it, and anyway, she had always secretly dreamed of wearing the magical white gown one day. It was only the face beside her at the altar that had been blank, until now.
Natasha's outfit:
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