Romanogers - Oneshots

Don't go

When Natasha returns to the compound, all the lights are off. Darkness is all that pools behind the windows, an opaque barrier not easily overcome. It is said darkness can be banished if you only turn on the light, but Natasha is not that naive. Darkness swallows light, fear swallows hope, hate crushes love with an iron fist. Darkness can never truly be exiled, thrust from its home, ousted from all its nooks and crannies. Darkness never really goes away.

As Tony likes to remind her, apparently. It must be hard to shake the double agent thing. It echoes in her ears. Sticks in the DNA.
People say things when arguing, she knows that. They say things they don't mean. But Tony meant that. She could see it on his face, and begins to doubt. He didn't trust her. Certainly not now. But before... She had thought he would perhaps be the one person in this team who knew her. The one person she could rely on to really see her. After all this time... But he never had, evidently. Apparently, he was just waiting for the treachery to make an encore appearance. At first her reassurance as they argued heatedly meant he cared, or had done once. But now she was just doubting. Doubting herself, doubting everybody else. Had anyone really trusted her? Ever? Or was she the unexploded missile to be wary of, the ticking bomb everyone was just waiting to detonate?

The wound on her back from his knife was festering, she could feel it. Or perhaps it's the karma from her actions against him. In either case, it ran deep and stung unpleasantly, but she couldn't focus on that. She shouldn't be here, and there was limited time, which she was not going to spend wallowing in self-pity.

Natasha just needs to slip in and out. At the moment the only things on her are a pistol at her hip, a short knife in her jacket lining and the clothes on her body right now. These provisions are enough: she's had to do this before, and being on the government's most wanted list is nothing unfamiliar, but why not take advantage of all her belongings just sitting there? Sure, she doesn't need a suitcase, but a few more bullets would be nice.

She's assuming that Tony hasn't had time to block her retina scan, hoping that his concern about Rhodey had overriden any consideration of security updates, and is correct. Thankfully, the door swings open as she glances at the scanner.

It's not until the lift doors open on her way out, this time a small rucksack filled with essentials slung over both shoulders, that she notices something's different.
That magazine was definitely on the coffee table before. Yes. And the air is no longer empty. There's a shiver, like something's disrupting the current.

Someone's here. Or has been recently.

This is only confirmed as she stalks silently out of the lift, the internal switch flipped from Natasha to Agent, Natalia to Widow.
She doesn't know what it is, but she knows someone else is in the room, right now. It's like a sixth sense, prickling skin confirming she's not alone. Her hand goes to her hip, where the pistol is tucked.

Something soft. A footstep.
She flicks the safety off, index finger resting familiarly on the trigger.

"FRIDAY, turn the lights on." Her clear voice pierces the almost-silence. She thought about finding the switch herself, or whispering to the AI from behind a sofa, but decided against it. She's already out in the open, may as well make this face to face.

The room is suddenly filled with light, but she only blinks the spots out of her eyes for less than a second before bringing the gun into position. Glancing around the room, she can see no one. Except...
Someone's rising from behind the counter. She's about to shoot but... no, whoever it is, their hands are behind their head. Of course, that doesn't mean much, but at least it gives her a little leverage. When their face appears, her arm immediately drops to her side, muscles relaxing on instinct. Her free hand goes to her forehead and her eyes close, breathing out a sigh of relief.
"What the hell are you doing."

Steve grins sheepishly, hands still on his head. "I really thought you were going to shoot for a second there."
"Steve. You can't be here, you know that, you need to get out, flee, they'll find you and-"
"But what ab-"

"Oh for God's sake, you can put your hands down now." She interrupts. Her pistol is back in her belt, safety back on. His hands drift to his sides, smile slowly fading, and he swallows.
"I never could sneak up on you."
"And that's exactly why you need to go! They'll find you within a few hours if you don't. Please, leave." Her hand curls into a fist against her forehead, thinking.
"But what about you?"
"What?" Exasperation twists her features. "We're not talking about me!"
"You asked me why I'm here, it's because of you."

She's completely thrown off. Does he have some sort of twisted desire to end up behind bars?
"Well thanks for that."
"Come with us." He says after a moment. "We can run together."
"And who's 'us'?"
"Sam and I. T'Challa's agreed to have Bucky in Wakanda for the foreseeable future, so we'll break the others out and then... we'll see."
"You'll be caught." She states flatly.

"It won't matter." His heart quickens as he shrugs. "I'll have you."
She feels her heart clench, skipping a beat before replying. "Please don't romanticise prison."
"Or maybe we won't be caught. Not if you're with us. This is what you're good at."
"You're really not selling your case."
"You know I didn't mean it like that."

She breathes deeply. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"There's things...things I need to take care of."
A long pause yawns between them before he speaks again, softly, almost begging.
"Please don't go."
"You know I can't stay."
Another pause.

"I love you."
Natasha inhales sharply. He still stares right at her, though she expects him to look away. His eyes entreat her, plead with her.

She can feel her heart hammering in her chest, and wonders if his is the same. She can almost hear it, thumping in wild synchronicity to her own.
"Why do you think I let you go?" She says softly.
"Please..." He stutters. "Natasha-"

She walks forward suddenly and takes his head in her hands. He leans into her touch.

She shouldn't be near him like this, shouldn't be touching him, because when she does she doesn't want to leave. He feels like home.
She also shouldn't be taunting him. But Natasha needs to touch him. Needs to feel his skin against hers, the warmth that thrums underneath her fingertips. Just once, because it may be the last time. It may be the last time she ever sees him.

His hands meander to mirror hers and their eyes close as they simply lean into each other, foreheads grazing. They stay like that for what seems like hours, not knowing who's heartbeat thumps in their ears. Feeling each others breath, how they feel and move and breathe, the way their chest rises and falls.

"You really..." She hums. "You really do have impeccable timing, Rogers." She senses him smile and more than anything wants to kiss him. Just once. For luck. A tiny peck.

But she can't. She's allowed herself too many 'just once's in the last couple of minutes and that's a step too far. If she kisses him she'll never leave. 'Just once' will turn into too many times. They don't have that time anyway.

So she steps away, arms dropping to her sides.
"Goodbye, Steve." She casts it bitterly off her tongue.

Steve says nothing. His mouth makes the shape of a goodbye, but nothing comes out.
He watches her, watches everything she does. His heart clenches with pain watching her leave. Nevertheless he doesn't turn away. He barely blinks. He wants her branded on his eyeballs, branded on his memory forever, or until, if ever, they meet again.

So he watches her every twitch, every blink, every step as she jogs silently away from him, further and further away. Her figure becomes smaller and smaller while her red tresses fade. And as she is gone from sight he closes his eyes and remembers her for as long as he lets himself before moving on, jogging in the other direction.

Her hair in his hands, her forehead on his, her breath mingling with his. He remembers her, the woman who gave him his life back.

I just really freaking love writing about Civil War, or any time after. It just always seems to flow so much better. And I've said this once but I'll say it again - Angst >>>> Fluff when it comes to writing.