Romanogers - Oneshots

I didn't want you to be alone

Natasha watches Steve make his rounds, trying to quell the panic solidifying in her chest. Her scarlet locks, still looking as if dip-dyed platinum, are brushed back in a plait that reaches over her collarbone, ivory against the ebony shirt. A small breeze carries over the lake and sifts through the trees, whispers rising and falling in tandem with the strength of the gust. The few strands, those bold enough to escape the braid, flutter around like dead spider's legs.

What would it be like, she thinks, as a couple of leaves are ripped from their fragile anchors and flutter upwards, bolstered on the peak of a breath, the crest of an airy wave, to be carried away? The emerald flickers dive in a stomach-churning swoop, like the daring plunge of a rollercoaster carriage, and Natasha almost thinks they'll run into the ground, journey abruptly cut short, but once again a puff comes from under them and they're propelled, somersaulting with blurring velocity upwards. What would it be like to be free, and yet chained to the force of nature? What would it be like, to drink from the sky when it rains? She watches as the couple twirls above her head, partners in some capricious waltz. Almost brushing before falling apart again, the leaves follow each other to the roof of Tony's house, scampering over the tiles in a jig. What would it be like, living for every rise and fall, waiting for every rush of wind, while nestled amongst friends on the forest floor?

Bruce finally stops fiddling with all the dials and switches at the same time her heart lurches to her mouth, a lump forming at the back of her throat. Having lost sight of the leaves, she turns her head left, then right, but they're gone. What would it be like to live life as a game?

The Infinity Stones are luminescent in their case; Natasha doesn't think she's ever hated anything so much, and is glad when Steve slams the case shut, distaste evident on his face too. This jolts her in some way out of her whimsical frame of mind, yanking her from the clouds as if by a chain on her foot. Though the morning is warm, Natasha suddenly feels cold all over, the dark green jacket doing nothing against the chill pricking at her skin like needles. A breathlessness squeezes her lungs, forces them to fight for air, and she gulps, hoping that no one can hear her straining attempts at calming her heart.

"Remember," Bruce starts to speak as Steve swings the case to his side, a determined set to his jaw. "you gotta return the stones to the exact moment you got them, or you're gonna open up a bunch of nasty alternate realities."
"Don't worry, Bruce. I'll clip all the branches."
"You know I tried." Bruce addresses Natasha quietly, who quickly looks up to meet his eyes. "When I had the gauntlet, the stones, I really tried to bring him back."

She swallows hard, crossing her arms over her chest. She forces those thoughts down, the shouting in her head she wishes would be quiet. The guilt, the grief, the loneliness. Clint is gone, but she can't mourn now. Not when that grief is about to be doubled. She has to force them into separate events, separate hours. If she lets the constant sorrow on Laura's face merge with the cold in her heart right now, the water will be too deep to keep her head above and she'll drown, pushed under by the weight of every misery.

"I know." Steve sends her a sympathetic look, which she just manages to avoid, dropping her eyes, only lifting them when he passes over her. He walks over to Sam, and she feels the shift. Time for goodbyes.

There's a kind of finality to Steve's expression as he looks around at the forest, Tony's house (she's still surprised at just how quaint it is) huddled amongst the bark and needles littering the floor. There's a finality to this whole scene, and Natasha knows exactly why. This is goodbye. For real. Like Tony or Clint, except here they get to say their last farewells, which in a way is harder. With them, it was over in a second. No time for second thoughts, or garbled goodbyes. But here, every second, every syllable, is stretched out excruciatingly. Natasha just wants it to be over. She wants to be with him as long as possible, without saying anything. Perhaps just relax into his chest for a minute. And then push him away, turn her back until he's gone, and then get on with her life, or what's left of it. Perhaps if she never says goodbye, it's not really over.