Author's Note: So, this was down for like five minutes because I am a failure at remembering things like disclaimers so I apologize for any inconvenience and the lack of editing. This was written over lunch, so that's why it's wordy and possibly awful. I don't do well with dialogue early on into stories, so I always try to get a feel for the character by discussing emotions. Anyway, ending my ramble now. I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Captain America or The Avengers. No copyright infringement intended.
They weren't talking.
This wasn't anything unexpected, of course; they never talked when they were both like this, so blinded by rage and torn apart by grief that they couldn't speak or think or breathe or even exist without feeling as though their world would soon cease to exist (or perhaps already had). They never uttered a word to one another when they were so angry that the only outlets they could use for that anger were the punching bags full of sand that Fury had so thoughtfully restocked before their arrival back at base. No, they didn't talk when they were like this, and Natasha knew why. She just couldn't exactly pinpoint the moment during which she had come to loathe the silence.
It had been five months since Ultron had threatened to cause humanity to cease to exist in some of the worst ways known to man. It had been almost that long since Bruce had left, taking the fragments of her heart with him. It had been longer than that since she had seen Steve as furious as he was as he stood alongside her, taking his anger out on the bag before him instead of verbally assaulting her or the new recruits the next morning. But this wasn't something that they would be speaking about. To be fair, nothing they spoke about was of any substance anymore. Natasha knew why she hated that (not that she'd ever tell Steve, because telling Steve would be worse than being rejected by Bruce for who she was, and she wasn't positive that she could stand such a harsh rejection from one of the only men in the world other than Clint that looked at her and didn't immediately see damaged goods). She hated it because they weren't them anymore, and she hated even more that she had ever allowed them to become them in her mind at all.
Rogers was still silent as he finally paused in landing his punches against the bag and glanced towards her in concern. She was careful to keep her eyes away from his. How was it that this man that she had known for three years knew her better than Clint? How was it that his opinion had come to matter when no other man's had before? How was it that she couldn't particularly decide if she wanted to knock him out or kiss him? How had any of this become a part of her relationship with Captain America, America's Golden Boy and so far out of her league (and so, so off limits)?
Well, okay, she had her explanation for that. They had D.C. and New York and Ultron. They had memories and laughter and anger and compassion and grief that had been shared. They had built a family with the other members of their team, a family that had taught her what the true meaning of that word was. She had an explanation for her emotions, but that didn't mean that she had to like them.
With Bruce, things were easy and uncomplicated (and yes, she knew how laughable that was, because yes, she had seen him turn into a green giant). He was a distraction from what was going on in the world, a distraction from what she had seen when Wanda had gotten into her head, a distraction from the awful and evil world that they were required to live in every day, a world that they worked every day to prevent those outside of their team from seeing. He was a distraction from what was happening, and because of that, he was worthy of her time. She had just never thought that he would deem her unworthy of his. And she had never, ever thought that it would hurt as badly as it did.
She had come to terms with what had been done to her. She would always hate it, would always hate what they did to her, would always hate that it haunted her even after she had escaped them, would always hate that it felt like they were mocking her every day even after she helped tear their agency down, but she could live with it. She could survive it. She would survive it. She was the Black Widow; she had no choice. She had come to terms with it, but Bruce hadn't. Maybe he had come to terms with the fact that she couldn't have children; after all, their discussion had begun when he said that he couldn't, either. But he would never come to terms with what she was capable of. And that was something that no one in their right mind ever would come to terms with.
Rogers was still staring at her; she could feel his eyes burning into her skull, could almost feel him pleading for her to look his way, to nod at him, to do something to confirm that yes, she was fine and everything was okay and they were alive. But she couldn't. Because that had been another reason she had turned to Bruce when Clint had advocated for someone else- anyone else-day in and day out; Steve would listen to the entirety of her life story and not judge at all. And after all that she had done, she deserved to be judged.
She had killed innocents. She had taken mothers and fathers from their children and children from their mothers and fathers. She had lied, cheated, and prostituted herself on the streets of Moscow, Berlin, Paris, London, Rome… the list went on and on and on. There was no place she had left clean, no portion of herself that had not been dirtied. Bruce was right to leave; she was as damaged as damaged could be.
But Steve didn't think so. He had never thought so, and she had certainly given him reasons to think the same as all the men before him that weren't Clint, all the men that had taken one look at who she was when she wasn't hiding behind mockery and sarcasm and lust, all the men that had seen her bare outside of the bedroom, all of the men that had seen her as she was, as she really was, and had left. But he didn't. And some days, that day, she hated that he didn't.
His eyes were still on her. At this point, she knew that they weren't going to leave. Not now that he knew something was wrong. Not now that he could see the parts of her that she had always been careful to keep hidden when she was around him. No, he wouldn't simply return to punching those bags that he so often broke open now.
"Nat." It was one word with one syllable; how in the world could he make it sound like it was the answer to every question he had ever asked?
He tried again. "Natasha." When she still refused to look his way, blink, or even breathe, he sighed and spoke her last name. "Romanoff."
"You do know that saying every different version of my name isn't going to make me pay attention? I'm having a bad day, Rogers. Let me have a bad day." The words were cold and hurtful, but that was what she wanted. She wanted to hurt him. Perhaps if she hurt him, he would never have the opportunity to hurt her.
But Steve was even more stubborn than she was. After all, the man had lived longer and endured more than she had (although he would insist with his dying breath that he hadn't endured anything, and he would believe it, because he knew her life story and mourned its every tragedy as though they were his own).
He didn't even flinch at her words, didn't give their coldness a chance to touch him. "You can have as many bad days as you want." The words were spoke softly, gently, with a warmness that only his voice possessed, and she felt as though she could accept them as the truth. Then again, this was Steve. She could accept anything he said as the truth, because he was not known for his ability or even his desire to lie. "I was just wondering if you wanted to talk about it."
"No. I don't," she snapped. "Not everything needs to be talked to death, Rogers."
"Natasha, you're angry. I get that, okay? I don't begrudge you that. And you can be angry as long as you like. But you either need to talk about it or keep beating the hell out of things, because I may understand that you don't mean what you say, but those recruits that work day in and day out to impress you don't, and they deserve more from you. They deserve more from you than words spoken in anger because you're angry about something that has nothing to do with them. That's all I'm saying." He tilted his head and stared at her. "I'll see you later, Nat."
She watched as he walked away and then walked towards a wall to sit against it. He knew that she was furious, that she was pissed, that she wanted to punch things and yell and scream and cry and forget and remember everything and everyone that had ever hurt her at the same time. He knew her. And sometimes, that was what she hated most of all. Because having someone know her, having someone understand her? It meant that someone cared. And she wasn't someone that often allowed people to care.
She placed her head in her hands and stared through the spaces left by her gapped fingers, and she began to wonder just how awful it would be to allow someone in even further than Clint and Bruce and all the others that had been let in. Clint had been the only one to choose to stay. As she brought herself to her feet and headed for the showers, she allowed herself to realize that Steve would always be the last one to leave her behind. She deemed it only fair that she not leave him behind when he just wanted to be beside her as he had always been.
She supposed that it was time for them to start talking.