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a/n: had begun writing before the trailer was uploaded, tried to suit it to ca:cw; however, saw the trailer, so author just continued to satisfy author's shipping self. also how long ago did author promise to write romanogers? heh, immasosorreh

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It's like a slowly drawling song, she surmises almost amusedly. The tension in the air, once a verse filled with soft drumbeats and gentle breathy voices, is now a deafening chorus—loud, suffocating, but still so easy to understand. That what they have—flushed cheeks and heaving chests and bruised lips—is only each other and the numbers ticking away so slowly (—but not slowly enough—).

And, really, this is a horrible mistake—oh, when's Sam coming back yet?—but, that's what they are, aren't they? A horrible mistake waiting to falter and collapse and destroy itself.

Their hands intertwine, and they try to ignore how small her palm is against his (—how rough his knuckles are, how cold her fingers are, how both fit the spaces like a glove). Of course, he's bad at lying, the lines above his eyes deepening, and she thinks about laughing. Her lips lift, restraining the need to smile, because any more and it would be improper.

Improper. She hates the word, but that's just it. She is meant to be everything, even being improper, but she doesn't want to because this is Steve Rogers and he deserves so much more and—

Nurse; he deserves Sharon, and she swallows. Steve deserves someone like Sharon—he deserves to be happy—Natasha doesn't deserve him.

"Hey," he whispers, hoarse and throaty, and she thinks about kissing him, because he's Steve Rogers her best friend and— "I know what you're thinking about."

His beard is weird and strange. It's a good kind of weird and strange, and she wonders if her hair is weird and strange to him, too. She misses her red locks and scarlet fringes, but silver is alright, she guesses (—somehow, she knows he misses them moreso—).

Her reply is small, muttered out like a conspiracy, "Yeah, it's a bit difficult not to when I'm with the Steve Rogers." The taste at the back of her mouth is bitter, almost disgusting, and it reminds her of Shostakov Alanovich Alexi (—"… lured here by his love for the …*"—), so she bites her tongue just to rid of his sneering face in her mind. "The only men I've been with are liars—enemies—spies—"

"Banner?" It is a gentle question, but it's heavy on her chest, and she looks away. Her hold loosens, until her hand falls to her side. He doesn't look confused.

Natasha purses her lips. "And, yeah—Bruce. He's a … ah—he's a good friend." A very good friend, but he had broken her heart when he fled away on that spaceship and—and, she finally knew. ("Betty is—she's nice.") She's fine now—or, maybe she's not, she doesn't know.

Steve chuckles, "Well, I don't think Captain America is any greater than all others you've been with."

The joke hurts, and she's offended, but she reminds herself that the old Steve Rogers is gone and all she's left with is a scarred man in his place—still Steve, but … not Steve. She breathes, and tells him that she's a Black Widow, and— "God, what the heck is with us?"

Laughter wracks her body in aching stokes, and she chokes on air and saliva. He's rubbing her back in an instant, and she leans to his warmth. "Besides being considered as criminals? Well," he hesitates, and she knows his mind is a whirlwind of poetry. It's written in the narrowness of his gaze and the slight distance of his skin from hers. "Nothing."

And, that's really it. There's nothing (—on them, around them, between them—), and it hurts a lot more than she thought it would. His heart—the complete heart of the man she loves—is not meant to be hers, because, well, she's a Russian spy and he's American as they get—she should stop playing with words in her head.

(It really, really hurts a lot.)

"Do you—do you think the war will stop? Wait—no, no. Stupid question." It was stupid indeed, and she crushes the tiniest bit of hope that had slipped right from her tongue.

His eyes are kind, and he places his lips on the crown of her head. Soft. "Nat. It's alright." A pause to take in a breath. He smells the cold wind of wintry lands and strong rain of the East from the strands of her hair, tickling his nose. "It's alright to … to have—hope. Never let that go."

"Oh?" Her throat is dry, and her fingernails dig in his palms.

"Someday, this will all end."

She feels like crying, because he is tired—so very tired—and she wishes to rid the darkness under his eyes. There's a weeping in the air, voices and whispers of fallen warriors who caution that this may be the last time she'll see him. It's a premonition, and she hates premonitions. "The war is going to claim lives, and we all wish it wouldn't. Death is inevitable," she moves her hand slowly, shaking away his fingers and trailing to cup his jaw. "So, kiss me, damn it." He does.

(This is a horrible mistake, but it's all they've got until they had to face the morning light again.)

Sam knocks over the door hours later, and they smile at him like everything in the world is alright and their hearts hadn't died a little bit more.

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Earth-616, Avengers #44, Red Guardian (Alexi Shostakov): "Hah! To think that one of the accursed Avengers should be captured in my very stronghold … Lured here by his love for the Black Widow! […]"

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a/n: kinda had a thought: "what would happen if sam had been a bit late in that ca:ws scene?" so yea. i know it's ooc, yea. been feeling a bit blank lately so, me is projecting meself in dis thingy. Huehueh

feedback and constructive criticism is very much appreciated