Hello, everybody! New story time! So to start, I have been shipping these two like crazy since I saw Winter Soldier the first time! And I've been shipping them even more since the second time I saw it :)

This is also my first time writing for Marvel. Ever. I'm a little nervous, to be honest, because I love the Marvel movies so much, and I have so much respect for the Marvel universe as a whole, and I really tried to be as accurate as possible. I'm going mostly off of the MCU for this story. I haven't read any of the comics. I know about the Red Room, but even then, it isn't much, so just bear that in mind.

Also, the beginning of this chapter, where I talk about when Clint was sent to kill Natasha, that is completely made up. I don't know how that event actually happened, so I just took some creative liberties with that.

One more quick note, some of the inspiration/concepts came from Shadows of a Dream's story, By My Shield (five times we touched). Some of the things in mine are loosely based off her story, which you guys should definitely read!

Anyway, enough of my boring talk! DISCLAIMER: I own nothing!

Enjoy!

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Natasha Romanoff didn't get scared. Fear was not in her vocabulary. Any fear she once held had been beaten out of her during her training. Fear is for the weak, Natalia. You must be strong. Strong, Natalia! If you are weak, then you are dead. Be strong. Be fast. Be smart. Be anything but scared. Fear is for the weak, and you are not weak, are you, Natalia? Words repeated dozens of times throughout her training till she became as cold as the spider from which she was named.

Natasha could count the times she'd been scared—truly scared, right down to her bones—on one hand. Two fingers, to be exact.

The first time had been when Clint had been sent to exterminate her.

As she lay flat on her back, disarmed, red hair stuck to her forehead, the Hawk stood above her, not so differently from the many men she'd dealt with in the past. Except all those past men, even disarmed, she'd been able to take them down. But not Barton. He was not those men. He would not be so fooled by her pretty face or any party-tricks she had up her sleeve. An arrow was notched in his bow, poised directly over her heart. His face was passive, though there was a barely readable conflict in his eyes. He held her fate in those sure, steady hands of his—hands that could very quickly end her life.

Natalia Romanova was not afraid of dying—they'd beaten that fear out of her, too. No, what she was afraid of was living. Not only would she have to live, owing a debt she couldn't hope to repay anytime soon, but she would also have to live with all of that blood on her hands. She would have to live through every night where, in the dark, the faces of her victims would plague her. Bad guys or not, she had still killed them. Their blood stained her hands permanently.

Red.

So much red. Red like the Red Room, where she had lost her humanity. Red that ran through her veins with hardly a hope of ever getting flushed out. Red that coated and dripped from every letter of her name, changing her from the little girl who wore dresses and hummed Russian lullabies into the Black Widow, the killer who had been forged in shadow and fire.

Red, red, red, red…

So, yes, when Clint spared her life, her initial feeling had been fear. Fear for living and fear of what would become of her. Fear that struck her so suddenly that she begged him to kill her. Do it! Kill me! I know you're not a coward. They wouldn't have sent a coward after me. Kill me! Do it! You coward, kill me! And when he didn't, she swallowed down that fear, buried it in a place deep inside her where she vowed never to let it show again. She took Clint's hand, brushed herself off, and with his—and later Fury's—help, she found a life worth living.

A life she hadn't realized she didn't want to lose until the second time fear had overcome her, and nearly broke her.

That second time being aboard the Helicarrier when she had failed to protect Bruce Banner from himself. She'd failed and he had turned into the Hulk. His last look at her before he lost control, the apology he conveyed through his gaze for what was about to happen, it was still burned into her mind.

She remembered running, running from the monster, running for her life for the first time in….well, ever. And though she stayed ahead of him, it wasn't by much. Compared to the giant footsteps he took, the reach of her legs was suddenly that of a child's. Her heart hammered against her ribcage as the beast chased her, her ragged breaths too loud in her own ears. And when her footsteps were no longer able to carry her far enough away, she found herself flying through the air like a ragdoll. She landed hard, her side aching where he had struck her. She curled in on herself, trying to be as small as possible.

As the Hulk towered over her, his roar penetrated that deep, dark corner of her heart where she had locked away her fear. The monster came closer and she was scared. Scared because at that moment, the beast in front of her was not Bruce Banner. Banner was not in control and the thing that loomed in front of her was going to kill her. All the Hulk had to do was pick her up in one of his huge hands and squeeze, crushing every bone in her body and then throw her away like a broken vase. As the Hulk was about to end her life, her only thought was that she was scared to die. That feeling, of not wanting her life to end, surprised her so much that, even after Thor intervened, she sat, unmoving in the shadows. She tucked her legs up against her as if by doing so she could shove the terror she felt back inside her and bury it once again.

The only thing to snap her out of that state, to pull her back from the precipice from which she was about to topple from into darkness, was Barton. Clint, who had been by her side since he'd lowered that arrow away from her heart, only deserved the best from her. Swallowing down that choking, paralyzingfear that she hated, she did just that and gave her all to pull him back from the edge.

-:-

Now, as Fury veered the helicopter—with Sam now on board—away from the flaming, broken wreckage of the Triskelion, Natasha realized she could add, not one, but two more fingers to tally up the times she'd been afraid. In the span of four days, that terrible, icy fear had threatened to consume her, to wipe away any trace of bravery she thought she possessed.

The third time had happened when Nick had been died (well, when she thought he'd died). She'd had to watch, helpless, as they operated on him. Nick, who had become her mentor, her friend…the closest thing she had to a father. He had taken her in when he had every excuse to kick her out onto the curb and put a bullet through her brain. Steve and Maria had been beside her as she watched, but she felt so, so alone.

She repeated don't do this to me, Nick over and over and over like it was a prayer, and Natasha Romanoff did not pray. And even if she did, she didn't think there was any god that would accept her prayer. But she kept saying it over, again and again. Don't do this to me, Nick. She was that desperate. She didn't do desperation either, but this was Nick and she could not lose him. He couldn't just die. The invincible, seemingly immortal Nick Fury couldn't just die. He couldn't leave her. If he was gone, well, she might as well die too.

So when his monitor flat-lined, creating a horrible, keening, noise that she could not shut out, yes, she got scared. Her fear banged and threw itself against the cage she had shut it in till she willingly let it out because Nick was dead and she was afraid.

The fear she'd felt for her friend dissipated, however, when the metaphorical and very literal curtain was pulled back to reveal that Nick Fury, though bruised and beaten, was still alive. The fear was then replaced by relief and maybe some anger. But mostly relief because he was alive and kicking.

Natasha looked at Fury now as he piloted the helicopter and bickered with Sam about the proper placement of floor numbers. It was starting to become a bit of a habit, checking to make sure he was still there, that he was still breathing, and that he wouldn't leave her again, no matter how short a time it had been. She turned and looked out at the Triskelion. One of the Helicarriers was still carving its way through the structure, like Death's scythe. The building burned, and thick, black smoke poured into the sky—a pyre for S.H.I.E.L.D. A hideous, twisted metaphor for the downfall of the agency that had become her home.

Reminding herself that the mission wasn't quite finished, she tapped the com on her wrist. "Hill, do you have a location on Rogers?"

"Natasha, Captain Rogers—Steve, he—" Maria's voice responded immediately, sounding flustered, panicked, so unlike her usual, very professional and put-together self.

"What it is? Where's Rogers?" Natasha asked, trying to keep her brain from going straight to the worse-case-scenario.

There was a pause that seemed to last a millennia, though Natasha knew it was only a few seconds. She could feel rather than see Nick and Sam awaiting Hill's response just as much as her.

Finally, there was a crackle of static and Hill sounded over the com. "Rogers was still on board the Helicarrier when they fired on one another."

For a moment, Natasha wasn't sure she'd heard right. She gave a slight shake of her head, as if doing so would change the answer Hill had given her. Natasha swallowed, feeling her heart plummet.

"What do you mean he was still on board?" she asked through gritted teeth, trying to control her anger and frustration, and above all, the terror that was threatening to break loose from her suddenly fragile being.

"I'm sorry, Natasha." Maria said. "I didn't want to, but Steve, he ordered me to have the Helicarriers fire on one another. He was insistent, and I—"

"Have you tried comming him?" Natasha asked, her anger slowly being replaced with the fear that she was fighting so hard to keep down.

"Yes, he's not answering."

"Well, then try again!" Natasha snapped.

"I've already tried again, he's not picking up." Hill repeated, the edge of anger in her tone not doing a very good job of covering up the panic in her voice.

"Dammit, Hill! Try him again! We have to—"

"Natasha," Fury said firmly, cutting her off. "You have to calm down."

As she took in Fury's words, she regretted snapping at Hill. It wasn't Maria's fault and she knew that. She took a few deep breaths, trying to slow her racing pulse. She clenched one hand into a fist, concentrating all her anger on keeping her fingers tucked tightly against her palm.

"I'm sorry, Maria." Natasha said quietly into her com. "What Helicarrier was he on—?"

Natasha cut off as an explosion ripped through the sky, one big enough that Natasha felt it all the way down to her bones. Fury cursed as he righted the chopper, veering them out of the path of destruction. Natasha sucked in a breath as she caught a glimpse out the side of the helicopter at the single Helicarrier that remained in the sky. Fire poured from holes in the Helicarrier, glass shattered and rained from the sky, and metal groaned as it bent and twisted out of its shape.

Somehow Natasha knew—she knew—that Steve was on that Helicarrier. Maria's silence was only further proof that her assumption was correct. Chunks of steel and other debris fell from the huge machine, and Natasha couldn't help herself from watching each and every one of them, hoping and fearing at the same time that she would catch a glimpse of red, white, and blue. The terror she'd been struggling to keep at bay broke free and clenched around her heart. Her mouth fell open in horror as the Helicarrier started to sink faster and faster out of the sky, heading straight for the Potomac. She gasped, feeling like she couldn't get enough oxygen, bracing her hands against the seat, trying to stop them from trembling.

She didn't want to watch, didn't want to see the Helicarrier fall to its death like the others, didn't want to think about Steve being on board when that happened. After the week that they'd had, after all of what had happened, they had come so close. Steve didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to die. If anyone was to die on this mission, she'd much rather it was her.

Shakily, Natasha lifted her wrist back up and tapped her com again. "Rogers? Rogers, do you copy?"

Silence. There was nothing but static on his end.

"Maria, do you have a location on Rogers?" Natasha asked, her voice weak.

"I can try coming him aga—" Hill cut off, only for her to continue a moment later. "Natasha, I lost his signal! His com is dead, I can't—I don't know where he is. Natasha, I'm sorry—"

Natasha didn't wait to hear the rest. "Rogers? Captain Rogers, do you copy?"

Still nothing. The air in the chopper felt heavier, pressing down on her chest, pushing the oxygen out of her lungs, tightening the grip of the fear around her heart.

"Steve, do you copy?" she asked into the nothingness, voice cracking. "Steve!"

"Natasha," Fury whispered. She didn't look at the ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. Director for fear that the scream that was building in her throat would escape and thus shatter her.

"Steve?" she gave one last, quiet plea into her com. And even though she didn't pray, she prayed for Steve. She prayed that there was only something wrong with his com and he was not falling from the sky with the Helicarrier.

The only thing she got in reply was static.

This was the fourth time she had been afraid in her lifetime.

Not even spilling each and every secret and minute detail about her past life onto the internet for the whole world to see scared her this much. But perhaps that was because this time she was afraid, not for herself, but for someone else. Even when Fury had 'died', she had been selfish. She had been selfish and scared and didn't want him to leave her. But this was Steve Rogers. And she never thought she would feel this much absolute and complete terror for the super soldier.

But at the moment she wanted to curl up into a ball and never move again. She felt like a child—small, fragile, like any small movement would break her. She stared ahead, not really seeing. She barely even registered it when Sam gently placed his hand on her arm, leaving it there for a brief moment, before his let his hand fall away.

When she started working with Steve after the Battle of New York, it was simply professional—a partnership that worked well, most of the time, despite their differences. And then recently, somewhere in the midst of getting shot at and running from the very people they worked for and nearly getting killed, he chose to trust her, even with his life. Trust was not something many people gave her. Neither was it something she handed out easily to others. And yet Steve saw something in her—she, who would be stained red for the rest of her life—that he found worthy enough to put his life on the line for.

The idea that he—good, pure, selfless Steve Rogers—could be dead right now at the bottom of the Potomac made her sick.

"Put the chopper down," she mumbled hollowly, surprised she could even talk at all.

"What?" Fury asked, talking louder than normal so as to be heard over the whirring of the helicopter blades.

"I said put the chopper down." She repeated, her voice a little stronger.

"Natasha." Fury only said her name, but she took it for what it was: a warning. A warning not to go there, not to pull on that string in case it led to something she didn't like.

But she had to try. For Steve. He would do the same for her.

"Put the damn chopper down, Nick, or so help me I will jump into the Potomac myself! And conveniently enough, we're missing a door, so I suggest you find a place to land." she snapped, regaining her fire. It was a good thing, too, that she was one of the few who could talk to Fury in such a tone, otherwise he probably would have shot her in the foot and slapped duct tape over her mouth.

"Stubborn pain in the ass," Fury muttered, but he turned the helicopter and head towards the far bank of the Potomac. Once they found a good spot to land, Fury put the chopper down about a hundred yards back from the bank of the river.

"We're still not safe here, so you have ten minutes, Romanoff. " Nick called as she exited the helicopter. "And Natasha?"

Natasha turned to look back, meeting his one eye with her own. "Yes?"

"Find him."

Natasha nodded, taking off down the bank. She was glad that Sam hadn't tried to follow her, because she would have turned down his help anyway. This was something she had to do alone. She owed it to Steve. And besides, it things didn't go her way and she couldn't find him, well if that happened, then she definitely wanted to be alone.

She made her way down the beach, eyes scanning continuously. The smell of smoke was a little less potent here, farther away from the burning Triskelion. She glanced down at her watch and nearly screamed in frustration. How had it already been five minutes? She ran a hand through her hair, taking a few deep breaths, trying to stall the panic building up in her chest. She knew that she couldn't spend too long out here. Fury was right—they weren't out of the fire yet. In fact, by releasing everything about herself and about S.H.I.E.L.D. onto the web, she had put them even more into the fire. They were in danger here. And now that everyone knew who she was, enemies would be lining up—sooner rather than later—to take a shot at her, to try and rid the world of the Black Widow.

Natasha exhaled, knowing she didn't have time to worry about the implications of her actions at the moment. She would look for a minute more, and then she would have to head back. If she couldn't find him—No. Don't think like that, she thought. Nonetheless, she braced herself for the worst and continued down the bank.

After searching for another few minutes, cutting it extremely close to Fury's time limit, she nearly gave up. That is, until she caught a flash of red farther down the beach. And then, she was running, running so fast she thought her lungs would rip in two.

"Steve!" she shouted his name as she approached, falling to her knees by his side, skidding a little ungracefully in her rush.

"Steve, oh my god, Steve," she breathed, her fear bubbling up to the surface again as she took in the beaten and broken flesh of his face.

She gave his whole body a once over, not failing to miss the red stain that was slowly spreading across his abdomen. She found two more gunshots—one on the back of his thigh and the other up near his shoulder. All were bleeding, and seeing as he was unconscious and she only had two hands, she couldn't put pressure on all the wounds.

She commed Fury and Hill, giving them the news that she had found Steve and that she needed a med chopper at her location. Once she cut the connection, she turned her attention back to the man lying on the beach in front of her. Doing her best to shut out the red that seemed to be all over him, she leaned down, his shallow breaths tickling her skin, and put two fingers to his neck. It took a minute, and Natasha had to remind herself to breath before she finally felt his pulse. It was slow and weak, but it was there.

"Steve," she whispered, brushing a thumb lightly over his injured cheek. "Steve, please wake up, come on."

She kept glancing at his chest to make sure it was still going up and down. He didn't move. And blood kept trickling from his wounds. Red red red. If the medics didn't show up soon, he'd bleed out. Though she had no desire to get any more blood on her hands—whether it was her fault or not—she covered the wound on his abdomen, warm scarlet liquid bubbling up through the cracks between her fingers.

"Come on, Steve," she muttered as she kept the pressure on his wound. "Come on, Steve. You're a fighter. Just hang on, okay? Hang on for me, Steve."

Natasha continued to whisper encouragement to him, hoping that even if he wasn't conscious, he could still hear her and would hold on just a little longer. The blood—his blood—stained her hands. Red red red. Red. Red, white, and blue. Her thoughts were fractured and all she could see was red. Red like her hair, red like her hands. She was scared. She was reaching the end of her limit. In the past four days, they'd been through hell and back, and now that it was all over, she couldn't even go and hide in an alias because she was compromised, stripped down to the bone. And yet, all she wanted was for Steve to open his eyes so she could stop seeing red and see blue instead. "Come on, Steve, wake up!"

Finally, the medics arrived, lifting Steve up onto a stretcher. She kept a hand on his arm till they told her to step away. Fury and Sam and come with the medics and they stood by her side, watching as they loaded Steve onto the chopper. As the stretcher was pushed on board, Natasha heard one word slip from the Captain's mouth, and somehow, she knew everything was going to be all right.

"Natasha."

-:-

Music for this chapter:

Human; Christina Perri

Somebody to Die For; Hurts

Youth; Daughter

First, thank you for reading!

It took me quite a while to get this all down on paper, honestly. I was struggling a bit to find Natasha's voice, and I really wanted to get her voice down because I love her character so much. So please, please let me know what you thought about how I portrayed her or if you thought she sounded too OOC or anything.

I am really open to constructive criticism! If there are any inaccuracies you guys think I should fix, let me know! So please review! Any thoughts you guys have, any feedback, I really appreciate it, especially when first writing for fandom.

Also, I'm working on the second chapter now. I'm hoping to get it up soon, but if it takes a little longer than a week or so, just be patient and know that I will update as soon as I can! I'm not sure how long the story is going to be. Right now I really just have the two chapters planned out, but I will see where I am after I finish the next chapter.

Thanks again for reading!

-DaughterOfPoseidon333

P.S. Any mistakes are mine, and I apologize for them.