(Note: This takes place just before CA: TWS.)
Steve finds her alone on the South balcony of Stark Tower. Just far away enough to escape the cacophony of Tony's extravagant NYE party, but close enough to be readily available should anything happen.
Natasha doesn't turn around as he approaches. Her midnight blue dress flutter gently in the wind as she stares down at the glimmering city below, cradling a martini in one hand.
If Steve didn't know any better, he would find Natasha's face devoid of emotions. Distant. But Steve knows better.
"Can I join?" He asks.
Natasha shrugs – but silently moves to make room for him on the railing. Steve leans against it and takes in a deep, cleansing breath of the cool night air.
Natasha, in turn, exhales. Returning to the present, from wherever she was.
With a slight raise of an eyebrow, she takes a sip from her drink and tilts her chin in the direction of the party.
"Not having fun?"
"It kind of stops being fun when you can't get drunk and everyone else is."
She allows a small smirk. "That's too bad."
"When did you get back from Ukraine?" He asks.
"A couple of hours ago."
She had been sent on a solo STRIKE mission to Ukraine. The rest of the Avengers had to deal with a dark, brooding Hawkeye.
That's when Steve notices the bandages around her left thigh, peeking out through the slit in her long dress. The bruises along her arms, smartly hidden under the ruffles. The dark bags under her eyes.
Her haunted eyes.
He's been on enough missions with her to have a certain confidence about reading the Black Widow's micro-expressions. And right now, beneath her nonchalance, she's on edge.
"Welcome back," Steve tries to sound casual and is only half-successful.
"Thanks," she mumbles. She downs the rest of the martini in one gulp. He watches.
"Tough mission?"
She lets out a laugh, as dry as her martini. But he catches a small tremor in her hands.
"Not gonna lie, Rogers. It could've gone better."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really, no."
A comfortable silence falls between them. Happy to provide quiet companionship, Steve watches the city that never sleeps, letting his mind wonder. He's a little surprised when Natasha breaks the silence first. He wonders how much she has had to drink.
"I'm so tired," she says. Quietly, as though uttering a confession.
"You were gone for two weeks. Of course you are."
"No, Steve, you don't understand."
Steve. Not Rogers, but Steve.
"I can't be tired. Not yet," Natasha says. Her jaws tighten for half a second, before she remembers to relax.
Steve understands. He understands the interminable fatigue of battle that threatens to swallow you whole. He understands that she speaks of the red on her ledger, which she once explained to him during one of the long Quinjet rides after a botched mission.
"I may be from the past, Natasha." Steve considers his words carefully. Thoughtfully. "But you choose to stay in the past."
Her expression clouds over. Shock? Pain? Anger? Sadness? Perhaps all of those things. Then all of it is goes away as she looks down at her empty martini glass.
"You know it was never my choice. Until it was." She says.
"But now you're not alone. When you're tired, you have the rest of us to lean on."
She looks, really looks at him with her green eyes. In this moment, she's frustratingly hard to read.
Then, of all things, she leans her head on his shoulder. Her eyes flutter shut.
"I'm so tired," she whispers.
"I know," he replies.