Title: I See Truth, Somewhere In Your Eyes
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~3,900
Characters: Steve/Natasha, Wanda, Sam
Summary: He remembers Wanda's voice through the haze, her touch prodding at his thoughts. But still, vision or not, it feels so real.
A/N: I know I already played around with the idea of Wanda giving visions of the future, but it's actually one of my guilty pleasure tropes so this probably won't be the last you'll see of it. Tried tackling a post-Civil War setting with a little more detail but it was too much. So you get this instead.
I See Truth, Somewhere In Your Eyes
"Just ease into it, Steve. Helen is going to save your life, I promise. You're going to get through this. We're going to save you. But first I need you to let go."
Wanda's voice lingers in his head, a soothing whisper, lulling the pain away. His eyelids slide slowly shut, vision fading into red, and then—
... ...
He flinches away from the sudden warmth against his skin, eyes squinting against the glare of the sunlight, a rush of summer air and laughter pouring over him as his vision blurs into focus. He sits up, feeling disoriented as he finds himself staring out into a large backyard – lush green and wide, a row of trees with bright pink blossoms along the fence to one side, a bright blue pool in the center. Two little kids are playing in the grass: a boy with messy hair and a wide, toothy smile, and a girl with dimples and grass stains on her dress. This sort of bittersweet feeling tugs at him at the sight of the kids, at everything, but before he can try and wonder why, he feels a warmth settle in his chest, easing his heartrate to a steady pace.
A dream, he realizes, now that his mind is calmer. He remembers Wanda's voice through the haze, her touch prodding at his thoughts. This is one of her visions.
But still, vision or not, it feels so real to him – the summer sun against his face, the smell of the grass and the chlorine, the sound of laughter. He grips the arms of the patio chair he's lounging in, feels the wood creak under his touch before he loosens his fingers again.
"Daddy!"
His breath catches at the word, eyes snapping onto the little girl as she starts running towards him. The boy casts a smile at her before going back to his soccer ball.
"Daddy," she exclaims again, and he sits up a little straighter on instinct, reaching for her as she comes to the side of his chair. Her little hands grips onto his, hoisting herself up and onto his lap. She weighs almost nothing, but he can feel the weight of her, even though he knows it's not real. It's a strange sensation.
Then she tilts her head back to look up at him and he almost holds his breath.
Blue eyes – his blue eyes, the ones he got from his mother – stare back at him. Her smile isn't all teeth like the little boy, but it's bright all the same, and he can't help but feel this vague sort of familiarity as he looks at her. Her hair is a strawberry blonde, more strawberry than it is blonde, actually, and clipped out of her face by a collection of colored pins. Then she tilts her head ever so slightly, dissolving into a bit of a giggle, and he breathes out a chuckle of his own automatically. He has the urge to comb his fingers through her hair, so he does, and the girl seems oblivious to his hesitation as she leans her cheek against his palm. The gesture feels natural, familiar, even to him, and he finds himself smiling a little wider.
"When's Mama coming home?" she asks, blinking her long lashes at him, and another familiar feeling tugs at his chest.
"Soon, baby," he says, the words coming from his mouth before he can realize it.
Just as he's said this, though, he hears the sound of a car pulling up close, stalling before the engine cuts off. The little girl in his lap perks at the sound of it, eyes wide and hopeful as she glances at the house. Over her shoulder, Steve notices the little boy come to a stop, his ball bouncing onto the grass a few feet away as he turns his head, too.
Steve hears the chime of keys, the sound of the door unlocking, and the little girl exclaims, "Mama!" and literally jumps off of his lap, landing to her feet with ease. He blinks, surprised for a moment at the grace of the movement, and then the two little kids are rushing inside the house with a chorus of, "Mama!" echoing through the air.
Steve stands, taking his time to follow them in. His breath grows a little heavier, heartbeat picking up ever so slightly, but it's not because he's nervous. He can't quite place it.
"Mama, Mama!" the girl exclaims.
"You're home early!" the little boy says with just as much excitement. "How come you didn't tell us?"
Someone laughs, and Steve stops completely in his stride.
"Well, it would have ruined the surprise if I did that," a voice replies, amusement in her tone, and Steve feels himself swallow. He knows that voice. Of course he does. How could he ever forget it? "Where's your dad, kiddo?"
There's a pause at this. "He was outside with us," the boy says, sounding a little confused, but then the brightness is back in his next breath. "I'll go get him!"
His footsteps round the corner, heading back towards the patio, but Steve is already moving again, halfway across the kitchen and standing just in his path as he comes racing around the corner, running right into Steve's legs. "Whoa!" he exclaims with a laugh, tilting his head to look up at Steve, and this tingling sort of feeling slides down Steve's spine as he stares at him. His hair is also a strawberry blonde, though blonder than his sister's, flopping off to one side. He looks just like Steve had in all of those the baby pictures his mom had around their house, and that alone is enough make Steve hold his breath. But his eyes – light green and sparkling – are entirely his mother's. He'd recognize that translucent green anywhere.
"Come on, Dad!" he says, taking Steve's hand and tugging him along. Somewhere in the back of his thoughts, Steve marvels at the firmness of the kid's grip, and the ease he pulls Steve along for someone so small.
(Like he has super strength, Steve thinks, lips tugging into a bit of a grin.)
They round the corner into the foyer, and Steve feels something flutter low in his stomach as he finally sees her.
Natasha.
Her head is turned away from him, attention on the little girl now in her arms, but he knows it's her. He knew it was her as soon as he'd heard her voice.
The sound of it had eased his nerves away, comforting him the way it always has. Seeing her is a different story, though. He feels relieved, heart thumping in his chest, fingers itching with the urge to touch her. The last time he'd seen her, she'd stood beside Tony, expression cooled, calculating, barely hiding the reluctance in her eyes as she stared at him across the airport runway. He remembers the pleading tone just underneath her voice as she urged him for a last time to back off, as if she felt as desperate for them not to fight as he did.
He's missed her. He's missed everything about her. He just didn't realize how much until now.
Feeling his stare, Natasha finally turns to meet his eyes, and every muscle in his being relaxes under her gaze. It isn't a knock to a gut the way he had been expecting. It's comfortable, familiar, just as everything about her is to him.
(It feels like coming home.)
Her lip quirks, smile brightening at the sight of him. It almost takes him by surprise. He's seen her happy before, of course.
But he's never seen this kind of happy on her – genuine, unapologetic. Her smile is still rather subtle, but it's bright, touching her whole face.
It draws his breath away.
"What?" she asks after a moment, arching an eyebrow at him with a slight tilt of her head. There's a warmth low within him at this expression. "No kiss for your wife?"
His stomach flips at that word (wife) and he feels himself smile as he steps towards her, his hand sliding over her hip. The motion feels natural, as if he's done it thousands and thousands of times before, rather than just imagining it whenever he let his thoughts wander. He pulls her close, watches her eyelashes flutter as she steps into his embrace, and his heart thumps in his chest as her lips press against his. She kisses him softly at first, the press of her lips just enough to let him know how much she's missed him, but that's enough for him to lose himself in it, in her. He squeezes his hand over her hip, slants his lips a little harder and harder against hers, his blood thrumming, and she makes this noise of surprise.
Her hesitation is gone just as quickly, though, and she kisses him back just as hard. Steve presses at the seam of her lips, brings his free hand up to comb his fingers through her hair and cradle the back of her head, tongue pressing against hers, his heartbeat jumping—
Then between them a little giggle erupts, and Natasha pulls away somewhat reluctantly, but with a laugh of her own on her lips.
"Not that I'm complaining," Natasha says to him, sounding a little breathless, "but I was only gone three days this time. No need to be so dramatic."
He swallows, still staring into her eyes, heart still thrumming – but before he can even try to respond, he catches the sound of footsteps heading up the driveway, and he follows Natasha's stare to the front door as Sam walks in, bags slung over his shoulders. He casts them an amused smile. "Did I miss the reunion?"
"Yeah," the boy says, scrunching his face. "They were being weird again."
"It's called being in love, James." Sam drops the bags to the floor, ruffling James's hair and making him laugh. "See? Home safe and sound, as promised."
Natasha rolls her eyes as she turns to the little girl in her arms. "Do you hear them, Tatiana? They don't trust your Mama to take care of herself."
Tatiana giggles, pointing an accusing finger at Sam. "That's not nice, Uncle Sam!"
"Not nice?" he repeats, flashing a smile. He reaches for her, tickling her sides, and she squeals and twists in Natasha's arms. Natasha presses a sloppy kiss to the girl's cheek before Sam pulls Tatiana away, and she throws her little arms around his neck, hugging tight. "Would a not nice uncle take you out for ice-cream?"
James's expression brightens. "We're getting ice-cream?"
"Sure are. You're already dressed, and I got the green light from your Mama on the way over." Sam ruffles James's hair again. "Go clean up while Mom and Dad get ready," he tells them, but James is already off before Sam can finish the sentence, bounding up the steps. Tatiana wiggles herself out of Sam's arms and lands on her feet, running after her brother. Sam chuckles with a shake of his, glancing at Steve and Natasha with a bit of a smirk. "Definitely your kids, alright," he says, sounding entirely amused as he follows them upstairs.
Natasha turns to Steve again, a touch of sheepishness in her smile. It looks adorable on her, actually.
"I know everyone's coming over for dinner later, but I figured they'd have plenty of time to burn off the sugar this way." She grins, eyes sparkling. "And if they don't, they'll be at Tony's tonight, anyway. It'll be the first and last time he invites all the kids for a sleepover."
"Tony's?" Steve repeats, eyebrows furrowing.
Natasha rolls her eyes. "Pepper promised to reign them in – all of them. You know she can handle it." Stepping into his space again, she runs her hands up his chest, settling them above his heart, and he wraps his arms around her automatically, tucking her in closer. "And I need you to promise me now that you're going to try and keep a level head when Tony inevitably brings up wanting to throw Bucky a bachelor party. I know you boys love throwing your punches at each other but we don't need you guys going all civil waron us, okay?"
He feels his chest tighten a little at that word even as he nods. He hears her voice in his head, low and pleading, telling him to stay out of it.
Do you really want to punch your way out of this?
A warmth presses against his cheek, drawing him from his thoughts before they can drift any further, and he leans into her palm as he blinks his eyes a few times, focusing on her eyes again. "Okay, you're like a million miles from me right now," she says with a tilt of her head. "What's up?"
"Nothing," he breathes. She arches an eyebrow at him and he shakes his head, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. "It's nothing."
"Steve," she starts, but then he kisses her again, hard and deep, drawing this little sound from her throat at the sudden force of it. "You can't just distract me," she murmurs against his lips, the grip of her fingers on the material of his shirt and the press of her hips against him betraying her own words. "That's not very trusting of you," she breathes.
He captures her bottom lip between his, kissing hard, and then drawing back ever so slightly. "There's no one I trust more than you," he says, holding onto her a little tighter.
"I know," she says easily, still giving him a strange look despite the slightly haziness in her eyes now.
He nudges his nose against hers, closes his eyes as he takes a deep breath. He can practically feel her stare, imagines the little wrinkle between her eyebrows, trying to riddle out what's wrong. He brings his hand up, grasps her chin with his fingers, smoothing his thumb over her bottom lip. "Just missed you more than I realized, I guess."
"Steve," she says, voice quiet and breathy. He opens his eyes to meet hers again, heart thumping at the sparkle in them. "You're such a sap." He smiles. "I missed you, too."
He hums lowly, bringing their lips together again, and he smiles a little wider when he feels her laugh into the kiss.
"Stop," she breathes as she pulls away. "I still need to change."
She doesn't so much as shift in his arms, though, so he holds her close again, kissing her lips. "Just a little longer," he murmurs against her lips, and she nips at his, leaning against him as she circles her arms around his neck. He breathes her in, losing himself in her warmth, her touch. "Just stay with me a little longer."
... ...
His every muscle aches. He can feel every cut, every bruise, so much so that it almost hurts to breathe.
Slowly, he blinks his eyes open, flinching against the glare of the low light. It takes a moment for his vision to blur back into focus, but when it does, he finds himself staring at a white ceiling – a white hospital ceiling, he realizes, staring at the dimmed fluorescent lights overhead. He can hear the lull of the machines, the faint beeps of the monitors, and low voices somewhere next to him, talking in hushed tones, barely above a whisper. He turns his head ever so slightly, glancing over the room. Sam and Bucky are sitting in plastic chairs, both wrapped in bandages of their own, eyes closed as they sit still in their chairs, but somehow he knows neither of them are asleep. He can make out Maria and Nick standing at the large window, turned to look outside, Maria's voice soft as she tells Nick something that Steve can't quite catch. Helen stands at the end of his bed, pen scratching over her clipboard.
She glances up after a moment, meeting his eyes, and her expression fades into relief. "Steve," she breathes, stepping closer. He looks up at her, watching her eyelashes dot with tears as she blinks. "Look who finally decided to wake up."
In his peripheral, he sees Bucky and Sam both stand, moving to step closer but then thinking against it. Nick and Maria turn from the window, walking a little closer.
"How long was I out?" he asks, voice rasping. His throat is sore and he sounds as shitty as he feels.
"No more than a day." She grips her clipboard a little tighter, hugging it to her chest. "You really scared us, Steve."
"Sorry," he breathes. He hears Bucky scoff faintly, murmuring something under his breath. Steve glances away, staring behind Helen, out the window facing the hallway. The shutters are tilted, blocking half of his vision, but he can already tell that who he's looking for isn't outside. "Who else—" He stops, turning to Helen. "Who else…"
Her expression shifts, reluctance touching her face. Still, she tells him, "All of you guys were hurt pretty badly, Steve. You and Tony just took the brunt of it."
Steve looks away, swallowing hard.
He doesn't ask any more questions, letting Helen fill him in on his injuries, jotting down his answers when she tries to figure out how much pain he's in. She tells him that he'll make a full recovery in a matter of days, and that his body already healed significantly in his hours under operation, but he's not surprised by this anymore.
Nick leaves when Helen does, stopping at Steve's bedside for a moment with a nod of his head, and that's all Steve needs to know how worried the guy had been. An hour passes as people come and go – Sam and Bucky don't so much as leave his bedside, but Maria is gone at one point, coming back with Sharon and Scott, and then Clint is there with Pietro and Wanda, the girl all but throwing herself at him in a hug. He winces at the force of it, tries to bring an arm up to hug her back, but she pulls away before he can, wiping at the corner of her eyes. She holds his gaze, expression shifting as she sees the question in his eyes that he can't bring himself to ask. She takes hold of his hand, thumb smoothing over the back.
It can be real if you want it to be, he can practically hear her say as she squeezes his fingers ever so slightly. Just give it time.
... ...
She comes when everyone – even Sam and Bucky – have left. Somehow he's not surprised.
He doesn't notice her at first, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, lost in his thoughts – in the vision still lingering in his mind. He doesn't even hear her enter the room, and in the back of his thoughts, he feels a tug of disappointment. He knows he's gotten better at being more attuned to her. Maybe they've just been apart for too long for him to remember how.
He feels her before he sees her, feels her presence in the room, and he tilts his head down to find her standing near the door, still gripping the silver handle.
"Hey stranger," he says lowly. His voice doesn't sound as bad as before, but that's not really saying much. "You in the wrong room?"
He's teasing, and the slight quirk of her lips tells him that she knows. Of course she does.
Still, she doesn't say anything, her expression not so much as shifting, and there is something heartbreaking about the look on her face as she approaches his bedside. His chest tightens at the sight of it, at the shadows under her eyes, at the paleness in her cheeks. She looks completely and utterly exhausted, and he knows it's not just physical. She crosses her arms over her chest tightly, desperate to curl into herself, to retreat, and he wants to reach out and pull her closer, to keep her from hiding again. He wants to bring her back.
He watches her look over him, watches her eyes pause over every visible injury, uneasiness tug at her expression.
He hates seeing her like this. But he knows that he can't stop her, either. She knows she needs to deal with this, and he has to let her.
"Hey," he says again, softer this time. She keeps her head tilted down, glancing at him in her peripheral, pressing her lips together. "What's going on?"
She breathes out a laugh, short and bittersweet. "I am the last person you should be concerned about, Steve."
"And yet, you're the very first," he tells her, and she turns to face him a little more, taking a deep breath. "You don't know how relieved I was when Helen told me you were alright."
"I might have an idea."
Her voice is soft, practically a whisper, and she blinks, eyes glassy as a tear rolls down her cheek. She just stares at him, holding his gaze, and he sees the way her fingers grip onto the leather of her jacket, the way her shoulders shake ever so slightly at the tightness in them. He can see her physically trying to hold herself together, and he hates it.
"Steve," she breathes, expression crumpling for the briefest of moments. As much pain as he may be in, it doesn't compare to this. "I can't…" She shakes her head. "I didn't want—"
"I know." He watches her blink at the interruption, still shaking. He tries to smile, which isn't all that hard to do anymore, now that he's with her. "I know, Natasha. It's alright."
She shakes her head ever so slightly, swallowing. "It really shouldn't be."
"It is." He lifts his hand, reaching for her, and he sees the hesitation in her eyes before she walks over, placing her hand in his. He squeezes his fingers over hers ever so slightly and she draws a shaky breath at this. He runs his thumb over her knuckles as he stares into her eyes. "I've really missed you."
She breathes out a laugh, bringing her free hand up to brush her fingers through her hair. "You're ridiculous," she says, and he hears the words underneath.
I've missed you, too.
He tugs her hand lightly, drawing her closer. "Sit with me for a bit." She blinks, hesitating again, but he doesn't see reluctance in her eyes – just uncertainty. He holds her stare, still smoothing his thumb over her knuckles, and he watches tension ease from her shoulders, little by little. She glances at his bed, at the space right next to him, and then lets out a breath, pulling her hand away. She tugs the zipper of her boots down, slipping out of them, and then shrugs out of her jacket, draping it over the back of one of the hospital chairs.
He can't move much, but Natasha fits herself easily into the spot next to him, body easing back against his pillows.
He reaches for her hand again and threads their fingers together. She meets his eyes, eyelashes wet with tears. "How can you still trust me, after everything?" Her eyebrows pull together, lip tugging into a bit of a frown, but he can tell it's out of genuine confusion.
"There's no one I trust more than you, Natasha," he tells her.
She blinks, surprised, and then amusement tugs at the edge of her lips as she shakes her head a little. "Don't be so dramatic."
He grins, a warmth settling over him. He pictures her smile from the vision – bright, uninhibited. Happy. He thinks she has always been open with him, genuine. But he hasn't seen that smile from her just yet.
(He knows he will, sooner or later. He'll make sure of it.)