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It's fate. Apparently. But, the thing is, I've lost patience in fate. I can't believe in fate; not anymore.
Fate brought me to her.
She introduced me to love.
And, then, fate tore me from her.
My best girl.
I can safely conclude that if fate is true, it is no friend of mine. Fate has tangled my head, it has made me so detached from life, from people, from morality. Fate has aged me in the worst way possible. So, maybe, I shouldn't believe such a thing exists.
At least, that's what I want to believe.
She knows I'm here before I've stepped into the café. She doesn't look up until she needs to, and, according to her, greeting me isn't a good enough reason to acknowledge my presence. Her mask is solid. Untainted. I find her stoicism frustrating.
We sit together. Like friends. Like strangers.
I order a coffee. She's reading today's newspaper.
It's similar. This feeling.
'You're looking for him.'
Her tone is quiet. I have to lean in slightly.
But it's dead.
Her voice lacks life. Spirit.
'Aren't you?'
I don't answer. Not immediately. I don't really talk about Bucky, not even to Wilson. I don't want to talk about Bucky. And it's not even about the person; not about the boy I knew in the war. Not about my ally, my brother; a man who grew to be more.
I can't talk about Bucky, the way I can't talk about Peggy.
I simply can't discuss love.
Natasha doesn't expect a response. She knows. 'Huh.' She cocks a brow. Briefly. Then all interest is lost, and she seems to forget I'm here.
My coffee arrives.
It's bitter. Not enough milk.
Bizarrely, this upsets me. I'm really upset my coffee is bitter, and I have a sudden urge to blame somebody. No –– no, I'm not upset. I'm angry. I think. I can't tell. My throat narrows, I swallow, drum my fingers against the table and look at her. 'I wasn't supposed to see you again.' Her eyes slowly travel away from the newspaper. To my hand. 'I mean, not like this.'
Not as people. Normal people.
Whatever "normal" is.
I think, by this point, I can no longer associate myself with people. It's too different –– this life. I wake up some mornings, yelling at the top of my lungs. Hungry and desperate for home. I don't know where to turn, who to look to, what to do. I can't hide behind my shield forever; I have to face this funny period. I thought I was alone before, but this time... this time, I've never felt so abandoned.
I think the very possibility of loving somebody frightens me.
Because I know, all too well, how it ends.
I'm not supposed to meet her. Not like this. Not when our armoury is laid out before us, and we are bare to each other. When we aren't following orders. When we are just sitting together, she reading her newspaper, me observing, drinking coffee.
Did she have this with somebody else too?
My eyes fall on her lips.
Accidentally.
I wonder who has kissed her. I wonder who was the last man to caress her face.
I wonder if there was ever a man.
She's watching me. As if waiting. For me to speak. For me to move. For me to watch her too. 'Not fond of my company?' Maybe she's joking. I don't know what to think of Natasha: her sarcasm, her lies, her cruelty, her brilliance.
'Right now––' I exhale, lift my mug of coffee. '––You're the only company I enjoy.'
The truth is cold.
Yet it rushes through my body, and it's hot. Burning my bones, making my skin flush. It's very familiar this feeling. I look away. I don't know why I bother looking away. She's still watching–– studying me. I hate being studied by her. I drink my coffee.
From the corner of my eye, I notice her twitch a smile.
Small.
A small smile. But it's a smile for me all the same.
'I'm charmed.'
I brace myself. Catch her eye. My heart jumps –– I've never witnessed her look so soft. Natasha Romanoff is not soft. She's resilient, she's steel, and she is not soft. But, at the moment, soft is all I see. A fragile softness, incredibly easy to break.
I can shatter her with just the touch of my lips.
Here we sit, like normal people.
Too normal.
'Where are you going?'
She leans back. Relaxed. The softness disappears. I'm relieved.
After this, where will she go? Natasha shrugs. 'Anywhere.' I don't believe her. She has a mission, a destination, a person in mind. 'Want to come with?'
Now she is joking.
Yet I play along, and I smile. I don't answer because she knows my answer.
She folds the newspaper. Slams it onto the table. I realise she wants to leave, she has to disappear. I accept it, at first. It is what we do: disappear. But, suddenly, I panic and I reach over to take her hand. She knows. Of course she knows and slips her hand away just in time.
It's then when I realise how tired and old I am.
To my surprise, she doesn't walk away just yet.
She lingers.
Hesitates.
She hesitates, and I'm stunned into silence. I sit. I wait. I watch her, and, eventually, she watches me and our silence is our answer. Finally, this feeling, it makes sense.
When she moves over, she takes my hand, squeezes once. Abruptly pulls back.
'You smell good.'
It's weird. Really weird, but I'm not embarrassed to admit it.
She does smell good. Something nice. I don't know what she smells of. Probably soap. Perfume? I find it difficult to imagine Natasha wearing perfume. She smells of herself. Of many nice things. That's all.
Natasha frowns at me.
Pauses.
Inhales.
'You smell good too.'
I'm suddenly conscious of how close we are. That her knee is touching mine. That her hand is loosely placed between us. I can see how her lips are a little chapped, the very little mascara she wears, her pale eyes holding mine.
Then she acknowledges me.
Runs a hand through my hair.
I sigh.
I haven't been touched in years.
So, we both imagine me kissing her. Surrounded by normal people, coffee in my hand, her newspaper on the table. We imagine one kiss.
A kiss with no conditions. No exceptions. A kiss with absolutely no fate involved.
A kiss.
But she's gone.
Natasha stands, walks to the door, and she's gone.
My heart slows.
I remember to breathe.
To breathe.
(... this feels like falling in love...)
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author's note: This is set after The Winter Soldier, but has no specific date.