Here's another older fic. This was written after the Winter Soldier movie. There are no names mentioned, so her companion could be Clint, Steve or (Age of Ultron spoilers) Bruce. Personally, I ship Romanogers ;) But I purposefully left it open for interpretation.
The Back Widow scoffed at what others thought of her. But Natasha is not the Black Widow. Not anymore. It's an odd sensation-paying attention to the outrage pouring from every headline. As the day's paper trembles in her hand, she can not decide between horror at what's she done in the past or relief that she is not that person anymore. The gray newspaper falls to the floor as her fingers grasp the edge of her shirt, tugging it up just enough to reveal the scar that marks one of the darkest moments in her life-a time when she lost herself in anger, revenge and bitterness.
The jagged lump of puckered flesh dominates her vision as she bends her head to stare down at it. To her, it represents everything she loathes about herself. Hatred, weakness, fear, helplessness-it's all there in that heap of destroyed skin. Frustration with the press, and grief caused by the destruction of the only life she's known for ten years, wells up from the corners of her mind and tears bubble to coat the surface of her eyes.
In all her life, she's never been this uncertain. Confidence in her abilities had sustained her through times of hardship. But now she doesn't want those abilities. Knowing that she can kill another human being in under ten seconds, with nothing more than a paperclip, only makes her sick. The bile rises as she remembers she's done that and countless other crimes like it.
She raises pale eyes to the reflection looking back. The pink mound on her abdomen draws her attention, sucking her back into that pit of despair. Every time she thinks she's doing what's right, it turns out to be a lie. Her whole life has been one deception after the other and she is beginning to doubt if truth even exists. Atonement has never seemed more unattainable. She blinks at the mark that can never be erased.
Warm fingers tenderly appear over her scar, resting lightly on the surface of the hideous, disfigured flesh. She jerks, furious with herself for becoming so caught up in her thoughts that she lost awareness of her surroundings. Reflex moves her arm in an arc, aiming for the head of her unexpected companion. A hand gently, but firmly, catches her strike before it hits. It's enough to break the last of her strength and her walls crumble. Tears spill over her bottom lid, streaking down her face and painting lines to her jaw.
"What's wrong?" he asks, all genuine concern.
She hates him for that. Hates that he's honest. Hates that he actually cares.
"Nothing." She scrubs at the water on her face.
"None of that," he soothes, voice calm.
It's like warm honey and clean cotton blankets. Security and peace-she hasn't felt those in such a long time.
"What's really going on?" he inquires and it's an invitation, not a demand.
He truly wants to help her. She knows she doesn't deserve it.
"You can tell me."
She really can. And that's what makes it hard.
"Natasha..." he exhales, breath stirring her hair.
The pads of his fingertips shift over the broken skin and suddenly she's yanking at the hem of her shirt, pulling, pulling down fabric to cover, hide, forget about that horrendous scar. He's stronger than she is and he captures both her hands with one of his and simply holds on until she realizes struggling is useless.
"What are you doing?" he questions softly.
"I don't want you to see." The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. Perhaps it's only a mild surprise that they are the most honest things she's said in months.
"See what?"
"My scar." She turns her head away, only to find that when she does, her face ends up buried in his chest.
"Hey, look at me," he quietly tells her.
She can't disobey and slowly meets his eyes via the mirror. His hand rubs over her toned stomach. The touch sends shivers through her entire body. Returning to her permanent defect, his fingers gently press on it.
"Your scars make you beautiful," he whispers in her ear.
She shifts, uncomfortable with him seeing her flaws. But his fingertips continue their caress of her midsection.
"They prove your strength," he continues, breath misting on her temples. "Remind you of the battles you've won, the losses you've suffered and the way you've carried on."
His sincerity forces her to take a second look. She can't see what he sees. Not yet. But already the sharp edges have blurred and when she looks at it, she doesn't see blood and mistakes.
"Don't be ashamed of them," he urges softly. "Embrace them."
His other hand slips around her waist, gently drawing her closer to him and she leans into him.
This is one of my only attempts at anything resembling romance. I think we can all see why I prefer to stick to other genres. :P