.
.
.
She hadn't seen it in a while. She'd almost forgotten about it, or maybe she'd wanted to. And maybe she was just exceptionally vulnerable these days, and all wounds were like new, and all scars were reopened. Twenty-three days of grief in endless waves and everything about her felt raw, swollen, sore.
But there was that goddamn compass again. He brought it out, eased it open, right in front of her, just as they were talking; and she knew why, knew whose increasingly faded photograph he wanted to look at inside it. Everyone knew. But her heart burned anyway.
Hadn't they been enough for him? Hadn't she been enough? Eight years since he'd been brought back from the ice and he was still pining for this woman who had long since passed away, left him behind like all the others. But her frustration faded as quickly as it had come, leaving a familiar hollow throb in her chest.
Of course he was. He was loyal like that. No matter what. To Barnes. To her. Natasha didn't dare form the name, not even in her thoughts. She wasn't worthy.
Not that she'd ever let him know any of these things. She was the Black Widow, after all, and she would keep up her cover.
"This is gonna work, Steve."
Cool, competent, confident. That was all he saw her as. That was what she showed him. He barely saw through weary eyes.
"I know it is. 'Cause I don't know what I'm gonna do if it doesn't."
.
.
.
It didn't.
And five years had ground on, slipped away, five years when everybody who was left, disappeared; everybody who'd remained, scattered. Moved on. Rebuilt. Started over.
Except them. They'd stayed, the two of them. They'd set up a network, built up contacts, gone back to work. It was all they knew how to do. And they knew they needed to do something. It filled the days, which turned blessedly into weeks, ran into months, drifted mercifully into years. Sometimes they even felt almost good about what they did.
And then the miracle of Scott Lang had happened—if she even believed in miracles—and in the space of a blink and a breath Tony had come back, and even Bruce, and Thor, and all these strange new characters had joined in too. And then they had new suits, new tech, and she'd teamed up with Clint—because who else could?—and over time she must have just gotten better at keeping up her cover, or maybe she'd just overdosed on the hope suddenly surging through their veins as it hadn't in far too long. Because they had each had their missions and the fate of the world hung in the balance, and everything could go wrong and nothing could be allowed to go wrong.
"Whatever it takes," he'd said.
Because she'd managed to meet his blue eyes without faltering, buckled on his words like armor. She'd savored his voice while stilling her heart. Over five years she'd learned to curb her feelings, subdue her hands, suppress the urge to touch him, soothe him, cling to him. He still kept that compass on him, brought that photo into battle. And so without even really knowing it she'd said goodbye to him, in her own way. Keeping up her cover.
"See you in a minute."
Her smirk might have slipped a bit, though.
And now it all made sense. The wind whipped past her ears. Clint dangled above her, desperate, denying. She knew she was hanging on only because she hadn't yet let go. She wished it didn't have to be this way; he would mourn, because that was the sort of man he was, and he'd feel bad, and she didn't want that for him.
But she'd found her place at last.
She'd give him a future.
"It's okay."
She smiled.
And fell.
.
.
.
fin
.
.
.
[Some hasty edits to a hastily done oneshot (ugh weeknight plotbunnies). But I needed to make sense of "Endgame" and the mess it makes of all those lovely Romanogers fantasies. Thanks for reading.]