AN: This was written for a prompt on Tumblr as part of BuckyNat Week (it can be found at the bottom - I don't really want any potential spoilers for this one). It isn't relevant to MCU in any way, so people fearing CA:TWS spoilers need not worry. It is, after all, an AU piece. ;-) Not so good at gothic, but I hope y'all like it for what it is anyway.

Let's Pretend

James watches as Natasha surveys the dark room, her eyes scanning every shadowed nook and cobweb-littered cranny with a detached professionalism that doesn't become her in the slightest. It warms him, a little selfishly, to know that he's the only one who has seen those beautiful eyes light up in pure joy, smoulder with unbridled lust, and glow with the deepest affection. Steve, waiting by the doors, has the sense to let her to say when to move on, and James smiles as he follows the two of them into the next room.

"I know you're already familiar with it," Steve says, "but, this is the living room. Allow me to apologise for the state of the furniture – as you know, nobody's lived here in a while, and the whole place has fallen into neglect."

James understands, and Natasha also nods. "I expected it," she admits. She steps forward, trailing a hand over the top of the faded settee, her fingers revealing polished wood as she wipes away the dust. He's transfixed by her movement: she's a dancer, after all (and it shows in her poise, never mind the way she walks). "Do you know what they say about this room?"

"Uh, no?"

"They say that it's haunted." Steve frowns, and James doesn't try to hide his smirk. "Stories vary, of course," Natasha continues. "Some say that the people who lived here were murderers, the best in the world, and that when they finally met their end their spirits were unable to rest, leaving them trapped in this place. Others suggest that every occupant of this household is murdered by their predecessor, tasked with the same gruesome mission once their life is ended."

Steve looks a little pale. "I don't believe in any of that," he says firmly.

Natasha's lips quirk faintly, and James' chest tightens at the sight. He reaches out to lay a hand over hers on the neglected chair as she sighs. "Could you go and get the papers please, Steve?"

"Are you sure? You haven't even seen upstairs."

"I already know what's there."

Steve looks like he's about to argue, but James is relieved when he thinks better of it and nods once before leaving. She isn't lying when she says she knows what's upstairs; the memories of tripping through the rich red hallways with her are still vivid in his mind, her laughter loud and honest, her lips soft against his, their heartbeats matching as they press against one another, searching for that skin on skin contact, never feeling so alive again…

He's broken out of his reverie when Natasha moves, her hand sliding off the back of the settee as she slowly makes her way over to the bay window. It's a foreboding day outside, the sky a pale grey colour that reminds James of tarnished silver, but as she comes to a standstill before it he can still see her bathed in light, like she should always be, her tightly-bound hair luminous despite the lack of sun, and he desperately wants to know what she's thinking that she looks so… melancholy. He already knows, really, but if he can just get her to talk to him –

"What do you think, James?" she asks suddenly. He's caught off-guard by the question, so much so that he can't come up with an answer quickly enough before Natasha's moving again – much more purposefully this time – back out towards the entrance hall, with its grand mahogany staircases and ancient chandelier, and when he finally kicks himself into gear and follows her she's already signing the official documents Steve has presented to her. This house, and all the memories within its walls, belongs to her now.

"Are you going to be okay here?" Steve asks as he folds the documents into his suit pocket. His outfit is nearly as black as the walls around them. James disagreed with the choice, but there was little he could do to stop his friend from wearing it.

"Why?" Natasha asks. "I thought you didn't believe in ghosts."

He flushes. "I don't. But I was just –"

"Stop worrying, Steve. James is watching over me." James can't deny that his chest swells a little at the confidence she has in him. As far as he's concerned, he's never given her particularly good reason to have such faith in his abilities, but she always amazes him with just how much she trusts him. It's moments like these, when she subtly admits the fact to people without them realising what she's saying, that James can't look anywhere else but at her. He finds himself distracted by a strand of hair that's escaped from the pins holding it back – it curls naturally in front of her ear, like a spring made of silken fire, and he's so intent on putting it back in place that he doesn't hear Steve depart until the heavy oak doors close behind him, the sound echoing in the void of the entrance hall.

With Steve gone and the paperwork done, there isn't much left to do. Natasha, however, decides she wants to stay, and goes across to the study to pick a book. James is sad to see how worn and old they look now, saturated in dust and smelling something awful, but as much as he'd like to wipe the spines of every one on the shelves he'd rather spend an entire afternoon in Natasha's company. She slides out a novel – Frankenstein, one of their shared favourites – and returns to the living room, settling herself on the old settee while James takes the window seat, resting his head against the glass and staring at the bleak outdoors.

For a long time, the room is quiet. James hums softly, fragments of Russian pieces that they both fell in love with those precious few years ago, and she doesn't stop him, her focus on the pages in her hands. They sky never changes, even as the clock's hands make their steady progress towards late afternoon, and despite the dormancy of the house, with its dust-coated, empty rooms and its thick silences and dark interiors, James imagines he can feel something stirring beneath it all: something other-worldly, something fantastical. He remembers Natasha telling Steve about ghosts, the way Steve's face betrayed how he really felt when he denied believing her, and he grinned. This was the most peaceful he'd felt in a long time, and he could fade –

Natasha was crying. He barely hears the muffled sob, but looking round sharply he finds her slightly hunched over, face hidden in one hand, the book open in her lap. He's by her side in an instant, sitting as close as possible. "I thought this would be easier," she confesses in a whisper. "Maybe I've rushed this, maybe it would have been better to wait. Everything's still so…" She takes a shuddering breath, and he reaches out to hold her hand. "I miss you."

James freezes. Tears fall from Natasha's eyes, and his instinct is to stop them, but then she tucks the loose strand of hair behind her ear. The feeling of utter helplessness overcomes him; he wants to hold her close, make her feel secure enough that she'll never shed another tear, whisper reassurances in her ear until her breath stops hitching, kiss her softly so that she'll smile again (it's been so painfully long since he saw her smile), but in that moment the horrible truth comes down like a poisonous cloud: he can't.

"This house… It isn't the same without you," Natasha continues. "But I couldn't bear the thought of someone else owning it, of everything just being discarded…" She stares at the book in her lap, fingers trembling slightly on the page. The snap it makes when she closes it echoes. "I'm sorry."

Natasha stands abruptly, and James, forgetting himself, reaches out for her arm. His hand closes around nothing, and she pauses (for barely a second) in her haste to half-run out of the living room, the book abandoned on a chest of draws by the door. He belatedly runs after her, reaching the entrance hall in time to see her slip between the oak doors and into the lonely world. Heartbroken, James can do little else besides stand and stare at the solid pieces of wood, her image lingering in his vision.

He'll wait for her. He always wou- will.

AN: Prompt: "gothic horror, haunted house?"