.
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oh how the stars fall
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(the war is over, captain.)
(au in which it's the 1920s and everyone is reeling from everything. Bruce has ptsd, clint is trying to adapt to post-war, tony is rising in power of defying prohibition, Natasha is a victim of the red room and steve is just trying to keep sane.)
(abuse, prostitution, war references.)
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Yeah, I'm a history major.
Also, I am currently working on the third chapter of Snap Shots. About a quarter way through. I just had to write this brief one shot of a 1920 AU where everyone suffers, but it's alright.
The police station I am envisioning for Steve is pretty much the one from Gotham, the TV show.
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the world will end with a whimper, not a bang.
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The war ended in a sullen way, with no real victor. Germany had found itself grinding to a halt, unable to sustain their power that had attempted to cripple Europe. Soldiers returned with wide eyes and shaky hands to a city that glittered with celebrations and the century was changing. New York had become transformed as the world's economic foundation, slowly rising up out of the ashes of ruined Britain.
A man walked the streets alone with a gun at his hip, one eyes watching the people. Girls giggled at street corners, lips bright red and eye brows exaggerated oddly. He found himself sneering at the ridiculousness of their fringed outfits, how they reeked of booze. Obviously prohibition hadn't been so well maintained in certain areas of the city, no matter how much the church pushed.
A library sat at the end of a courtyard, windows beautiful in their dark state. He almost wished it was daytime so that the stained glass windows would be fully appreciate by all passerby's. A woman sat on the steps, red hair pulled up out of her pale face. She greeted him impassively, dark eyes narrowed in the shadows. "Steve Rogers. What would such a fine man such as yourself be doing at place like this?" Her accent sounded thick in the cold night.
She looked exhausted sitting alone, wrists narrow and delicate and her shoulders hunched over. He offered her a couple of crumpled up dollar bills he had shoved in his pockets earlier. "Just visiting old friends, Romanoff."
"You and I don't do friends." She informed him sharply. "We make enemies, and very seldom do we make alliances."
"What exactly would you propose you and I be?"
She cocked her head and looked up at him, hard smile dying away. "You and I, we business. I am not going to aid you, I am no rat."
"Relax. I'm not here on a case. Just wondering if you'd let me walk you home safe."
Natasha exhaled sharply. "I am working."
"Yeah, you look like you're working real hard to get clients." He mused, waving a hand towards her slinky black dress and package of cigarettes clutched tight in her hands. She stiffened defensively, hunched over on the steps of the library away from the crowds. "What happened?"
"Please, Captain. I keep secrets very well."
Steve sighed. "I know you do. You should know that you can trust me."
"To stay alive in the Rouge is to keep distance. Not toying around and revealing certain… aspects of the job. No matter how badly it hurts."
"Are you injured?" He imagined Peggy, her brilliant smile and violent driving. The last moment he saw her, a promise of a dance once they were together again. The woman before him looks like her, thin and bright, hair like fire. He'd like to think that a small part of her is like the woman he found mangled in explosion, the woman that always made two cups of tea and snuck rum over to the boys.
Instead Natasha is hard and angry. Her entire figure is narrowed and boney, sharp elbows and violent hipbones. She watches him the way a beaten dog watches his master, with weariness and constant awareness. "Nothing hurts me," she vowed in the darkness of midnight. "Go chase villains, Captain. I will be here, watching world go by."
The Russian woman watches him leave, smoking cigarettes that fill the air with a heaviness he can't describe.
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Clint Barton polished his knives. He loaded his guns. Carefully placing them each on the rough wooden cabin, he left them there. Walked away in the way all liberated men do, slowly and filled with disbelief. He walked away from the cabin in the woods and hitched a ride on a bus going down in New York city. He had only a suitcase filled with essentials, nothing more and nothing less.
Watching the world glide by through the thick windows, he forced himself to forget the days spent crouched in position, finger against the trigger. Sky melting from bloody red to starless black, waiting for the fear and restlessness to settle in. The Germans would had always liked to think that time spent listening to no gunfire meant they were safe, free to look up over the trenches. They hadn't been, because he shot them down the way he was supposed to be.
Clint grew up in a circus before learning to hunt properly. He was a gunslinger, trained first with a bow and then with a loaded riffle because people wanted the thrill. Once the war set in, the military had begun looking at the world beyond soldiers. They wanted hunters, men with the skills to be transformed into snipers.
That wasn't him anymore.
The city appeared at first along the horizon, a grey stretch of buildings that dominated the edge of the world. Slowly they began to spread, towers reaching higher and the lights of structures glistening in the early morning. "You goin' far?" A woman asked beside him, knitting needles clacking in a comforting manner. She was creating the most hideously purple scarf that had ever been knitted before, he had decided early on in the ride.
"Getting off at the city, ma'am."
"You were on of 'em boys who went off to serve, weren't you?" She demanded and her movements slowed. She lowered her knitting and looked up at him with hard grey eyes. "Go over to 'em big countries with guns and such."
Clint nodded at her. "It paid the bills."
"You are a lucky fool to have made it alive. Five of my grandsons-the only five I have mind you- all died in the mud there. The real kick is that they were all luckier than any of you survivors." She grinned with yellow teeth at him. "I see you all walk about like ghosts. Breaking down, screamin' about all them bodies over there. Half of you come back in pieces, the way I see it. Blind or missing limbs. If it ain't the physical damage, you're off your rocker then."
"You know, the Australian army were usually in the medical set ups being cured of whatever diseases they got from the prostitutes." He shrugged. Clint turned away to look out the grimy window as the bus zoomed along the grey river. He could still remember their faces of the woman that followed the armies defiantly. Bullets hadn't terrified them, they kept going on with their bright faces and brighter laughs, making men feel warm and home.
The lady burst into sharp laughter. "Oh, honey. They ain't getten cured of anythin' they get from them harlots over there." She paused as she began pulling at whatever mistake she had done with her knitting. "Here I am prattlin' on to you, you thinking I'm a crazy stranger. My name is Daisy Jones. I'm here on official business."
"Clint Barton."
Her gaze looked over him sharply. "Just like 'em posters. You were famous where I'm from, boy. Sharp shooter, best they ever saw."
"You saw the show?"
"Whenever you pass on through I did. Heck, all of us did. Small town meant restlessness, and wanderin' circus meant chances to see beyond old faces." Daisy Jones said sadly. "I remember you were a scrawny little thing. What a kid like you doing up here in the city?"
He shrugged. "I got a job working for the law."
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The Rouge was hidden behind a wall in a barbershop. The man who played barber was a friendly man who wore a bright white apron and smoke far too many cigars. He always greeted customers the same- 'lovely weather we're having'- and carried out his business as usual. People were constantly slipping into his small shop, men with dark jackets and women were painted smiles all eager to venture past the walls and explore the crevices within.
He'd let them in if they responded correctly. "If only I brought an umbrella" sent the people slipping through the hidden door and into the restless world below.
The basement was massive. People gathered around a stage for hours, twisting and lurching to the frantic sound of jazz. Eventually the daytime cliental vanished, and the night came and tainted the amusement.
Children were brought in, led by collars and leashes. Women who had grown within the system flinched from touches, sitting rigid on stools positioned in spotlights. Cages were wheeled in, naked girls dancing for hours. The Rouge melted away, leaving nothing more than the Red Room. Scarlet walls with dark red silk table clothes filled the space. Men wandered freely, grasping at flesh and waving fistfuls of money at the girls and sneering as they cried out.
Natasha sat in the very center of it all, exposed beneath the harsh lights. Ivan was laughing loudly in the distance, spewing fake words freely at the cliental. Everyone was drunk and she wanted desperately to escape, vanish back into her tiny room. The collar that was snug around her neck kept her still though, a chain allowing her no escape fastened to the floor. "My, my," Ivan greeted her warmly as he drew neared. "You look beautiful like this. So vulnerable. The way girls always are."
He touched her, first her arm and then her chest. Her body was just that. A body. His hands were rough and angry against her skin, leaving bruises and red marks in their wake. She glowered at the floor and he yanked her by her hair to force Natasha to look directly at him. "I've made an arrangement for you tonight."
"What is it?" She demanded hotly, voice barely heard over the noise of the crowd.
"No sex, tonight. None of it." He looked smug, gripping her chin and pressing his face close to her own. "You just go and be your lovely self."
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Bruce leaned out the window, feeling the cold air. His heart was pounding too fast, he realized dimly. Couldn't properly intake air. If he leaned further he could have been flying for mere seconds, arms outstretches and eyes shut, the way all fallen angels fly.
It had been months since the war ended, months since he returned. He was a doctor, not a solider. He fought battles with bandages and stitches, ducking under trenches. Returning to America after the war meant getting on with life. Toying with chemistry, exploring physics and gazing into the future.
Instead he was an unstable mess. He was trapped in the war, skull containing trenches and tanks. Men drowned in mud, men died gasping for air as mustard gas slaughtered them. America was meant to be home and safety and everything good in the world, but all he remembered was the hours spent in the wreckage, a woman choking on blood and the world going to absolute hell in the background.
His apartment resembled a warzone, almost. Books were everywhere. Hidden beneath his couch, on top of chairs and stashed on his bed. Bruce had spent so much time scribbling ideas and formulas down on blank pieces of paper that he had simply filled the apartment with everything within him. Calculations of the speed of a bullet and how flesh decreased that swiftness. Chemical equations of exactly what to ix in order to create a toxic gas that could devastate thousands within minutes.
He couldn't stop. Bruce was a mess. He couldn't stop twitching and thinking, unknowingly pacing his bedroom until hours slipped by.
Bruce leaned a little further out the window, hands clenching the window frame tight. The streets looked perfectly linear below him, yellow cabs inching their way along. He recalled the French soldiers arriving to battle in cabs, taxis lining up and men rushing out with loaded guns.
Someone knocked on his door.
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Steve placed his keys in the blue dish by the door. His apartment was dark and almost empty, curtains drawn and doors shut. He kept his gun in his hand as he walked down the hallway, checking each bedroom slowly and carefully. He could feel the presence of someone else, the shallow breathing, the filled space to full to be empty.
He found her in his bathroom. She sat on the edge of the tub with wide eyes and arms smeared with blood. "Natasha!" He demanded as he dropped his gun on the counter and kneeled down before her. She was a mess, red dress torn and even redder from blood. "What the hell happened to you?"
"Golden boy should not swear," she told him in a rough voice, words coming out slow and uneven. "Bad habit."
"I've said worse."
"Somehow I don't believe you."
"Doesn't matter whether you do or don't. Right now you're currently bleeding and have broken into my apartment." Steve said as he reached for the box of bandages he kept beneath the sink. A bottle of vodka had been stashed there previously and he carefully kept it out of her reach. "What happened to you?"
Natasha shrugged. "Business transaction."
"You came here for a reason, Romanoff. Not to be coy. Tell me what happened."
"Why? So you go about flashing badge? Not the way the world works, imbecile. World works by money and greed. Uncle Ivan tell me go play nice, no sex. I think I will play companion. Confidant. Everyone likes someone who keeps secret, Rogers." She spat at him harshly. Her eyes flickered in the dim light and distantly he could hear the roar of loud jazz music sweeping through the city. "Instead, man like pain. He likes whips and chains that it makes him happy."
He had her turn around to reveal her back. Natasha's dress was torn apart and he marveled at the fact that it hadn't fallen apart already. A collar was tight around her neck.
"You keep going back there. Why?"
Her lips twitched. "Uncle Ivan take me from orphanage in Mother Russia. He tells me, better times over there. I think, maybe he is right. Maybe I will find luck and fortune and never be hungry again. He teach me to survive, and to survive is to be disturbing and awful. I owe debt, he claim. Pretty dresses and cigarettes are not cheap, he tell me. He say to me, be good girl, make me money. Money for the better times."
Steve wanted to punch something. He handed her the bottle of vodka with resignation. "You don't need to go back, you know."
"No choice. I am property of Uncle Ivan."
"No, you're you. Grouchy, better at speaking English than people born in North America and terrible at sharing cigarettes. You don't belong to anyone."
Natasha gave him a sad smile before lifting her red dress up further, revealing pale bruised legs. An angry scar stood out against her upper thigh, angry red against the light flesh. Romanova's initials glowered at him. "He say I am his."
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He's surprised to find her in the morning still fast asleep, curled up around one of his pillows. He had expected her to vanish in the night, leaving nothing behind a bloody cloth and empty bottle of vodka. She stays long enough for him to feed her a proper breakfast, scolding her when she tried to escape the table without eating everything on her plate.
He's even more surprised when she gives him a small smile before she departs, delicate and frail. She calls over her shoulder that he'll see her soon enough.
Steve Rogers whistles on his way to work.
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"You're a hard man to find, Doc." Steve greeted him warmly. "I've been looking for you for a while."
The man looks too small in the apartment, casting glances at the slew of papers and books everywhere.
"That can sometimes mean the person doesn't want to be found."
Steve thinks about all the other men who are lost on the battlefields, even when they're safe and sound in America. How noises make them cower and wrong movements send them reaching for the throat of whoever is nearest. Bruce Banner is a timid man to exhausted by the mess that surrounds him and the sight of him depresses Steve. "You were friends with someone important to me. During the war, that is."
Bruce shrugged. Slowly stepping aside and letting him further entrance into his apartment. "Who was it? A brother? Friend?"
He thinks about the compass in his pocket, the woman's face trapped within it. "She was an ambulance driver. Her name was Peggy Carter."
The man's face goes pale and he turns away. "I'm sorry for you loss."
"All the reports all said you were there… there when it happened."
Bruce nodded. "There was an explosion and the Germans were everywhere. I don't know how I survived it."
Steve's eyes burn. "Everyone says she would have died fast, but I can't believe that because how the hell would they even know? You would though, because you were there. I need you to explain what happened, and how Peggy died."
He took his glasses off and wiped the lens on his shirt. "It was brutal. I'm not sure you need to hear it."
"I want to hear."
"Fair enough." Bruce mused. There's a hard and angry look in his eyes. "She was driving through the countryside, trying to get to a pickup. The med zone I was working at had been depleted in stock, and we needed proper drugs to put soldiers out with. It's hard enough sticking your hand into their gut without them trying to break your skull. I don't know what happened exactly, but suddenly we were lying on our sides stuck in the damn van and Germans coming in. I was a doctor and they pulled me out, for whatever reason. The one, though, lit the damn ambulance on fire."
"Was she alive?" Steve asked in a tight voice.
"Screaming."
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Thor gazed up at the building before turning away, squaring his shoulders and marching off. Loki didn't dare follow him for once, leaving him wandering the streets alone. People were filling the streets quickly, all carrying briefcases and sequined purses. Men looked older in the afternoon while women looked like children, giggling with bright red smiles that make their faces look bloody.
He burned from anger and resentment. Cast away from his family, rejected from their lives. Loki had tried to calm their father, speaking soft words that died in the air.
Thor was meant to be more than just a lumbering idiot. He was the solider, their pride and joy. Loki had tried so hard to join him overseas, but his height and asthma limited him. Despite his physical weakness, he had dominated his father's business company in Thor's absence, achieving great things. Their father had been enraged by Thor's inability to do better and for the first time Loki was the golden child, not the man who returned with a fistful of medals.
Walking down the loud streets he found himself suddenly before the massive display of architecture and wealth that was Stark Tower. Tony Stark had suddenly appeared in New York with pockets spilling riches.
He entered the room and found himself being greeted by the receptionist. "I need an appointment to speak to Mr. Stark, please."
The woman gave him a smile before picking up the phone and dialing a number. "Tony, there's a man here who wants to see you." There was a slight pause before she spoke to Thor, asking, "What is your name?"
"Thor Son."
"Are you Odin Son's…" she faltered.
"Yes, Odin is my father."
"He'll want to speak to you. Just go to the elevator and go all the way up."
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Steve let his phone ring three times before he bothered to answer it. "Hello?"
"I need help," came a whispered voice. "I need you to get to me."
"Natasha? Where are you?"
She quickly listed off the address before hanging up, her voice soft and pained. He grabbed his gun and jumped up from his desk before rushing through the station. Officers barely spared him a glance, corralling the arrested into the cells or flipping through paperwork at a lazy pace. Fury halted him though, calling him over to his private office. "Where's the fire, Cap?"
"Distress call."
"Important?"
"Yes."
"Listen, before you go running off, just look after yourself. You're looking tired." The man with the eyepatch informed him. "Don't get sloppy on me."
Steve blinked before turning away and leaving the station, charging through the streets. Slowly the structures became less polished and dirtier. A large building made of grimy red bricks stood before him, covered in German graffiti. He didn't bother taking the stairs but rather the fire escape, creeping up each level carefully.
He slipped through the window at the very top of the building that revealed a large apartment filled with bodies that weren't moving. They laid awkwardly in the floor, some covered in blood and some not. "Natasha?" he whispered as he stepped over the men.
There was a sound of movement from the closet. He rushed over and swung it open to reveal the red haired woman. "I had to," she informed him blankly. "I couldn't stop."
Steve pulled her out of the closet, directing her towards the window he came through. She's shuddering and gasping for breath. "It's alright, Natasha."
He remembers walking over dead bodies of a battlefield, the remains of friends and strangers. He'd done the same to those who wore a uniform of the enemy without thought. "They were planning to kill. Go to Times Square with big guns and shoot people dead." She said softly. "They were part of organization, but I stopped their plans."
His heart stopped. "What organization were they part of?"
"Hydra." Natasha told him. "They come from war with angry minds, demanding power and revenge. Germany is mess, no money or food. They hide themselves in America to steal away everything."
"What were you doing here?"
"Uncle send me to please."
Together in silence they walked down the streets, Natasha wearing his oversized jacket to hide her blood stained clothes and bloody hands. He keeps a hand on her back, slowly directing her through the crowds and they walk to his apartment. "I need to stop them," he told her. "I've heard whispers of them, but nothing real."
"They're dangerous."
"We're more dangerous."
There was a glimmer of something in her eyes as she tilted her chin up and smiled with her teeth. "That is very true."
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"Rogers, get over here." Fury demanded as he entered the station. He stood by his desk with a stranger. "This here is your new partner. Play nice."
"Go wait by my desk." He told her before walking up to the two men. "Hello."
"I'm Clint Barton."
"Steve Rogers."
Clint gave Steve a slight nod, watching him carefully. A woman sat perched on his desk, drawing idly in a pad of paper with a black pen. "Got a girl?" He asked Steve carefully, waiting to understand exactly who she was and if she was a threat and if he had to shoot her-NONONO he seethed inwardly. The war is over, I don't have to shoot people. The war is over, no one needs to die. The war is over.
"She's a victim." Steve informed him. "You up for a case?"
"Hit me."
"Ever hear of the Rouge?"
Clint shrugged as he shoved his hands into his pockets. The woman looked more like a girl, small from where she sat. There was something aggressive about her in the way she sat though that had made him hesitate. "Bits. Haven't been here for long."
Steve frowned. "Then chances are you've never heard of the Red Room."
"No."
"They specialize in child prostitution."
"So, she's a prostitute."
"No. she's a victim."
Clint ignored the glare. "Great."
"Anyways, she's going to help me-help us, take down both the Red Room and Hydra."
"What the hell is Hydra?"
"She can fill you in. They're nasty and I've got no reason to have them messing up this city."
Natasha looked up at them as they neared, giving the new comer a long look. "Who is this?" Clint blinked at her thick accent. "Are you making friends, Rogers?"
"You and I do not make friends." He mimicked. "Only enemies."
"Why I do not trust you," she mocked scolded him. "You twist words around."
"Only when I have to."
She waved her hands at him before setting aside the pad of paper that was now coated in small images. Faces were captured and broken down into pieces, Russian nesting dolls were sketches in full detail and there was a remarkable image of a gun. "You are a bastard, Rogers."
"Says the woman who bleeds all over my floor."
Clint smirked. "You two almost sound like a couple."
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Tony greeted Thor impassively. "What do you want?"
He blinked. "I want a job."
"Doesn't your daddy have a finger in every pie? Why doesn't he give you one?"
Thor sat down in the chair before the massive desk. "I've been disowned for drunken displays in public."
Tony Stark cocked his head and gave him a hard look. "Were you a solider?"
"Yes."
"Figured. Only the soldiers are the ones who understand exactly how dull this society is. Anyways, you wanna get drunk, fantastic. Just don't sleep with Pepper, and we'll be dandy." Tony told him sharply. "Listen, I got big business in the weapon industry. I got bigger business bootlegging, you get me? Great. If I give you a job, you better be ready to take it on."
"What would you need me to do."
The man looked Thor over critically. "You aren't capable of doing the mathematics or formulating chemical equations. You scare people, so you can't be in Human Resources-which, by the way, is stupid. Who the hell needs Human Resources? Morons do." Tony rambled before grinning. "You're gonna be a guard. You guard the juice, keep people from sneakin' in and making off with it. Hell, you play nice and I'll even give you a gun."
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Bruce stepped into the lab carefully. "What exactly do you want with me?"
"Couple things, doctor." Tony said. "People say you're brilliant. I like brilliant people. Chances are they aren't stupid, which is great. Because stupid people are tiresome. Anyways, one of my people told me you're capable of recreating drugs. Any drug, actually."
He nodded. "So, you want me to make you drugs."
"They also say your work in physics is ground breaking. Even more advanced than that Einstein fellow."
"Some say that."
Tony unbuttoned his shirt slowly. "What I really need you for is this."
He revealed a large blue magnet lodged in his chest, dark purple veins spreading from it. "What happened?"
"Got a chest full of shrapnel. Nasty stuff, doc. Wouldn't recommend it. Anyways, to keep it from doing terrible things like killing me, I implant this baby and keep it all together. Except, now the one thing keeping me alive is killing me. Don't suppose you could fix me up, could you?"
Bruce tilted his chin up and squared his shoulders. "Tell me exactly how you made this and we'll work it out."
He could hear sirens in the distance and smell the fire, but there was a man dying before him and that was enough.
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"So what's your story?" Clint asked the woman as Steve left for coffee.
Natasha looked up at him from where sat in Steve's chair. "I am Natasha."
"No, I mean, where are you from?"
"Russia. I come from orphanage there when Ivan takes me." She said stiffly. The past hour had been sent explaining various elements of the Red Room, explaining the abuse in a detached manner. Natasha had refrained from telling her story in a personal manner.
"I'm from Canada." He told her. "I used to travel all over."
She nodded. "You were in the war, weren't you?"
"How could you tell?"
"You look at everyone like you are confused if you are supposed to shoot them." She shrugged. "I see men like you, all lost when they come back."
"You sound like a woman I met on the bus, coming here." Clint said. "She understood though, about everything."
Steve reappeared with two mugs of coffee and a cup of tea. "I stole a tea bag from one of the desk girls. Who you like green tea."
"Green tea is fine, Rogers."
"You know, you could just call me Steve."
"I know."
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Natasha walked into the Red Room wearing Steve's jacket. The room was thriving with men leering at the children on display. She could see the two policemen in the room, standing stiffly in the background. "Natasha, what are you doing?" Ivan demanded. "You are not on display, what are you wearing?"
She didn't bother to answer him but instead pulled out a pistol from the jacket and shot him.
Everyone began shouting and screaming, men springing at her but she didn't stop. She slid to the side and shot the first man down before springing on the next. Taking out the knife she had hidden on her, she slit his throat. Steve and Clint were firing guns, and slowly everyone was dying before her.
Clint shot quickly and perfectly, each man dropping to the floor dead. There was something on his face that made her cringe, the way he was perfectly trained on his target.
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Hydra vanished soon after the Red Room, moving to set up in Chicago. Steve contemplates leaving New York to chase after them, but refrains. There's a woman drinking illegal vodka on his counter, watching him carefully. "Been a good day," he says quietly, because he doesn't know what else to say.
She's a free woman, having ripped off the collar and tossed away her cigarettes. "A better day than the rest."
"How exactly do we cover this up, anyways? Eventually someone is going to find the bodies in the room."
She gave a smirk. "Why cover? No one care that bad men die. Those children, they say nothing. Women too happy to care. No need for stories."
Steve doesn't quite understand how her hands are in his and why she gives him a smile until he does understand.
He runs from her.
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Steve found himself in the police station alone at one in the morning. Fury was trying to talk to him but he couldn't stop remembering.
He found the ambulance on its side, Peggy's crumpled form buried beneath the wreckage. She was dead, and everything they were going to do was dead. They were going to dance in the streets and make a home in the city. She was going to become a worker for the government and he was going to finally have a home and a family but she was dead, the war killed her, everyone died overthere-
"The war is over, Captain. Time to move on." Fury informed him sharply. "Can't be carrying around all that bullshit anymore."
"She's dead!" He shouted at him, eyes wide and frantic. "We made a promise that we'd dance, once this all was over." He fell to his knees and covered his eyes. He could still see the trenches filled with mustard gas, men bleeding and ripped open.
The man sighed as he squatted down. "Well, she's dead and she ain't comin' back. You have a life, Rogers. A job, a home. You gotta move on, like the rest of the world has to. None of this was meant to be easy."
He remembered her blackened body, face warped from the fire. He'd known it was her in their the moment he saw the wreckage. "I can't forget."
"Not asking you to. Just telling you that you can't go around dragging a corpse behind you."
Steve shouted wordlessly, shoving the desk back and lunging to his feet. He could still smell her perfume hanging in the air, but it was warped by the scent of burned flesh. "You don't understand!"
Natasha emerged from the shadows, watching him cautiously. "What's on your mind, captain?"
He turned towards her, fists clenched tight and trembling with exhaustion. She slowly crept closer, eyes wide and lips pressed together. Fury backed away from the two, his hand resting over his gun. "You gonna take it easy for a bit, Rogers?"
"I don't know," he whispered.
"No one say you have to know." Natasha informed him sharply. "Only stupid people know."
He took her hand and together they walked home.
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"We are such lost creatures," she whispered just before his kissed her.
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