A/N: A CapWidow oneshot, character death. Please enjoy! Comments and flames always welcome.
He feels her eyes boring straight into his head before his heightened ears pick up the soft padding of her footsteps.
Then he turns.
She is covered with dry blood, thankfully not hers, and she smells of gunpowder and rubble. Her left sleeve is ripped off, exposing the numerous scars and wounds, new ones covering old ones before they have even fully healed.
But hey, they make her who she is.
She isn't exactly the epitome of beauty, but she is stunning in her own way. The raw steel, the coldness, the strength...and the strong heart, all buried beneath the terrifying facade.
She doesn't look pretty, not now, but a shower will wash off the dirt and show her face for the beauty it truly is.
"Hey."
"Yeah?"
"You should get checked out."
"No thanks. I'll manage."
It's the billionth time she has said that. He knows she's strong, but he can't help but worry.
"Trust me, Captain. I know what I can handle and what I can not."
And his mind flies back to two months ago…
"Widow, there are two hundred in the East Corridor right in front of you." He says, eyes frantically scanning the reports Tony uploaded.
"Got it."
"Thor, enter the East Corridor from above…"
"I'll be fine. Thor, stay where you are. We need to keep this compound fully surrounded."
"Widow…"
"I know what I am doing, Captain. I have half a century more experience."
Than you do.
The words were left unsaid, but the meaning was clear.
Three loud explosions ring through the air.
His hand sweeping to his shield, the Captain quickly braces for the impact, which sends him flying metres back.
As his earpiece buzzes, he quickly confirms that his team is safe.
But there was one reply...one he was desperately waiting for...
"Widow...widow?!"
No response.
And his heart jumped.
"Thor, get me in."
And this time, Stark doesn't make a comment.
"Widow! Natasha! Come in!" he yells, frantically looking around as he crashes through the ceiling, chips of cement still dug into his skull.
Then he sees her there, chest unmoving, legs bent at awkward angles and sticky blood pooled around her, still dripping onto the broken steel beam that pierced right through her leg.
The torn flesh, strips still hanging onto the strands of steel brings him back to the present.
"No."
"No?" she quirks an eyebrow.
"No." he says, this time firmly as he places a heavy hand on her shoulder.
And he knows when she hides a wince.
"Go. Now. Don't make me repeat myself."
Her eyes turn back to steel, reminding him of the awful memory…
"Trust me, Steve. Just trust me."
This time, soft footsteps padding along the muddy grass, he stands in front of the stone and repeats the words, trust me.
He trusted her when she grabbed the bomb and ran away from the city.
And he still trusts her, now, as what remains of the wreckage is packed into a box and lowered into the cold ground.
And her voice still echoes in his ears, trust me.