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Pray
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She lied.

And he foolishly waits. He thinks she'll return the next evening, through the window, except this time he'll expect her arrival. Yet the next evening comes. She isn't there. He even leaves the window open, hoping –– hoping –– he won't spend the night alone. It's eleven o'clock. Then midnight. Then, it's two in the morning and he realises he's been a silly man. Natasha rarely tells the truth.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he laughs a little.

The funny doesn't last.

Steve is never angry. He's calm. He's gentle.

The window cracks when he whams it shut.

She's done it again: abandoned him. Because she's scared. Because she's wrapped in a toxic coat of pride. Because she's Natasha Romanoff and she can't face him like this. She's known him as Captain America, ever since he found her as a girl. An agile, smart, brilliant man. Unbeatable in her eyes. She just never really thought his mind would be his last enemy; his only successful nemesis.

That name –– Captain America.

Pah.

Steve can't even say it anymore.

He's sick of that name.

Gosh. Fuck. He really is old. Even his codename is ancient. His uniform has grown dusty. Neglected. He's growing a beard. Jesus. He doesn't look good with a beard. His cheeks are rough, lips dry, bags slowly forming beneath his eyes. It's a startling revelation: his body is finally catching up with his head. He's ageing, and he's ageing fast. One day, he'll wake up and won't be able to move his legs, his arms.

He'll be completely immobile, waiting.

Tony visits him. Asks if he heard about Hawkeye. Doesn't waste any time addressing Steve's condition. 'We need you back.' It's the last thing Steve expects to hear. He tries to explain why. He tries to explain how unmotivated he feels, how sick he truly is. Even though Tony can't see the illness, it is definitely there, and it is killing him.

It's a lot to accept, to take in. Tony purses his lips, nods his head.

'I see. Well––' He steps back. 'Oh, by the way. Thought you might want this.' Tony turns, grabs something he left at the door. It's round, wrapped in plain paper. Steve doesn't need to unwrap it to know what it is. 'Felt weird leaving this at the Tower. I have no use for it. Although it does make grand decoration!'

'Thank you.' Steve takes his shield.

'All right. I'll see you around.'

'Hey?'

'Mm?'

'I wanted to ask.' Steve pauses. He's about to ask about Natasha. If she's okay. If Tony may know why she hasn't visited him the past few days. He wants to know how she's taking Clint's death, but something stops him. He doesn't know what it is, but it's heavy. A ton. He stops, and changes his mind. 'Nothing. Forget it.'

Tony approaches the door. Faces him briefly, 'Get rid of that beard. No one's gonna want to hang around with you if you look like you've been dumped on the street.' He winks, flashes his signature grin, and leaves the apartment swiftly.

Later that day, Steve's therapists suggests he buys a diary.

'What do you want me do with it?'

'Anything. Write, obviously. It can be about today, or what happened to you in the past. Anything you want, Captain.'

'I only have to attend a museum to do that.'

His therapist apologises. Yet, despite his lack of self esteem, Steve does find some plausibility in his proposition. So before the shops close, he leaves the apartment –– a rare occasion –– and buys a diary. It's starting to snow. Light flakes. Delicate. Then, in a matter of seconds, it's a blizzard. The flakes turn into tiny knives, and they feel as though they're slicing open his cheeks.

Steve pulls his hood up, dashes back to the flat.

Fortunately it's warmer. He flicks on the light. Strips off his coat and hoody. His boots. His cap.

The diary meets the nightstand. And that's when he feels her presence. Behind him. She's sitting on a chair, fiddling with something on her arm. Either she doesn't know Steve has returned, or she doesn't care. It's probably the latter. Whatever the case, Steve is a little annoyed.

He isn't sure if he's annoyed with her, or himself.

Her because she lied to him. Himself because he cares that she lied to him.

'I was out,' he says.

'It's snowing.'

'I figured.'

He widens his eyes.

Natasha is covered in blood, trickling down her leather outfit, splattered across her cheeks. Her arm drips with the red liquid. Steve winces, sickened at the fact that what she's fiddling with is a huge chunk of flesh torn from her arm. Natasha hisses between her teeth, glances at Steve. 'You got a needle? I need to stitch this up.'

'You need an antiseptic.' Steve steps over. Kneels down, attempts to examine her deep wound, but Natasha edges away. 'You could be infected––'

'I'm fine. I need a needle. And thread.'

'You need to clean your wound––'

'If you don't have a needle and thread, I'll go elsewhere.'

'You're covered in somebody else's blood!'

Both are shocked to hear him raise his voice. Steve never raises his voice. Never at Natasha. They have fought in the past, had disagreements, but he has never yelled at her. Natasha's focus is disturbed. He has interrupted her concentration and she's displeased. Their eyes meet, and they dare each other to pounce first, to finish this petty battle they've started.

Steve is the first to back down. Of course.

As soon as he stands, turns away, Natasha's expression softens. For half a second, her expression softens and she's guilty, but she quickly recovers. Emotions just get in her way sometimes, and she has no use for them right now. Steve runs a hand through his hair, approaches the bathroom.

'I'll get you a needle and thread.'

He returns shortly after.

'This won't do the job, Natash––' She snatches the items from his hand. 'What happened to you?'

'Nothing.'

He rolls his eyes.

Notes how she's struggling to push the thread through the loop of the needle. Her hands are trembling. Her body is shaking. She's pale. She's bleeding. She's in shock. Natasha swears quietly under her breath, tries again, but the ache in her arm is like pincers to her flesh. It hurts. It really hurts, and she's impatient with her body. Her body is betraying her; she's collapsing and she's failing.

Steve sighs. He has to be persistent.

'Here. Let me.'

Natasha refuses his help. When he tries again, she immediately leaves the chair, briskly walks to the opposite end of the room. She doesn't want him to help her; she needs to do this herself. She's injured, and it's her mistake she has to fix. Alone. Steve places his hands on his hips. Watches her.

She can't do it.

And she needs a shower. She needs to be clean.

'Natasha, you're being ridiculous.'

She gives him a look.

'Really. You are.'

'I need a bigger needle.'

'That's the only one I have.'

Exhaling loudly, she drops the needle and the thread. Steve raises his brows. Natasha returns to fiddling with her arm, tries to cover the gaping wound with her hand. She doesn't want him to see. Which is dumb. He's already seen the damage and she has no reason to hide it.

'Fine.'

'Fine?'

Natasha flicks her gaze away. Back at him. 'I need to ask for stitches at the hospital.'

'You can't go in looking like that.'

'Why not?'

She's just being a pain in the backside now. Steve rolls his eyes yet again, and gestures her towards the bathroom. 'Come on. You can get clean here. While you're doing that, I'll go to the hospital and ask for stitches.' He pulls on his coat, 'You can stay here. I want you to. Get clean and warm.'

'Okay, mom.'

'I think the words you're looking for are "thank you".' He smiles.

The corner of Natasha's mouth twitches. 'Thanks.'

He waits until she's decided to stay. She's reluctant, but Natasha eventually steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind her. Soon, he hears the sound of water pouring. Convinced she isn't going anywhere, Steve is out of the flat again, and heading for the hospital for the desired equipment.

The blood is like a coat of armour on her pale skin. Melts like paint at the touch of hot water. She turns the temperature up; so much so, that the water scalds her. She makes the water sting. Steam rises off her body, and yet she still shudders, holds her body, presses a hand against her arm. Blood circles round the bathtub, down the drain, gone. She goes through the events of today in her head.

... there must have been more than sixty men there... large fists... masked faces... sharp, glistening knives... heavy guns... bullets... hundreds of bullets... their feet, their boots, kicking her sides... one fist crushing her cheek... one of them keeps screaming too... she's bent back his arms too far, the bone has pierced through his flesh... a knife stabs into her arm, and her skin is torn, blood seeping down her black uniform... drenched in red... red... red in her ledger... how much she wants to wipe it out...

A muffled groan escapes her lips.

She switches off the shower.

Her arm still bleeds. She grabs a small hand towel, wraps it tightly around her wound. Steve's gown is hanging on the door. She doesn't think twice about stealing it for herself. It's so nice and soft. But it swallows her. At least she's okay. Natasha sniffs, presses the material to her nose, closes her eyes.

Smells of him.

Cologne.

Some strange musky scent.

And almost a metal tinge.

Coffee.

Huh.

When she opens the door, she's a little disappointed to see Steve has already returned. She wouldn't have minded some privacy; just a moment to collect her thoughts. To adjust. To compose herself again. But she remembers he's her friend, and maybe it's all right to relax. To stop this act.

He looks old.

Bloody awful with that beard.

'I'll stitch your arm.'

She doesn't express any gratitude, but she can't refuse his help again. Steve is stubborn and it's annoying her. He follows her over to the bed, she sits on the edge, he pulls up a chair. Natasha slips her arm out of his gown, and together they carefully peel away the hand towel.

The stench of blood fills the room.

Neither bat an eye.

'This might hurt.'

The needle pierces the edge of her cut. She doesn't even twitch.

'What happened?'

'Oh. Nothing. Boys. You know?'

Steve narrows his brows. 'Boys?'

'That's what you are, right?'

'Boys did this to you?'

'There were a lot of boys. Men. And they had knives. And guns. And really big hands.' She grinds her teeth. 'Easy business.'

Afterwards, they don't talk for a while. Steve continues to stitch, and she can feel his breath on her arm. It tickles her. '––Is that why you didn't come and see me?'

She's paralysed.

Steve immediately regrets questioning her motives.

But it's too late. The damage is done.

Natasha stares at the wall. Nothing moves. Not a single limb. She doesn't blink. She probably isn't breathing. Steve can't bear watching her. He returns to stitching her arm. They are quiet. Quiet for so long, it drives Steve crazy. He can't believe he asked her that.

Damn it.

Oh, you fool.

'Natasha––'

'They want to bury him.'

Steve looks up at her. 'When?'

'Soon.'

'Who's they?'

Natasha blinks. Steve's gaze falls.

She wants to bury Clint.

She's the only person who does; who cares about what happens to his corpse. Or, at least, cares so much she wants him to rest in a proper manner. Blessed and remembered for how she knows him, how she remembers him. Before all of this fuckery. Steve realises he's the first person she's told. She's probably been thinking over and over again about what to do with Clint's corpse.

Thinking about him.

His lifeless eyes, cold heart––

'Ow.'

'Sorry.'

He finishes the last stitch. Cuts the thread. Natasha is still while he grabs the bandage, wraps it around her arm. Then, they sit together, and think. Steve has to wash his hands; they're soaked in her blood. Natasha needs to sleep. She's tired.

(Natasha needs to cry.

She needs to mourn.)

It takes him five minutes to wash his hands, his face. Afterwards, he invites her to join him in bed. It takes some convincing but, eventually, she follows suit. They hang their capes and retire.

To just lie. To just be with each other.

Heads against the pillow. Sharing the same quilt.

'Steve?' Her voice is low. Quiet. Lost in the dark.

He rolls over onto his side to look at her. She's staring up at the ceiling. Transfixed. 'Yes?'

'Do you ever think about her?' She swallows. 'That girl in the picture?'

Slapping him would have been less painful.

'Only all the time.'

This reassures her. He watches her chest rise, lower –– a sigh, one of relief.

'You love him.'

It's good. To hear somebody else say it. Because Natasha is sick of wondering, whether what she felt –– feels –– for Clint is genuine or just a fuzzy nonsense. She needed Steve, her best friend, to confirm her feelings, to help her. The only problem is that it's just a little too late.

Steve pulls her to him. Natasha presses into his chest, scrunches her eyes shut, clings to his t-shirt.

They don't cry.

They don't speak.

They don't think.

They fall asleep, together. Allow the night to pass.

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