Drabble: Steve/Natasha, Wanda
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1,500
Prompts: "You need to wake up because I can't do this without you."
For: sunnie91
... ...
A fall like that, off a vehicle going at that kind of speed, shrapnel in her arm, shards of glass in her side – that's not something that people can just walk away from, and, with a shaky breath, tears rolling down her cheeks and voice tight, trying to hold onto any semblance of composure, Helen tells him that it's a miracle Natasha even survived.
No, Steve thinks, remembering the way Wanda was bent over Natasha's body on that empty road, shoulders tense, hands covered in blood, eyes wet with tears and glowing red.
It wasn't a miracle that kept Natasha alive. It was an act of desperation.
"You stay with me, Natasha," Wanda had ordered, echoing the words Steve would have been screaming, if he had been able to find his voice. Pietro had gotten down on one knee beside his sister, hand hovering over her shoulder as he watched with wild eyes and parted lips, glancing from Wanda to Natasha, perhaps the only time in his life that he had gone perfectly still. Sam had punched the metal debris of the armored truck, hard, his knuckles bruised and bleeding, over and over again in a silent sort of rage that Steve hadn't even known the guy was capable of. All Steve could do was stand there and watch, mind numb – every part of him unfeeling, unable to do anything – as sirens blared in the distance.
Three days. This had happened three days ago, and Natasha still didn't show any signs of waking up.
Steve thinks he hasn't spent more than four hours outside of this hospital since Natasha had been wheeled in, leaving chaos in her wake – and even then, this was only because Sam or Tony had physically pulled him out, drove him home and waited for him to shower and change before they would bring him back.
On the second night, Pepper had showed up with a sketchbook and case of pencils, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He had tried to thank her, but she walked away before he could.
The only other person who had been just as insistent about not leaving was Wanda. Steve thought that Pietro would stay because of her, and he did, in the sense that he was the only other face besides Helen that seemed to frequent the hospital room. But Pietro itched at every chance to leave, fetching them food or blankets or the nurse for any kind of update on Natasha's condition. When he stayed it, it was never for very long, and he would spend the whole time sitting in the corner, flipping too quickly through the channels, the TV on mute.
"Waiting makes him skittish," Wanda had explained that first night, rubbing at the dried blood on her hands with a hospital wipe. "But he can't leave, either."
Steve can relate.
... ...
Sam drops off a new stack of books every day for Wanda to pour herself into as she sits beside Steve in the hard, plastic hospital chairs, and on the morning of the fourth day, Tony finally talks Pietro into leaving the hospital to run a few errands with Pepper. It's a strange turn, since Wanda and Pietro's wariness of Tony has ebbed but not necessarily disappeared. Maybe this is what they needed to go through to warm up to each other, Steve thinks, flipping to a fresh page in the sketchbook. He's drawn a bit of everything, but mostly Natasha.
He glances at Wanda, legs stretched out onto a second chair, one hand over her stomach, the other holding her paperback open, eyes lazily sliding over the pages.
He draws her like this, hair curling as it spills over her shoulders, eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, lips parted – and after a few long moments, her eyes drift from her book and onto his artwork, lips tugging into a bit of a smile.
"You're really good," she tells him. It isn't the first time and it won't be the last, he knows. She's particularly enthusiastic about his talent.
(Another thing she got from Natasha, he thinks, chest tightening.)
"Thanks," he says.
On the page opposite of hers is a drawing of Natasha, her legs crossed, hair in a messy bun and a kitten sitting atop her knee, paw reaching for her heart. He watches Wanda take in the drawing, watches the emotion flicker in her eyes, tears starting to collect in the corners, and he offers her one of the handkerchiefs Tony had left from the morning.
Wanda glances over at Natasha, wiping at the corners of her eyes. Steve swallows, hard.
"Do you love her?" she asks, eyes still on Natasha, voice barely above a whisper. For a moment, Steve thinks he imagined the words.
"Yes," he replies. At this, Wanda turns to look at him again, meeting his gaze. He can see the question in her eyes, but also the belief on her face. She believes him.
Still, she asks the question ("How do you know?") and he can't help but let out a breath. He might've even laughed if he felt he was capable of it.
How does he know? How can he not?
He remembers waking up, remembers running out onto that busy New York street in a panic, and he didn't stop running until he ended up on that helicarrier, watching this woman walking towards him. Even back then, before he could begin to understand what kind of person Natasha was, and how much he'd come to want her in his life, he felt drawn to her. He felt something for the first time in years, for the first time coming off the ice, so much so that even after the battle was over, and after the war was won, he couldn't resist following.
"Because nothing makes sense without her," he says, the words coming out simply, easily, like something his heart had decided a long time ago.
... ...
On the sixth night, minutes before midnight, he sets his sketchbooks aside, rubs a hand over his tired eyes and wonders how many hours of sleep he might get this time. His shoulders ache, muscles protesting against the thought of another night in the plastic hospital chairs. He feels like hell.
Beside him, Wanda stirs in her sleep, looking impossibly young like this, curled up with her hands tucked under her head, expression soft, maybe even peaceful.
Steve shifts his chair closer to Natasha's bedside, reaching out and gently curves his fingers over hers, smoothing his thumb over her knuckles.
He blinks, and, for the first time in six days, he feels his eyes wet with tears.
"You need to wake up, Nat," he murmurs. He hardly recognizes his own voice, throat tight from the terror he's been pushing aside.
He needs her to wake up. He needs to see her bright eyes, sparkling in amusement, lips curling into a smile as she teases him about this and that, and he'll close his eyes, letting her gentle tone soothe the rest of the world away. He needs to feel her fingers brush through his hair, grazing over his cheekbone, pressing flat against his chest, just above his heart, this look of awe gracing her expression as she feels how quickly his heart is beating underneath her palm – feels how quickly she makes his heart beat. He needs to see her smile against the morning sunlight, hair fanned out underneath her, splayed across the pillow, a coy smile tugging at her lips as she crowds herself into his space, snatching his breath in a kiss—
He squeezes his fingers over hers, chest tightening. "You need to wake up because I can't do this without you."
I can't live without you.
A quiet follows his words, the same eerie lull of steady beeps from the monitors and a gentle hum from the equipment that he's fallen into a restless sleep to for the last five nights. He brings his free hand up, presses his fingers over his eyes and tries to recollect his composure.
"Steve."
Her voice is so gentle, so calm, that he almost doesn't catch it. It's so familiar to him that he almost doesn't realize that he hasn't heard it in so long.
"Steve," she echoes, and he pulls his hand from his, eyes flying open to find Natasha blinking back at him. She looks completely, utterly exhausted. She looks like it's a great effort in itself to even keep her eyelids open.
She looks like the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
"Natasha," he breathes. His voice cracks on her name but neither of them acknowledges this. He squeezes their joined hands, shifts himself closer, breath hitching, heart thrumming in his chest. Relief ripples over him in waves, sliding down his spine as a shaky laugh escapes his lips. He can't breathe, and it's the most exhilarating feeling in the world. "I thought—"
"That you could get rid of me that easily?" Her lips twitch into a smile, small but bright. Small but breathtaking. "As if, Rogers. You need me too much."
His eyes slide closed, thumb running over her knuckles. "I really do," he tells her, swallowing, hard, when he feels her fingers grip his gently in response. "I need you."
"Good," she breathes out on a laugh, and it's his favorite sound in the world.