MCU (c) Marvel Studios

It's too late now to stop the process, this was your choice you let it in. This double life you lead is eating you up from within. A thousand shards of glass you pushed beneath my skin, and left me lying there to bleed; and as you showed me your scars I only held you closer, but as the light in you went dark I saw you turn over. I wanted always to be there for you and close to you, but I'm losing this and I'm losing you! Oh, I've gotta turn and run. The places that you never see. Oh, I've gotta save my blood, from all that you've broken, pack up these pieces of me… — Apocalyptica featuring Lacy Strum

The other girl, Olga, had pushed her down the stairs with a malicious giggle. Anya had disappeared after breaking her ankle and Natalia didn't want that to happen to her. She pushed through the pain in her sprained wrist, trying to hide the fact she hurt. The Mistress never missed a malfunction in one of her students. The tall thing woman with ice-grey hair and artic eyes came over her when she failed to cluster her shots around the center of the target. "Wrist."

Natalia offered her hand to the woman, fear in her eyes. She didn't want to be disappear, disappointing her family and being useless to her country. She didn't whimper when the woman poked and prodded her wrist. "Madame?" she finally mustered up the courage to ask.

"It's broken." The woman dropped her wrist and she pinned her to the spot with her gaze. "Go to the medical wing. And next time you have an injury, do not hide it otherwise the punishment will harsher."

"Yes, Madame." She placed the gun back onto the table and scuttled off to the medical wing. She hated the medical wing. It was scary and she often heard screams coming from it. Silvery steel medical instruments hung from the walls, encouraging her imagination to run wild.

"And what can I do for you?" the doctor asked, the round reflective disc strapped to his head made it hard for her to look him in the face.

"My wrist is broken," Natalia said. "Madame sent me here." She held up her wrist and bit her lip when the doctor took it. She could have sworn there was blood beneath his fingernails.

"Does it hurt when I do this?" he asked and poked it.

"Ow!" Natasha opened her eyes, propping herself up on her elbows. She squinted in the lantern light, looking up at the thick shadows in the corners of the room so her eyes could adjust again to the darkness. She looked at Steve. He had her leg propped up on his lap and she could hear a soft sucking sound.

"Hold still, I got the bullet," he said. "It was wedged up against the bone." He twisted the tweezers and she snorted like an enraged bull, gripping the threadbare blanket. "Deep breaths, Nat, deep—"

"Shut up and get the damn thing out of my leg," she snarled. It annoyed her that she was mishandling the pain like this, but he was being so goddamn slow about it. She exhaled deeply, trying to think of anything else but this. His soft lips against hers, the softness of his beard against her hand and how it tickled her cheek.

Tink. "It's out," Steve said. "Almost done, I need to clean it." She heard him unscrew the cap, pour the liquid and then the sharp searing pain.

"Damn!" she shouted, pounding her first against the floor. It hurt like all the fires of Hell and Satan's piss combined.

"It's just some vodka."

"I'm upset you didn't bother to offer me any before splashing it all over my leg." She glared at him as he offered her the bottle. She took it and swallowed a few mouthfuls before handing it back. He took it and washed the needle and thread in it before stitching the wound close. "How long have I been out?"

"A few hours."

She nodded, flopping onto her stomach with a grimace, her chest still hurt from the bullet that hit her vest. She watched the shadows in the corner twist and turn, the lantern light caught the gleam of a mouse's eye as it scuttled pass; she ignored the unsettling sensation of Steve stitching her leg close. Her mind kept replaying the kiss they shared. She didn't know why she was worrying about it. The kiss was a chaste one, a thank you for being there when nobody else was. It didn't mean anything more. She didn't—

She shook her head. It wasn't like that between them. They are friends. That was all it was ever going to be. Once this — whatever this is — was over he would go back to Sharon and explain everything to her and they'll get together again and make babies; while she slinked through the shadows of history, making sure nobody hurt the family of her friend. She had told herself to accept that, to be content with that. She could never have children. The Red Room made sure of that. Sighing she pillowed her head against her arms, confused as to why she wanted something more between her and Steve. It took her a moment to realize he had finished stitching her leg close and was now stroking the smooth uninjured part of her calf. "Nat, we need to talk about it."

"We don't need to talk about anything, Steve," she said. She did not want to have this conversation now. Not when everything hurt and she could still smell his scent: blood, sweat, the faint lingering smell of his shampoo from the last time he showered, and his natural musk. Also, she really liked his hand on her skin, the tender motion of his thumb. "Any more meatball first aide you need to do?" she asked.

"I need to look at your shoulder," he said and put a bandage on her leg, taking his time wrapping the gauze around her leg. She smiled as he set her leg down gently and moving to her head. She groaned when the lantern blinded her and she turned her head away from it. "You can't avoid it forever."

"I'm good at it," she replied.

"You're starting to sound like Tony."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." She awkwardly got onto her knees, helping him to take off her vest. She smiled as he chuckled, their fingers tangling over the same straps and buckles. "Let me," she said, putting her hands over his to still them. The smile he gave her was tender and made her heart flutter. She felt bereft when his hands fell away and she watched him busy himself with prepping the needle and more thread. She shook herself a little, undoing the vest and rolling down the top of her catsuit, hissing softly as it brushed against her injured shoulder. She made a face, her entire right side was a midnight purple. The darkest concentration around her last rib. She pressed two fingers against it, trying to feel if it was broken. It didn't feel like it was and she breathed a small sigh of relief. Steve turned around and stared.

"Oh, come on," she said, "you've seen me like this before."

"This isn't… I drew this with a sharpie," he said, tracing the little clover on her hip. "How is it still there?" he asked, looking at her. She chuckled, though it hurt.

"I got it tattooed that night," she said. "I didn't want your handiwork to fade away." She gave him a little smile. "I don't heal like you do, I can actually get inked." He laughed softly, tracing it.

"Okay, uh… thank you," he said, sounding unsure. She grabbed his hand, squeezing his fingers. It was so easy to get lost in his eyes. She leaned forward, the pull too strong; his eyes fluttered closed. The floorboards squeaked and heavy footfalls stooped.

"Uh, I'll come back later, since you two are having a moment." Sam's voice broke the spell and they shot apart too quick to try to cover up what they were doing with a weak lie.

"What do you need, Sam?" Steve asked, taking the vodka soaked ragged and pressed it against her shoulder. She grunted softly as he began to clean the wound. It stung, causing a sensual tingle to thrum in her fingertips.

"Do you want to eat?" Sam asked. "Wanda made dinner."

"We're fine," Natasha said, smiling at her friend. Steve nodded. "Though save us a bowl so we can eat later."

"Can do," he said, "and are you sure—"

"Out!" she said, adding force behind her tone. He nodded, muttered "yes ma'am" and walked off. Natasha sighed, wanting to slump but knowing that her injury would not take it. She watched Steve, who was staring with intense concentration at her wound, absorbed in his work. The mouse squeaked in the corner, joined by another squeak. She heard them scuttle away from the light, the moths had landed, flexing their dusty wings as they tried to figure out the light source. "Wanda got the bullet out."

"I know," he said, wiping the last of the blood and dirt away. "Hold still." He grabbed the bottle of vodka again, opened it and splashed it on her wound. She gasped, looking away, a flush in her cheeks. "Once more." He did it again and she bit her lip until it bled. He began to stitch the wound close. "We can't avoid it, especially now."

"I have no idea what you're talking about Rogers." It was easier to deny these things than to admit the truth. Admitting the truth would mean she cared for him beyond that of a friend. Their relationship had been… different. She was closer to Steve than she was with the other Avengers. Even with Bruce… especially with Bruce. It still hurt thinking about him from time to time.

"You only call me Rogers when you're trying to keep distance between us, Nat."

"Does it work?" she watched him, his hands were so gentle; pinching her skin close with each pass, the burn of the alcohol was wearing off and she could feel the poke of the needle but it didn't bother her too much. He didn't reply. "I'll take that as a yes."

"What are you afraid of?" he asked, tugging the thread.

Everything. "Direct approach," she quipped, "how's your track record with that one?"

"Romanoff."

"Look who's putting distance between us now, huh?"

"You're making this hard"

A sultry grin spread across her face and she glanced at his groin before looking up at his face. "I am? Good to know then."

"Difficult," he said, flustered, "I meant difficult." He stopped stitching her shoulder.

"Sure, you did." He was easy to tease once she found a way to get under his skin. Most of the time it was innocent and playful, but this time she saw that he was blushing, the tips of his ears red. She licked her lips at the glare he sent her. She may have pushed him a bit too far. Ceding defeat was not something she normally did, but with Steve she made a lot of exceptions. "Sorry," she mumbled, as he resumed stitching her shoulder close.

He finished in short order, and she couldn't hold in the gasp at the feel of his lips and beard against her bare skin. She could easily imagine the feeling of him peppering her skin with honey-soft kisses that seared her to her core. He bandaged her shoulder and helped her back into her catsuit. "We are not done," he said, a growl in his tone, his grip firm on her bicep. She swallowed, her mind wandering into dangerous territory. She was beginning to regret kissing him on the escalator all those years ago. If he had said for her to be his lover, maybe things wouldn't be so awkward. Maybe if she wasn't so afraid of losing someone she loved, she would act on her feelings more. It had taken a good couple of years for Clint to get close to her to the point she valued his friendship immensely.

But love was a weakness was something drilled into her in the Red Room, and habits from the Red Room are notoriously hard to break. "Steve." She didn't want to talk about this. This kiss didn't mean anything to her and it shouldn't mean anything to him. There was no place for love in this line of work. "There is nothing to talk about."

He didn't say anything as he gathered up the medical supplies. "I'll send Sam to help you down," he said, heading to the door.

Well, that was cold. She frowned, watching him. "I'm not hungry," she lied, "I think I'll sleep."

"Alright, you're excused from watches until you're healed. Get some sleep Natasha, we'll be here for a little bit."

"I can walk," she protested. He walked out, his footsteps thump-thumping down the stairs, she growled as she settled down on her makeshift bed, trying not to wince as her leg brushed against the floor. She hated sleeping on her back; she had always curled up on her side. She couldn't now, because of her injuries. Yawning, she pulled the blanket up to her chin. Steve had taken the lantern, allowing the stars to illuminate the room with their soft glow. The mice grew bolder in their exploration but stayed well away from her. Her eyes drifted close and she fell into an uneasy sleep with the memory of Steve's lips on hers sharp in her mind.

It was cold, the wind howling and she was running from the wolves that snapped at her heels. She could hear them snarling, barking orders — instructions from the Red Room — and it took all of her strength to just keep ahead of them. The blizzard made things difficult to see and she wondered where the hell Sam, Wanda and Steve were. She called their names but all that answered her were the wolves with snarls and howls and hungry pants.

She stumbled, a wolf almost got her, she could feel it's passive paw on her ankle. Glancing quickly over her shoulder she saw that monstrous creature, Alexi's face instead of the wolf's. Her breath caught in her throat and she froze for a moment. "Come back to me Natalia," he growled as he lunged towards her throat. A scream leapt out of her mouth as she scrambled away, the wolf crashing into the snowy ground.

She staggered onwards until the snow cleared for a moment. A frozen lake lay before and with hesitant steps she placed her bare feet on the cold slick surface. "Sam!" she cried, noticing a figure in the distance. Sam was fighting Bucky; he was unable to fly due to the storm. She inched closer, the ice suddenly cracking. She screamed, the wolves had grown bold and decided to chase her across the ice. She trotted towards Sam and Bucky and then heard a painful scream. The Winter Soldier had the Falcon in his merciless grip, and had torn a mechanical wing off. Only, the wings were a physical part of Sam, not some mechanical pack he wore. The wolves howled in delight at the smell of blood, and Bucky ripped Sam's other wing off before stalking towards her.

The ice cracked, she gasped as she fell into the chill water. She looked up, the ice seamless again. Bucky punched the ice with his metal hand. Natasha whimpered and felt a hand tug on her foot. She looked down, Wanda's magic swirled around her hands and made her eyes glow red. "Come with me," she said, her voice sinister as she tugged Natasha down. She screamed, bubbles drifting up to the surface. The ice refused to crack beneath Bucky's repeated blows. "Come and watch as they tear themselves apart." Wanda swam up her body, wrapping a fish tail around her legs. She shrugged against her, fear and the need for air driving her. She clawed at the girl's face but Wanda tied her hands back with magic. "Come with me," she whispered again before kissing her.

Natasha shuddered, eyes rolling into her skull. Blood pounded in her ears, the water chilling her to the bone, Bucky kept striking the ice, Sam was dead and Wanda was coaxing her soul out of her mouth with death-warm lips.

"Wake up, Black Widow." A cold voice said. Natasha snapped her eyes open. She knew this room. Knew the strict thin woman with those artic cold eyes. This was her final test. They already ripped the ability to have children from her, the two small wounds beneath her bellybutton proved it. She got out of bed and walked to the woman, who handed her a knife as the wall turned to reveal her first kill. Her eyes grew wide. It was Steve, bound and shackled to the wall, beaten black and blue.

"Natasha," he said, looking at her. "Natasha don't, please."

"Kill him." The woman said, from her place at the opposite side of the room. "Complete the graduation ceremony and kill him."

"Natasha, I know you. You aren't like this. You aren't a monster. Fight it." She walked towards him. "You're a good person, each life you save erases a life you took. God forgives you. He forgives all who repent their sins."

"There is no God. There is only the here and now," the woman countered. Natasha stopped when she reached Steve, he was shaking. The knife felt heavy in her hand.

"Natasha please, don't do this." Tears trickled down his face. "Please, Natasha, don't."

"Kill him."

She raised the knife, arm shaking. This was Steve. Steve was her… she frowned. What was he to her. He was nothing. Why should she spare him? Sparing him would just prove she was defective and would be killed.

"Natasha," he said, and she held his gaze, a sad smile on his face, his eyes filled with an emotion she struggled to understand but yearned to comprehend. "I love you."

She blinked and slid the blade into his chest, between the second and third rib, ruby red blossoming across his chest.

Natasha screamed, bolting up right. Hands fell upon her in the darkness and she batted them away, struggling to prevent them from restraining her. "No, no, no, no!" she whimpered as the hands pulled her towards something warm and firm. "No…" she gasped, giving up. Someone was shushing her, running a hand through her hair, rocking her back and forth.

"Shhh, shhh, it's okay, Natasha. It was just a dream, it was just a dream, it can't hurt you anymore."

She recognized that voice. "Steve?" she whispered, stiffening when he brushed his thumb across her cheek to wipe away a tear. She snuggled closer to him, pressing her ear against his chest. The familiar beat of his heart helped chase the last vestiges of the nightmare away, grounding her in reality. He was alive, she didn't kill him — she couldn't remember her initiation kill anymore — and he was holding her in his warm embrace.

They sat there in the endless dark, not saying a word. He would shush from time to time, to remind her that he was there, but she knew. She hadn't left his embrace, now she didn't want to. "Nat?"

"No, I don't want to talk about it," she said, once she found her voice. "It was just a dream." A mouse scurried across her foot and she pulled it sharply towards her. "Just hold me a bit longer."

"I'll hold you as long as you need," he said and pressed a kiss to her head. She smiled at the gesture. They sat there in silence, the dawn starting to creep towards the eastern horizon. Time slowed, and they took comfort in each other's embrace.

"Steve?"

"Mm?"

"Do you have nightmares?" she asked, her eyes fixed on a point on the wall. He sighed, shifting and tightened his embrace around her.

"Sometimes," he said. "I had them real bad after I got out of the ice, but now… they aren't so bad. I get them from time to time. Most of them involve losing Bucky or when I crashed the Valkyrie into the ice." He nuzzled the back of her skull, she didn't say anything. The sound of his voice was soothing. "Later they were about Peggy, and sometimes I dream of Bucky killing everyone I love before killing me."

"The list must be short." She smiled when he gave a bitter bark of a laugh. "Not too short I hope though."

"It's not too short," he agreed. "The worst dreams… are the ones where I fail and they cost me everyone on that list. I wake up in a cold sweat when I have those."

"I killed you in my dream," she said, her voice thick. "You said you loved me and I killed you."

"Oh."

She nodded and stared at a patch of dirt on the floor. They didn't say anything, sitting there in silence and watching the shadows quiver as the mice moved about. The dawn creeped closer, casting the world in a soft grey light with the promise of further brightness. She heard Wanda grumble as she relieved Sam. She licked her lips, shuddering as she remembered the feel of dream-Wanda's lips on hers. Birds began to twitter in the trees and the grey began to lighten. Steve's hand running up and down her back as he held her. She looked at him, memorizing the angles of his face, the slope of his nose and the way his lips pouted when he was deep in thought. She also noticed a lingering sadness in his eyes, a reservation that he tried to hide from everyone, even her. He couldn't though; she spent her life reading people, looking for little tells about their deepest and darkest secrets.

"Nat." His voice was soft, breaking the stillness of the pre-dawn. She almost hated him for it, almost.

"No." She knew what he wanted to talk about it and she wouldn't entertain the conversation. "We're friends."

"Natasha, you and I both—"

"I said no, Steve," she said, turning around to face him since she woke up. The hurt look in his face was almost worse than the one he gave her as she plunged the knife into his heart in her dream.

Almost.

"Nat, we can still be friends and—"

"No, I'm not… no," she said. The tears were back, his dream confession, his rough hands against her soft cheeks, wiping her tears away. She whimpered; only him. She would only allow such weakness in front of him, because she trusted him explicitly. "I won't… we can't…" I can't lose you, Steve.

"I know. I know it hurts, believe me I do. People get close to me and they seem to slip through my fingers." He shuddered, a grimace on his face at the wording. "But I learned that sometimes it's better to have a few precious memories and a shared connection than never allowing it to happen. Isolating yourself to protect your heart isn't a good idea and somethings things just—"

"No!" she looked at him. "No, I won't let it. I won't let this… losing friends hurt, but I can move on. I can deal with the loss of friends. I've lost so many friends that I can't keep track of them. But… but…" her lip trembled. "If we… I can't deal with that. It'll break me, Steve." I already loved once, and the KGB took that away from me. I won't be able to survive if I lost you too, Steve.

"Natasha."

She turned her head away, sniffling softly. It was too much. Why did he have to be a good person? Why did he have to care so much about her, a monster forged in the bloody halls of the Red Room. She was not supposed have love or a chance at it. She would just destroy him in the end; like she did with everyone that didn't keep a comfortable distance from her. She'll kill him in the end, like she did in her dream, like she ended up doing with Alexi. The black widow spider always eats its mate. "I'm a monster, Steve, a monster unworthy of love."

"No." His voice was sharp, cutting through her sorrow and self-loathing. She looked up at him, green eyes shining in the aureate light of the early dawn. He had a determined look on his face, his mouth set in a grim line. "No, Natasha. You are worthy. More so than any person I know. You deserve a chance at happiness. Even if it's not now or tomorrow, but someday, you'll have happiness." He smoothed his thumb over her cheekbone. "I promise."

The birdsong grew louder as more joined in, the room grew brighter and all she heard was his promise. His gaze held her, those blue eyes of his filled with warmth. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Rogers."

"Bad habit, I know," he said, a weak fleeting smile gracing his features for a moment, regret clear in his eyes. "But I know you will have happiness."

She gave him a sad smile, wanting to believe in his comforting lie. "Steve…"

"Somethings you just can't stop Nat," he said, hands on her shoulders. "You ran with it when it was Bruce. Why are you so unsure now?"

Because I didn't love Bruce the way I love you. "We're just friends," she whispered, finding a sense of calm within her training. He had wanted her to be a friend, so that is what she became a friend. Falling in love, well… that was an occupational hazard she didn't foresee. "That is what you wanted me to be, so I became your friend."

He stood up with a growl, running a hand through his hair, his back facing her for a brief moment before he spun around, frustration etched into his face. "And if I had said I wanted you to be my lover?"

She stiffened as she looked at her hands, golden in the morning light. All her life she had been molded into what people have wanted her to be: killer, lover, friend, enemy. She was like clay and whatever the job required was her sculptor. "I would have been that if you had asked," she said.

His shoulders rose and fell. "Stop lying to yourself, Natasha!" he said.

"You first," she hissed, pinpointing the source of his regret. "Admit that you want to go back." He froze, staring at her and for a heartbeat she saw shame in his eyes. In another life, she would have reveled in finding this sore spot. In another life she would have twisted the knife further until she had him right where she wanted him. "Stop lying to yourself, Steve."

"She's gone," he breathed, "I have nothing to go back to." He folded his arms over his chest, this line of questioning curtailed. "I don't like that you're lying to yourself or to me. I don't like lairs, I don't like bullies—"

"You shouldn't like me, then," she snapped, her anger at his stubbornness fueling her, allowing her to forget that ache in her chest, the one of longing and desire to just give in. "I'm a bully and a liar and all around bad person, Steve. You should be disgusted and you should hate me."

He gave her a sad look as if she just kicked his puppy in front of him. "I could never hate you, Natasha." He slumped to his knees in front of her and reached out to her, fingertips brushing her cheek. She gave him a sad smile as she leaned into his touch. "Never in a million years could I hate you." His voice was thick with tears he refused to shed. "Never."

We're both torn in two, huh? "Oh Steve." She sniffed. "You stubborn fool." His hand fell away from her cheek and she slid to her good hip, unable to meet his gaze. She felt adrift without his grounding touch, a ship unmoored, unable to find her way back to shore. She heard him stand and she watched him head to the door, pausing in the door frame. He sighed, shoulders sagging.

"I'm sorry." He walked off, the stairs creaking against his heavy mournful steps. She sobbed to herself, looking away from door. She hated this ache in her chest, it was worse than any pain from her wounds. If this is what death felt like she didn't want it.

"I'm sorry too."

Tuomas Holopainen always seems to know how to weave the exact emotion I need to feel into his music. How does the man do it?

Anyway, here's the next chapter.

I'm not making this easy for them am I?

The chapter was originally supposed to go in a different direction, but I'm a very organic writer, so I follow where the characters lead.

To settle your fears: yes they do get together at some point. This is 90% based of the implication that when Sam said: "Well this is awkward." When Nat and Bruce were reunited in IW that she and Steve were a couple (or something more than good friends.)

My original plan for this… thing, was supposed to be a little six chapter snippet of what happened. Nothing really long and for me to practice on some of my weaker things as a writer (like narrative description of the setting and senses). Obviously, the damn thing has gotten away from me.

I also firmly believe making my characters work for their reward. Plus, I think Natasha is extremely afraid of letting anyone so close as to love them, especially someone like Steve (who she probably sees as too good for her), so she has serious personal issues to work through. Be patient, she needs a friend.

Bucky will appear, give it time.

Save an author; leave a review.

Nemo et Nihil

PS: the chapter titles are the songs the lyrics are apart of. I suggest you listen to them while you read as you get the idea of what I'm aiming for with an emotional theme. Because sometimes you can feel something only through music and it doesn't translate well onto paper (looking at you Ocean Soul feeling).