AN I don't own Marvel of any of its characters! This is Steve's chapter! Hinted Romanogers and Clintasha.
Natasha quickly got a reputation. She couldn't really explain what the reputation was, only that it was very different from the reputation she'd had when she first joined Shield as the Black Widow. Clint didn't talk about her, or at least not in detail, she was sure. Their relationship was more than confidential. But, still, people seemed to take note of his trust in her and give her a little more leniency because of it. Maybe he made them see her a little more human?
But, regardless of what kind of reputation it was, she had it now. She'd helped Clint immensely and, even though he was still active and went out on assignments almost constantly, he always came back to her. He treated her like a home base. And she never minded, especially not when he slipped silently into her room after getting back from an assignment overseas and wiggled himself into her bed. She usually pretended not to wake up, even though she did, just so he would get that proud little smile on his face when he finally settled beside her. Their relationship was certainly… unique. But she liked it and he seemed to like it as well so it continued.
Coulson couldn't stop at Clint, though. He had this idea of her in his head, she imagined, of taking her brokenness and mothering all his other broken agents. She didn't see that happening-ever-but it was Coulson so she didn't argue. Six months after she began working with Clint, he tossed her another broken boy. Steven Grant Rogers.
Even she knew that name, knew most of the general story and history attached to it, and she was honestly kind of shocked that Coulson was trusting her with Captain fucking America, but she accepted the job.
He was still in a hospital bed when she was sent in, looking very similar to how Clint had with the blonde hair and blue eyes-both marred by bandages. But the instant look of pure and utter fear on his face wasn't something she would ever forget. Was it because he recognized her as the Widow? She tried to explain, tried to tell him about her loyalty switch, but it became very clear very quickly that the terrified man on the bed in front of her didn't know her.
She looked Russian.
He was scared because she looked Russian. She tried to speak to him, keeping her voice low and calm, but he wouldn't listen. He just panted, gasping out little breaths, and watched her with a soldier's gaze-terrified, detached, fighting for breath and for any kind of defense or weapon like a trapped animal. Finally, she sighed. She left the room, hoping he wouldn't die while she was gone. Coulson would murder her if she killed his precious Captain America, even if it wasn't her fault. But she took a deep breath and came back with a thick spool of rope.
"Tie me up." He stared at her in shock. Of course, that would be the natural response. But he needed to feel secure, like he was the one in control, and if that meant tying her up then she was prepared to teach him the knots. She pushed the rope into his hands. He hesitated, but he was a soldier so when she barked it like an order, he did it. He secured her to one of the chairs against the wall, at her direction. She tried not to let the anxiety brew in her gut at being restrained. Slow, calming breaths. Focus on him.
"There, I can't hurt you. Now can we talk?" Slowly, Steve nodded.
And, after that, it wasn't hard. He wasn't as guarded as she'd expected him to be and she couldn't decide if that concerned or impressed her. But he spoke openly with her. Like even Captain America's damn lips refused to lie, refused to be anything but pure and good. She hated it, on the surface, but deep down it intrigued her because she'd never met anyone who seemed so completely untainted. Part of her wanted to break that goodness, corrupt it. But she shoved that part down and just marveled at it, occasionally testing it just to make sure it was there. And he maintained it, strong as ever, effortlessly. It was too ingrained in who he was to ever change, she realized, and that made her respect him a little more, actually.
After a while, he stopped tying her up during their sessions and, gradually, he let her get closer. He told her about the war, about being Captain America, about the crash. He talked about Peggy, about Bucky, and about the cold. He talked a lot about the cold. How he could still feel it in his veins, how it crept up on him when he was least prepared. He'd been in the shower, once, during his first few months at shield and the water had suddenly ran cold. Even just talking about it, his voice went stiff. But she waited, knowing he would brew in the silence and eventually fill it, and listened as he described the pain attack that had followed. He'd laid in that tub, under the spray of the ice cold water, for over three hours before he managed to stop shaking and breath enough to reach up and shut it off. It had taken three days of lying in his bed under every blanket he owned just to feel steady again.
It hurt her to listen to stories like that, but she made herself. Both because he needed someone to listen and because, somewhat grudgingly, she wanted to know and understand him. The cold was a trigger-she could understand that-but surely it was only mentally. Halfheartedly, she thought to check for a fever. But Captain America didn't get fevers, so she didn't even bother bringing it up to the doctors on the fourth floor because it would only get a little red asterisk in his file that neither of them wanted.
But, after the third or fourth story he told about the cold and the panic attacks, she couldn't resist. She laid a hand on his, surprised to find him actually not warm to the touch. He was actually fucking cold. Some part of her couldn't completely comprehend that, just staring at him, because those gorgeous blue eyes looked anything but frozen and his smile was so warm and perfect that it couldn't be cold… But he was cold-icy, compared to normal human temperature. So, she hugged him without thinking. It was past some kind of boundary they'd previously established and she knew she shouldn't be doing it but she couldn't help herself. Just like with Clint, she ached to help him however she could. His skin pulled the heat out of her, even through clothing, but she just hugged him.
And, shockingly, he didn't let go. He didn't scold her or push her away or even readjust them so that he was holding her rather than vice versa. He hugged her back, though. Gradually, at what felt like a rate of a centimeter every ten minutes, he relaxed into her hold. It was so foreign to her that she almost pulled away in surprise but she stopped herself at the last minute. Instead, she tangled a hand in his hair. Clint had always loved that kind of touch, said it grounded him more than the others, and she hoped it would have the same effect on Captain America and… it did.
She couldn't really believe it. He slouched and nestled into her, clutching her just tight enough that she felt it but not so tight that he risked scaring her. She stroked the short, blonde strands and pulled a blanket up around them as he shivered. Her brain short circuited. Captain fucking America was whimpering against her chest, shivering in her arms, sighing every time she ran her fingers through his hair. Suddenly, she realized. This wasn't Captain America. This was Steve. And Steve needed that physical closeness as an anchor, a reminder that he was still alive and that this was reality.
She cursed herself for not realizing it sooner but, the moment she did, everything changed. The warmth did wonders for him, but the contact did more. She got in the habit of taking him to the rec center hot tubs a few times a week whenever it fit with their schedules and the way he immediately sank into it made her smile. When she touched him in the hot tub, even just a hand on his shoulder, he almost melted. But when she hugged him, settling herself into his lap and leaning forward into his chest, in the warm water he completely shattered. He held onto her for dear life, soaking up her warmth. And she relished it.
It became their routine, and he talked while they laid like that. Sometimes in the hot tub, if the cold was really bad, but usually in one of their beds covered in mounds of blankets and layer upon layer of warm, fuzzy clothing. She always played with his hair, even if it was inconvenient in a certain position or if her hands were tired. Really, that was all he needed. An anchor. Someone to show him, rather than just tell him, that this was real and that this was okay. After a while, she saw him in training again. Their sessions became less frequent but he still came to her at night sometimes when he couldn't shake the cold. She never, ever refused.
Clint came by a lot, still. He had a way of finding dangerous situations and making them worse, so he wound up in her care quite often. They joked a lot, even if the situation didn't call for it, because he seemed to find comfort in the closeness of their relationship and anything to remind him of it. He liked making her laugh, because he knew he was one of very few who could. Steve showed up, one night, while he was with her and she had a very strict policy of never refusing either of them when they needed her so she welcomed him in. Steve paled upon seeing Clint already in her bed.
But Clint, surprisingly, was more than willing to share. If anyone was going to be petulant and want her all to themselves she would have guessed it was Clint but he easily slid over to make room and gave Steve a small smile. She reached out, took Steve's hand, and led him over to the bed too. It was tense at first but, slowly, they settled into a position that allowed Clint to hold her, his arms around her waist, and press up against her back while Steve nuzzled against her shoulder. She played with his hair, like always, and traced patterns on Clint's bow arm, like always. Somehow, they just fit like that. Clint was exhausted from whatever the hell he'd been doing on his latest assignment and he fell asleep easily, clearly not the least bit bothered by the situation, but Steve took longer. He was cold, though, and the warmth of two other people under the blankets seemed even better than one. He fell asleep, eventually, too.
She lied awake for a long time, that night. Something about having both of them with her like that stuck in her mind, like a thread catching on her nails, but she couldn't place it. Maybe it just felt surreal that it could work so perfectly. Or maybe it was strange, having never imagined either man would know about the others. But, mostly, the longer she thought about it, the more she realized she was so on edge because she finally felt at ease. Logic said it was having two very strong, capable men that she trusted on either side of her-because that made sense, didn't it? Something told her, though, it was knowing they were both safe, and content in her arms.
Clint managed to get hurt a lot. Sometimes, he was just unlucky but a lot of the time he was plain reckless to the point that she actually chastised him for it. He wouldn't stop, though, and they both knew that. He was on a first name basis with nearly every doctor Shield employed, and gave Coulson ulcers. It didn't take long after they became close, though, for him to start going to her for medical attention rather than the fourth floor docs-both because she didn't tell Coulson and because he trusted her more. Soon, she was the only one he would let take care of him. They were friends, sort of, and they had a usual banter that they stuck to. Sometimes, she would ask and made him talk about the hard stuff but that wasn't usually what he needed. Usually, she was just a reassurance, a loving and affectionate touch. Someone to remind him that not every form of contact had to result in pain.
He showed up at her door sometimes too, rather than calling her to his room, and usually after a fight or when he got back from an assignment. Part of her wondered if he thought he was an inconvenience, just showing up like that, and she debated telling him that she loathed spending nights alone now. That she welcomed his company, even if he wasn't hurt. But that seemed like it was a little too far, even for them, so she kept her mouth shut and always reassured him that he could call on her at any time for any reason.
She kept a detailed first aid kit under her bed just for him. Coulson noticed, and helped her stock it even if he disapproved, because Clint had said more than once that it was Natasha's medical help or no medical help. So Coulson grudgingly accepted it. Clint would tease her while she took care of him, calling her mom whenever she told him what to do, but she saw the warmth in his eyes. He loved that she was affectionate and gentle and worried about him. He loved that she was never harsh or angry and never hit him or left bruises of her own. It was in his eyes and in the way he sank into her touch like she was the human form of relief.
He reminded her of Steve, in moments like that, and she even went as far as to tell him that because the men knew each other and she wasn't trying to hide either relationship. She didn't tell him about the cold or any of Steve's history, just the little similarities. They both fluttered their eyelashes in a quick one, one-two-three pattern whenever she played with their hair. They both sighed when she kissed their foreheads. And they both fell into her touch like she was some kind of cure for every ounce of pain they'd ever experienced. Clint just smiled.
"That's because you are, Tash." She rolled her eyes at him, but didn't dismiss it so quickly mentally. Was she? She knew she'd helped them both but was she really so closely tied to relief in their psyches that just her touch felt like morphine? Did it really even bother her if it did?
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