8 May 2018
Hey Tom.
I've always prided myself on my ability to remember details and conversations. So many times it's saved my life, brought me through hairy situations and dug me out of impossible places.
Without any missions, no covers to explore or criminals to expose, the everyday conversations get the playback treatment. The small and pointless chats in the kitchen, the whispered hellos and goodbyes, the hushed pleasantries in the hallways. Each person's expression, the feeling of the room, the weather.
I always prided myself on it but now I hate it.
Whenever I stop work, even just for a moment. Whenever my mind screeches to a halt, everything comes flooding back. Slipping through the widening cracks, whooshing in and sweeping away all defences. Every memory flies past. Before I realise, I've followed it down the rabbit hole.
Sam on the jet as we come into Wakanda, that cocky smile of his wavering ever so slightly, his anxieties peeking through, swirling in terror of losing another friend in battle. Sam flying high above alongside Rhodey, their banter in our ears as they bring down a Thresher together. Rhodey calling out Sam's name as ash clogs the air.
Vision collapsed in Scotland, looking forever grateful for Steve's heroics. Vision looking at Wanda like in all the world she was the only thing worth looking at. The pain in his eyes at the compound as it dawned on her what he was asking. Vision's grey and lifeless corpse against the lush greenery.
Wanda, sweet Wanda who had every reason to fall and fail beneath everything thrown at her but always deciding to rise. Wanda who is the strongest of us all. Wanda who thought I never noticed she didn't return my jacket. Wanda who sacrificed everything to save the universe only to see it all undone before falling to pieces over her lover's body.
Maria in Prague looking incomplete without Nick at her side as she dropped off my gear and supplies before I found Steve on the run. Maria cocking a gun and preparing to stand alone against whatever was coming through the door, her expression of grim acceptance turning to one of cautious relief when she realised it was me. Maria massaging her temples in pure frustration as Clint explained how someone named Hawkeye couldn't see the hazard symbol on the door leading into a room full of caged and abused animals. Maria having to actually physically restrain herself from face palming when he defended why he thought it was a good idea to bring one of the contaminated creatures back to headquarters. Maria calling out to Nick as she vanished.
Nick stepping out of the shadows, brow furrowed in that serious way of his. The mischievous glint he always got in his eye before spinning a bullshit story for the unsuspecting. The ghost smile that flitted across his lips when someone surprised him. Nick lying in the hospital, flatlining. Nick, that unflappable immovable presence, measuring me up as I followed Clint into headquarters for the first time, head held high despite the handcuffs digging into my wrists. That slight, almost imperceptible nod once he'd finished, the one I'm still not sure happened.
The Bartons. Just, the Bartons. Every memory, every second I spent with them. Every moment they made me feel normal. Every time they made me feel... necessary.
Too many lasts.
Even Coulson, these many years later. His funeral.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
10 May 2018
Hi Tom,
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that the most chaotic places after international disasters are governmental war rooms. It doesn't matter where in the world, nothing will be organised. Nothing will make sense. And nothing will be fixed right at the beginning.
They called Rhodey in not long after Danvers left to find Stark. They want to be seen doing something without getting us less reliable Avengers involved, bring in the one known for his patience and consistency because he'll happily be their PR puppet. He stopped by today. Even he's tired of them pulling his strings. They overestimate his tolerance for political bullshit.
We took a walk together. The walls are too confining, claustrophobia a defining feeling of the passing days. The change of scenery a welcome escape, for me. For him, he just hates being surrounded by those screens.
Most people would assume we don't have time for each other, but I've known him for as long as I've known Stark and Pepper. We have differing opinions on things and different limits on what we're willing to do to achieve something, but that's what I like about him. He's not a man to blindly draw a line. He's thought about it, considered it and his morals are drawn from a logic and a deep knowledge of himself.
His fingers tapped against the frame wrapped around his lower body, a new habit, a coping mechanism. It was his bit of Stark. Wherever he went, his best friend was with him.
I felt for my arrow necklace, traced the familiar outline.
He didn't ask much and I didn't offer. We ended up sitting on the dock, looking out over the lake. Birds sang in the distance as they hopped from tree to tree, a faint breeze weaved its way across the water, tenderly rippling the surface. It was all so peaceful, so calm. For a few minutes everything was back to normal.
It was one of those moments where we shared nothing but the seconds that ticked between us and the view that stretched before us. Yet, once it was over, we were closer.
Hey, there's nothing like surviving universal decimation to bring people together.
Or tear them apart - still no news.
12 May 2018
Hey Tom.
Ever been on the wrong end of a drunken tirade from a bitter racoon?
I'm gonna go out on a limb and say no.
I walked in on Rocket and Thor in the common area, helping themselves to whatever alcohol they could reach.
He had his paws on my vodka. And it's not like I go for the cheap stuff. Pure Russian quality. Top of the range, even Cap could probably get a kick off this, sort of stuff. And I probably would have left him well enough alone (okay, maybe not), but he was sloshing it around. Huge droplets splashing across the coffee table they were using to line their earlier shots up. Hefty drips soaking into the carpet and when Thor slapped him on the back, thunderously false laughter booming across the space, near enough the whole glass leapt free and sploshed everywhere.
"Think you've had enough, Meeko. Hand that over," I stormed up to them and took the bottle without waiting for an answer while secretly pleased Stark wasn't there to pick up on my Disney reference. Coop was a bad influence.
The rage I felt was disproportionate to what was happening, I knew that. Didn't mean I wanted to do anything about it though. First he takes up Clint's quarters and then he touches my stuff. Thor had the decency to look a little ashamed and tried to sidle away.
"Hey, space pirate. Look who's decided to crawl out from behind her desk and join the rest of us in this shitty reality. Finally doing the sensible thing and giving up?" He spat out, trying to nudge Thor with his elbow only to find the god abandoned him, "coward."
"Just stay away from my stuff you overgrown rat."
"Or what? Black Order wannabe."
"Or I'll tear out your sorry excuse for a spine, stuff you full of wool and donate you to the daycare furthest away from here."
"Hah! I'd like to see you try you-"
I stalked out of the room to a soundtrack of insults and shattering glass.
He found me later on the dock. I liked how calm it was there, especially in the middle of the night. When the sky was clear the moon reflected brilliantly on the surface of the lake. I heard him padding along the wood and eventually his puffs of breath as he hauled himself onto the bench.
"Didn't expect to find you out here, you know," he said.
"Couldn't quite bring myself to crawl back behind my desk."
He winced.
"Yeah, so, I'm ah, I'm sorry about that. I don't mix well with Terran alcohol."
"Don't sweat it, furball. If I couldn't handle a few drunken jibes I wouldn't be good at my job."
"They say you're a pretty badass spy."
"They're supposed to be saying I'm pretty and badass."
We shared a small laugh and an even smaller smile.
"I'm sorry too, Rocket."
My words fell into the empty night air. But he gave me one of those trademark sideways glances and I knew he'd accepted it. Then he placed a hand over mine, which was resting on the bench.
"Don't give up," he said, craning his neck to look at the moon.
14 May 2018
Hello again Tom,
I went back to my apartment today. I wish I hadn't.
Steve caught me beating the crap out of a punching bag, in the gym, at three this morning. Knuckles split, the bag and mat stained with red. I hadn't bothered to put any gloves or strapping on.
I only noticed he was there when he grabbed my arms, forcing me to stop. I didn't even spot the blood until that point.
Or feel the pain.
For a moment I wanted to fight him, to hit something that could feel it. Something that wouldn't just passively hang there. But then the next moment, well, the next I just wanted to break down in tears and cling to him for dear life.
I did neither.
The Black Widow does not cry. She does not break down. Nor does she pick a fight for the sake of picking a fight.
That's who I needed to be right then. The Black Widow.
I sucked it up and pushed through. Tucked everything behind an unreadable mask as he lead me over to the benches and looked for the first aid kit. I wanted to slip away and tend to my hands myself, but there was something in his eyes, in his manner, that said he needed this. He needed the distraction, to do something useful, to help someone.
So I forced myself to stay put and listened as he suggested I get off base. That I was the only one who hadn't taken a break since this whole thing started and I could probably do with one. He promised to look after everything and let me know the moment something happened.
"Is that your polite way of saying I look like crap, soldier?"
"It's my way of saying you need to stop being so hard on yourself."
"Maybe you should listen to your own words."
He huffed a breath before dropping his head into his hands, it could have been a faded laugh, it could have been a sigh, it could have been a muffled sob. But when he brought his head back up he looked so lost.
Fun fact: Steve Rogers was twenty-six when he went into the ice. Twenty-fucking-six. When I met him for the first time before the Battle of New York I was twenty-seven. There was just a year between us. We were the youngest. The Avenger Youth.
So how did it all end up on our shoulders?
No wonder he looked so... desolate.
He blinked it back and smiled. "You know, Nat, I miss your red hair."
"What a strange thing to say, Rogers."
"We live in strange times, Romanoff."
I tried to get some sleep. I wanted to forget about the whole numbness of my being and hollowness of his voice. But, as usual, sleep didn't come and I ended up leaving at six. Steve, like always, offered me breakfast and I, like always, turned it down. So then he offered me the jet but if I was getting out of the base then I was doing it properly.
I took my bike.
The hum of the engine dislodged the dust settled over my mind and the whipping wind blew it all away. It was freedom. Pure and simple and raw. Nothing held me back or held me down, just gave me a chance to shrug everything away. And I took it. I let everything fall, felt the tension ease as the aggressive breeze teased it from my shoulders. Pushing away the burden that had nestled so comfortably there. Engine and wind roared in unison, drowning out all thought and clearing away anything that tried to cling desperately on.
I drove without thinking. It was all about reaction and reflex. I felt every bump in the road, every sharp corner, every slight dip. In those moments it was about the present. About forgetting everything else and just... being.
It was good to forget.
But then I came to the more densely populated areas and it was harder to navigate because there was still so much devastation about. Everything I left behind at the compound came rushing back and it felt so much heavier for the absence. The guilt was suffocating.
So much ruin, so much disaster.
Still.
Cars were strewn across the roads, occasionally crashed into buildings, lamp posts or fire hydrants. Bicycles were crumpled beneath the larger vehicles, the twisted frames a grotesque replacement for what else might've been there had their owners not turned to ash. Glass was scattered everywhere, whether that came from the cars or buildings or the street lights. Toys were abandoned in gardens, doors hung open, windows smashed. A few fires still smouldered.
I mean, it's been just over two weeks since the snap and nothing was touched. It felt like riding through a post-apocalyptic world.
Stupid right? Because, it wasn't 'like' a post-apocalyptic world at all. It actually was one. Because we lost. We failed.
Earth's mightiest heroes and we barely even landed a hit on the guy who disappeared half the universe with a click of his fingers.
I pulled over and heaved at the side of the road. Bringing nothing up.
I should have turned back right then, but I didn't. I kept on going. Maybe it was because I was stubborn. Maybe it was because I wanted to punish myself. I don't know.
It didn't matter where I went, it was pretty much the same story everywhere. Sometimes bits of helicopter littered the street, sometimes there was a stench on the air that reminded me not all the victims were dusted.
Few people were out and about, those who were flinched at the sound of my bike. The roar echoed off the surrounding buildings. They watched me go by with haunted eyes. I don't know if they recognised me.
After many detours I found my way to my apartment. I hadn't been there since before the whole Accords debacle and everything was as I left it. That put me on edge.
There should be dust swimming in the air, maybe even a few unsolicited bits of mail strewn across the hallway. But it was clean, it was well cared for. Hell, even the light at the end of the hallway, which hadn't worked for as long as I owned it, sparked to life when I flicked the switch. And what dust there was couldn't have been more than a couple of weeks old.
It was weird being back there. It'd never really been home; that was reserved for one place and one place only. But it held a familiarity, it housed memories and mirrored a life left behind. It was a reminder of the good old days, before Germany.
It didn't take long to solve the mystery of the cleaning culprit. A note was left on my fridge. Looked like it was written a little while ago.
I'm sorry, Red.
- Your favourite billionaire
Tony.
Tony goddamned Stark.
Of course it was him. Of course he'd send me on the run with a callous remark about my past nipping at my heels, only to track down my New York apartment (which was under an alias), pay for the upkeep and leave an apology waiting for me in case I ever snuck back.
What was he sorry for? I don't know. And maybe I never will, depends if Danvers finds him.
Think I'm gonna frame it, though. It's not often Tony apologises, even rarer for there to be proof.
I was thinking about spending the night. Maybe a change of scenery might help with the whole not sleeping thing I've got going on. And for the first time I had a bit of an appetite. It was probably too much to ask that Tony had someone keep the cupboards stocked, but I looked around wondering if it was a good idea, when my eyes landed on Liho's water bowl.
There was ash.
A small pile around the bowl, a dusting on the rim and there must have been a sprinkle in the water too, it was discoloured.
I don't know how long I spent looking at the remains. By the time I left it was dark and my appetite had once again vanished.
Who dusts a cat?
On the way back to the compound I didn't see much. The focus that seemed so essential on the way in was negligible on the way out. On the odd moment when I did get out of my head I saw kids. Sleeping on the streets, huddled together, stealing food, dodging police.
There were vague stirrings in the back of my head of seeing something similar in Russia.
Others might see chaos.
I saw desperation.
Another consequence of our failure.
It was gone midnight by the time I made it back to the compound. Steve was waiting for me as I parked up. When I threw my helmet against the wall it bounced unsatisfyingly off and rolled away without damage.
Damn it.
So I launched at Steve. Not really knowing what I was gonna do.
We reached for each other at the same time. I pressed my face into his shoulder and clung to him like he was the only thing left. He held me, tightly. Burying his face into my hair. I heard his cracked breaths and, in that, everything he was trying to hold back. We were afraid to let go. Scared the other would disappear.
There were no words. No tears. Just each other.
Two people who couldn't think about living because just surviving was so fucking hard.
So much for hiding behind that Black Widow mask.
I made him a silent promise then, I've locked it away in the back of my mind. He doesn't need to know.
He was all I had left. We've been through too much together for him to fall victim to the Black Widow curse. I won't let anything happen to him. I'll keep him safe.
The world needs Captain America right now. It needs Steve Rogers.
I won't fail him.
I won't let him down.
Not like I did with Clint.
A/N: I just want to say thank you to everyone who's reading, reviewing, favouriting and following. And thank you so much for the lovely comments from guest reviewers. I really love hearing your feedback, whatever it is :)
More Clint in the next chapter, and Steve and Wanda make an appearance (because their house isn't crowded enough already...)
Disclaimer: I own nothing Marvel or anything you might recgonise.