A/N: Hi there everyone :) I hope you're all well and keeping safe.
Writing this chapter I realised I haven't used trigger warnings when I may have needed to before, which I apologise for. While this is a story filling in the five-year gap in Endgame at the heart of it is someone's declining state of mind and a group of people dealing with their own grief. In this one I've tried to delve deeper into Nat's psyche and gotten to a point I've been working towards for while - which is the culmination of this chapter in the last entry.
So, with that in mind this chapter does come with a trigger/content warning for panic/anxiety attacks.
2 October 2020
As a spy you gain a preternatural ability to know when things are wrong.
As a semi-retired spy more involved in the superhero gig rather than being in the midst of the intelligence community, that ability is soon labelled paranoia.
Especially when you spend all your time wandering around an otherwise abandoned building telling people to do all the cool stuff you used to.
And over time it gets easier to live with the mislabelling, to ignore the gut instinct screaming from the sidelines, to convince myself it was just a hangover from the glory days. Easier to watch other things happen without wondering how it was going to go wrong.
Case in point.
I watched Rocket, the emotionally unstable, get excited by the news he could jet off sooner rather than later. Watched him try to hide it behind his usual veneer of vicious wit and foul language. Watched a lightness I hadn't seen before follow him around.
I waited for the other shoe to drop. Waited for his volatility to kick in and banish his good mood to the past.
But even the small matter of needing to get his ride from point A to point B before he could go anywhere couldn't sour his mood. So I watched as he laughed more, as he smiled more.
I ignored the all important instinct of a spy, of a woman forged for survival, in favour of playing the role of person, colleague, friend.
"Been meaning to ask, what's with the two name thing?" He said one morning, greeting me at the entrance when I came back from a morning run that might as well have been a morning swim. The fallout of the heavens opening drummed against the reinforced glass front of the compound.
"What?" I said, wiping away the droplets threatening to stream down my forehead, only my sleeve was as sodden as everything else and I came away with the distinct impression I'd just made my forehead wetter.
"You know, the two names. You've all get 'em. Natasha, but also Black Widow. What, couldn't make up your mind? Or is it a prerequisite for the Avengers no one told me about? Because I go by Rocket and nothing else. If there's only one of me I don't see the point in naming me twice." Rather than walk alongside me, like any normal living thing (except maybe Tony) would do, he stayed in front; walking backwards with his tiny little strides and slowed down my own, delaying the warmth and dry I was so looking forward to.
"Well, today's not your day then," I said, "if you don't get out of my way you're going to get a second name and it's gonna be The Flying Furball."
"Ha ha, you're hilarious. Real funny lady. But, you could also answer my question and I'll run along."
My shoes squeaked a defeated tread across the floor, his own pattering was far too chipper. Outrunning him was possible, in fact probable. It's not like he was difficult to step around, or over. But he was a tenacious little bugger, if I didn't answer him now he would pester and pester and pester until either I answered or Nebula whisked him away.
"Ugh," I said at last, throwing my hands up, "what are you even asking?"
"Well I just wanna know if it's a humie thing or what. Thor only has one name."
As tempting as it was to stop and give him a lecture on Earth's long history of shunning people that didn't fit into an outdated perception of normal, I really wanted to jump in the shower to counter the miserable drizzle with its cascading warmth.
"I dunno," I said in the end, "people don't like people who don't fit in, but do love a good mystery. Codenames were necessary. Especially for those of us with a background in undercover work. Though it's kinda mostly for show now, since Stark blew his cover at a press conference and Steve was plastered all over the history books and museums."
We climbed the stairs and water squelched between my toes with every step. As we turned to go up the next flight I caught sight of the light glistening in the trail of droplets I'd spattered on the floor behind me. Another testament to the ferocity outside.
"We didn't go in for any of that," he said, heaving himself up each stair, struggling to keep pace once climbing was involved, "the Guardians. You know, we just stuck with our actual names. Except Quill, but he's a humie so, you know, point made." He scratched at his arm where his fur was still growing back, then he muttered under his breath, not quite able to keep the toothy smile from breaking out. "Star Lord. Freakin' moron."
"You want a second name."
"What, are your ears full of sand or something? I just I didn't."
"You're protesting too much," I said and held the door opening for him as we stepped out of the stairwell.
"Ain't," he huffed.
"Then why are you going on about it?"
"Dunno," he shrugged, "curious I guess. Your lot have a lot of quirks."
"Well, you know what they say," I said just a few steps away from my door and hoping to wrap up whatever the hell this conversation was, "curiosity killed the racoon."
"And you know what I say. I ain't no friggin' racoon. I'm just me." He jabbed his chest with his thumb and winced a little at the contact. The he burst out laughing. "Oh, I just remembered. I can't believe I forgot. You gotta hear this one. There was this one time when Quill went to reconnect with his dad, who turned out to be a planet-"
"A planet?"
"Yeah. Kind of obsessed with terraforming every planet into his image."
"Terraforming? Wait. Hang on. How long ago was that?" I said, a memory battling its way to the forefront of my mind and straining to click into place.
"I dunno, six years maybe."
"Son of a bitch," I said, the thought of washing away the morning's bad weather momentarily forgotten at the prospect of solving one of Earth's many mysteries. "Is that what all the blue crap was in Missouri?"
"I dunno, I wasn't there on account of kicking a planet's ass at the time. This is not the point of my story. You're a shit audience."
"Maybe you're just a shit storyteller."
We came to my door and, much to my dismay, Friday slid it open without waiting for me to ask. Rocket took it as invitation to head right in. I followed him over the threshold and watched as he did his best to maintain his dignity while hauling himself into an armchair.
"Anyway, before we saved the universe better than you Avengers ever did; me, Groot and Nebula got caught by some Ravagers - hey, where ya goin'?"
As he fell deeper into the retelling of his jail time exploits, I went searching for a towel. Not quite willing to settle straight onto the sofa in my soaked state. I waved it at him when I came back and he just about held back the tutting.
"Where was I? Yeah, I ended up in a cell with Yondu. No, no, no wait," he added before I could ask who the hell Yondu was, "the cell ain't important. It was before that. The guy in charge was throwing a bunch of people into space. Real ugly guy, too, kinda like how I was after my accident, you know. But permanent. He put on this big menacing show so everyone knew he was the boss, probably compensating for his lack of looks.
"He got there by coup. And he tries to be all impressive and says his name, like it's meant to be this totally scary thing, and you know what it was? You know what he actually decided to call himself - because there's no way his parents were that dumb." He laughed, a huge sharp bark of a laugh that was also a little sweet in the wake of his past month or so. "T-Ta-Taserface! I mean, c'mon! Taserface!"
And he laughed again, louder and almost animalistic. Even as he clutched his sides he couldn't help but snicker and cackle and downright guffaw. He fell back in the chair and thumped his fist against the arm of it.
"Taserface," he gasped and a tear clung to his lashes,
It was infectious.
And I started laughing along. Felt the same side-splitting he did. The tears in eyes. The shuddering need for my lungs to breathe properly. "He's got to be regretting that?"
"Ha! Nah," Rocket said and wiped the tears from his eyes, "we blew the ship up when we escaped. With Taserface still on it."
For one second we paused in our laughter, I felt it stick in my chest as we sobered for just a moment, looking each other dead in the eye. Then we started again. Harder than before.
And Christ, it felt so good.
"Imagine the gravestone," I said, "RIP Taserface."
"No, no. In memory of Taserface."
"Here lies Taserface."
We threw more of them at each other and kept on laughing at the man with a name that should only ever be memorialised in a hall of shame somewhere.
And then Friday spoke up.
"Director, there's an urgent call from Colonel Rhodes."
And everything was still okay then, the other shoe hadn't yet dropped. I was still ignoring my instincts, still sidelining them in favour for the whole ignorance is bliss adage.
"Hey Rhodey, what's up?"
And still, it was okay, because he hadn't answered and nothing was different. There was laughter in my lungs and tears on my cheeks, lightness in the air and a lingering promise of something good on the horizon. Rocket breathed heavily and clutched at his ribs, it took a lot of composure not to join him.
And then it wasn't okay anymore because Rhodey spoke and vindicated all my internal alarm systems I'd so diligently pretended didn't exist.
Three little words leeched all the joy from the room.
"He's here, Nat."
"Who's where?" Rocket chimed in, still clinging onto a shred of our shared mirth. I felt his eyes on me but I didn't answer. Didn't think I needed to. Because who else could it be. Who else would fill Rhodey's voice with such dread. The presence of only one person would make Rhodey call me armed with nothing more than a cryptic message and solemn tone.
The air went stale in my lungs and I realised my whole body had stopped obeying basic commands. I forced the breath out and was vaguely pleased it didn't shudder.
"Ronin?" I asked, hoping I was wrong, hoping I'd misread the whole thing. Hoping there was some other dreadful reason Rhodey sounded so terrible, Thanos maybe. I'd rather face him again.
"Yeah," Rhodey said, "he's in the city."
"How do you know?" The need for him the be wrong was almost overwhelming. "Friday hasn't said anything."
"Sheer luck," he said in such a way I knew he was questioning whether the luck was good or bad. "I was on my way to the compound, while I was flying over the city I spotted some activity that fits his MO."
I kept quiet. Processing. Thinking of something, anything, else this could be. Almost praying that Clint wasn't about to get the reckoning I was dreading.
"Nat?" Rhodey said.
"Yeah?"
"It's definitely him."
"Yeah."
"And if we wanna bring him in it's now or never. It took us this long to get the drop on him. Who knows when it'll happen again."
"Yeah."
"I can't go in alone, he's not the guy we know. He's vicious."
He's always been vicious. He was a spy, an assassin. Just like me. The only thing that separated us was my blood-drenched past and the guilt-riddled present that forever followed. His childhood wasn't fun and games, the man had a lot problems as a boy. But if we were to go about comparing trauma stories like Top Trumps cards, mine won out
Now, though? He was making up that difference. Spilling blood as I had. Taking lives as I had. He cleaved his way deeper into his grief, leaving nothing but a trail of corpses for us to follow. And if I followed, I'm not sure I'd be able to find my way out, let alone bring him back with me.
I didn't say any of that, though. Couldn't.
Couldn't even give the order Rhodey was waiting for.
A military man, his strategic mind was incredibly sharp. Calculating all the possible scenarios was as second nature to him as it was me. Which meant he understood as clearly as I did how fucked the situation was.
To face it alone was the height of dumbassery not many people could be accused of. More Tony's style than Rhodey's. But he'd go in alone if I ordered it. Hell, even if I just asked for it.
Because he also knew there wasn't anyone else.
Rhodey needed backup but there was none to give.
Well, none except me.
And that could prove worse than no backup at all.
No one knew Clint's pressure points as Ronin. No one knew if Clint was even still really there. He was just a shell of a man left behind in the aftermath of this family's disappearance.
The only thing I knew for sure that would tempt his return was the promise of bringing them back. The only way to get him to start healing, just as it was for so many other across the world, galaxy, universe.
And I just couldn't promise him that.
Not yet.
"Nat?" Rhodey's voice was soft but insistent, perfected by years of managing his best friend. I was about to answer when the softest tug on my hand drew my attention. Rocket had slipped off his chair and come over, he looked up at me and patted his chest with his free hand.
"The guy don't know me and I don't know this guy."
And a short-lived wave of relief crashed over me. I wasn't the only choice. There was someone else, another Avenger. But the uneven patches of fur, the lingering limp, the caution - he was not an Avenger in form.
"Are you sure?"
"Gotta ease into it. I'll be back in space soon and there are far worse people there than your friend."
It was a solution, the best one available but I still hesitated. My friendship with Clint deserved more than this, didn't it? Facing him without a solution to offer was one thing, but avoiding him altogether?
If I did that I didn't know if I'd be able to face myself.
Although, I already knew I couldn't face him.
"I'm sending Rocket to your location," I said to the room, not sure if a couple of seconds had lapsed or if it was a much longer silence, "hang tight, he'll be there ASAP."
"I'll keep you updated," Rhodey said before hanging up.
Silence was left hanging in the room, an awkward sort of one where neither of us really knew what to say or do next.
"Doesn't sound like a friend worth having," Rocket said, his twisted Rocket way of being comforting.
"He's worth everything," I said, and perhaps the words should have been a little more heated, a little more menacing, but I had nothing left to give. "Can you fly the quinjet?"
"That rust bucket a century and a half out of date? Piece of cake."
"Right, better get going then. I've forwarded you Rhodey's coordinates."
"At last," he muttered on his way out the door, "time to kick some ass."
I hung back wondering if letting him go was a mistake. The once pressing need for a shower had disappeared, despite the coolness dripping from my hair and onto my neck and down my back.
Before I had a chance to do anything, Friday spoke again.
"Director, I have another call for you."
"Who is it?"
"Well, there's more than one," she said and wasted no time in projecting a graphic of the city complete with an overlay of flashing red dots. Just shy of ten.
"This isn't to do with Rhodey's call, is it?"
"No, Director. He's on the other side of the city. This is something else."
"I'm guessing there's some sort of politician or official in there waiting to be put through. Who's the most important?"
"That would be the Police Commissioner."
And that's how I ended up hitching a ride in the back of a racoon-piloted quinjet. While he was off to see my best friend, I planned to alight on the edges of a different crime scene, this one involving joy rides, Chitari-inspired weaponry and idiot human beings with a death wish.
Part of me knowing that if I'd paid attention to the instincts I'd mislabelled as paranoia none of this would have come as a surprise, at the very least.
Now, all I can do is swallow my regret and face whatever comes.
3 October 2020
Things never go as they're meant to.
It's one of life's universal laws. The rest of yesterday was no exception.
Case in point.
Morning's were meant to be light and carefree, this one looked like the depths of night.
There I stood on a rooftop waiting for a bunch of dumbass criminals to fall into my trap. Dark and storming clouds built up overhead, lightning flashed in the distance and thunder rumbled along after it. My braid was just a plaything for the wind that roared around me.
The weather had grown worse since my earlier run.
Rocket had dropped me off with little incident and I'd completed a quick reconnaissance of the area, fleshing out my understanding of what was going on. The Commissioner met me in person and offered what personnel he could, though it was with a whispered understanding that should the secondary event happening across town grow bigger, more resources would be diverted in that direction. My stomach dropped at the realisation he was talking about Clint.
Instead of letting that distract me for long, I went about setting up what I needed to set up and ordered the officers left under my command to evacuate whoever was foolish enough to go for stroll in this weather. I didn't stick around long enough to see what they thought of being bossed around by a formerly fallen Avenger.
I camped out on the previously mentioned rooftop, enjoying the view, despite the severe weather exposure that came with it. Listening to reports of the city's latest gang of misfits take their unknown frustrations out on unsuspecting benches, signs, lampposts and other miscellaneous fixtures found along a metropolitan street. Each bit of destruction they left behind was proof my plan was unfolding as I expected it would.
And then there was a snag. A glitch. A goddamn spanner in the works.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and there was a twist to my gut that had nothing to do with the food I'd skipped last night and first thing.
Because he was there.
Behind me.
I didn't turn around, I didn't need to. I knew it as surely as I knew the rain on my face and the wind in my hair. He was there and I was still as attuned to him as if Strike Team Delta were very much a thing of the present instead of a relic of the past. But while our bodies still picked up on each other's signals our minds no longer worked on the same wavelength.
I didn't allow myself to react externally to his sudden appearance, knowing he'd see it as some sort of small victory. The times had changed but we still played the same games. Instead I continued to face outward, with arms folded tight across my chest, daring the world to fuck me over more than it already had as I kept a steady watch on the street below and the plan hopefully about to burst into fruition.
In the grand scheme of things the stoicism didn't matter. He would have known I knew he was there almost as soon as I did.
Together at last.
Black Widow and Hawkeye.
Almost a whole roof width apart.
The closest we'd been in so long and yet it echoed the chasm between us.
And with each silent step he took to close the physical distance there was no change to the emotional one.
It wasn't until I caught the whiff of leather and wood smoke that he spoke.
"Where do you want me?" He asked as if he hadn't just crept out of the shadows for the first time in years.
"Nowhere." I felt his eyes on me. Sharp. Threatening. His presence used to be reassuring, now it was dangerous. A hint of what so many of our targets had felt.
"You sure?" He said and I didn't know whether or not to be glad there was no stale stench of alcohol. "Some of the officers will be a little late to the party."
"I want to take them alive."
There was a sharp intake of breath and, as lightning flashed, he stepped beside me, mimicking my folded arms and as drenched as I'd been all day. "Just killing the people Thanos missed. You forget there was him before there was me."
"So that's your defence? Someone else did it first and worst."
"Why do I need a defence? I'm just doing what we've always done, Nat."
Tyres squealed and I knew it would be go time soon. And I couldn't let Clint be there when it came, even if it was his plan. He was an expert at going with the flow, somehow he had gotten wind of this disruption and used his own as a diversion to squeeze some more destruction out of the day.
"That why you've abandoned your crime scene?"
"Got a little crowded," he said, then shrugged, the little movement sending more droplets of water my way that felt more pronounced that the ones pounding down from the sky, "your pals, Rhodey and Rocket. Interesting double act. Gotta say, I thought the little fella was just a PR stunt to make the Avengers look more cuddly."
I snorted. "Rocket is not cuddly."
"Enough with the chit chat and jokes," he said.
"I don't recall joking."
"Said you didn't want me. You can't be serious."
I turned and looked at him for the first time. Thinner than I remembered but there was still a strength to him. Possibly fuelled by not knowing how to do nothing. Likely fuelled by his need for vengeance. He didn't deign to look at me though, but I knew that move. It was one of his favourites. Made his prey feel small. Whether it was intentional with me or not, it wasn't going to work.
"What's the difference between an assassin and a murderer?"
"Huh?"
"What's the different, Clint."
"The fuck are you talking about Nat? Is this what happens when they put you in charge, you start spouting some Fury-like bullshit?"
"A paycheque."
There was a beat of silence. And then...
He was in my face, snarling and snapping. So ferocious even Rocket would quail The sky that bellowed down on us had nothing on his eyes, which roiled and churned like the end of the world. As angry and as desperate as I'd ever seen him and my heart broke that he was so far gone.
"I am not a murderer. I am not a murderer," he said as impeccably timed lightning highlighted his depression-worn features.
"No," I said just before the thunder rolled in, "you're not. Been doing a faultless impression of one though."
Another flash of lightning followed by another bout of thunder and there was a silence, even the wind died down and the rain let up. Just enough for me to hear the creak of his leather gloves when he clenched his fists against the pain of the nerve I struck. And though it hurt him I was glad, happy even. There was still some semblance of him in the ruins of the man I knew. "Yeah well. If that's a problem for you maybe you need to hire me, hmm. I'll get rid of the bad guys you're ignoring and you can stop calling me a murderer. Two birds, one arrow."
His hair was cropped too short and rivulets of rainwater streamed down his face, into his eyes and over his cheeks. There may have been a few tears joining in but even my observational skills wouldn't pick that up. Strands of my own hair, teased free by the relentless wind, had plastered themselves to my face. There was no point in removing them because the wind would have slapped them right back on in a matter of milliseconds.
The moment stretched out between us. Two people who thought they might still be friends but didn't quite know where they stood. The cacophony of the world around us was inconsequential to the thoughts running through my head and the fear through my veins. The idea that our friendship wasn't as strong as I thought a constant and visceral shadow. The threat that any word I said would be the wrong one. Any action damaging.
Then all hell broke loose below as my prey finally found their way into my trap. An overloaded vehicle taking a corner at too high a speed. Water sloshed over the road, drains doing overtime to prevent flooding.
Then a bang. Like a gunshot but not. Rubber bursting on the Stark spikes I'd placed across the road, camouflage tech rendering them almost invisible. The car careened as the driver fought for control he was never going to get. The whole tussle ended with them crashing into a tree, which was holding up well against the storm but didn't stand a chance against the metal monstrosity speeding towards it.
The passengers clambered out in a torrent of cursing and abuse aimed at their driver. Weapons glowed at their sides and in their hands, something so distinctly Chitari about them I was back flying through the streets on the back of a hijacked chariot again. Not a single one of them noticed the red dots land silently about their persons.
"Want to take them alive, huh?"
"A last resort."
"Because the Black Widow herself should be enough to make them surrender?"
I was moments away from calling him an asshole, which would not have been the wisest decision given all the unknowns. "Compound. Wait for me and I'll help. Whatever you need I'll help. Just please, go back to the compound. Wait for me there. You don't have to go through this alone." I was dangerously close to begging and both of us knew that never happened. The Black Widow does not beg. Natasha Romanoff does not beg. Yet, there we were.
Both of us shadows.
Ghosts.
Not even the same league as the people we had once been.
"The only help I want from you is in killing those snot-nosed fuckers."
"If you go down there I will let the police know exactly who you've become and what your hobby is."
"C'mon Tasha, why are you doing this?"
"I'm just doing what you showed me, Clint. All those years ago, that path you put me on and I'm still following it. Please get back on it with me."
"I can't," he said and his voice was so broken it would have been easy to cut myself on, "you know I can't. So don't ask."
"Then don't interfere. I'm gonna go down there and kick their asses into prison. Unless that's what you're going to do, don't follow me."
For my first foray back into fieldwork in a long while, it was all very anticlimactic.
I ziplined my way down to ground level, landing in the midst of the gang like a cat among pigeons. The ones that fled soon saw the circle of armed police surrounding them. The ones who didn't instead saw my fist as they became the outlet for my frustration.
Chitari weapons were confiscated and, under one of the amendments made to the Sokovia Accords, were taken into custody of the Avengers. Which meant I would funnel it away to Wakanda on the off chance they could learn anything, or to Stark Industries if Tony asked.
All that destruction and panic caused and my biggest challenge had come in the form of my best friend. Every second the mission dragged on for I thought he would wade his way in, wielding his ownbrand of justice.
There was never any sign of him.
Nor was there any sign of him as I waited for the quinjet to pick me up on the way back.
"Your friend is a douche," Rocket said by way of greeting as he waited for Rhodey and I to finish carrying the confiscated weapons aboard. Rhodey didn't say anything but I was pretty sure he agreed. I didn't say anything either, and I was pretty sure I agreed, too.
The ride home proved harder than the mission itself. Something set in. I felt it in the trembling I couldn't stop and in the world that tilted around me, even when I closed my eyes. By the time we made it back to the compound I felt less than I was before. Not helped by the disappointing but unsurprising lack of an archer waiting there.
With barely a word of parting I headed straight to my quarters, The feeling didn't go anywhere. So I grabbed the shower I'd been longing for.
The water pounded against my skin as my heart pounded against my ribs.
At some point I'd sunk to the floor.
Though I barely looked at him, though we didn't even touch, he had taken something.
Or I had let him.
Either way, something was gone.
Something important was missing.
Something had changed.
4 October 2020
Laura was sat on the back stoop, occupying a rocking chair like some sort of tired American cliché. I'm surprised there wasn't an apple pie cooling on the windowsill behind her.
There were voices on the air, three weaving together to pattern the squabbling Barton kids.
Heard but not seen.
Heat hit the back of my neck, sun high in the sky and brutal in its execution. So brutal it washed away the colour and the detail around the edge of my vision. The only world that existed was the one right in front of me. The house with a slightly crooked drainpipe and the hopeful shoots of optimistic plants creeping up its sun-soaked walls.
There was a door. It wouldn't open to me. Everything hidden behind thick wood and frosted glass panels. I settled on the wooden chair next to Laura instead.
Something deep within me ached at the sight of her. The warm eyes, the dimpled smile and the always-busy hands. If she wasn't tapping a beat against the arm of the chair, she was fiddling with the hem of her shirt or tucking a strand of hair behind an ear.
We shared a drink. Something sharp and refreshing to complement the weather. Served in condensation-shrouded glasses.
And there was a breeze. Just enough to ease the sun's heated grip.
Her voice was soundless, erased by the years since I'd last seen her, but I understood. I always would. Her features always so easy to read.
The openness she lived by and the honesty she wielded were as refreshing as the drink she poured.
Clint joined. He came through the door that wouldn't open.
Together the three of us adults listened to the bodiless laughter of their three children until I woke up.
The laughter turned into my own choked gasping. The cool condensation from the glass clung to me as sweat. No Clint and no Laura, just looming shadows that watched on as I clawed my way out of...whatever it was.
It wasn't a nightmare.
It was a replay of how things were.
Hope for how things would be.
A reminder of how things weren't.
A dream.
The cruellest thing my mind could conjure.
7 October 2020
There's a photo sitting on the unit behind me.
Actually, there are several but this one is new. New and uninvited.
I sit at my desk and I feel it. Staring. Can feel its presence. Which is dumb because it's just a piece of paper behind some glass.
It's not a bad photo. But that didn't mean I wanted to see it every time I turned around or walked into the room. Mind you, that can be said for most of the photos there.
My little gallery of memories. Full of dead people.
Well, dead-ish.
Though, as time ticked by more of the living found their way into my photographic graveyard, this phantom photo the latest such apparition. Though surrounded by plenty, it joined two others as the focal point of the display. Rounding out a trilogy I hadn't realised I'd lived.
And it stirs up a lot of feelings.
They all do.
The gallery was too much past for me to handle but much too precious to lock away in a drawer somewhere.
When Nebula and Carol came to pick up Rocket, who was bouncing from wall to wall as the countdown of his medical banishment entered its final stretch, their visit coincided with an event even rarer than a blue moon.
All the earthbound Avengers were in New York.
Even Okoye, who was forced to return because her political business of last month was unfinished.
They all converged on the compound, just for the day, just for the moment.
All of us together, not a single hologram in sight.
Avengers Mark III all in one place for the first time.
Steve called it historic. But what else can I expect from a guy with actual history books written about him? I guess that's also why I wasn't all that surprised when he pulled out his phone and insisted on taking a photo to capture it.
"Look, I just wanna go," Rocket said from his position right at the front of the group, just a little hint of the self-conscious hidden beneath his impatience, "can someone remind grandpa we have things to do."
Nebula, who stood behind him, nudged him between the shoulder blades with her knee. Despite that, though, she looked about as enthusiastic as her partner sounded.
Steve ignored them both and moved people about until he was happy. Okoye ended up on the end, next to Nebula, while I found myself on the cyborg's other side. Carol was next to me, with Rhodey stood a little to the right just behind her. Bruce, of course, towered above everyone at the back.
I glanced out of the corner of my eye and noted how everyone had mirrored everyone else. Arms folded, eyes glaring. Not a single person was happy with the enforced modelling session.
Well, no one except Steve.
He stepped back from his meddling with a smile no one else shared and turned a blind eye to the lack of enthusiasm as deftly as he had to Rocket and Nebula earlier.
"Okay. Everyone say-"
"Don't you dare say cheese," I said and his lips twitched, caught out.
"Fine. Everyone say Avengers."
And I swallowed a groan at the irony because that was even cheesier.
No one said anything, but he took the photo anyway.
"What you even doing this for anyway?" Rhodey asked when it was safe to do so. "Starting up Captain America's Photography Studios? Or have you gone from fully-fledged member to groupie?"
Everyone laughed, or cracked a smile. And I knew without needing to see that he'd caught that moment on camera too. The smug grin and the light in his eyes a dead giveaway.
And that was the photo. Stood next to Avengers Mark I: post New York, and Avengers Mark II: post Ultron.
An almost painful documentation of our journey from then to now. Hopeful too, though. The team keeps moving forward. It'll continue to grow and stay relevant. Even as faces change the values stay the same.
A promise that there is always a way for the Avengers to avenge.
16 October 2020
Rocket took out all the cleaning bots.
In our efforts to remind him to take care of himself, Tony and I turned them into nanny bots. In his efforts to avoid said reminders, he turned them into a pile of junk.
He either forgot to put them back together again or it was just one last piece of Rockety mischief before he left. My money's on the latter.
Either way, the rest of the compound swiftly amassed dust and cobwebs, rocking the in season haunted house look.
The thing is, since my last extended break from cleaning, which Rhodey kindly snapped me out of, I found it hard to take care of the areas I used. Adding the rest of the building to the list of things I really didn't want to do but had to was not a welcome thought.
In fact, the thought of trying to fix the droids with my limited practical engineering knowledge was a hell of a lot more welcome than doing something I knew I was capable of. Not that I acted on it. Stark was full of quirks in his life and in his work. There was every chance I'd mess with something I shouldn't mess with and I'd wind up with an army of human-hating murder bots on my hands.
And, well, the Avenger image was still sort of recovering from the last time that happened. Also, the man who made them was just a call away. So, you know, it would be dumb if I did it myself.
Or didn't call him.
Which I didn't.
I don't wanna call it pride, I was pretty sure I let that go somewhere around the time I started to small talk with Friday. No, it was more that calling Tony Stark to come fix his delegation of household chore bots was like calling as assassin to kill a spider.
Though, it's not like he was selling those things and had set up a customer hotline to dial.
Anyway, whatever, that doesn't matter. What matters is that I did nothing.
For three days I stopped, looked, then ignored. Pushed the gnawing and niggling list to the back of my mind and focussed on the things that really mattered. All the work and the reports and impressive PR that came from mopping up those Chitari style weapons from the streets of New York and the successful suppression of Ronin's presence and activities.
On the fourth I couldn't get to the ignoring part. And that sucked because it was my favourite.
Something just wouldn't let me walk past the first bit of the building I came across that I didn't often use, which was right outside my quarters. So I ducked right back through the doors and hauled out a load of cleaning supplies.
By the time Tony Stark did actually arrive I was halfway done with the entire floor, not just that wing.
"And here we find the great Black Widow cleaning floors like Cinderella," he said, twisting each word with a fake British accent as he spun his best David Attenborough impression before breaking out into a grin that was all his own, "gotta see it to believe it."
"What the hell are you doing here?" I said, his echoing footsteps had given him away and he was a little disappointed to turn the corner and find me staring straight at him.
"Gotta. See. It. To. Believe. It," he repeated himself, conducting each word with his hands. That annoying grin on his face was enough to know this wasn't a sight he was going to let either of us forget any time soon.
"And how did you know?"
"I am all seeing." He spread his arms to add a smidge of grandiosity but when my only response was a cynical quirk of an eyebrow he let them fall back to his sides. "And Friday told me."
"Traitor," I muttered and looked to the ceiling.
"Hey, hey, don't go holding grudges against my AI. I was just checking in to see how you were doing. She may have mentioned you were pretty occupied cleaning the compound. And then I got to thinking about it and remembered the annoying little fur ball from space had vandalised all the bots I left here."
"Can't decide whether that's touching or creepy."
"A little bit of both," he shrugged, "that's my special blend. Anyway, you focus on fixing the world, I'll focus on fixing my minions." He was halfway down the half-cleaned corridor before turning around. "Actually, little miss assassin, why don't you join me?"
"Ummm, because I don't want to?"
"That's no excuse. Come and make yourself useful." He peeked over the sunglasses he insisted on wearing inside and winked. It was unbelievably corny, yet so in character that he drew a smile out of me against my better judgement. I followed him to his lab and by the looks of things he'd hauled the disassembled machines into the space before he came to find me. Without saying anything he settled into the work quickly, hunched over his workbench as if the rest of the world slipped off his radar. I pulled myself up onto the top, careful not to jostle any of the pieces he'd laid out.
"So what am I here for? It's not like you're gonna ask me to hand you stuff."
He laughed and spent a few more seconds unscrewing one of the few things Rocket hadn't managed to pry apart. "I see the art of conversation is as strong as ever with you. Maybe I'd have better luck if I said something in Latin."
"Doubt it," I said and watched as he scooped a bunch of crap closer to him like a kid filling a bag with pick-and-mix, "still like to hear you try though."
"Ha, not a chance, Agent Romanoff. I can do plenty but dead languages are not my thing."
"Dead robots though?"
"My expertise. Apart from suits, of course."
There was a little bit of clinking as he started to fit things together and I did my best to follow the quick working of his hands.
"Still haven't said how I can help," I said at last.
"Just talk. I feel like we don't do that anymore. It'll be nice," he said and all the signs pointed to him being serious.
"Did we ever really do that before?"
"I like to think so."
I regarded him for a moment and thought perhaps he was right. It wasn't all the time and it wasn't about everything, but we did speak to each other. It also wasn't always with a lot of words, but I often found the most helpful conversations were the ones where fewer words were needed.
"Don't really have much to talk about. Every day's the same."
"Is it, though? You've literally just spent the last month nursing a racoon back to health. And not even your standard run-of-the-mill sort of racoon you release back into the wild once it's better, but an actual one that knows how to talk back and whose natural habitat is a spaceship. That doesn't sound like the everyday to me."
Goddamn it, the man had a point. But what was there even to say? Yeah, sure, I had a roomie who left more fur around the place than Liho ever did in my city apartment. But even then, once he was out of that hospital bed, I had more moments to myself than I did spent in his company. So, life was the same.
"You'd be surprised what you can get used to," I said, picking up a discarded mini screwdriver and twirling it between my fingers.
"Actually I wouldn't," he said, reached out and took the tool from me to fiddle with something in his hands, "arc reactor, remember. That wasn't the easiest of adjustments, even though I made it look it."
An image of an obviously ailing Tony Stark the night of his birthday party came to mind and I snorted. "You're delusional."
"Okay, so maybe I didn't make it look easy, but I did get used to it."
For the first time I really thought about what it meant to have that thing embedded in his chest. The literal life and death nature of it at the time. To be so vulnerable and to have everyone know what his vulnerability was.
But he was always a bit of an open book. Sure, some of the narrative was all over the place and the dialogue a little bonkers, but he was open. He didn't mind that part of him being on show because every other part already was.
Back then, in his world, that openness was all part of the celebrity popularity contest. In my world it was a death sentence. Or it used to be. I forget, sometimes, that I switched worlds.
"Nat," he sighed and I watched his profile flicker as he filed through a thousand different questions and changed his mind each time, "where's Capsicle anyway? He avoiding me?"
"Tony," I said and stared at him while I tried to figure out if he was just playing dense or was the genuine article. When I realised he truly didn't know it was my turn to consider the response, looked like he'd fully engaged protective mode and I wasn't in the mood to defend Steve's honour when I was barely in the mood for talking at all. "He's out."
Now, I thought I delivered my line perfectly. A lifetime of different roles and emphasis, intonation, and timing were all second nature. Words were my weapons as much as my guns, batons and fists; were my armour as much as my suit. But he looked at me, and I mean really looked at me. It was guarded but intense, exploratory without being invasive, and totally serious. It was a look I'd only ever seen from Clint and Steve. An insightful Tony Stark was not a Tony Stark I was used to.
"Hmmm, so my timing was excellent then, just like everything else I do."
"Your arrogance is huge," I said, seeking ground I was more comfortable on.
"Yep. The biggest. And that makes it the best." He winked again and flashed me another grin. And I gave the smallest laugh despite my every intention of staying neutral. Man, I'm losing my touch. "See, I told you this would be nice."
I was busy pulling at a thread on the sleeve of my hoody when he spoke and I looked up in surprise to yet another thoughtful gaze. Except this time I felt my defences slam shut just a second too late and watched as whatever he saw sparked some sort of reaction in his eyes. It looked a lot like recognition, but I wasn't entirely sure what there was to recognise. "Yeah," I said at last, "guess you were right, for once."
I dangled the bait, hoping he wanted the banter. He just stayed silent and waited for me to continue the conversation and once again I was struck by how much the man had grown up. Here was the man who, given half the chance, would gulp freshly brewed coffee straight from the pot, and who had slipped away from his entire entourage to indulge his whim of jumping in a racing car.
Impatient.
Immature.
Only, at some point he'd dropped the 'im' without me seeing. And it was a very scary thought that a man with his history of unpredictability and impulsivity was about to outlast me. Because I could feel it all bubbling underneath, the half-finished and never-wanted thoughts and emotions I just couldn't verbalise. And it was only the fact that I couldn't verbalise them that kept me silent since he first turned up.
I paused, hesitated, put him off, froze. Whatever you wanted to call it I did all of that, not once taking my eyes off of him, knowing that there was stuff to say. But the words never came so I filled the void with frustration instead.
"I dunno what you want me to say, Stark. Life is life and the days are just days. I get up, do my work then try to go to sleep."
"Work," he repeated, "I think that hits the nail on the head. You life isn't life, your life is work."
I caught his eye and saw the beginnings of a challenge, but there was a lot of weariness there too. As if he'd cornered a dangerous animal and he wasn't sure how it was going to react next.
"I've told you-"
"Yeah, I'm sure you have," he put what he was working on down and waved me off, "and I'm also sure you gave Rocket a lecture on the importance of rest and giving his mind and body time to heal. When was the last time you took a day off? And I mean one that was just for you and not something like Bruce's transformation or my wedding."
He waited for my answer and in the silence he pieced together a few more bits of his droid and I found myself looking away from him in case he tried to search my gaze as I'd tried to search Rocket's when he wasn't talking.
"I haven't," I said because there was no point in beating around the bush, "and I won't. Because I need to be on this all the time, Tony. I have to focus on this. I can't take time off. What's the point?"
"The point, my overworked friend, is life." He arched his eyebrow, no doubt trying to imitate all the fictional wise men he'd come across in his lifelong study of pop culture.
"I mean, I don't really know, are you expecting me to be impressed?"
"You are infuriating, Natasha."
"Makes a nice change of pace, it's normally you." I slipped off the workbench and paced the room. It'd been a while since I was last in here, there wasn't any need with Tony having his own space at home. He abandoned all pretence of working, which seemed counterproductive, and leaned himself against the edge of the bench, arms folded, and watched me prowl. "It's just, it's all the same-"
"-So you've said-"
"it's dull, Tony. God, it's dull."
"So change it up."
"I can't," I shook my head, "I can't. Because at the moment it's endless, you know?"
"Not really," he said and the genuine regret in those two words kept me from declaring him a pain in the arse full of nothing but unhelpful comments.
"I don't know," I said and brushed hair out of my face, fighting the urge to bite my nails, "I don't know how to explain it. I just - I've always had a view of the big picture. Whatever the mission, whatever the job, I know what I'm working towards and why. But-"
"Now you can't see the wood for the trees?"
"Not even that, I can't see anything. There is no picture. There's nothing and it's endless. Every day is the same. Every day will continue to be the same. I keep trying to learn. More about the galaxy and the universe and how Earth fits in. More about everyone and how I fit in. More about the Stones. I keep learning and hoping that it'll clear the path for me and..." I trailed off and felt his gaze heavy on me. At some point I'd turned from him so it was his turn to look at my profile. I realised I was clutching a worktop with one hand while the other hovered above my chest. My breathing was hard and I didn't even know why.
"And?" He said with a hint of the impatience I was used to.
"And until it does there's only one thing I can do."
"Which is?"
I looked at him then, just quickly with all the rawness I felt, and looked away with half a shrug. "The same."
"Tasha," he said and moved as if he was going to come over but something told him it wasn't a good idea, "you don't have to."
"Yeah, I do Tony. I do. It gives me purpose. It gives me routine, however vaguely I stick to it, and if I didn't have that I'd..."
"You'd what?"
Waste away.
The words echoed so clearly in my head but they never made it into the world.
"Nothing," I said at last. "Shouldn't you be getting on with mending your robots?"
It was a poor deflection, we both knew it, but he went along with it anyway apparently satisfied with my progress today. And that no doubt meant he'd try again some other time. He started up a commentary as he worked, not that I could listen much over the buzzing of my mind. There was a thrill of fear at having given substance to everything that bubbled within me. At realising, far too slowly, every day was a battle for survival.
21 October 2020
I always hated those days that could never make up their mind.
Sometimes slow and sometimes fast and never anywhere in between.
That's exactly how the past couple of years have been. Days crawling by at an agonising pace until I look back and a whole six months have gone by and I can barely remember it happening.
And then those six months turn into a year. A year since the Snap, a year since we killed Thanos, a year since Tony and Pepper got married or had a kid, or since Bruce stepped into a homemade capsule only to step out at his fullest potential.
Well, almost a year from the last one. Halloween not far away.
The one heralded by an invitation-delivering Pepper, a happy looking Morgan along for the ride.
"In person, must be important," I said when she waltzed into the room, preceded by an announcement from Friday so I didn't feel the need to pull the gun taped underneath my desk and traumatise the little girl toddling towards me with arms outstretched and a smile spread wide across her face.
"You could at least pretend to be happy to see me," Pepper said, settling onto the sofa that squeaked a little when anyone else sat on it, but never her, "I know I'm happy to see you."
"Queen of the guilt trip, as always," I said, picking up the insistent Morgan and holding her in my lap as she decided it would be fun to reach for absolutely everything within reach on my desk, and even a few things that weren't.
"I guess that's my super power," she said and pulled something from her handbag, it was thin and in a premium looking envelope. "I came to give you this. But I'm sat down now and can't really be bothered to come over there so I'll just tell you." She threw the envelope to the other side of the sofa and kicked her heels off to massage her feet. "It's Bruce's anniversary on Halloween. We're having a dinner party. That's your invite."
"Bruce's idea?"
"Tony's."
"Naturally," I said while assisting Morgan in her mission to figure out what the hell a Rubik's Cube was, a memento from Rocket who had also been fascinated by it. I doubted Bruce would have planned anything to mark his milestone, never really one for making a fuss. But when one of your closest friends was Tony Stark not making a fuss was not an option.
The good thing about paternal Stark, though, was his loss of interest in massive parties where no one knew anyone. The slight downside was an apparent newfound enthusiasm for dinner parties where everyone knew everyone.
"And, uhhh," Pepper said, the uncharacteristic hesitation giving away what she was going to say next, "he thought it would be a good idea to have it here. It's more intimate that his past gatherings but there's still a few people. Plus, here there might be enough room for Steve, Tony and the feud they're still carrying along with them."
Because a Tony Stark dinner party wouldn't be a Tony Stark dinner party without foisting the hassle of hosting onto someone else. And also, what better place to host a bunch of people with many mixed emotions running between them than a place with just as many mixed emotions flowing through its corridors. I was tempted to say something but I didn't want to force him to play the oh-really-but-this-is-my-building-I'm-gonna-do-what-I-want-you-slightly-annoying-lodger card. How can I argue against that?
"Sure. I mean it's not like I can say no, he does own the place."
Pepper smiled though it wasn't one of her brightest. "I think he was banking on that," she said.
"Why?"
"We have it here you can't find an excuse not to go."
"And what makes him think I wouldn't go if it was somewhere else?"
"It's not just him. You've sort of got this reputation for being a recluse."
"Excuse me! I'm not a recluse. I went out on a mission earlier this month."
Pepper just gave me a sort of placating look and I knew she agreed with Tony on this one. In fact I had a sneaking suspicion I was the only one who didn't agree with this conclusion. I snapped my mouth shut, closing down any other comments that might've been tempted to make themselves known. My visitor held a hand to her temple as she worked away whatever headache was forming. Morgan grew bored with the cube of many colours and instead hauled herself onto her strengthening legs so she could play with the arrow necklace around my neck.
"So, here's the catch about hosting," Pepper said, apparently dragging out words she wasn't keen to share, "he's hiring a chef and waiting staff. They'll be using the industrial kitchen behind the cafeteria. They'll need to get in early to prepare for the day."
I levelled her with a glare and had the distinct impression supplies meant more than just the food. The slight ducking of head was all the answer I needed.
"I swear to god," I said and covered a very confused Morgan's ears, "if I have three different types of spoons beside my plate I'm gonna use one to kill him."
31 October 2020
It started with a visit from Bruce, his once hesitant footsteps confident in their approach. He walked through and waved the card at me, a laugh bubbled from his lips, and I just knew this whole dinner party was going to be tough.
I eyed him wearily, almost flinched at the sound and relied a little too much on my body's trained responses to cover me.
"Happy Hulk-iversary?" He said and it was almost too difficult to concentrate on just those two words as my ears registered distant footsteps that didn't belong within these walls, one of the many people who'd invaded as part of the wait or kitchen staff.
My heart stepped up its beating game, but in its haste started to miss one here and there.
"You can't even begin to appreciate how difficult it was to find a card with that exact sentiment," I said and injected the expected amount of sarcasm.
"I think I can imagine," he said and made his way over to the sofa only to change his mind about sitting down, so he was left standing in the centre of the room looking the most like the Bruce who'd stepped into his experiment I'd seen in a while, "but you know, you've been hanging out with Tony too much."
"You have no proof of that."
"Oh yeah," he opened up the card and cleared his throat in a dramatic fashion that was less than necessary and if I'd been in a better state of mind I would have pointed out the hypocrisy of him saying I was the one who'd spent too much time with Tony, "'Bruce, well done for not screwing it up a year ago. Natasha.'"
"And I really mean every word."
He laughed again and scratched the back of his head and I took it as a sign that he hadn't noticed where my own smile didn't reach my eyes. "Appreciate the card, really do. But the banners, don't you think they're overkill?"
"Don't tell me Banner has a problem with the banners?" I said, mock offence littering my voice as best I could manage.
"Yep, there we go. Definitely too much time with Tony."
And he laughed again and an over-inflated wave of guilt washed over me as I wished that I could be happier for him in this moment, on his day. I wished I could fight my own demons off for just a few hours more so it wouldn't be overshadowed. He was at ease, unstressed and, I suppose, not having to worry about the big green guy popping out at the slightest provocation had something to do with that. This past year might even have been the best of his post-radiation soaked life, the constant Thanos-sized hangover notwithstanding.
"The banners are definitely overkill," I said, losing the energy for any pretence, "but they weren't my idea. When have you known me to decorate for anything?"
"So that was Tony?"
"You mean the man who booked a Michelin star chef to cook us all a banquet of epic proportions. What gave you that idea?"
"Your powers of sarcasm are as strong as ever."
"And growing every day."
We left for the dining room not long after. And from then on I only remember the evening in flashes because the racing heartbeat fell victim to more and more palpitations and gradually, almost imperceptibly, my lungs worked harder and harder to gather the air I needed and soon it was just...
...People and noise and people and...
Panic.
No air, no respite and just no oxygen.
And flashes and flashes and flashes of
Of
Of
Halloween
Of
Dinner party
Of happy Hulk-iversary splashed across banners and napkins that didn't fit with the formal things all around them.
And of Steve, of Tony, of Pepper, of Rhodey, of big Hulkish Bruce and of small fragile Morgan.
Of the unknown wait staff who came in and out and back and forth.
Of wine bottles clinking against wine glasses.
Of delicate food doled onto delicate plates.
Of smells and sound mixing together. Of laughter and people and people and noise.
And no air. Just not enough. And the smells were sickening, choking, suffocating. All the food and the drink and scented candles and the perfume and the cologne and...
and
and
The noise.
Chattering and clattering, clinking and drinking. Loud eaters and louder speakers.
And Morgan, poor bored Morgan stuck in her high chair with no attention for her own meal but every interest in whacking her plastic plate against the plastic tray attached to her chair.
A
Loud
Happy
Squeal
Every
Time.
And somewhere beneath it all was music, clashing notes of instruments and voice struggling to be heard but still adding to the almost orchestral car crash of the room. And it felt like danger and survival and all those months of deprogramming at Shield. Nothing steady, nothing real.
Just dizzy.
All those people sucking in all the air. Nothing spare. And breathing was harder and harder and harder and harder until I was afraid someone would notice.
Control slipping.
But it couldn't slip because it would shatter.
And it couldn't shatter, not there.
So I breathed in and out and in and out and I made it short and I made it sharp and I made it shallow. And when part of the babble made its way out of the labyrinth of noise and into my very frazzled headspace it was about food. "C'mon Rusty," the words came wrapped in Tony's voice, "I paid all this money and you're just gonna let dinner go to waste?"
So I tried to eat and though it looked like it should be bursting with flavour it was ash on my tongue. I used my water to wash it away, to force each mouthful down.
And as well as the effort of surviving the acoustic onslaught, there was the added battle of consuming food neither my mind or body wanted.
Fighting on different fronts. Keeping the panic at bay, keeping up the lies.
That was how I made it through the meal, throwing in a comment and a smile here and there, hoping no one noticed the falsity, or the exhaustion or the lies, lies, lies. Or the nausea that settled thickly every time I swallowed a mouthful of watered down dinner.
And I thought that was it but Tony was Tony and dessert came out. Looking sweet and sickly and smelling just the same and it pushed me closer to the edge I'd been sitting on all night. But I still didn't know what it was the edge of, so I clung on and dug in and found a way past the food
and the talking
and the music.
I waited for it to end.
But they were sociable. Words buzzed in a tangle of syllables that didn't often make sense. Blood pounded hard against my ears.
And it hurt.
It all hurt.
And I had to go. Had to survive. My fight or flight instincts stuck somewhere in the middle.
Fight: stick it out. Flight: but panic.
Fight: keep on breathing. Flight: but hyperventilate.
Fight: keep pretending. Flight: but for how much longer?
Fight: stand your ground, this is where you live. Flight: but where I live doesn't feel safe.
And flight won.
As it did when the Hulk barrelled towards me in the helicarrier with single-minded determination towards destruction. And, for all intents and purposes, the Hulk may as well have been hurtling my way once again, I had as much chance of winning.
I excused myself. Eyebrows were raised, questions were asked. First to go was always suspicious. Even more so when you lived where the gathering was hosted.
But I just couldn't.
And, for the first time I could remember, I just didn't have the strength to try.
My quarters were safe. They didn't have the noise or the smells or the food. It was free of people and their pressure.
It was empty. I was alone.
Even Tony the all-seeing couldn't use Friday to peek in without my permission.
I collapsed against the door, slid down it, settled into a half-crouch half-lean. It wasn't comfortable but nothing about the day had been.
My lungs worked overtime as they tried to shovel in air. Air that did nothing and my body demanded more and more and my stomach started to roil and I shook and I shook and I shook. With arms wrapped around my ribs, to calm the frantic lungs, frantic heart. To stop the shaking and the sobbing and the tears that fell without notice until they soaked through my sleeves.
It didn't stop.
And this
this
was unlike anything I'd ever felt. Anything I'd ever experienced. This wasn't survival or deprogramming.
It felt as if at the end there would be nothing left.
That at last my path had run its course and my body was falling apart. The glue and the tape and the whole ignore-it-and-it'll-go-away attitude I'd adopted was no longer enough to keep it together. To keep my mind together.
And I would have hated my body for its betrayal if I wasn't so busy suffering the effects.
Control was not always something synonymous with my life. So often it belonged to others and all I had was the composure, calmness and the ability to compartmentalise. The control came much later and was much valued because of its previous scarcity.
And it was gone.
In a moment.
Except, it wasn't in a moment. It was a steady step-by-step, day-by-day progression that took years. Deepening and widening the cracks, flaking bits of me away.
Marble erosion.
Until, until
Until
I finally realised what had been missing since my encounter with Clint.
My armour.
The final piece of a me I knew and understood. The last thing left to protect me.
And no wonder. No wonder everything was too much. No wonder my body and mind fell apart. So used to the tight wrappings and layers of lies and mystery and distance and now they were exposed. Raw nerves to the cruellest reality.
And then there was a knock at my door. A fist pounded heavily.
Friday announced Steve.
Friday asked if I wanted to let him in.
Friday waited.
I shook my head. Brushing it against the very same door he stood behind, it was the only thing holding me up.
One knock and two. "Nat?"
A third knock and fourth. "Nat, are you okay? You seemed a little...off at dinner."
Silence. Then five and then six. "Just let me know you're okay."
And even though everything was soundproofed and I relied on Friday's sound system to relay the knocks and his words to me, I just knew he'd crouched down on the other side until he was level with me. Because no amount of soundproofing or high tech wizardry can ever interfere with the intuition gained from knowing someone inside out.
"Let me know you're okay," he said again.
And I didn't because I wasn't and I'd promised myself never to lie to Steve again unless necessary. Instead I wrapped my arms tighter, choked on my sobs, heaved every breath and hated every tear.
And I waited for him to go. Waited for him to indulge our 'see you in a minute' inside joke.
But he didn't.
He stayed and he kept on talking. His voice soothing and calming and while it wasn't an immediate balm it did level me out a little.
So I reached for you, Tom. My head was clear enough for that.
Clear enough to let me write. Because if these feelings are on the page they can't be in me, right?
He still hasn't gone. Still talking to me as I'm talking to you.
A/N: The last entry is the sort of writing that leaves me a little nervous to share, but I hope you find it consistent with this story and its arc. Also, just as a warning, the next chapter may or may not contain spoilers for the Black Widow movie - after what's happened to Nat it seems like a good time for her to take that break Tony mentioned. And what better way to clear her head than with a road trip (and now I've said it I have no choice but deliver)