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{This is some canon divergence for the Steve and Natasha scene in Avengers: Endgame when they’re waiting on the spaceship while Captain Marvel does recon on the planet where they believe Thanos is hanging out and enjoying retired life.}
Steve pulls out the flip phone, flicks it open, and glances at its lit screen. Even during those dark, endless weeks when he thought Tony had died—so far from home, so far from him—Steve couldn’t bear to get rid of the damned thing. Letting it go would have felt like extinguishing that tiny, impossible flame of hope that Tony had survived Thanos that flickered in the hollowed-out space in Steve’s chest; he couldn’t do that.
His thumb glides over the smooth curves, and the phone’s inconsequential weight in his hand, as familiar as the heft of his shield, comforts him. Like a lover’s touch, he thinks, and immediately, a scalding wave of embarrassment floods him, starting at his cheeks.
He and Tony have been many things to each other but—outside of Steve’s most secret dreams—never that.
Now that Tony is back on Earth—and alive—there isn’t much reason to hold onto the phone anymore. At that thought, though, the lingering nausea from their space jump increases, and Steve inhales a long, slow breath, trying to calm the queasiness.
(Except. Except maybe now the phone can be a talisman. Tony came back, didn’t he? Steve’s never thought he had much luck, Irish or otherwise, unless it was bad. Maybe the phone will give them just the little edge they need to beat Thanos this time.
Yeah, sure. And maybe Steve’s just a lovesick fool.)
“You should talk to him.”
“Who?” he says, keeping his voice neutral. He tucks the phone away before he turns his head, slowly, and allows his gaze to shift toward Nat.
One slim eyebrow arches. “Steve,” she says, and gives him a lazy blink. A wealth of patience and amusement wait for him in the cool inflection of Nat’s voice.
“Talk?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You saw what a disaster that was. He pulled that thing off his chest, shoved it at me, and then passed out at my feet.”
Her nose wrinkles before she says, “No. I mean, actually talk to him. Not about Thanos. About you. About him.”
“Nat…” His voice trails off into a defeated shake of his head. “You saw how he was. He's too fragile. I just”—he realizes his shoulders have hunched toward his ears, so he consciously straightens them and sits taller in his seat—“I don’t want to hurt him again.” There's been too much pain between them already. He doesn't want to add to it; he won't.
“So don’t.”
“You know it’s not that simple.” God, he wishes it was.
“You’re right. It’s not. There are no guarantees.” Nat shrugs, and somehow she makes even that look elegant. “Sometimes we hurt the people we love.”
Love.
Steve goes very still.
Nat’s lips tip up into the barest hint of a smile.
It reminds him that part of what makes her so deadly and efficient is her vision; her uncanny ability to see deep into the truth of people, beyond the masks and deceptive words. Somehow, she has always seen the truth of him. He’s fortunate to have her friendship, to count her as part of his chosen family.
There’s a moment, a moment when he considers denying his feelings, but that moment passes quickly and Steve trashes that idea; she knows him too well. Knows about the phone and its significance; saw it when they were running and hungry and hiding so far from home and it was his one last, precious link to Tony.
Steve’s gaze wanders to the view of space through the window directly in front of him, and he stares, unseeing, before his attention turns back to Nat. “That obvious, huh?”
Nat’s smile widens. “Probably to everybody but him, Котик.” Her fist bumps his shoulder, and Steve lets himself smile.
“Great,” he says, and it comes out wry and self-deprecating. But there is a strange relief in acknowledging what he feels for Tony. He’s never told anyone before. Technically, he hasn’t told Nat, but apparently, he didn’t need to.
“Put you two in a room together, and it’s like everyone else just”—she pauses and snaps her fingers—“disappears. It’s always been like that.”
He makes a noncommittal noise. “Doesn’t matter, Nat. Even if I had a chance once, it’s too late now.”
“No, it’s not. The Steve Rogers I know is smarter than that. Come on, Tony doesn’t need you to be stoic and silent. He needs you to talk. That’s what that scene was about. You need to talk to him.”
A small part of him wants to believe Nat’s right, but it hurts to hope and god, it hurts to remember Tony talking about needing him in the past tense.
No trust. Liar.
Steve wants to blame Tony, but he can’t. He’ll never forget Siberia; never forget Did you know?; never forget the raw terror in Tony’s beautiful eyes when Steve brought down his shield over and over and over and over again. If Steve can’t forget those things, how can Tony? “I can’t—I can’t tell him. He’s with Pepper, and I just can’t.” I haven’t earned the right to tell him that, he thinks but doesn’t say.
“Steve,” Nat says, voice almost unbearably gentle, “maybe he wouldn’t be with Pepper if he knew. You ever think of that?”
This time, he remains silent.
Eventually, as Steve reminds himself it’s past time to focus on getting battle-ready for Thanos, Nat sighs. “Look,” she says, “I’m not saying you have to tell him you love him. But when we get back to Earth, tell him…tell him something true. Something real. Both of you deserve that. How many chances do you think any of us get in this life, anyway? Just look at us. Look at Thanos. Time’s the one luxury we don’t have.”
A/N: Котик = kitten. :)