Chapter Text
“We're more of the love, blood, and rhetoric school. Well, we can do you blood and love without the rhetoric, and we can do you blood and rhetoric without the love, and we can do you all three concurrent or consecutive. But we can't give you love and rhetoric without the blood. Blood is compulsory. They're all blood, you see.”
―Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead
Natasha stops as she hears a throat cleared behind her. She turns, and sees Tony leaning against a wall. “Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” he returns. “Fury been keeping you busy, I assume?”
“Yes,” she answers. “…I thought you would have had JARVIS lock me out or something,” she says.
“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head, Miss Rushman, I thought about it,” Tony counters.
“I’m never going to live that down, huh?” Natasha asks.
“Among other things.”
“So we’ve cut to the chase,” Natasha hums.
“Yeah, yeah we have,” Tony says, pushing himself off the wall. “It…six months. Six months, Natasha. You gave him six months.”
“I know.”
“Something like that takes longer than six damn months to get over.”
“It’s different when you’re in it,” Natasha says, momentarily defensive. “But yeah; you’re right. It does.”
“We were all in it, Natasha,” Tony mutters. “So what’s it been, about three months? Why are you back now?”
“I shouldn’t have left,” Natasha says in answer.
“Yeah, but you did,” Tony insists, and Natasha supposes she deserves his making this hard for her. “So why now?”
Natasha sighs. “I need to…fix…things…if I can. I want to fix things.”
“Gonna need a lot of glue,” Tony replies.
“Fuckin’ A.”
******
Natasha stands by the wall, the elevator behind her, the living room and kitchenette of Steve’s floor spreading out before her. He hasn’t noticed her yet, and she doesn’t know how to announce herself. So he unloads his dishwasher, and she watches, her arms crossed low over her waist.
“Hey sailor,” she calls softly, and Steve freezes. He snaps the fork he’s holding, and the metal’s jagged edge slices a deep furrow into his palm as he gives a low curse, taking whatever dignity she’d hoped to leave him with.
******
Natasha sits in one of the tall bar chairs and leans her elbows on the counter, watching the steam rise off her mug of tea when she isn’t watching Steve’s profile. He stands in the kitchenette, his own mug ignored where it sits on the counter he stands with his back to, both his bandaged and unscathed hands braced against the Corian.
“…You left,” he muses, watching the floor.
“I know,” Natasha almost whispers.
“You left,” he says again, with more conviction, an accusation in his inflection.
“I’m sorry,” she says earnestly, and Steve turns his head and looks at her, straight at her, with those expressive blue eyes. Natasha sighs. “I shouldn’t have left,” she begins. “I shouldn’t have left. And I am so, so sorry I did, Steve, it’s…it’s one of the worst things I’ve done. And I am so, so sorry,” she says, pleads, even. And it’s true. While the Black Widow and Natalia Romanova have committed far worse atrocities she takes full responsibility for, Natasha hasn’t hurt someone like this in a long, long time.
Steve doesn’t ask her why she left, and she’s pretty sure he already knows, but he does ask her why she came back. Natasha sighs; she really does owe him the truth, doesn’t she? “Because I love you,” she says.
“Yeah?” Steve asks quietly, sardonically.
“Yes,” Natasha replies, tone growing forceful, “because I love you. I’ve always loved you. You have to believe at least that. I know I’ve done things, and things have happened, and things are going to happen, but I do love you. I wouldn’t have come back here, Steve, if I didn’t. Just please try…to keep that in mind. …Okay?”
Steve gives her a long look. The abyss behind his eyes has grown shallower, but they’re still hollow. “Okay,” he says.