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Natasha sighs as Steve’s lips trace a familiar path down her body. She’s not sure how it first happened, can’t pinpoint the exact moment that this routine became a habit.
All she knows is that it had started with a nightmare on a night much like this one, when the leaves had just begun to change and the air grew colder with the fast approaching autumn.
It started with a man, whimpering in his sleep as he lay frozen in his bed, dreams of ice and fire and dust swirling through his mind.
It started with a woman who rarely slept at night for fear of the demons in her head who would taunt her in her slumber. She’d stay awake long past exhaustion to keep away the memories of times long ago, terrified of the way that they would replay in her head in thousands of excruciatingly twisted scenarios.
It started with the whisper of a lover’s name in the dark, a shake of his shoulder, before it led to a shout.
It started with sky-blue eyes opening in a panic, only to be met with another set peering back at him through the dead of night. Bright green eyes that project concern for the soldier, but simultaneously reflect his own terror, like shattered pieces of a broken mirror.
It started with shaky hands and soothing words as the redhead pulled her lover closer, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. He’d held her back just as tightly, hands going to her hair, her face, her arms, making sure that she was here, that she was alive . He knew it was all a dream, that he’d escaped the cool clutches of the icy sea years ago, and he knew that she was one of the lucky few, that she hadn’t vanished into the wind.
But he’d needed to make absolutely certain. The Widow’s cool hands cupped his cheeks as his own clammy hands memorized the shape of her cheekbones, her jawline, the bridge of her nose. Wandering hands traced the line of her shoulder, the curve of her hips, as she drew his mouth to her own. Natasha tasted the ocean in his eyes as the saltiness of treacherous tears lingered on their joined lips.
His dreams were still clear as day in his mind's eye, still taunting him with a picture perfect image of the body of his beloved at his feet, laying still- she was never still . He’d fallen to his knees, cradling her limp form, but as soon as he’d held her, she began to crack, fissures running along her porcelain skin in a pattern so familiar in their locations, yet he couldn’t place why. He’d held her tighter, prayed, pleaded to whoever was listening to make it stop, keep her safe . But the more desperate he became to stop her from crumbling, the faster she faded, bits and pieces of her floating away in the breeze until he was left with nothing. No trace of the woman he loved, of her bright eyes or fiery mane. Just the lingering sensation of her body against his chest.
Why ? He cried, shouting out to the universe. Why was he left alone again , in a place he didn’t know, without the woman he loved? It wasn’t long before the soldier was swallowed whole by the sea of tears he’d cried, drowning in the icy waves as they claimed him too.
When his breathing evened and his hands stilled, the Widow pulled back and gazed into his eyes. I’m alive , she whispered into the dark, grabbing his hand. He’d closed his eyes tight, wanting to believe in her so desperately, but the lingering tendrils of his nightmare clung still. We’re safe , she stressed, but the soldier was still unsure.
Gently guiding his hand to her temple, she brushed his extended fingers over the raised skin running into her hairline. From our first time working together , she breathed.
His eyes opened and she could see the anxiety lessening as he watched her. Natasha pulled her t-shirt over her head, and his eyes widened in confusion. Grabbing his hand again, she’d placed it against the faded circular scar under her left clavicle. From your good friend James.
Fingertips trailed against her skin as she led him to rest against her abdomen, above her left hip. Another from your friend , she teased, and was rewarded with a spark of recognition in his eyes. Of course Steve remembers the first time she’d shown him the scar, it being perhaps the first time she’d been vulnerable with him.
His fingers danced over her ribs until they met an angry, jagged line of a scar spanning a couple of inches. The only time I didn’t duck fast enough in training. Another girl got me with her blade.
A beat then- from a fire, she voiced, and he detected an undercurrent of regret in her tone. He brushed his thumb soothingly against the angry scar that spanned the length of her hip, up toward the base of her ribs and ending mid thigh. He’d always wondered, but never asked about the patch of uneven, discoloured skin. Her secrets were her own, after all.
Pulling his hand across her lap, she'd brought it to rest on her other thigh. From the first time I met Clint, she’d explained softly as his fingers played with the bullet wound on her thigh. Descending further, he’d felt the raised gash. A knife. Even lower, and he felt the scars that adorned her feet- from high heels and high kicks, pointe shoes and combat boots.
She’d then released his hand, and brought her own into his eyeline. Small scars littered her hands, and she pointed out each one carefully. A mark in the webbing between her thumb and index finger- from the clip catching me the first time I fired a gun . Knicks on her knuckles from years of hand-to-hand fighting. A semi-circle against her palm courtesy of a hot burner from an attacker lurking in the shadows.
It was the beginning of the end when she’d finally brought his attention to the thick line against her left inner wrist. From handcuffing us to the beds, so we wouldn’t escape. And on her right, a short row of scars extending up her inner forearm, some fresher than the rest, all in various stages of healing- from years old to perhaps weeks at most. Her voice took on an almost shy quality, as if scared about what she'd been about to reveal. These are from when I don’t- she pauses, swallowing hard, - didn’t think it would ever get better.
It was the beginning of the end when he’d murmured a heartbroken, Oh Natasha - at her revelation. A deep seated sadness replaced the dwindling fear as he’d looked deeply into her melancholy eyes.
Natasha had simply offered him a weak smile in return, fighting against the emotion caught in her throat, and instead had brushed her hand against his cheek.
He’d tried to interject, to tell her that he’d always be there to remind her she’s alive just like she’d been doing for him now, but the redhead wouldn’t allow it.
It ended with her repeating herself, and him finally believing her. I’m alive, Steve. These prove it , she’d whispered as he turned his face into her touch, and settled his lips against the lines on her wrist. Whenever I’m not sure that I’m alive, I look at them. Feel them. Remember them. So if you ever need a reminder that I’m here, I’ll remind you, I promise.
It ended with her punctuating her words with the seal of a kiss, devoid of any urgency or fear.
It ended with her allowing him to hold her gently, his touch warding off the monsters in her head.
It ended with the two broken, battered souls holding each other together.
***
They’re years older now, but if the man were to wake with a nightmare, afraid and disoriented, he’d find that he was never alone. Green eyes would always be there to meet him upon waking, and small yet strong hands would guide him along their familiar journey, his lips following close behind.
There were more stops along the way now, more scars for him to map. His favourite was the single pinkish line running the length of her spine, spanning from her neck to a few inches above her tailbone. Of course the circumstances around its acquisition are more often than not the source of his nightmares, but the fact that it’s there, that it’s healed , proves more than anything that his love is still with him.
They’re years older now, but if the woman can’t sleep (or won’t sleep), she’s relieved to find that her lover is less than an arms length away, and more than happy to be awoken if needed. The blue of his eyes is enough to lull her into a calm as they silently await the night’s answers to questions they’d never asked. And with her partner at her side- always- she finds that suddenly, her mind won’t feel so heavy.
They each still have days when they’d rather not remember their lives, but he’s persistent and she’s stubborn, and he makes sure that her scars stay healed while she makes sure that he doesn’t drown in the wake of his sorrows.
They’re years older now, and during that time the steps have changed, shifted, grown- but the dance stays the same. The dreams change with the fears that still wage wars inside the minds of lovers, too tired and too used to the way that things are, the way things have always been in the dark.
But gentle hands meet raised skin now, just as they had in the beginning, just as they did during the time in between. Soft lips meet marred flesh in the time connecting the dusk and the dawn, and comfort is drawn from cold hands and warm hearts.
They come to find that they are no longer suffocated by the night, for in the early morning hours comes the sunrise, and with the banishment of another night, they are reminded that they are truly alive .