Work Text:
Never Alone
All characters belong to Marvel Comics and Studios
You're my friend. We fight together. We fight for each other.
Light rimmed the horizon, revealing gleams of ice encased over the discarded ruins of Baron Strucker's vicinity. Nothing remained intact as snow piled around the remnants of battle. The Avengers were involved in an overseas mission; the main directive was obtaining Loki's scepter from the clutches of HYDRA. Captain America—Steve Rogers—led his team with unyielding fire and determination. As their company leader and their defense, he took the hard hits, racing into the fury of the storm with his shield held up high and enhanced strength pulsing in his veins. He made the Avengers become an unstoppable and connected force.
No HYDRA operative was left standing in the wake of battle, but Steve underestimated Strucker's tactics of deception, and one of his own went down. A single bullet had torn the Avenger's into disarray, mostly cutting deep into Natasha as she was one who saw Clint take the hit. The Hawk had his wings broken; he left was groundless—vulnerable.
In a moment of searching for reverence to abate the storm within, Natasha found herself staring beyond the white void. She wondered if time was limited to grasp onto forgiveness that resided in the heart of her friend. It was a paradox of tension; ripping her apart, forcing her unbreakable walls to crash down. Feeling desolate, Natasha knew that she could have done more to prevent the inevitable. She had lost the interminable war inside, more importantly she was on the verge of losing a friend—a promise because she wasn't fast enough to catch a bullet.
"Clint," she gasped through the curtains of white obstructing her distance. The smell of leaked diesel from up-turned HYDRA vehicles blocked her senses. "Hang on, Barton," she called out, cutting through the passage of pine trees. She dodged another blast of blue energy with effortless grace and landed at his side in a heartbeat. The archer was laying flat on his back, gritting against the intrusion of pain. His bruised skin had a smear of red over his cheek, and his grey orbs were dimming.
Natasha felt her laboring heart as it pounded with high volumes of dread. With automatic impulse, her gloved hand encompassed over the opened gauge. The bullet was embedded in his abdomen, close to his liver. She reacted with her training, applying gentle pressure to the wound, ceasing the blood flow. It wasn't game over, she reminded herself, using a piece of his uniform's sleeve as a make-shift tourniquet.
"Tasha-"
"No. I don't want to hear it, Clint," she seethed in desperate hitch, and removed a capped syringe from her tactical boot. She then jabbed the needle into his forearm to reduce the pain. She couldn't tell how deep the bullet was lodged into his swollen muscle. The harsh snowfall prevented the clarity she needed to give an accurate assessment of his injury. There was a faint glint of hope in his watering eyes; the assurance she needed to save his life. His blood coated her hands as she jerked his shoulder firmly, keeping him conscious. "Stay with me, Barton," she told him as she swept her fingers over his drenched hair. I'm going to get your stubborn ass out here."
"Nat," he choked out a rasping breath, gripping her hand and placing it onto his chest with a firm clench of his fingers. He tried to incline his head off the ground; snow dusted his ashen brown hair, and a weak smirk crept over his lips. "It wasn't your fault..." he lightly assured, squeezing her hand with his diminishing strength. "Don't put the blame on yourself or Cap. There's always risks to this job. It doesn't mean that you quit fighting—"
"Natasha," Steve's firm baritone echoed through the obstruction of snow. She didn't budge. Her teal eyes were coldly trained on the smear of blood that stained the white purity beneath her boots. She looked absent from the world, nothing seemed to harbor her back; until he placed his large hand on her tensed shoulder. A tender clutch gave her a brimming sense of security, she felt the pulse of his enhanced strength doused the iciness inside of her with fire.
Finally, Natasha spared him a glance, aware of his visceral concern. She focused on the chiseled structure of his broad jaw, and the fullness of his soft lips that always held a shadow of a understanding smile. He was real to her, even in the gleams of piercing light melded into the hues of azure and steel; they melted the shards of her empty heart.
Closing the distance, she roved her eyes over his towering form. His visage looked battered and restricted as if he felt the influx of pain. They had been distant with each other since she parted ways with him at Fury's grave site. They had taken different roads to search for answers—she hadn't really taken much effort to reveal her feelings towards him, mostly because he deserved an angel—not a demon. Realizing that she could never offer what he needed, she delved further into her torments, running and trying to quell her feelings of wanting a convenient life, while at the same time, trying to push him towards someone else.
It was all about honor and love, nothing could mesh in between. She wasn't ready to take the next step, not when she was a ghost living in the afterlife; a defective KBG assassin who had lost the good parts of herself a long time ago. She didn't want to lose what she had with Steve; his devotion and faith in her made everything become better—whole enough to believe there was a chance to live out of the past.
For a moment, Steve looked undefeated in his uniform. Standing firm in the gusts of snow, his blond tresses of spiked hair were unkempt and drenched with a feverish sweat as his helmet was gripped in his other hand. But it was the endearing glint in his azure eyes that gave her the strength to admit her guarded feelings in these dire moments of waiting for news about Bruce Banner. "You did everything you could have done, Nat. He will honor that..."
Natasha shook her head, not submitting to his reverent voice, her face became darkened by a semblance of uncertainty. She was incapable of expressing her inner distress. She had veiled all measures of pain behind her enigmatic teal eyes and the fierce exterior of the Black Widow. "I heard it before," her voice cut out, raw with a distinctive edge of uttered remorse. Steve watched her gloved fists clench, and listened to a seethe peel from her cold lips. Through her trepidation, her lithe body went rigid and his pale face grew impassive. "I know how to handle this. We're all expected to face pain in the field, but it shouldn't have been him that took the hit...Not my partner..." She gritted her teeth and released a harsh breath. "Not my best friend."
Steve receded a step back, granting her space. His bright azure eyes held a sting of remorse, and yet he didn't permit himself to cry. He was a soldier, death always came at a heavy price on the battlefield, but he never imagined it to strike at his family. He had to be there for her, no more keeping his distance. "If you need me...I'll be standing right here with you."
"Tell me that he's going to walk again, Rogers," she admonished in an utterance of desperation, holding back her own stinging tears. The Black Widow never cried. Today, she wanted to release everything from her marble layers. She wanted to feel. "Give me something to fight with, to prove that when I go back out there...He'll be waiting for me like he always does?"
At this, Steve dipped his head and pulled his lips into a tight grimace. He fought against the devoid in his heart, many of times; never giving up when he knew that he would have his faith rewarded. The grief he carried always reached succession when vestiges of his past haunted his mind, stripped him bare until tears fell instead of sweat. Yes, he had a chance to see Bucky again, but the unbalanced HYDRA assassin wasn't his friend, just a mere illusion of the cocky and stout hearted Brooklyn boy he loved as his older brother.
When he stared into the menacing, deaden steel-blue eyes of the Winter Soldier, he knew that the man who had once existed didn't return with the same benevolent, defiant heart. It crushed him deeply, fusing his body with anguish that the serum couldn't flush out. Knowing that his friend was a ghost in a machine made him reluctant to chase after that nightmare. "I can't tell you what you want to hear, Nat," he told her with an evened measure of honesty. His stern eyes never left hers. He didn't know how to ease her pain, she never revealed it. "But you gotta have little faith in him, maybe there's a chance..."
Feeling an ache burning in her chest, resisting no avoidance, Natasha lowered her eyes dismally at the arrow shards being covered with fallen snow. "Is this what it's supposed to feel like, when you lose a part of yourself that was attached to a friend?"
She felt the pain scrape over her heart, making her bleed as she attempted to meet the captain's sincere blue eyes. She wore her masks well, emotions were unreadable, but Steve caught a glimpse of something deep and unmarred by her traumatic past, and it couldn't be abated.
"I'm-I'm not ready to face the truth, Steve," she admitted tersely, holding onto a grip of her resilient and unbreakable composure. Frustrated, she managed to give him a genuine, reserved confession. Her unguarded emotions seemed very limited at first wake of release, but the ugliness of desperation clawed viciously back at her, fraying her heart into threads. "I was trained to never submit to emotions, to become cold and use friends as assets. It was the only life I knew until Clint had spared it."
Steve regarded her softly, unassuming. The last glimmers of the ending day reached his clear still eyes; snow graced against his lips. He had to give her something of worth to believe in, that her stubborn demeanor couldn't refuse to accept. "Well, that proves it then..." He drew out a heavy breath, and looked steadily into her passive, icy stare. "Barton did put his faith into you."
She nodded a little, casting her residual pain aside. "Yeah, he's never steered me wrong in all the years I've known that farmboy." Her grayish eyes flicked downward as she reopened glove hand and caught a few snowflakes. A ghost of a curved smile traced over her lips, recalling memories that offered her peace. "We always had each other's backs, even if the mission went south. Clint always found a way out for us."
She felt calm enough to talk. She had accepted Steve's trust and his unyielding heart.
"I had once considered his life as a debt that I would pay with mine." Natasha spoke in a low volume, feeling utterly betrayed by her emotions that exhibited failure."I guess my ledger will grow because I allowed this to happen..." She swallowed harshly, her lips absently pulled into a weak smile, underlining her irrational grief. She was trained to be wicked and seductive, to use men's weakness as her gain.
Now, Natasha was truly detached from that cognitive programming, she had a new purpose to fulfill and lives to protect. She had made a defining choice to follow Captain America as her vigilant, resilient team leader, and to prove to her denying spirit that she was capable of doing some good with the Widow's mark. "It's okay. I was prepared for this point of the endgame. There will always be casualties in war, and this is war that we've dragged ourselves into, Steve."
The Captain didn't respond to her words. He looked deeply at the contrast of her beauty, so angelic and untouched. Wind lashed his jaw as he intently watched airy remnants of snow falling into the ablaze of her russet curls. She had changed so much in the last few years; it was almost as if he was staring entirely at a whole different woman. But in her pure teal eyes, he saw the storm of rage mirrored his bare gaze for a bleak second before turning her affixed focus away.
"You're right," he said, emitting a frosty heave of breath, and he inched closer with tentative steps crunching beneath his sturdy weight. He abandoned all reservations, and caressed her hand with a gentle ease of his fingers. A spark ignited. The same energy that he felt when she kissed him on the escalator, but this time it seemed more powerful and dominating to fight against. Neither of them moved. He kept her grounded with a calm and assuring stare. Natasha was distracted by unadulterated doubt, Clint's life was on the line, and she was plagued with fear in a brief moment.
Through a condition of bereavement, Steve cautiously slipped his fingers over her knuckles, interlocking with her chilled fingers as leather and skin melded into a tight clench. Together as Avengers, they were strong to face the unexpected storms; the various shades both gray and red. "That's why we keep fighting—to end it," he proclaimed to her, softly.
"It's not that simple," she whispered in a pitch of dejection—it wasn't simple to believe in victory; to her it was a mere chance to survive—but she had to summon a measured of strength to face the road ahead. Whether it would be without Clint shadowing her, she had to rise above her pain and become unbreakable—unsinkable by failure. Dropping her gaze to his helmet, she used it as her anchor to pull her out of the fathoms of consuming red. She gathered enough reserves of sentiment to meet his steady blue eyes again.
Embolden to resist the impulse to run, Natasha took a step back, figuring out how to erase the anguish residing in her. A deep, shivery exhale compressed in her chest. "I'm not sure how I want to feel. If I even have a right to feel..."
"You have every right, Natasha," he declared, allowing the gravity to pull him close. The last time they'd shared a heartfelt conversation, there'd been arising conflict; everything had fallen into chaos and the truths they believed in were just weaves of parasitic lies. She told him a little about her past, not enough to give him the twisted details, but she gave him a glimpse of it through the utter shame that was wavered in her broken voice. He knew she wouldn't surrender to pain, not when she used every aspect of it as fuel to carry on the fight for Clint.
She owed the archer a debt. She had to live up it.
Love was something she refused to attach herself to. It was a childish and deceptive game, a dare of the vulnerable heart that ended in a glimpse of regret. In her traumatic world of red, the chance to grasp onto a convenient life always tormented her deeply.
Steve dropped his helmet. There were things that needed to be explored between them, and he couldn't leave her feeling undone. He believed in hope all his life, even when grief cut him down. He always found a way to overcome those losses. Now, he needed to show her that light, give her meaning to his choice of staying at her side through her emotional tempests, even though she never permitted him to. Still, he remained in her shadow; patient and with a gentle and accepting semblance wavering over his chiseled face. "You know, you can tell me anything, Nat?"
"What is there to tell, Rogers?" she replied, sourly, not reasoning with the drilling ache in her chest.
Deciding not to invade her space with a further step, which he never did unless welcomed; Steve detected something invalid within the depth of her tensed words. He didn't want her to submit to the pain, not like he did. "Natasha," she seemingly bore an icy glare into his concerned azure eyes. A measure of authority rose in the timbre of his heavy voice; she was listening to the unyielding, fierce tone of Captain America.
With an effort to reach her, he splayed his hand over her shoulder, the firmness of grip resting on her trim muscles. "Quit making yourself feel bent, that Barton's not gonna come out of this alive. We don't know the extent of the damage. Until Doctor Banner gives us the news, we wait and see what will happen..."
He recalled the memory of Peggy meeting him in the darkness of the SSR safe house, when the cadence of her decadent voice offered him a sense of peace, as his shattered heart refused to accept the truth of Bucky's death. He regretted everyday not being able to reach for his friend's bloodied hand as the rail broke. He owned that guilt.
He honored Bucky's valor and choice, and finished the mission by steering the Valkyrie with his last act of defiance to end HYDRA's warpath into the ice. He had sworn a soldier's oath when he enlisted back in 1944, that he would serve and defend his country with truth and unbreakable faith, no matter the cost of his life. Even though Captain America was rated one of the best on the battle front, he saw men—brave and young—give their lives for survival of independence and freedom.
All those ordinary names that were found on the Wall of Valor, were just engravings of lives that ended when courage was leveled with fear. Victory wasn't written in stone, but in blood and tears. He respected Barton's choice of acting as a shield as the bullets aimed to tear into Natasha's heart. It was what they were trained to do, to fight and protect their fellow soldiers—teammates—friends. "You gotta trust your friend, believe in him."
доверие. Trust.
Natasha never accepted that definitive word. There was no meaning at first, since her core instincts resisted. Giving into the sentiments of morality was a intolerable risk, that would betray her otherwise. Evolving had been necessary to survive in the conditioned ranks of the Red Room. She was trained to display no visage of emotion, to remain vacant and purge the ingrained cravings with the relishing taste of succession.
Through her brutal trials and victories, she was given a chance to embrace the darkness, to descend into the fathoms where the dead awake…She never allowed the programming to fully engulf her, to mold her into a true monster and scar her plagued thoughts into condemning regrets; not when she followed orders to terminate a life with the absence of mercy.
Some part of her was ashamed to recollect those dimmed memories; she hated every moment…torturous and degrading. Natasha refused to bask in the shadows where her masters reveled in morbid victory of their murderous intent. She never could grasp onto the understanding of choice and discipline, not when she was upskilled to feel either. It felt like she had been under contract—her name written in blood and her soul bound to unbreakable shackles never to taste the fresh air of a pale morning; just a bitter, metallic taste of death.
Permitting herself to expose denial was a sense of guilt and weakness—being perfected with cold, relentless determination and remade to slay. It was the only existence that granted her a chance to live without feeling a heartbeat. Even when she remembered what it felt to be real, before every piece of her innocence was stripped, she'd found the means to fight—to ignore weakness. This evolution however, she couldn't allow to fade away, not when she felt attachment towards friendship—deliverance.
"Yeah," she admitted in a low, shortened breath, more sincerely grew as she became disarmed. She glanced back at the arrow that had been broken in half, and allowed her heart to offer a genuine revelation. "I do trust him."
Steve was slipping back into memory, his eyes held a distant glint as he stared down at the helmet. It wasn't a passive stare, his azure eyes were obscured with reflections of pain that wouldn't assail. And for a tangible moment of reverence, he couldn't move; his heart relented. Natasha understood what he was seeing. She didn't invade his thoughts, she stood there poise and firm, trying to reach him, bringing him back as his intent focus saddled on whiteness gathering over his boots.
Obviously, the reproach of his grief left him desolate inside, but she made a small effort, and kicked the helmet inches away. Steve...didn't flex his broaden jaw. He didn't take his eyes away from the snow or the remnants of blood. He just fell into a void, imaging what Bucky had felt when he fell into the ice, how his arm became marred and disjointed and all those painful moments that followed after. Heart clenched, he felt condemned with regrets, violent images and remorse. He felt the embers of his rage simmering as he tried to force those emotions down. Time seemed outplaced, disordered, almost like the events that happened were frays of a tattered dream.
Finally, Steve reeled his blearily gaze back to her, and with a slight part of his chilled lips, he breathed with a hint of despondence laced in his baritone. He was embracing the truth that had always been known to him. Feeling the heavy thudding of his heart, the arch of his lips curved into a frail glimpse of a smile, displaying his strength and hope. He didn't need to say much to her, just enough to give them something to hold onto. Despite the absence of Bucky, he knew that in time he would have his best friend standing at his side again."Nothing compares to putting your trust in a good friend..." his breath came up labored and fingers melded into a clench. "That's real enough to believe in, Nat."
Natasha tried to ignore the onslaught of corrosive pain, to detach herself from reality as she forced a harden gaze towards clusters of snow weighting pine trees; looking for a direction to lead her back to Clint.
Grayness of the fading twilight sky became caught in her teal eyes. She felt raw and distorted; feeling no sense of assurance wavering from Steve's voice. A confession grew laden on her tongue; she refused to submit to damning guilt that wouldn't abate.
A tear managed to reach the depth of her eye, nothing more than glimpse of what she wanted to express. "I don't know what to believe in anymore. Everything doesn't feel the same...I haven't changed..." A pause faltered her voice, she fixed her gaze back at him, staring into the storm rimming in his feverish blue eyes. She never felt lost with him. The virtues that resided in his pure heart never evaded offering her a chance of salvation within herself. A grace of smile masked her lips as she defied her reservations and spoke in with true and undeniable words from the heart. "I just made a good choice of following a right path."
"Well, I can't take all the credit," he returned in a modest tone, his lips pulled into a smile. Gravity had pulled him back to her, and his tentative hand lifted to her shoulder, firmly embracing the nenopane material of her tactical suit. He kept her steady against him, solid and balanced. He loved her. Obviously, time didn't grant him the right moment to say it.
So he buried those evoked feelings away, and lowered his gaze to her hand, knowing that her branded scars of a shackled life had faded. "You had your fair share of bad choices back when you didn't wear a uniform. We all have, Natasha. But somehow, you did pull through and proved that to yourself have more fire than you think."
"I'm not—"
Steve dismissed her attempt of a sour protest. "You're what you chose to live as, Nat," he replied with a tender inspiring cadence, knowing that she was being anchored out of the red void. "You're an Avenger, and also a strong woman who's got a lot to give. Don't let your past make you lose that...Know where you stand in this fight."
She did. Both in shadow and light.
"Same thing goes for you too, Rogers," she gave him a rueful smirk.
"Yeah," He remarked in a serious, throaty voice, air thickened his lungs. He wasn't sure if he was ready to be more than a shield to her—more than a friend. The war raging inside wouldn't stop until answers were clear and open, and his friendship with Bucky was restored. The scrape of rawness in his heart didn't hurt so much, but desperation gripped him to the bone, and he knew that vague sense of unyielding devotion was real. His love for her was genuine and endearing. He always found his way out of the storms with her, not as his compass, but as intense, untamed fire that melted the walls of ice that left his heart leaden—she breathed life back into him.
He sensed that she was tired of avoiding the unfathomable truth—the lethal spider of the Red Room had fallen for Captain America. It wasn't a twist of fate, he never believed in fate. Faith was his refuge, not logical reason. Experiences happened because they were meant to be—unpredictable and true. He was still young at heart. He had a glimpse of love with Peggy, kissed her fully before their moments were taken. He closed his eyes, darkening the recoils of his memories.
Peggy was still waiting for him, but the weight of everything struck him down; lightning seared through him, fast and relentless. His past claimed his soul, but he endured it, overcame the agony. He kept the storm under control—fought against it. In a listless attempt to push through his devolved guilt, he reopened his intent blue eyes, focusing on her. "Boy, we've sure been through a lot."
A calmness overtook his face and his gloveless fingers wove reverently through her mussed strands of copper. The heat of contact was assuring as Natasha stole her resolve at his massive hand curving over her shoulder. Leather secured his palm and his calloused fingers were exposed to the frigid air. His nails were turning into a tinge of lavender. He pinned her with tight security against the sculpt of his solid torso. She felt the frozen earth tremble beneath her feet as her senses were awoken, and her blood turned into flares of energy—surges of lightning. An unnatural force that seemed to leave her immobilized.
Acceptance. She drifted away from the tortuous urgency of news of Clint's injuries, her body shuttered at the pulse of heat radiating off the bulge of his flexing muscles; only to allow her skin to absorb his warmth. Submission. Her breath resumed at a low, steady pace when his rough fingers swept over the jutting curve of her hip—gentle, enthralling strokes and she sagged into the expanse of his chest. She couldn't let herself go. Red flashed in her mind, arrows sunk into oceans of blood, but those macabre images dashed as she followed his deserving touch, splaying her flatten palm against his chrome star insignia. Her relaxed chin absently loomed over the crest of his shoulder.
The dissonance of howling wind rattled through the sways of pine at the same time. Natasha closed her eyes and traced his pulse with chaste pressure of her nestled lips, searing his chilled flesh with a compressed, wetly heat.
Intoxicated by her possessive heady breath, Steve involuntarily moved back, dumfounded at first, blinking the remnants of snow off his lashes. Sudden panic overwhelmed him, stomping against his heart. When he glanced into her eyes, he found no darkness stirring in her teal irises. A beautiful knowing smile blossomed over her face, she brought her hand to his jaw, delicately rubbing her thumb over the upper arch of his lip. The sightless touch of leather was definitive, an equal connection that didn't evade. The world slowed with the beats of their hearts as Steve envisioned how his lips would soon meld against her coaxing, beautifully shaped mouth.
It began with a simple release of breath laced in her name, "Natasha," he said lowly, the edges of his mouth curved into a blissful smile. "I just want you to know that you're not alone..." It seemed repetitive; he couldn't think clearly. His mouth fell lamely open as something twisted in his gut. It was a horrible feeling, lessening his courage to fully purchase her lips. 'Fall back, soldier-Fall back'
"Steve, is there something you want to tell me?" she asked tersely, peering into his misted eyes."Well, come on, spill it."
He pulled back slightly. "Natasha," he whispered, almost voiceless, feeling a bold impulse driving his urging mouth to tentatively shadow over her waiting lips. It felt like the beginning of a dance. He remembered how her brazen mouth claimed his in front of Brock Rumlow and a crowd of shoppers; there was no hesitation glinting in her eyes, she just seized the moment and stole his breath. His style was old-fashioned—gentle. He couldn't just take her lips and deliver a hard, bruising kiss. If Steve wanted to prove his love to her, he had to start out slow, unhurried. After devolving a compromised debate, his right hand graced warmth against her throat and his fingers curled under her jaw; tipping her head up for her to match the silent acceptance shining alight in his eyes.
Oppressive weight crushed against his heart; Steve was feeling the invisible pulse of tension. He was willed himself to meld their lips together. Distorted illusions of snow clouded his vision, blurring the scenery as his blue eyes caught the reflections of her full pale-rose lips. He sealed his eyes shut, allowing every breath to ghost over the surface of her skin.
Electricity surged with a wet pulse as he tangled the frosted air with her, just for a moment, and then nothing felt the same afterwards. He was completely driven by a force of desire; committed to easing her pain. It happened so fast, his lips enveloped over the lush shape of her mouth, lazily, before his upper lip curled to embrace her fully; heat and frost combined with rawness in the wake of requited passion.
He had never shared this experience before. Nothing compared to the ripples of energy he felt as the swell of their lips created rhythmic, tentative vibrations. He kissed her long and deep before melting further in ravenous possession. He wanted to give her freedom, not lust. When she equally returned with a fervid kiss, he separated, breath fogged over her wet lips.
He didn't look at her, just kept the memory alive and grabbed his snow dusted helmet, then started to walk away. Natasha swept her fingers over her lips, and then she spun around and watched an arrow pierce through the snow. Alarmed, she faltered back, feeling uneasy and weightless from the kiss. She didn't chase after him.
When her eyes searched for his massive form of red, white and blue, she found Clint. He was standing tall and restored on the ramp of the Avenge-jet, with his bow gripped his hand.
Thank you, Steve. She thought, smiling with renewed hope gracing over her warm lips. Tears burned her eyes; she felt her strength and vitality exceed through the rancid poison that had always rushed in her perfected body. She felt healed.
The End.
' Thank you for reading and have a blessed and fun Christmas season.'