Could you please do a Natasha romanoff x fem reader, angst to comfort?
Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x F! Reader
Warnings: none, just some angst
The rain pounded against the windows of the Avengers compound like it was trying to break in, mirroring the storm raging inside you. You'd been pacing the living room for hours, the kind of pacing that wore grooves into the carpet and made your legs ache, but you couldn't stop. Natasha was late again. Not just late, but radio silent. Her last message had been a curt "Mission extended. Be home soon," sent three days ago. You'd tried calling, texting, even hacking into the comms system (perks of dating a spy), but nothing. Just static.
You weren't naive. You knew what her job entailed, the risks, the secrets, the parts of her life she'd never fully share. But this? This felt different. The doubt had started small, a whisper in the back of your mind during those long nights alone, but now it was a scream. What if she wasn't coming back? Or worse, what if she was, but with that wall between you thicker than ever?
When the door finally clicked open around 2 a.m., you froze. Natasha slipped in like a shadow, her red hair damp and matted, a fresh bruise blooming under her eye. She didn't even glance your way at first, just kicked off her boots and shrugged out of her jacket, revealing the tactical suit underneath, ripped in places and stained with what looked like blood. Not all of it hers, you hoped.
"Nat?" Your voice came out sharper than you intended, laced with the exhaustion of worry turned to anger.
She looked up, green eyes weary but guarded. "Hey. Sorry, I'm late."
"Late? You've been gone for five days, Natasha. No word, no nothing. I thought- " You cut yourself off, swallowing the lump in your throat. You didn't want to say it out loud, didn't want to give voice to the fear that she'd been captured, or killed, or... something else.
She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "The op went sideways. Comms were jammed. I couldn't risk contacting anyone until it was over."
You crossed your arms, trying to hold yourself together. "And you couldn't find a way? Not even for me?"
Her jaw tightened. "This isn't about you. It's about the job. You know that."
The words hit like a slap. "Isn't about me? We've been together for a year, Nat. I get the job God, do I get it. But you vanish without a trace, and I'm supposed to just sit here and wait? Pretend like I'm not terrified every time you walk out that door?"
She turned away, heading toward the kitchen, probably to grab a drink or avoid the conversation. "I'm tired. Can we not do this right now?"
"No, we can't not do this!" You followed her, your voice rising despite your best efforts. "You shut me out, Nat. Every time something gets hard, you build these walls. I love you, but I can't keep banging my head against them."
She poured herself a glass of water, her movements deliberate, controlled. When she spoke, her tone was flat, almost detached. "You knew what you were getting into. I'm not the white picket fence type."
"That's not what I'm asking for!" Frustration boiled over, hot tears pricking at your eyes. "I just want you to let me in. To trust me enough to say, 'Hey, this mission's rough, I might be dark for a while.' Is that so hard?"
Natasha set the glass down harder than necessary, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "Trust? You think I don't trust you? I've trusted you with more than I've trusted anyone in years. But some things... I can't share. It's for your own good."
"My own good?" You laughed bitterly, wiping at your eyes. "That's bullshit, and you know it. You're scared. Scared that if I see the real you the parts that are broken, the parts that did things you regret I'll leave. But I'm not going anywhere, Nat. Unless you push me away."
Her eyes flashed with something raw, vulnerable, but she masked it quickly. "Maybe I am pushing you away. Maybe this " She gestured between you, " is a mistake. I'm not built for this. For... normal."
The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Your heart stuttered. "So that's it? You're just gonna end us because you're afraid?"
"I'm not afraid," she snapped, but her voice cracked just a little. "I'm realistic. People like me don't get happy endings. We get complications. And you're a complication I can't afford right now."
You stared at her, the room spinning. "Fine. If that's how you feel, then go. But don't pretend this is about me. This is you running."
She didn't move at first, just stood there, fists clenched at her sides. Then, without another word, she grabbed her jacket and walked out, the door slamming behind her like a punctuation mark on the end of everything.
You sank onto the couch, the tears coming freely now. The compound felt emptier than ever, the rain outside a relentless drumbeat. Hours blurred into one another as you replayed the fight in your head, wondering where it all went wrong. Had you pushed too hard? Or was she right were you just not cut out for this life?
Sleep didn't come easy that night, or the next. You buried yourself in work, training sessions with the team, anything to distract from the ache in your chest. The others noticed Steve's concerned glances, Tony's awkward attempts at jokes but no one said anything. They knew better than to get in the middle of Black Widow's personal life.
It was three days later when you heard the knock at your door. You ignored it at first, assuming it was Wanda checking in again. But the knocking persisted, soft but insistent. When you finally opened it, there she was Natasha, looking like she hadn't slept much either, her usual poise cracked around the edges.
"Can we talk?" she asked, her voice quieter than you'd ever heard it.
You stepped aside, letting her in, but you didn't say anything. The silence stretched as she paced a little, mirroring your own restlessness from nights before.
"I screwed up," she said finally, stopping to face you. "I... I panicked. When the mission went bad, I lost two agents. Good people. And all I could think was, what if that happens to you? What if being with me puts you in danger?"
You softened a fraction, but the hurt lingered. "Nat, I'm already in this world. Dating you doesn't change that."
"I know." She took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly a rarity for her. "But it's not just that. My past... it's ugly. The Red Room, the things I did... I don't want that touching you. I thought if I kept you at arm's length, it'd be safer. For both of us."
You moved closer, searching her face. "And pushing me away? That was safer?"
"No." She met your eyes, and for the first time, you saw the fear there, unfiltered. "It was stupid. I miss you. Every second since I walked out that door, I've regretted it. You're the one good thing in my life, and I almost threw it away because I'm too damn scared to let myself be happy."
The walls you'd built in the last few days crumbled a little. "I miss you too. But I need you to try, Nat. Really try. No more shutting down."
She nodded, stepping forward until she was close enough to touch. "I will. I promise. Therapy, talking whatever it takes. Just... don't give up on me."
You reached out, pulling her into a hug. She stiffened at first, like always, but then melted into it, her arms wrapping around you tightly. The scent of her leather and faint vanilla washed over you, familiar and comforting.
"I'm not giving up," you whispered into her hair. "We're in this together."
She pulled back just enough to look at you, her thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek. "Together," she echoed, and then she kissed you softly, tentative at first, like she was relearning how. But it deepened, the pent-up emotion pouring out, turning desperate and needy.
You broke apart breathless, foreheads pressed together. "Stay," you said.
The next few weeks weren't perfect. There were more arguments, moments where old habits crept in, her withdrawing, you pressing too hard. But there were good moments too. Mornings where you'd wake up tangled in sheets, her head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat like it was the only thing grounding her. Evenings spent cooking together, laughing over burnt pasta or stolen kisses between chopping vegetables.
One night, after a particularly grueling training session, you found her in the bathroom, staring at her reflection, fingers tracing an old scar on her shoulder. You wrapped your arms around her from behind, your chin resting on her back.
"Talk to me," you said gently.
She hesitated, then turned in your embrace. "This scar... from a mission in Budapest. I almost didn't make it out. Clint saved me."
You nodded, not pushing, just listening.
"I used to think scars like this defined me," she continued, her voice soft. "That I was just a collection of mistakes and survival. But with you... I feel like maybe I can be more."
"You are more," you assured her, kissing the scar lightly. "You're everything."
She smiled a real one, not the guarded smirk she showed the world, and pulled you closer.
As time passed, she started sharing more bits of her past, late-night confessions whispered in the dark. You told her about your own fears, the insecurities that came with loving someone who faced death daily. It wasn't easy, but it was real.
One weekend, you dragged her out of the compound for a "normal" date, dinner at a quiet Italian place in the city, followed by a walk along the river. The city lights reflected off the water, and for once, she wasn't scanning for threats, just holding your hand, her thumb stroking your knuckles.
"You know," she said as you leaned against the railing, "I never thought I'd have this. A life outside the shadows."
You squeezed her hand. "You deserve it. We both do."
She turned to you, eyes shining under the streetlights. "I love you. More than I thought I could."
"I love you too," you replied, and in that moment, the turmoil of the past was gone, replaced by the quiet comfort of knowing you had each other.
