The American. Before Natasha even knew, before she even put the pieces together of the Winter Soldier’s identity from the fragments of her own memories, she thought of him when she first met Steve Rogers on that Helicarrier strip. She looked at how he held himself, the casual parade rest, the vague detachment, the stiff upper lip, and she felt something deep and dragging within her, a memory that didn’t fully come to the surface until there was another bullet through her shoulder and she was bleeding out in the back of a SHIELD humvee. “I didn’t know it was him, before,” she said, though justifying herself to Steve was something she’d long learned was unnecessary. “I don’t even know if it happened in his universe. And in this one …” In this one, there had been no time before he went into the ice again in Wakanda, before the world turned upside down and they went from heroes to vigilantes in a matter of hours.
It hadn’t all been for him. Natasha made a habit out of playing both sides of the fence, and during her time with the Avengers, she’d learned the importance of listening to her gut. The Accords would become a part of their life in some capacity, she knew that – but she also knew that fighting back against Rogers was never a good idea. It hadn’t all been for him, but part of it was. He was close to her heart (or what was left of it) in the same way Clint was, a walking wound that years ago she would’ve been forced to close. “I’m not a recruitment agent,” she said, instead of what she was thinking (that she wasn’t good like Clint. She couldn’t say the right words to make someone believe they were worth fighting for). “If you need someone to inspire, I’m not the right Avenger to send in. Wanda would be better.”
She should be more surprised that there were other universes, other worlds, but was it really more unbelievable than the idea of aliens and planets filled with intelligent life? “I think they’ve got dark research projects we don’t even have whispers of yet,” she said, “but I can work on getting more information.” It sounded like he was talking about the butterfly effect, and Natasha wasn’t entirely sure what she thought of that one – the importance of destiny versus individual choice. “If a giant purple alien shows up in New York, I hope we’ll notice it,” she teased, a small smile coming onto her face, a smile he was one of few to prompt.
Gratitude wasn’t something she was used to. Neither was someone asking her for acceptance – most often, people saw her approval as something to be sniffed at, at something to keep like a dirty secret. “Of course it’s okay,” she said, and this time, she let her hand rest on his arm, lightly over the area she’d given a dig. “And we’re not friends, Rogers. Don’t get ahead of yourself. We’re barely more than colleagues. Actually, we’re ex colleagues.”
A year. Natasha’s frown deepened, the humour all but gone. “Stark is …” Unpredictable. No matter how she tried, he managed to pull something out of the bag that came from stage left. “He’s more intelligent than I gave him credit for, and not just when it comes to machines. Just because someone seems to be putting themselves on the line doesn’t mean they’re worth trusting.” She paused, feeling those all too familiar walls build – and then she consciously reached over them, touching Steve’s cheek before letting her hand drop. “If he hurts you,” she said, “I’ll kill him. No permission needed, Captain. Understood?”
Steve had led the Avengers, but there was no leading Natasha, not really. She had scraped and clawed for every ounce of agency she had, and he couldn’t blame her for holding on with an iron grip. She and Bucky both had a habit of going quiet, so quiet you almost forgot they were there, until suddenly they spoke, and you realized they had taken in everything, processed it for themselves, and made a plan all on their own for how to deal with it. Steve and Natasha knew how to communicate now, they weren’t fluent in each other’s languages, but they understood enough. “It’s not exactly an easy thing to talk about,” he said quietly. “Conversations like that take time. Energy.” And they could leave you vulnerable too, expose a weakness you didn’t want to show anyone, even your best friends.
What Bucky meant to Natasha was something she would have to decide for herself, and she would tell him when she knew what she wanted to say. Steve respected that. He trusted in that, even. Trust was something solid between them now, a rock they relied on, even if the shape of it took them both by surprise. “You might be the right person for him,” Steve said gently, a little nudge in a direction she might’ve been leaning anyway. “Wanda would make him hot chocolate and tell him everything would be okay. You’d kick his ass and tell him to make it okay,” he said, smirking a little. “Sometimes, that’s what people need.”
None of this was easy. The shape of the future was uncertain, and the world was bigger than they’d ever thought it would be. He was just a kid from Brooklyn, after all. But there were universes that looked to them for help, guidance, protection. “Let me know what you find,” he said, nodding seriously to her. She would find something, of that he was absolutely sure. “I’m gonna start jumping every time I see a Barney balloon,” he quipped. (A reference he only understood because Clint had once made him watch a ‘hysterical’ video where said balloon got caught on a lamppost and deflated slowly during a parade. Parades were different in his day.)
People didn’t look at Nat and expect sentiment. Or any powerful emotion from the infamous Black Widow. But Steve knew that deep in there, her emotions were far more powerful than she wished they would be. She loved with a fierce loyalty, and she showed it with that gentle touch on his arm. “Of course,” he said quietly. “How silly of me. Forgot myself.” They weren’t friends or colleagues. They were family. And sometimes, you didn’t have to say that out-loud.
Somethings though, did need to be said. “I know,” he said. “But he’s... He’s not the kind of person who can pretend to do that. You know him, Nat, you’ve seen him. When he puts his heart on the line, he puts it all out there. Wears it right on his sleeve. I ask him what he’s thinking all the time, but what he’s feeling? It’s right there on his face.” Steve sighed lightly, her hand against his cheek. “Understood,” he said. “But if you ever meet someone, I hold the same privilege.”
