THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
Chapter Two - Castaway
Chapter one | Chapter two | Chapter three | Chapter Four | Chapter five |
Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x female agent reader
Genre: Angst
Summary: You are hurt, stranded, and alone on an unknown island with no one having an idea of where you might be. It was going to be a rough time, and Natasha wasn't having a better time trying to find you.
A/N: Hello again! I must confess I didn't even open this document all week, so I apologize for the delay. Also, I still suck at summaries, so don't read it too closely :) If you have questions, theories of what might happen, maybe something you'd like to see, or just talk about it, please do, I'm always open to talk. Enjoy :)
Also, I have like two more ideas, one is probably a one-shot that I'm not sure will see the light of day because it is based on one single scene that I liked, and the other is probably a series that I'm still trying to figure out, so if you have any ideas, I'm here to read them.
Warnings: +18, descriptions of injuries, language, etc.
Word count: 1.9k+
[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]
That morning
The soft glow of early morning light spilled through the curtains, casting golden stripes across the sheets. The apartment was quiet, suspended in that peaceful stillness just before everything changed.
You stirred slowly, feeling the warmth of Natasha curled around your back, her arm snug around your waist like it was instinct — like some part of her already knew to hold on a little tighter today. Her breath ghosted over the back of your neck, steady and calm, but there was tension beneath it. You felt it in the way her fingers gripped you — not possessive, just… tighter, as if afraid to let go.
You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break the fragile stillness between you.
But she spoke, her voice rough with sleep, quiet and thick with something heavier than usual.
“Stay... just a little longer.”
You turned slowly, meeting her eyes. They were tired, yes, but also brimming with something unspoken — something deeper than worry. Her hand slid along your jaw, thumb brushing against your cheek like she was trying to memorize every line of your face.
“I have to leave in a couple of hours,” you said softly. “Just a recon. Shouldn’t be anything serious.”
Her brows pinched together, and she exhaled through her nose, not buying it for a second. “I know what ‘shouldn’t be serious’ means with S.H.I.E.L.D.”
You gave her a small smile, fingers lacing with hers. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”
She didn’t smile. Instead, she leaned in and pressed her lips to your forehead, lingering. “I miss you the second you leave,” she whispered.
You swallowed the lump rising in your throat and reached up to cup her face. “Hey,” you said gently, “we’re okay. We’re solid. You and me.”
Natasha nodded slowly, but her voice was barely above a breath. “I just have a bad feeling.”
You opened your mouth to reassure her, to tell her you were careful, you were trained, you were prepared—but she kissed you instead. Desperate. Soft. Like it might be the last time.
You let it linger, one hand buried in her hair, the other resting over her heart.
“I’ll come back to you,” you murmured against her lips. “Always.”
She pulled away just enough to look at you, green eyes shining. “You better.”
Later that morning, as you pulled your gear together and checked your comms, Natasha stood in the doorway, arms crossed, silent. She didn’t stop you — she never would — but her eyes followed every movement you made like she was trying to commit it all to memory.
Just before you stepped out the door, she caught your hand and tugged you back for one last kiss. Her fingers brushed against the chain around your neck, where her ring already rested against your heart — always there, always worn.
“Come back,” she said softly. “Come back to me.”
You nodded, kissed her knuckles, and left with her watching you from the threshold.
Neither of you knew what was about to happen.
--
Now
The first thing Natasha noticed was the way Maria wouldn’t meet her eyes.
The second was the silence.
Natasha had been in enough briefings and enough war rooms to recognize when bad news was about to drop like a hammer. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared her for what she heard next.
“Nat,” Maria’s voice was steady, too steady. “There’s been an incident.”
Natasha’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. “Say it.”
Maria exhaled sharply. “Her Quinjet went down. Mid-flight. We lost contact before she could give a location.”
The room seemed to shrink around Natasha, her breath locking in her throat. Maria's words echoed in her mind as panic began to rise within her. “No.” The word came out flat, emotionless, but a cold dread was clawing up her spine. “You don’t just lose a Quinjet.”
Fury’s voice cut through the tension. “We believe it was an attack. There was a missile lock.”
Natasha barely heard the rest. Missile. Attack. No location. No body.
Her knees nearly buckled, but she locked them in place. Focus. This was just another mission. Another problem to solve.
Except it wasn’t.
Because it was you.
Maria stepped closer, her voice quieter. Softer. “Natasha, we have search teams deployed, but…”
But they won’t find her in time.
She turned on her heel and stormed out. If they weren’t going to find you, she would. Even if it killed her. The weight of the situation settled heavily on her shoulders as she made her way to the hangar, determination fueling her every step. Natasha knew she had to find you, no matter the cost.
--
Pain. Unrelenting, suffocating pain.
Your right side was a mess—ribs cracked, shoulder stiff and throbbing, head pounding. The pain threatened to pull you under, but every time the darkness crept in, you forced yourself forward.
You had hours, maybe a day at most,before dehydration set in. So you moved.
Through the pain, you held on to memories—moments that kept you from spiraling into despair.
Natasha’s smile when she caught you singing off-key in the kitchen.
The way she’d trace her fingers along your spine, whispering about the life you’d build together.
The day you proposed.
But what you didn't know was Natasha had her own plans. A few weeks later, she had presented you with her own ring. “I wanted you to have something of me, too. A piece of me to carry with you. Always.”
And you had. Up until the crash. Where the rings still hung from your neck.
Every step hurt. Bones, skin, lungs. The sun was blinding above the jagged cliffs, and your thoughts came in fragments—fire, explosion, water, screaming metal.
You didn’t remember the impact. Just falling. Then silence.
The Quinjet was gone. Your radio was dead, soaked, and broken. The utility belt strapped to your waist had a partially intact emergency kit—some gauze, flares, and a water filtration capsule. Not much.
The ring around your neck pressed into your collarbone as you walked.
You touched it instinctively. Natasha. The last thing you saw before you left.
You kept moving, eyes sweeping the tree line, heart pounding. You shouted. Over and over. “HELLO?!” But your voice vanished into the jungle. No answer. "Of course, I'm alone." You whispered to yourself.
By late afternoon, your stomach was twisting with hunger. As you sat near a palm tree attempting to put together a plan to get food, the solution literally fell from the sky. Well, from the tree above you.
Coconuts.
Not only could you eat part of it, but you could also drink its contents, and for now that was enough to keep your hopes up. It took everything in you to climb the trees to get more, but pain wasn't unfamiliar. So, you pushed through. You gathered as many as you could carry and took them with you to where you wanted to set camp. With that, a new problem arose.
Opening them.
Looking around, you saw a rock; it seemed pointed enough to make a hole in them. However, there was no way you could just hit it against the rock; your ribs were already killing you. So, with another rock, you gave the first hit at the fruit.
Then another. And another. By the fourth hit, the rock broke into pieces. Which could've disappointed you, had it not been for the new shape of it. It was almost like an axe, and you could work with that.
It wasn't long before you could crack open the coconut, revealing the refreshing water inside. As you took a long drink, you felt a sense of accomplishment and relief wash over you. It wasn't much yet, but it helped.
That night, you huddled beneath a slanted palm trunk. You gathered some leaves from the trees, attempting to at least help shelter yourself against the wind, and it worked; the sand was warm enough, not comfortable, but nothing too bad, and not being as exposed to the cold wind kept you satisfied enough for the night.
The sound of the crashing waves lulled you to sleep. Only to wake up a while later having dreamed of Natasha's voice calling your name, but when you woke—there was only the ocean again.
By the second day, you limped along the shoreline, tracking debris. You found part of a panel—charred, mangled metal. A utility case half-buried in the sand. It held nothing useful. Just a broken comm and a singed emergency beacon. You smashed it open and salvaged the battery.
You tried to make a fire. Used your belt buckle, broken glass, anything. But the fire wouldn’t catch. Everything was too wet. Your hands blistered. Your throat was hoarse from shouting.
At one point, you kicked a driftwood log and screamed into the empty beach.
“COME ON!”
Your voice echoed back, hollow and cruel.
And of course, your injuries protested.
By the third, you spotted a cliff ledge—high enough to see out over the water. You climbed slowly, painfully, scraping your palms on rock and bark. When you reached the top, you saw nothing.
Just water.
Endless, stretching to the edge of the world.
You built a signal—stones arranged in a wide SOS across the sand below. It looked so small from up high.
That night, you returned to the ledge, pressed your back against the cliff wall, knees drawn to your chest. You took the ring from beneath your shirt and held it tight in your palm.
“I’m still here,” you whispered to no one. “I’m trying, Nat. I’m trying.”
—
Back at HQ, Natasha didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.
She tore through every satellite feed, every transmission log, and every scrap of telemetry the techs could dig up. Footage. Heat signatures. Sea drift patterns. She chased ghosts across the grid, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached.
Every dead end chipped away at her resolve—but not her focus. She wouldn’t let it. She couldn’t. This wasn’t the first time someone she loved had gone missing. But it was the first time she truly had something to lose.
Clint showed up on the second day with takeout and a quiet, worried look in his eyes. He didn’t tell her to sleep. Didn’t tell her to eat. Just left the food on the table and sat across from her, offering nothing but silent company as she worked like a machine.
She didn’t touch the food.
Didn’t speak.
By the third day, she felt like she was drowning—but not in water. In helplessness. In rage. In fear that clung to her like smoke. There were moments—brief, flashing, cruel—when her breath caught and her mind whispered the word she refused to say.
Gone.
But she wouldn’t say it. Wouldn’t believe it.
Instead, she gripped the chain around her neck, the engagement ring pressing hard into her skin like it might fuse there. A lifeline. A promise.
She could still hear your voice in her memory—laughing, soft, unguarded. The way you’d look at her when you thought she wasn’t paying attention. The way you kissed her like the world wasn’t ending.
And now it might have been.
She stared at the map on the screen in front of her—ocean, coordinates, empty space. She blinked and for a moment saw you standing there in the doorway of your shared apartment, in that oversized hoodie, holding a mug of tea and smiling like the world didn’t scare you.
She clenched her fists.
No.
You were still out there. You had to be. Somewhere in that vast, blue nothing, you were breathing. Fighting. Holding on.
Because if you weren't, then she didn’t know how to be Natasha anymore.
She refused to grieve. Not yet. Because if there was even a chance—just one glimmer of hope—then she was going to find you.
She always did.
----
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