Tattoos
Pairing: Natasha x fem r
Summary: Natasha spots one of your tattoos while you’re sparring, revealing a long, pained history. (Based on a request!!)
Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort
Word Count: 3,000
Song: Christmas Kids- Roar
You’ve been an Avenger for about a year now, finally starting to feel like you’re actually becoming a real member of the team. Everyone had always been welcoming- at least in their own ways. Steve was nice right off the bat, as were Tony and Thor, but the rest of the team took a bit more patience. Wanda came around once she realized you weren’t a threat and Natasha lurked in the shadows until you coaxed her out. Your relationship with each of them was professional, but familial at the same time. There’d always been a grounding feeling that each of you had been through enough to understand each other’s pain, to be there when things got hard, to leave judgement at the door. And not to mention, you all live in the tower, so there’s bound to be a bit of closeness that crosses professional boundaries.
You zip up your jacket, the zipper resting tightly at your neck, your legs fully covered and your sparring gloves on. The tower has always been a bit cold- you blame Tony for that. You also have a few markings, more than you’d like to admit, etched in with ink, preventing you from ever being able to forget the life you once lived. The fights you fought. Some of your tattoos were by choice, pieces of liberation, but some weren’t. And revealing one would mean revealing the rest, and that wasn’t necessarily a can of worms you felt like opening just yet.
You step into the training sector to find most of your teammates already hard at work. Steve and Bucky are by the punching bags, Wanda’s sparring with Tony, and Natasha’s standing next to one of the mats, her eyes landing on you and a grin spreading across her face. You meet her with your own smile, walking towards her. You’d always liked sparring with Natasha. She was good, better than the rest of the team, although you’d never tell her that, and you always liked that she didn’t go easy on you.
“Could I interest you in a friendly fight?” Natasha asks as you approach, tying her hair back.
“I could be convinced.” You plant your hands on your hips. You train with her every chance you get to hone in on your hand to hand combat skills.
“I didn’t hit you hard enough last time?” Natasha lunges into a stretch.
“Guess not.” You kick off your shoes and step onto the mat. Natasha follows, standing opposite of you and squaring herself into position. She’s in a tank top and leggings per usual, showing off the biceps you find your eyes lingering on for a bit longer than they should. Natasha’s attractive, sure, you’d be an idiot to think otherwise.
“Focus on your breathing,” she says with a nod and you nod back, getting into position and holding your hands in front of your face. “Your breath is the most important part, if you don’t control it then you’ll fumble your hits.”
“I know, I know.” You crack a small smile. She gives you nearly the exact same run down every time you spar with her.
“Well you don’t act like it.” Natasha’s eyes narrow. And then there’s this part, where she tries to provoke you to make you mad so you hit her harder. It never works.
“Yeah whatever, just hit m-” You’re cut off as she swings her leg up into a roundhouse, which you dodge at just the last second.
“See?” She recenters herself as you lunge back.
“That had nothing to do with my breathing,” you swing and she hits you with a counter, a punch that would land on your stomach if your knee didn’t come up to block it.
“That’s better,” Natasha huffs, before sending an uppercut that you dodge with a turn of your head. Foolish mistake. Your eyes leave Natasha for maybe a second, but it’s enough. She sweeps her foot and kicks your legs right out from under you. There’s nothing you can do, and so you accept the fall and go tumbling down with a gasp. But Natasha’s quick, and she grabs your jacket with a bark of laughter, hoisting you up before your back can hit the ground. You nearly get whiplash from how quick she pulls you, and then- a tear. Natasha loses her grip as your jacket tears right where she’s holding it, and you nearly fly back down, but you regain your balance quick enough to stay upright.
“Oh, uh-” You try to catch Natasha’s bewildered eyes as you steady yourself. You look down and see that she’s ripped the seam that travels from your elbow down your forearm.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry- are you okay?” Natasha’s cheeks heat up and you laugh.
“Yeah, Nat, I’m fine.” You wave her off.
“I can buy you a new one.”
“No, no, don’t worry about it,” you say, giving her a knowing look. “I have plenty of these, I promise.” Your hand travels to the zipper at your neck, dragging it down and peeling off the jacket without a second thought. The air hits your arms and chest, and you become aware of all the skin your tank top leaves uncovered. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. You tell yourself it doesn’t have to be a big deal. People have tattoos- it’s normal. Except not all of your tattoos are exactly tattoos, some of them creep more towards branding. You throw the jacket to the side and clear your throat. Natasha’s gone still in front of you, but you avoid looking at her.
“You didn’t tell me,” she says quietly.
“Hm?” You lift your head to meet her eyes, but you find that hers are glued to your right shoulder. Right where the Hydra emblem was burned into your skin all those years ago. A gnarled, raised, pink scar that you tried so hard to cover up with other tattoos. But it was futile, really. The brand went deeper than skin. Sometimes you think you can feel it in your bones.
“I didn’t know.” Natasha looks at you now, with a facial expression you’ve never seen before.
“What? About my sweet ink?” You let out a light laugh, stretching your arms out in front of you and scanning your eyes down the trails of vines, stars, and patterns tracing down your arms, chest, and stomach. But Natasha doesn’t laugh in response and the silence is deafening. She doesn’t look at the other tattoos, not at the snake peeking out from your sternum, or the tendrils creeping over your shoulders and wrapping down and around your back. She’s looking at the Hydra emblem. The scar. You feel a bit self conscious all of the sudden- not because Natasha’s seeing your tattoos, but because having them out in the open means they’re real. You begin to curl into yourself slightly, your hands coming up to cover your forearms. Natasha seems to notice and snaps her eyes away from your right shoulder.
“Hey, it’s okay.” She reaches out towards you, but stops herself from getting too close. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- I didn’t-... I just didn’t know you had so many.” She clears her throat.
“No yeah, it’s shocking, I know.” You look down at the floor. A beat of silence goes by.
“I didn’t mean to look at-”
“It’s okay,” you say quickly, turning around and putting your shoes back on.
“You’re done?” Natasha sounds uncharacteristically timid.
“Mhm.” You don’t turn back around. You pick your discarded jacket up off the floor and leave the training room as fast as you can.
You don’t let yourself breathe until you’re safely in your room with the door shut behind you. You drop the jacket and let your face fall into your hands. You hadn’t meant to react like that- it’s really not that big of a deal. But you haven’t let anyone see your bare arms in years. At least three. Doctors had when you were injured, but no one that mattered. It wasn’t that she saw, it was that she cared. And then she didn’t know what to say, and it made you feel bad, like you’d put her in an awkward position. That scar has always made you feel like a monster. You run a finger over it with your eyes closed, feeling the rise and fall of uneven skin, each tendril and the eyes of the skull. Sometimes you can still feel the burn, if you’re left alone for long enough.
You decide to just stay in for the night, lay low and keep yourself from spiraling. You take a hot shower, running all of the sweat of the day off before putting on sweatpants and a hood over a baggy t-shirt. You’re about to settle in with a book when you hear a light knock at the door. You shuffle over and open it slowly.
“Hi,” a small voice says and you see Natasha standing in the dark hallway.
“Hi,” you echo, giving her a smile, trying to forget the last interaction you had with her.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” She says it gently, like she’s worried she might scare you off.
“Yeah, come in.” You open the door and step to the side, letting her walk past you. You shut the door behind her and turn around, leaning your back against it and crossing your arms. Natasha seems lost for a second, scanning her eyes around the room. Eventually, she settles them on you, clearing her throat.
“I just wanted to apologize,” she says curtly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“No, you didn’t-”
“We all have scars, I never meant to make you feel self conscious about yours.”
“It’s okay, Nat,” you say with a firm nod. “Seriously. It’s okay.” You give her a weak smile, but you mean it. It was uncomfortable, sure, but not because of her. It’s uncomfortable because it just is, and for some reason, it feels nice that someone else knows. It’s freeing.
“And I would never tell anyone.”
“I know.”
“And it doesn’t make me see you any differently.”
You hesitate for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Natasha says fiercely. You just look at her, searching for any ounce of doubt. And when you find none, you just nod. “Look-” Natasha turns around abruptly, lifting her tank top halfway up, revealing a black widow emblem etched into the skin of her upper back. For a second you think it might be intentional, but then you see the raised bumps of scar tissue underneath the black lines. You step forward instinctively, to get a better look.
“How old were you?” You whisper.
“Eleven,” Natasha responds. She drops her shirt and turns back around to face you.
You just stare at her for a moment, and her gaze stays on your face. Not at the ghost of the scar beneath your sweatshirt, not at your arms, trying to imagine the scars there. You wordlessly lift your sweatshirt up and over your head, your t-shirt along with it, leaving you in just a sports bra. It’s not a sexual gesture- not in the slightest. You just want her to know. You want her to see it all and see what happens. Her eyes remain on yours, like she’s waiting for permission. Your gaze falls to your shoulder and your hand comes up, brushing over the scar and all of the tattoos surrounding it.
“I was thirteen,” you say quietly. “It was a rite of passage. They did it with a hot iron, planted in plain sight so everyone would know who I belonged to.” You look up and see that she’s studying the scar curiously. Not with pity or fear. “I got the tattoos once I was out. To try and distract people from it maybe.”
“I get it,” Natasha whispers, and then she brings a finger to the scar. She looks at you once for confirmation and you nod. She touches it lightly, feeling the rise of skin.
“And I just wanted to be able to put marks on my body that I liked. For me.”
“To take back what’s yours,” she murmurs.
“Exactly. But they’ll never cover it up fully. It’s not possible. The scar tissue- it’s too deep. I came to learn that I can’t hide it. And it’s- that’s okay. I’m trying to be okay with it.”
“You don’t have to hide it,” Natasha says quietly, continuing to study the scar.
“I know…” you trail off, looking down at your arm and the tattoos there. “But it’s a reminder to everyone. Hydra’s the enemy. I just- I don’t know.”
“You’re on the team for a reason.” She says it gently, lifting her eyes back to yours with her finger still on your shoulder. “I came from a bad place too. I was a bad person. That doesn’t mean I can’t be better. This scar doesn’t define you, but it’s cruel that it tries.”
“Do you still try to hide yours?”
“I did,” Natasha shrugs. “But no one around here cares. There’s just as much blood in my past as Steve's, as Tony’s and Wanda’s. It’s kind of part of the job. I have scars all over my body. Some from bullets, some from shrapnel and knives. At first they made me feel gross, like I was tainted for life, but they’re just part of me now.”
“Can I see?” You ask cautiously and Natasha smiles.
“Yeah. Yeah of course.” She lifts up her shirt and you see a scar just above her left hip. “This is from a mission in Romania. I was escorting a politician and the enemy shot him right through me.”
“God,” you huff.
“And this-” she twists, showing her elbow, “this is shrapnel from a grenade in Sokovia. There’s still a couple shards in there, but for now I just got this cool scar,” Natasha sighs. “There’s a few more, but that’s a story for another day.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for the rest of the team to know yet.” You wrap your arms around yourself like a shield.
“They don’t have to know,” Natasha says, shaking her head. “Not ever, if you don’t want them to.”
“But I’m glad you know,” you say quietly, meeting her eyes with a small smile. There was a time when you told yourself you’d just hide it forever. It’s not too hard- the scar’s on your upper shoulder, so it’s easy to find clothing that covers it.
“Yeah?” she cocks her head, studying you.
“Yeah.”
Natasha brings dinner to your room an hour later, pushing through the door with two plates of food. You accept the gesture gratefully, eating with her on the floor in comfortable silence. It feels good to have a friend. A real one.
“So,” Natasha says as the both of you are finishing up.
“Hm?” You stab your fork at a piece of food.
“Wanna show me the rest of your tattoos?” She quirks a smile and your grin.
“Totally.” You stand up and she follows, picking up both the plates and setting them on the dresser. “This is ivy,” you trace your fingers up and down the vines on your forearms. “There were these crazy vines growing over the windows in my first apartment after I got out. I loved it so I got it kind of everywhere.” You pull down your shirt slightly, pointing at your sternum. “And this is a snake. Not sure what type, I didn’t really get that far. Hurt like a bitch though, I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea.”
Natasha laughs lightly. “And the one on your back? I saw it poking out.”
“Yeah,” you turn around, lifting your shirt until the entirety of your back is exposed. “It’s a sword with vines,” you whisper, “I wanted to connect it to the ivy on my arms.”
You feel a soft hand on your back, tracing up the blade of the sword and then towards the vines wrapping around your shoulder blade and up towards your neck. Your skin tingles and you stay frozen, careful not to move, to shatter the moment- whatever it may be.
“I like that they’re your own,” Natasha says quietly. “That you chose to get them even after your scar.”
“It was the only thing I could think to do,” you say it like a confession.
“You’re strong.”
“Sometimes.”
You drop your shirt, but Natasha’s hand stays on your skin, her fingers lightly gripping your shoulder blade as you turn around. You find her much closer than you expected, her gaze and touch unwavering. Her hand stays still underneath your shirt, as your eyes search her face. She’s solid, grounded in a way that feels safe. Your body feels whole for once. Not just a jumbled pile of pieces that you try so hard to stitch together. Something worth mending.
You realize you can feel Natasha’s breath on your face and then she falters, like she’s only now registering your proximity.
“I’m sorry, this probably isn’t-”
“No,” you say quickly, voice barely above a whisper, “no, stay.”
Natasha just nods, the fear in her eyes fading and that’s when you know you want to kiss her. Is she fighting to keep her eyes away from your lips like you are hers? Does she seem a bit nervous, or are you just making it up? But her body betrays her and her fingers dig into your shoulder blade ever so slightly. You lean forward, just an inch, testing. And then her eyes fall to your lips.
Natasha swallows. “Are you su-”
“Yes.” You nod hurriedly.
“Thank God.” And then she surges forward, pressing her lips to yours. It’s soft at first, but then she’s pulling you flush against her, her hand trailing down your back, finding your waist and then your hip. Her lips move against yours like she’s been waiting for this and you match her hunger because maybe you have been waiting for this. You sigh into the kiss and then she’s pulling away, her arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close.
“Maybe you can show me the rest of those scars some time,” you say without thinking. Her lips are swollen and her eyes are glued to your lips.
“Maybe I can.”