MCU (c) Marvel Studios

In hindsight, blaming poor life choices on too many martinis wasn't the wisest of solutions. Not when said poor life choice was made before imbibing any ounce of vodka. Still, Natasha felt confident that after this night was over and she was curled up in bed nursing a hangover, blaming everything on the martinis would be the go-to answer. The day had dawned with a sense of impending dread: as it always did whenever Tony threw a party in honor of a holiday, be it Halloween or Christmas or New Year's. Parties meant mingling, and mingling meant wearing various masks in order to hide herself and please people. Though trained in the art of deception since childhood, Natasha found it exhausting in frivolous social settings like Tony's parties.

She hadn't wanted to get out of bed. If — she reasoned — stayed in bed, then the day would pass her by without a care as if October 31, 2014 had never happened. Alas, her phone had thwarted all plans of staying in bed and avoiding the day entirely. Grumbling, she had grabbed her phone with the intent of ignoring the call — whomever was calling her could go to hell and to her voicemail box (which was full and no longer accepting more messages) — until she saw the picture bouncing in the middle of the screen and the name Steve Rogers on top. For a moment time had come to a halt, the world had hung still and all she was able to think about was that it was him. He was calling her. The dryness in her mouth made her tongue heavy and useless. Butterflies tumbled in her stomach and an uncharacteristic indecision wrapped its icy fingers around her gut. The phone vibrated again in her hand, the screen flaring into a brighter life. Swallowing — it did little to ease the dryness in her throat — she swiped up, answering the call.

After six months of not hearing from Steve, their phone call was queerly brief. Steve was back in the States, staying in DC with plans to make it to New York within the week. He felt the need to touch bases with her after what happened with Shield. Natasha had agreed though a myriad of questions tumbled around her mind: why now? Why didn't you call sooner? Why didn't you ask me to stay? Why didn't you ask me to come with you? Those questions had died on her tongue as their stilted conversation faltered into an awkward pause.

And that's when she said it. When she uttered the simple phrase that sent the events of the rest of the day in motion, why she was sitting at the chic bar in communal space of the Avengers Tower, guzzling martinis in hope she could drink enough that would actually take some time for the Red Room's serum coursing through her veins to metabolize the alcohol and she would actually get drunk. Bobby Pickett's Monster Mash began to pound in her head, the flashing lights synchronized to the song's beat hurt her eyes. Good, she thought, I'm starting to get drunk. Blaming too many martinis was easier than realizing her own foolishness. Love was for children.

Still, it galled her that he hadn't called her in six fucking months. Six months since Shield fell — or more aptly — since she and Steve exposed it as Hydra and brought it crashing down in a burning heap — literally. The news still liked to replay footage of the next generation helicarriers firing at each other before crashing into the Potomac. It had been the news' new favorite past time: blaming Captain America and Black Widow for the ills of the country.

The criticism didn't bother her. Being called cold, heartless, apathetic, a monster; all things she heard before. Having people that don't understand what she did or her past question her heroism — an annoyance as commonplace as a buzzing fly. No. No what bothered her were the things the news networks said about Steve. Questioning his loyalty to the United States, his heroism — hell, even going back to questioning his actions in WWII. Actions he took to ensure they could be born and question him later. "You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain," she muttered, picking up the toothpick that speared three olives from her empty martini glass. With practice skill, she pulled the olives off the little wooden stick with her teeth. It had been six months since she last saw him in the graveyard.

I wanted to hear you voice, Tasha. A frown creased her lips; the green face paint cracking at the corners. Why hadn't he called her Nat? Tasha made her sound dirty, like a cheap Russian whore Tony picked up in Little Ukraine. Though even Matt Murdock — her current boyfriend (even though they haven't seen each other recently) — would sometimes called her Tasha. So why was Steve suddenly using it?

The bartender lifted a brow at her comment and set another martini in front of her. The olives looking suspiciously like blood shot eyeballs suspended in formaldehyde. Trust Tony to make sure the drinks at the bar stuck to the Halloween theme. Groaning, she took a sip, wincing as Michael Jackson's Thriller blared through the speakers. Natasha had to hand it to Stark though — as she looked around the room — he knew how to throw a party. People dressed as classic ghouls and monsters, various sexy versions of occupations they don't perform, and several pop culture characters. Tony had declared the Avengers were doing Justice League or characters from the DC universe. Needless to say, finding a pale green spandex body suit for Poison Ivy was the least of her worries. "There you are," Carol said, weaving through the crowd. She adjusted the circlet on her brow before sitting down. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you mingling?" Carol tapped the bar and the bartender gave her a beer. Natasha watched as Carol twisted the cap off without a care. Kree enhanced super strength definitely came in handy. "Or are you waiting for Matt to show up?" Carol glanced at the door. "You did invite him right?"

A small smile graced her lips. Carol and Steve loved pulling that prank on Tony and Rhodey, jokingly asking them why their beer bottles weren't twist-offs too. "After the fifth sexy fireman asked if I needed him to water my plants, I decided that mingling would end up with legal issues that I just didn't want Pepper to deal with." She shrugged, sipping her martini as she leaned back against the counter. "I did invite Matt, but he said he had other plans for Halloween." Though knowing Matt, he was probably running around Hell's Kitchen in his devil outfit beating up bad guys and trying to keep general order tonight.

"How long have you two been dating?"

"Since 2010, after the StarkExpo. I was assigned to New York." Matt was a great guy. Dark sense of humor tinge with Catholic cynicism and self-deprecation (most often directed at his blindness). There was a good heart in him, despite the cruelties life had heaped upon him. When they were together, they made an effective and striking couple. Though lately she's come to realize that she and Matt had drifted apart. While they were both married to their jobs — and lives as heroes — Matt was reluctant to leave New York, downright refusing to relocate to DC with her when Fury reassigned her to help Steve adjust to the 21st Century. She even offered to relocate Foggy too, if that was what was holding Matt back. Turned out Matt was one of those people that wouldn't leave New York for love or money, while she never really had any place to call home. Relocating never bothered her, what was one new place compared to the other. They all ended up the same in the end. Matt was born and bred in the concrete jungle of New York, Hell's Kitchen was his backyard. And the time apart made her realize that, as much as she loved Matt and cared about him and wouldn't mind having a life with him, he wasn't the right fit for her. Though why she was concerned about romance to begin with, boggled her mind. Just, another thing to blame on the martinis she supposed. Still, the realization that her relationship with Matt Murdock was most likely over hurt. A bitter painful stabbing in her heart.

"He's no Steve Rogers, I'll give you that," Carol said, nudging her. She scowled, privately admitting that — yes, yes, that was definitely a part of why she and Matt grew apart. Not that Matt didn't see the good in her — he did — but he tried to fix her — it was probably his Catholicism coming into play. As if the evil of her past was something broken within her. Steve accepted the red in her ledger and never tried to erase it.

She hummed, twirling the toothpick around in the glass. "You and Thor making a striking couple," she said, steering the conversation away from her convoluted love life.

Carol laughed. "Superman and Wonder Woman, huh? Don't exactly see Thor as Superman" — Carol took a sip of her beer, leaning against the counter — "that's more Steve."

"Well, Thor is an alien."

"Touché." Carol nodded in the direction of the God of Thunder, his black wig askew as he danced with a pretty brunette bimbo. Natasha watched Carol grip her bottle tighter. "I'm not exactly an Amazon though."

"Squeeze that bottle any harder and you may be strong like one." Natasha nodded to the bottle. Carol frowned. "If it bothers you so much, go over and cut in."

"I'm not bothered," the other woman said, tucking some blond hair back beneath the black wig she wore. "Not bothered at all." She nudged Natasha's leg. "You on the other hand, have been drinking martinis as if they are going out of fashion. What's up?" Carol smirked, nudging her. "Is it because there's still radio silence from Steve?"

Natasha gave Carol a tight smile, watching the crowd with amusement. If only New York's socialites and businessmen, politicians and various dignitaries, celebrities and sport stars knew that JARVIS was recording everything — it was small wonder most people paid little mind to Tony's eccentric antics — he had a treasure trove of blackmail material with all of his parties. Any other time, the crowd of who's who was the sort she would revel in. Drifting through the currents of conversation as like a river trout, mingling here and there with a pretty ready smile on her lips and secrets in her eyes. Giving Carol a blithe smile, she said: "For your information Danvers, Rogers isn't the be all end all of my problems. I have a life that doesn't revolve around him" — she picked up the toothpick and pulled off one of the eyeball-esque olives, popping it into her mouth — "that being said, nothing is up. I just don't feel like exerting energy in false smiles for fake people." She titled her head, a cute sardonic smile dancing on her lips.

Carol snorted, taking a swig of her beer to hide an amuse smile. "Rogers has gotten under your skin, I see." The music changed to another Halloween song with the sound of ratting chains in the background. It sent chills down Natasha's spine as the screams of young girls echoed at the edge of her memory. "I just wanted to see how you're doing." Carol brought the bottle back to her lips and took a long swallow. "Before the Kree took me to Hala, my friend Maria and I would go to the bar near the base and sing bad karaoke." A sad smile lingered for a moment on Carol's face.

"How's Maria and Monica?" Natasha asked. "You visited them after the Battle of New York, right?"

Carol nodded. "They're good, Maria got married to a firefighter named Frank, while I was trying to find Talos and his Skrulls a new home. He's a good man. Really bonded with Monica," Carol said.

"You never told me what happened to Monica's birth father," Natasha said. Carol twirled the bottle in her hand. "You don't have to tell me."

Carol shook her head. "No. He was a fighter pilot. Died in a training accident. Didn't even know Maria was pregnant. Maria's parents didn't approve of her being in the Air Force, they weren't too happy when she was unmarried and pregnant. Maria made an effort to repair the bridges with them for Monica's sake."

"Maria and Monica are lucky to have you in their lives," Natasha said.

"Thanks" — Carol smiled — "We should do karaoke, Nat. Just you and me, go find a karaoke bar and just let loose for the night."

The idea of singing popular songs that she didn't like in front of strangers wasn't appealing to her in the least. The martini beckoned her as she swirled it around. "I don't sing, Carol." With that said, she down the rest of her martini.

"Oh, c'mon! Neither do I, but it's fun. Get a few beers in you, get buzzed, doesn't matter if you can sing or not after that." Carol nudged her. "Be a girls' night out thing. We can invite Pepper and Hill if you feel that insecure about your vocal abilities."

A chuckle escaped her. "I'm a ballerina not a soprano," she said.

"Betcha you could be good at both."

Sometimes Carol's bluntness was a refreshing change of pace. "Fair enough." It was strange that she and Carol became fast friends; it was nice having another woman to talk to about the superhero life nonetheless. Clint was still her closest friend, but he was silent and reserve, until someone earned his trust did he opened up with a dry witty sarcasm. Carol was bold and open about her feelings, though she hid her more painful memories behind a cool mask. The bartender set another martini in by her. Picking it up she clinked the rim against Carol's beer bottle. "Diva power."

"Damn straight." Carol grinned, a spark in her eyes. "Diva power." They sat in comfortable silence for a while, commenting on the costumes —how awful the so-called 'sexy' costumes are, how creative some of the people got with the classic spooks and pop culture icons — and Natasha felt relaxed, her cares from earlier miles away. They watched Stark — dressed as Batman — flit from one big wig to another, schmoozing them with easy confidence. "You can tell me, Nat, about what's bothering you."

The thought of confiding in Carol sent a cold bolt right to her gut; she took a large swallow of her martini, holding the cold liquid in her mouth before swallowing. "Oh?"

"Mmhmm." Carol sipped her beer, frowning as she shook it only to notice she had reached the bottom. She set it on the counter. The bartender quickly replaced it with a fresh frosted bottle. A small crowd had gathered a little off center, Thor guffawing as people tried to lift his hammer. Businessmen drunkenly placing bets with each other to see who could lift it.

Natasha licked her lips, tasting the sharp tang of vermouth. I wanted to hear your voice, Tasha. I missed talking to you.

Then why didn't you call me for six months? She should have said that. It was on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't say it. Instead she had said she was glad to hear from him, which prompted a sigh from him — almost as if there was more, he wanted to say but didn't. Funny, how pregnant silence could be with things unsaid. "Rogers called me this morning."

"And?"

"And what?" Natasha watched as Tony cracked a joke, the gaggle of beefy linebackers falling into uproarious laughter and making everyone that didn't get it feel left out. She took another sip of her martini. "He wanted to tell me he was back and that he'll be staying in DC for a spell and then coming back to New York."

Carol narrowed her eyes. "You're hiding something."

The statement sent her brows into her hairline. "Wow, Danvers," she said coolly, "what made you suddenly realize that I'm hiding something?"

"Don't bullshit me, Romanoff," Carol said, pointing a finger at her. "You and Rogers haven't spoken for six months and you want me to believe you two talked about his immediate plans? Fuck you."

Narrowing her eyes, Natasha tossed back the rest of her martini and rolled her shoulders. "I don't have to divulge every minutia of my life with you, Carol" — she waved her hand at the bartender, who shrugged and took her empty glass and placed it in the sink full of soapy water — "no need to be snitty."

"I'm only snitty" — Carol took a swig of her beer — "because I see what you aren't admitting to yourself."

She rolled her eyes, looking at her friend. "Pray tell," she said, "what am I not admitting to myself?"

Carol smirked, hooding her eyes in a devious manner. "You know." Natasha's frowned deepened. "The graveyard." Carol deadpanned. "You had a golden opportunity. He was waiting for you take it to the next level and you left him hanging." She finished off her beer. "You just walked away. I don't get it."

Back to this again, huh? She thought as she ran a hand through her hair. The face paint was starting to bother her. The memory of the late April sun on her skin still fresh in her mind, how it made his hair appear like spun gold, muted in the shade of the tree. Was Carol, right? Was he waiting for her to make a move, to take this — whatever it is they had — beyond a deep friendship? Probably not. Truth be told, she felt like she was reading too much into it (and so was Carol). After all, she did tell him to call Sharon — as a favor to her — and he always followed up on his favors owed.

"Ladies!" Tony sashayed over to them, black cape billowing dramatically in his wake. "Enjoying the party?"

"I was before you showed up," Carol muttered, rolling her eyes. Tony shot her a scowl.

"Oh yes," she said, drawing Tony's attention away from Carol, "it's riveting. How did you manage to shove this much egotism into one space with room to spare for yours is truly a feat." She clapped mockingly. "Bravo. I'm stunned."

Tony frowned at them as he took a seat. "You know Natalie, you have a sharp tongue."

"And a sharper wit," she said, leaning in close. The scent of booze wafted off Tony in a heady wave; she wrinkled her nose. "Careful Stark, don't wanna get cut now do you?"

He laughed uneasily, glancing about the room. Pepper — dressed as Catwoman — was talking to Maria Hill — who was dressed as the Aztec warrior goddess Itzpapalotl. "Where's Rogers? Don't think he'd take too kindly to you flirting with me." A cheer went up somewhere among the crowd of party-goers, she wasn't sure what they were cheering about. Pursing her lips, she put her hand on Tony's thigh, a predatory glint sparkling in her eyes.

"What makes you think Rogers would be upset with me flirting with you?" she cooed, hooding her eyes and leaning in close. Carol choked on her drink, Tony audibly gulped. "I'm my own woman, he has no control over me."

"Uh-huh," he said, "it's just" — he plucked her hand off his thigh as if she was coated in poison — "you two were awfully chummy at Shield or should I say Hydra. So, I figured you two were…" he trailed off, looking at anything other than her. Pepper and Maria glanced over at them but that was the only acknowledgement the other two women gave them.

Narrowing her eyes, she straightened in her seat. "He and I were what?" she asked, the words coming out in a sharp hiss. Tony didn't say anything and cowered beneath her scowl. "Stark."

"Just that you and him, were well…" he shrugged, gesticulating with one hand towards the crowd as if that explained what he refused to say. "You know…"

"No, I don't know."

Tony sighed, taking the bat mask off his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I mean, it's rather obvious. Unless, I'm reading everything wrong and it's really you and Barton—"

"Barton and I are friends," she said. "Get your head outta the gutter, Stark. Nothing is going on between me and Rogers or me and anyone." She slipped off the stool, wobbling a bit on unsteady legs. Definitely blaming everything on the martinis now. The night was starting to get to her, people pressuring her into a corner she didn't want to get backed into. Head spinning, she looked around trying to locate the exit, but everything was a twilit blur with the synthetic bass vibrating beneath her brain, rattling her already aching skull.

"You gonna be okay?" Tony asked, placing a steadying hand on her arm. She groaned, not sure if she should nod or shake her head. Carol set her beer down and hopped off her stool. "You got her Danvers?"

"Yeah, I'll get her to her suite," Carol said. Natasha sighed, leaning against Carol's strong hands. "C'mon Romanoff, let's get you off to bed." She nudged her with her knee and together they wove through the crowd. Natasha pressed a hand to her forehead — the music made her head feel like it was having its own personal earthquake; walking was a chore with her feet not wanting to obey her.

We went to Moscow.

Yeah?

Thought of you, dreamt of you.

Oh.

Didn't call that nurse.

Why?

Cause she wasn't you.

Natasha frowned. "She wasn't me," she said, her voice soft.

"Who wasn't you?" Carol asked, as they slipped into the hallway that lead to the elevator. The music felt distant and far away now, the lights of Manhattan bright yellows and oranges, neon greens and blues and reds. An endless sea of color against the black still night. An airplane flew overhead — its red and green wing lights flashing, the windows of Avengers tower thick enough that she couldn't hear the drone of the engines.

"The nurse," she frowned. Had he said that or was she misremembering their unusual conversation from this morning? She knew he wore his heart on the sleeve (to an extent, even Steve Rogers wasn't stupid enough to lay his emotions completely bare for all the world to see). "Carol?" Natasha asked, once they got into the elevator. Carol made a humming sound. "What's it like to be in love?" A frown creased her lips; it wasn't the question she wanted to ask, but it was the question that came out. "Do you know what it feels like?" The elevator started to descend, a soft mechanical sound. The lights of New York scintillating like too close stars all around them.

"No," Carol said, as the elevator stopped at the floor of her suite. "I don't." The doors hissed open, the hallway dark, save for the LED runner lights at the edges of the floor. Natasha stepped out, world spinning and his voice ringing in her head.

God Almighty, I missed you Tasha. "Oh." The wall was cool beneath her palm, the door to her suite just a few paces from the elevator. "Thought you might." She looked away. This was why she never liked getting drunk. It tore down her carefully constructed walls much too easily and she divulged secrets to people — secrets, fears and worries, she rather keep close to her chest. "Never mind then." Nodding more to herself, she turned and began to stumble her way to her door.

"Bit of advice," Carol called after her. She paused, turning slightly. "If I had Mr. Hunkalicious staring at me wanting more than a peck on the cheek you bet, I would give him a kiss."

Natasha scrunched her face up. "Did you just refer to Steve" — there, she said his name. It tasted sweet on her tongue, pleasant in her mouth, heady as ambrosia from Olympus — "as Mr. Hunkalicious?" she asked. Carol laughed, closing the distance between them. "Why would you call him that?" she added.

"I call it like I see it," she said, helping her the rest of the way to her room. "I mean, that suit he was wearing during the Battle of New York was horrid, but it showed off his ass." Carol gave her a wink.

Natasha hummed, remembering one mission back in January up in the Finnish Lapland. Steve had fallen through a weak patch of ice and she had hauled his heavy ass to the safehouse — trekking through thigh high snowdrifts no less; the northern lights a ribbon of color overhead — and had to strip him to his boxers to keep him warm. "He has a fine ass," she mumbled. Carol giggled. "Round like a peach and tight as a drum." And perfectly sculpted thighs, big and powerful.

"See," Carol teased, nudging her as the door to her suite hissed open. The room was dim, the orange glow of the city's lights blocked out by the specialized curtains over the windows that blocked out the majority of the light but allowed a person to view the exterior. Carol set her on the bed. "You know what I think?" she flipped on the desk lamp to illuminate the room in a soft golden glow. She hummed, looking at her friend. "I think he has a huge dick." She held up her index fingers to indicate the hypothesized size of Steve's penis. "Long, thick and pink."

The green face paint and years of training in the Red Room kept the blush hidden. That same mission, she and Steve had fallen asleep together — it was more out of necessity to keep him warm — and when she had woken up, she was surprised by what she felt poking her in the stomach. The mortified blush on Steve's face when she roused him hid the darker smolder of desire in his blue eyes. And it was that desire in his eyes that kept her mind drifting back to that particular memory in the dark of night, when her hands wandered down her flat stomach to the silken folds between her legs. Did he want her? Had he always wanted her? Or was she being foolish and reading too much into it?

It wasn't like she was inexperience with men desiring her — on a purely physical level. Being sexually objectified had been her bread and butter all her life, it was something she was skilled at manipulating and exploiting. Sex was a meaningless bodily function yet… yet in that split second before his awkward apology tumbled from his lips, Natasha felt that sex with Steve could maybe mean something beyond a physical act. That maybe it could be an act of love, a physical manifestation of their deeper feelings. In hindsight, she knew it to be a falsehood. Sex was sex. There was nothing deeper beyond it. At the end of the day it was just fucking.

Natasha shook her head and ran her fingers through her hair. "Not sure if that's what you imagine Steve's dick to be like or what you hope Thor's dick actually is," she said. If Carol was going to give her shit about her thing — can she call it a thing? Is it even a thing? Or is everyone reading too much into her subtle body language when it came to Steve Rogers — with Steve, then she certainly can dish out shit when it came to Carol and her obvious crush on Thor.

Even in the dim light, Natasha saw the splash of pink on Carol's cheeks. "Thor and I" — Carol huffed, crossing her arms over her chest — "don't even go there Romanoff. This is about you and Rogers." Carol lifted her chin in a haughty manner. "Besides, we both know Thor is better endowed than Rogers ever will be."

"Oh my God, Danvers, why?" she asked. It had gotten to the point where she needed to go to bed. If Carol stayed any longer, she may just spill the beans and tell her that she was absolutely right: Steve did — at least it felt like he did — have a huge dick. Thor was — in Natasha opinion — inferior in the department of masculine endowment.

Carol shrugged, standing up. "Gotcha thinking about it now, don't I?" Natasha scowled; Carol grinned. "So, you have to find out if he does."

"Go away," she said, flopping onto her back. Carol laughed. "Goodnight Carol."

"Night, Nat," she said, and Natasha heard her leave, before rolling over and turning the light off. Silence pressed in around her only to be broken by the distant muted wail of a siren. New York didn't sleep, the city kept going even into the wee hours of the morning. A sigh escaped her. She stood up, padding her unsteady way to the window. Lights of every color shown below, cars — only a few compared to how many packed the lanes during the day — zipped along. The city lights made her think of Steve, how he'd sit by the window and sketch the cityscape, the way his long and slender fingers held a pencil, how his brow furrowed in concentration, and his hair stood up from him running his hand through it so often due to his frustration at not being able to get something just right. The lights made her wonder if he was okay, and what he was doing for Halloween. He had once mentioned he liked classic monster movies from the 30s. How he and Bucky huddled around the radio during 1938 to listen to the reading of H.G. Wells' War of the Worlds and how they laughed the next day when the newspapers reported that the Earth was going to be invaded by Martians only to recant that headline by the time the evening paper was printed saying it was a hoax and they apologize for alarming the citizenry.

"Miss Romanoff, the water should be sufficiently hot for a shower," JARVIS said. She smiled, touching the metal divide between the window. Tomorrow was November or maybe it was November already, she didn't know, hadn't seen a clock in a few hours. "Is there anything else?"

"No, that'll be all," she said, walking to her dresser to pull out a pair of pajamas. The AI bid her good night and she returned the sentiment as she entered the chic modern bathroom that was a standard feature for all the resident suites for the Avengers within the tower. Hot steamy water erupted once she twisted the knob, and the shock of it against her skin did little to clear her head. It barely pushed the hazy feeling from her eyes, instead it lulled her into a relaxed state, allowing her to scrub away the make-up and the evidence of tonight's party from her body on autopilot, her mind adrift in a sea of memory: the pair of headstones by the chain linked fence with weeds growing besides them. Despite the harsh Russian cold, she plucked the stubborn weeds from the graves of her parents — ignoring the fact no names or dates had been carved into the lifeless grey stone.

The knob squeaked when she turned the water off. Hair dripping, she shook her head, smiling at the sound of water hitting the walls of the shower. The rug beneath her feet as she stepped out was coarse, the bathroom hot and humid with the mirror fogged over. Swiping her hand across the glass, she frowned when she noticed she didn't get all the green eyeshadow and eyeliner off her eyes. Grumbling, she attacked the offending remains of the cosmetics with a make up remover pad, skin stinging from the astringent chemicals. It had little effect. The last of the water gushed from the shower head, gurgling down the drain, like the sound of the river swallowing the burning remains of the helicarrier.

They had been flying low over the river, ignoring the helicarriers sinking to their watery graves. A part of her — the human part of her — felt bad that the crews on those carriers had to die. The Black Widow part didn't, reasoning that sacrifices had to be made in war; for that was what it was: a shadow war. Thankless, bitter work.

Sam had spotted Steve's body first, but she was unbuckling herself from the seat and throwing off the headset before anyone could stop her. The impact hurt like the bullet she took from the Winter Soldier's rifle a day earlier. In fact, she was pretty sure she pulled the stitches as her shoulder felt damp. All of that didn't matter as she ran along the bank to his prone body. "Don't be dead, don't be dead, please don't be dead." It was a mantra that she repeated as she fell to her knees and rolled Steve onto his back. His skin was bone white, lips a faint blue and blond hair wet and matted against his skull. Tears stung her eyes, constricted her throat as she shakily pressed two fingers to his neck. She kept her eyes on his face, ignoring the horrid red splotches on his thigh and abdomen. His pulse was there, but weak and when she leaned her ear close to his mouth, she could barely hear the wheeze of breath pass from his lips. "I need medical ASAP," she said into the comms on her Widow Bite. "Rogers" — Steve — "is down. Hurt bad. I need medical."

There was a grabbled response and she glanced up at the helicopter that Fury piloted. It angled away to get help, at least she hoped. "Don't you die on me, Rogers," she hissed, starting chest compressions. "We got this far, we survived a missile strike, you survived seventy years frozen in ice, you can survive this!" She tipped his jaw up and pinched his nose as she gave him a breath. "C'mon Steve!" she whispered, repeating the process. "Breathe!" she gave him another breath, his lips clammy against hers.

In reality, she maybe had been giving him CPR for a minute or two. Sirens had been blaring since the attack started, first responders rushing to help anyone trapped inside. Fury had seen her, had gone to get help. Still, it felt like hours as she pressed down on Steve's chest, gave him a breath, pressed down on his chest again. Her hands turned numb and cold, her arms ached with pressing down hard enough to coax his heart into beating on its own. Hair clung to her brow, her lip hurt from biting it so hard. "Don't you die on me, Rogers. Don't you dare die!" I need you, Steve. She gave him another breath, her hand resting on his chest, hoping to feel it rise on its own. Pulling away, she stared at his face, shaking with fear or frustration — she didn't know. This was out of her ability to control, the world unraveling around her as her emotions sparked at her already frayed nerves. It scared her down to her core. If she couldn't control the situation then she couldn't predict responses, and if she couldn't — she closed her eyes, giving herself a little shake. No, she wouldn't go trotting down that rabbit hole.

The shuttering and sudden rise of Steve's chest and his loud gasp for breath alerted her back to the situation at hand. "Steve!" her voice sounded weak even to her own ears. His eyes fluttered open, bright forget-me-not blue; color returned to his lips and cheeks, time stood still as he simply stared at her. If someone had asked her if her hands shook as she took his face in her hands — she would deny it. But they did, and she ran her thumbs along his cheekbones. Alive. Alive. Steve was alive. She would also deny the tears on her cheeks as she whispered, "I don't owe you anymore."

Steve gave a weak sounding laugh, as he closed his eyes. Gently, she maneuvered him until she could pillow his head on her lap. The paramedics arrived moments later in a fanfare of blaring sirens and flashing lights, shouting to hurry up an get to Captain America. She stayed by his side — the eye's calm amongst the storm of activity — clinging to his hand as they lifted him onto the stretcher and wheeled him into the ambulance. "Are you family" the wide-eyed paramedic asked. Was she family? Technically, no. She was his friend, partner, Avenger. But not his girlfriend or wife or anything remotely close to being considered kin. For half a heartbeat she wanted to lie and say she was his girlfriend.

"No." She bowed her head, which allowed her to peer at Steve between the bodies of the busy paramedics. There wasn't much to see though, and he wasn't looking for her. "No, I'm not."

"Sorry then, but you can't ride with us," the paramedic said, closing the doors shut. She heard him bang on the side. The sirens screamed into life and the ambulance drove away, bouncing over the uneven terrain. It felt as if they took her heart with them. And it was the beating of her heart — which she acutely felt in her head — that kept her awake right now.

"Party still going on, JARVIS?" she asked, folding the pillow over her head.

"It's winding down, but I shall increase the soundproofing around your bedroom Miss Romanoff," the AI said.

"Thanks," she said, groaning the word out as she wondered for the umpteenth time why did she drink so many fucking martinis? All she wanted was to sleep. Though for a woman like her, sleep was a fickle friend at best, at worse it was a torturous hell of regret and blood and obsidian sharp memories. The nights she didn't dream were the best and she favored them, longing for such nights whenever she closed her eyes. Those nights allowed her to achieve the much-needed rejuvenating rest required. The nights she did (most of the nights if she was frank with herself), she dreamed. Dreams that twisted memories, turning them darker and more sinister than what she remembered; such was the nature of dreams. Other dreams felt like watching a movie of her memories, recalling the mistakes she made, the blood on her hands. It was when she relived the memories that she felt it was better to die as the Black Widow then live as Natasha Romanoff; nothing more than a monster caked in blood.

For only a monster could have injured Steve so badly. Three gunshots to the belly — he regained consciousness on the operating table, half-way through the surgery to repair the hole in his large intestine and clean up the fecal matter that seeped out — and one to his thigh, barely missing the femoral artery.

The injuries on his face had healed — mostly. A few of the deeper cuts, his broken orbital bone, cracked jaw; those needed more time. It was a miracle he was even alive. The doctors said it was the super soldier serum, healing his injuries almost as soon as he sustained them. Natasha thought it was Steve's sheer stubbornness that kept him alive. The man had cheated death since he was born, after all. Death was probably keeping a tab for Steve, just waiting to cash in on the soul he was owed.

The hospital room was quiet at this hour. The clock on the wall tick-tocking away the seconds and the machines hooked up to Steve provided a counter beat to the clock. The tabloid she flipped through was mindless drivel. Apparently Crimson Jonston had finally broken up with her current boyfriend and only announced that she was dating heartthrob Topher Owens.

There was an article speculating that Carol had been hiding at Area 51 for seventeen years until her miraculous return to catch Tony Stark as he fell from the wormhole in the sky at the Battle of New York. An article about Tony and Thor, but for the most part the magazine was filled with ads. Besides, she was only reading it to give her something to do.

Steve stirred, causing her to look up, hoping he'll wake up. Sam stood vigil during the mornings, while she took the evening shift until the head nurse — a cranky middle age man — told her visiting hours are over. They been at this for three days. Natasha wondered if Steve was in pain. Morphine didn't work on him, and there was nothing stronger they could give him. His hand twitched.

Natasha set her magazine on the little table by his bedside, eyes trained on his fingers. A few heartbeats later, his fingers twitched again. Nobody was around. A nurse passed by in the hall but for the most part they only ever came to check on him during shift changes. The doctors were of the philosophy of letting the serum do its work. She huffed, tugging up his blanket. His hand twitched again. Swallowing, she looked around again, before reassuring herself that nobody would bare witness to Black Widow being tender, and took his hand, giving his fingers a comforting squeeze. Much to her surprise, he squeezed back, and his eyes opened. "Steve," she whispered, breath catching in her throat. He didn't say anything, simply groaned in pain, tightening his grip on her hand. She had heard that he woke up half-way through the thawing process — with scientists (probably HYDRA) discussing how'd they harvest samples only to discover he was still alive. The horror he must've felt in those few lucid moments, too frozen to fight back and too confused to understand what was going on.

When Maria told her Steve was unconscious in the ICU, she vowed that someone — either her or Sam — would be there when he woke up. He woke up after seventy years with no familiar face, she wouldn't let that happen to him again. "Hurts," he wheezed, voice raw and weak. That got a smile from her. It showed how effectively they worked as partners that she didn't have to ask. Calmly, she poured him some water, stuck a straw in the cup and coaxed him to take a few sips. He did, but it took a lot out of him.

"I know" — she set the cup down — "but the serum metabolizes any painkillers before they can take effect." Steve only groaned in response. "I'll stay right here, okay," she added. "I won't leave you." She brushed her thumb over his knuckles. Steve didn't say anything, though his face did appear more peaceful. The on coming nurse tried to get her to leave, but when she flat out refused, the young woman had the good sense not to argue with the Black Widow. Instead, she quickly checked Steve's vitals and scurried from the room.

Natasha didn't leave his side, falling asleep in the chair, holding his hand. She jerked awake around eight in the morning. Sam leaning over her, his hand on her shoulder. It took her a moment to realize it was him and she lowered her hand. "Jesus, Sam," she said, rubbing her face, "I could've killed you." Sam grinned cheekily.

"You need to go home, Natasha," Sam said. She shook her head, picking sleep out from the corner of her eyes.

"Promised Steve someone would be here when he wakes up" — I can't leave him alone — "So, can't leave."

"I'll be here. Don't worry. Go home, you look like shit." That got her to smile. "I'll be here, promise."

Yawning, she stood up. "Call me when he wakes up?" she grabbed her jacket and phone, folding the former over her arm. Sam settled into her abandoned chair, pulling out an iPod and portable speaker. He began to thumb through it.

"You'll be the first to know," he assured her. She nodded, looking once more at Steve and left the hospital room. Somehow, she made it home and collapsed on her bed and dreamt she wasn't the monster she knew she was.

No monsters greeted her the next morning, save for the pounding headache indicative of a hangover. Again: why did she drink so many martinis? Groaning she padded to the bathroom and glanced at her sorry reflection. Green eye make-up still in place. Swearing colorfully in Russian, she got into the shower and shivered beneath the cold stream as she waited for the water to warm up. The make up came off easily the second time she scrubbed at it. Running her soapy hands down her body, she traced the scars that marred her porcelain colored skin: the one at her hip from the Winter Soldier, it's twin in her shoulder. The scar on her side from the Yugoslavian — her first kill, she was only eleven years old. A scar is not a mistake made, Natalia. It's another lesson that you are stronger than whatever gave it to you. She could still feel the tug of the surgical thread in her side as the Headmistress sutured the gash close. Finally, the pad of her pinkie traced the scar just her groin — a faint white line — a reminder she rather not think about.

The warm water cascading down her body reminded of blood. Warm and salty, a metallic ferric tang upon her tongue. Tchaikovsky soaring in the background as her feet flitted sylph-like over the pools of sanguine liquid; the heavy weight of twin pistols in her hands — bang bang — pirouetting through the gun smoke, a murderous ballerina in the shadows. If only someone could save her from such a life.

A whimper tumbled from her lips when she fell into the pool of blood at her feet. Get up! You are made of marble. Marble doesn't break! Tears stung her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. A flash of red, white and blue whizzed passed her, a metallic clang echoed in the shadows around her, yelps and screams, pleads for mercy that was not given. And as she sat there, her pale white tutu turning pink from blood, her savoir sauntered out of darkness, a round shield on his arm with the flag of the United States emblazon upon his uniform. "I've rescued you Natalia," Steve said, throwing off the awful cowl with its jutting tiny white wings, his jaw and cheeks lined with a golden beard. He pulled her up from the ground, her injured ankle refusing to bear her weight, forcing her into his arms. Fresh notes of lime and white pepper swirled around her, layered over the earthy scents of dry oak and sandalwood all packaged nicely around the mysterious aroma of tequila. She could feel his hard protruding erection against her stomach.

"Is that a knife in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" she asked, staring into his smoldering baby blue eyes. A suave grin spread across his lips and he kissed her. She moaned — hot water cascading down her body, her fingers slipping into the silken folds between her legs as her thumb deftly found the little bundle of nerves — "Definitely happy to see me," she murmured, not bothering to question why she and Steve were suddenly naked in a ridiculously big bed (it was a shower fantasy, she could indulge in some fantastical silliness).

"You know what we are?" Steve asked, as she settled herself on his throbbing cock. A moan escaped her; shaking her head. "We're friends" — he thrust up into her — "with bang-efits." He gave her a cheesy wink. She rolled her hips, trying not to laugh. Steve flipped her onto her back, picking up the pace. She whimpered and moaned, breasts bouncing with each powerful thrust. "You want my man meat, huh? You love my man meat deep inside your lady sandwich, dontcha, doll?" A giggly moan tumbled from her lips as he lifted her hips. "Gonna squirt my man mustard all over those perky titties. You're gonna love the salty taste and cry out for more cause my man mustard is the best you're ever gonna get!" he slapped her thigh and she yelped.

"Steve," she whined, looking up at him — she placed her foot against the wall in an effort to deepen the angle, her fingers a poor substitute for mental image of Steve's cock — "More."

"Gotta nice pearl necklace for you," he growled against her throat, "think you're the type of dame that looks damn good in pearls." He squeezed her breasts. Her cheeks flushed, her orgasm moments from breaking over her.

The water turned cold; she gasped, slipping but she had the balance of a cat and caught herself. Catching her breath, she straightened and twisted the knob off. Desire lingered between her legs, but reality jauntily intruded. Stomach growling, in desperate need of coffee and wondering why the fuck she had such a vivid ridiculous fantasy of Steve like that (Man mustard, seriously?), Natasha stepped out of the shower, shivering as she dried herself off and slipped back into her pajamas before dragging the brush tiredly through her damp hair. After a brief trip back to her room to slip on a pair of fuzzy socks Clint got her last year for Christmas and Natasha was somewhat ready to face the day.

Grey shadows of morning filled her suite's kitchen, aureate morning light seeped through the one window with the curtains drawn up. The strong heady smell of fresh brewing coffee wrapped its enticing tendrils around her, drawing her into the kitchen. And standing there at the counter, pouring a cup of coffee was the last person she wanted to see. Golden hair with a scruffy beard a few shades darker adorning his face, a grey Henley tight across his arms and chest. He looked up at her, a warm welcoming smile on his lips and she knew then and there that this was the feeling of home. "Let myself in," he said, pushing the coffee cup across the tabletop to her. She grabbed, sipping at the heady brew: a splash of milk and two sugars, just the way she liked it. "You still want pancakes?" he asked.

The coffee didn't ease the dryness in her throat, her brain kept replaying the awful shower fantasy of him ("Feast upon my man meat!"). All she could think about was that his eyes were bluer than the last time she saw him, his hair more flaxen and the beard just added a mature charm to him that his normal clean-shaven appearance lacked. Desire pooled once more between her legs, her heart beating a rapid tattoo against her ribcage. The world was out to get her, she was sure of it. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she said, "Oh, fuck me."

So… finally, got this chapter done. I'm pretty proud of it.

This is a romantic literary fanfic. I want to explore the concept of "almost". Major influences (musically) for this fic are: My Indigo, Hallelujah (Pentatonix cover), Let Her Go, among others. The story will explore the hesitation between Steve and Nat, and how their own feelings of inadequacies get in the way.

I actually have this story outline, and the first three chapters written down long hand. Hope you enjoyed this and have a Happy New Year!

Save an author; leave a review!