So I saw Captain America 2 on Friday and ever since, I'm not sure how to feel. I've supported Clintasha through the very beginning; they are my OTP, I've written hundreds of fics about them (published and unpublished) and I love them with all of my heart. But then I saw this little scene from Cap 2 and I thought: maybe Natasha could end up with someone else.

Yes, Steve and Natasha had major chemistry in the movie. Yes, they kissed. Yes, the sexual tension was so evident that I nearly died. This little scene lingered in my mind and I'm not sure whether or not to cry about how I've written nearly 2,000 words of Steve/Natasha when I love Clintasha so dearly.

Hope you guys enjoy my pain.

Oh, and one last thing: Marvel is messing with my mind. They have Natasha flirt with Steve throughout the entire movie while she's wearing an arrow necklace. Honestly. Really. Marvel, what game are you playing?

But I'm only human
And I bleed when I fall down
I'm only human
And I crash and I break down

-Cristina Perri, Human

He wakes in the middle of the darkness, gasping and searching for air; his lungs feel as though they are collapsing inwards, forcing his eyes to squeeze shut as he feet swung over the side of the bed blanketed in a spread green. His hands clutched the cool sheets, searching for something, anything, to keep him in the grips of reality - his eyes blinked once, twice, and then again, repeating the cycle before a headache began to arise.

His feet touched the smooth wood now, allowing his deep breaths to slow. Only a nightmare, he swears, his heart rate slowly coming back to the typical beats. Just a dream.

It's then his eyes catch glimpse of a shadow out of black in the corner; his eyes flash and he moves faster than he's ever before, slipping his fingers under the white pillow. His fingers lash out, expecting to feel the smooth handle of a small pistol, but he clutches nothing.

When he turns, muscles tense, there's no gun pointing at him. He's not dead; instead, there's a redhead standing there, her arms crossed and her expression is nothing more than a blank expression on a blank piece of canvas. But her eyes, however, tell more - they tell the tales of her soul, something that he knows has been stained a thousand times with a color deeper than red; no, the color is a deep crimson, one that has bled from the skin of hundreds. She isn't happy - he can tell just by once glance, one look.

But then she turns away from him, only revealing a cascading wave of red running down her back. Logically, he knows it's the same as it was last night, if only a bit more curly. But it seems have to grown inches overnight, blocking his view of the profile of her face.

She's dressed in little more than a long dress tee (his) and a pain of spandex shorts that he's seen a few times. There's a cut in the shirt that reveals the barest of skins that is only shown in the moonlight that's filtering though the window, spreading the imprint of the panes of glass across her back. Her legs are long, smooth, against the light streaming and splattering across her feet. They're bare too, with her toes tapping against the smooth wood. Her fingers are lying imply by her side, but even he can see that her shoulders are tight; because for all of her slightly calm, slightly stoic appearance, he knows her. He's known her since the Avengers, since they were brought together in a sudden sense of anger and mischief and gods and aliens. It was a battle that went down in the history books; but he swears he's never felt more terrified than when she was cradled in his arms, unconscious, after being nearly buried alive in that bunker.

And for that reason, that reason only, he asks, "You alright?"

She doesn't answer for a moment, taking her sweet time, so he studies her. She's tense, but just barely. Her emotions are what are buried deep inside her, where no one can ever reach. He knows that; he's known that since the first time het met her. But slowly, he's trying to coax that out. Ever since he kissed her, even in the slightest way, he's felt something for her. He's not sure what; after all, the only woman he'd ever truly loved was dying in a retirement home right now.

That says something about his life, something he's not willing to face right now. But his focus is not on him now; it's on her, the woman who nearly died in his arms after joining him for countless miles if only to help him discover a secret.

"Nat," he says, speaking into the near dead darkness of the night. But he doesn't get much further, because she turns on her heel, eyes boring into him.

"What was it like?" she asks, her voice a mixture between pain and another emotion he can't recognize. He stares at her blankly for a moment; because slowly, carefully, he's starting to realize that under all those facades and covers and secrets, she's as fragile as everyone else.

Only human. That thought spurs him to ask, recovering his thoughts. He puts weight on the balls of his feet and pushes himself off the bed, his body too tired to do anything else. His feet a soft as they pad against the wooden slabs. The room is rather small; it is only a guest room after all, and he was lucky enough that Sam was able to let them spend the night. It's got a fan that's whirling quietly above them, placed high enough so his head his a foot or so below it. There's two night tables beside the bed, one with a clock on top and the other with a blank surface. It's a nice room, overall, much nicer than the ones he's stayed in before.

He reaches her, his eyes catching glimpse of a flash of something on her shoulder. His fingers reach up and he pauses, as if suddenly aware what he is doing. But then she nods slightly, and he brushes her hair behind her ear, revealing a rather deep cut, one that she most likely earned from earlier tonight.

She's staring up at him now, her green eyes as intent as the day is long. "What was it like," she whispers. "What was it like in the ice?"

He freezes for a moment, his fingers lingering on her collarbone. "Cold," he deflects, but she doesn't laugh.

"Steve." His name brushes from her lips as if coming from a spell of dryness.

He clears his throat, spreading his fingers along the base of her neck, narrowing covering the entire cut. But he can still see it; it's scabbing over now, no longer open like a vein waiting to be cut. "I wasn't awake," he responds, his voice growing deeper. "I only woke up in the end - I fell asleep in one era and woke up in another."

She blinks, and its then he very clearly notices that her eyes carry specks of gold in them. It's a symbolism unlike any other and he's planted firmly there now, his pinkie raising itself to feel her pulse on her neck.

He's barely touched it before there's a flash of movement and her hand is on her neck, her pointer finger moving his fingers away, brushing them off. "Steve," she swallows. "Please."

He ignores her. A warning flashes through his mind; she's a spy, not a solider. Her secrets are buried deeper than his ever would ever even begin to scratch the surface. She's a hidden array of talents, of facades, that few ever truly see.

"Why are you up this late?" he asks, ignoring the quick beating of his heart.

She responds a few seconds later, after taking a moment. He can see when her eyes put up the walls, and she's stoic once again. She's Black Widow, not Natasha now.

"Wouldn't you like to know, handsome," she says smoothly, slipping her hand from her neck to his chest, spreading her palm across it. Her other hand doesn't stay either - it moves up quickly, sliding upwards and touching the back of his neck.

His hands move down and grip her wrists, pulling her away from him. "Natasha," he hisses. "C'mon, Natasha, just talk to me. For once. You can't keep pushing everyone away from you. It's not healthy."

She jerks out of his slightly loose grip. "Go back to sleep, Rogers," she hisses, before turning away from him, her feet backing away from him.

He doesn't move. "I had a nightmare too," he offers. "You died."

She freezes then, her fists clenched. He can see her eyes flickering; she's trying to decide who's best for this situation, Widow or Natasha.

"Nat," he repeats her name, saying it as though it was the last word he'd ever say. "Please."

She doesn't listen, only crossing her arms across her chest. She's deflecting his questions, his words, something he's come to know she does when she's confused.

"Natasha," he says, his voice low. "Just tell me what's wrong."

Her façade is purely Natasha now; the Widow is gone. "Steve?" she asks, her voice unusually raw. "Steve -"

He's by her side in a second, hands fingering her waist and lips slanting over hers. It's their second kiss now, since she kissed him in the mall to get away from the agents. She doesn't respond for a moment, but then her hands carefully slide into his hair and one of his hands comes up to cup her cheek, wiping away the slight moisture that was falling through it. Because, after all, at the end of the day, she was only human.

And so was he.

He breaks off the kiss after a minute or two. She slanted against him, her eyes wide and her lips swollen. "Natasha," he whispers. "Tell me what's wrong."

She swallows, harshly, and for a split second he thinks she might push him away from her. But then she goes limp and his hands find her waist, her head cradling into his shoulder.

"Everyone died," she whispers harshly. "Fury, Barton - you." She says her last word like a prayer long lost to the wind.

They stay there for a while, whispering their secrets to one another. It's dawn before they finally stumble onto the bed, disregarding the extra cot set out on the floor. The sheets are cool and he just has enough consciousness to hear the words, "Thank you," escape from her lips before the darkness takes him.

When he wakes, three hours later, he's terrified to realize those few hours weren't plagued with nightmares.

Okay then. That happened.