[ Steve finds Natasha at dusk down by the lakeside, watching from the dock as a family of ducks floats by. His first instinct is to come up with an opening line to announce his presence, something witty or even sarcastic, because that's just how they communicate. Most people assume they're not allowed to tease Captain America, but Natasha never had any such compunctions. He's sure it has something to do with growing up in Russia, in the Red Room, without ever seeing him as an unimpeachable authority figure in the national mythology, but that doesn't make him appreciate it any less.
Maybe he should crack wise; he knows she could use a laugh. But the more he grasps for something to say, the more his wit escapes him. There is no humor to be found in the enormity of what they're preparing to undertake tomorrow. Steve has felt the weight of the world on his shoulders before and it was nothing compared to this, now: the fate of the universe in their hands. Despite all of the research and planning, there are still so many shifting variables. Nothing is a guarantee on this mission, least of all their safe return back after everything is said and done.
It doesn't escape him that this could be the last night that he and Natasha are ever in the same place at once. Even if they both survive—and he hasn't allowed any other possibility to sink in; he isn't sure he could go through with this if he did—they could end up stranded in different years, quite literally across the universe from one another. A part of him wishes he had pushed to have Natasha on his team, but they chose this configuration for a reason, and even if Natasha could have switched places with Scott or Tony, she wasn't about to let Clint out of her sight. Steve understands that, having felt similarly about Bucky when he finally got his best friend back. It's just... challenging to accept when it stands in direct conflict with his desire not to let Natasha out of his sight.
But the plan is set, team assignments have been made, and he's not about to waste precious time with regret. Instead of cracking a joke, he knocks on the nearest wooden post as he steps onto the floating platform, his weight causing the dock to sway in the water. ]
[ the words come easy, posture relaxed and voice soft, a sharp contrast to the tense lines of steve's shoulders and the stiff plane of his spine. he feels the tension she should be feeling. after all, tomorrow is an inevitable step towards an outcome natasha's life has been drawn to since day one in the red room; it's a fate that seems a kinder closing chapter than she had ever thought she deserved.
death becomes her, an instructor had once said. a bad translation — they'd meant killing, not being killed; they'd found beauty in the careful twist of piano wire around a neck, in the fluid slice of knives into arteries, in the graceful bend of a body flipping another into the ground. but the instructor hadn't been wrong. in accepting her duty in this mission (in the mission), natasha had found a peace that had long since eluded her.
last night, she'd slept well for the first time in years. nine hours, clocked. no tossing, no turning, only acceptance and quiet and — perhaps most damning of all, relief.
was that wrong? natasha had only been hurtling towards an inevitable death since she'd first picked up a slim baton. she'd fought it and evaded it and leaped out of the way too many times to count. death had sought her, but natasha had been wiser. so now, to choose it, on her own terms? was it so wrong to feel relieved that the chase was coming to an end?
more importantly, was it so wrong that her only regret seemed to lie in the could have beens of the man interrupting her thoughts? maybe so. doesn't stop her from tipping her head back, or from gesturing at the spot beside her with a too casual gesture. ]
Water's nice, by the way.
[ she lifts a bare foot, kicking up a small splash below the surface of the dock, as evidence. her shoes still lay somewhere near the shoreline, long since abandoned. ]
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during endgame, last night trope zone
Maybe he should crack wise; he knows she could use a laugh. But the more he grasps for something to say, the more his wit escapes him. There is no humor to be found in the enormity of what they're preparing to undertake tomorrow. Steve has felt the weight of the world on his shoulders before and it was nothing compared to this, now: the fate of the universe in their hands. Despite all of the research and planning, there are still so many shifting variables. Nothing is a guarantee on this mission, least of all their safe return back after everything is said and done.
It doesn't escape him that this could be the last night that he and Natasha are ever in the same place at once. Even if they both survive—and he hasn't allowed any other possibility to sink in; he isn't sure he could go through with this if he did—they could end up stranded in different years, quite literally across the universe from one another. A part of him wishes he had pushed to have Natasha on his team, but they chose this configuration for a reason, and even if Natasha could have switched places with Scott or Tony, she wasn't about to let Clint out of her sight. Steve understands that, having felt similarly about Bucky when he finally got his best friend back. It's just... challenging to accept when it stands in direct conflict with his desire not to let Natasha out of his sight.
But the plan is set, team assignments have been made, and he's not about to waste precious time with regret. Instead of cracking a joke, he knocks on the nearest wooden post as he steps onto the floating platform, his weight causing the dock to sway in the water. ]
Hey. Mind some company?
no subject
[ the words come easy, posture relaxed and voice soft, a sharp contrast to the tense lines of steve's shoulders and the stiff plane of his spine. he feels the tension she should be feeling. after all, tomorrow is an inevitable step towards an outcome natasha's life has been drawn to since day one in the red room; it's a fate that seems a kinder closing chapter than she had ever thought she deserved.
death becomes her, an instructor had once said. a bad translation — they'd meant killing, not being killed; they'd found beauty in the careful twist of piano wire around a neck, in the fluid slice of knives into arteries, in the graceful bend of a body flipping another into the ground. but the instructor hadn't been wrong. in accepting her duty in this mission (in the mission), natasha had found a peace that had long since eluded her.
last night, she'd slept well for the first time in years. nine hours, clocked. no tossing, no turning, only acceptance and quiet and — perhaps most damning of all, relief.
was that wrong? natasha had only been hurtling towards an inevitable death since she'd first picked up a slim baton. she'd fought it and evaded it and leaped out of the way too many times to count. death had sought her, but natasha had been wiser. so now, to choose it, on her own terms? was it so wrong to feel relieved that the chase was coming to an end?
more importantly, was it so wrong that her only regret seemed to lie in the could have beens of the man interrupting her thoughts? maybe so. doesn't stop her from tipping her head back, or from gesturing at the spot beside her with a too casual gesture. ]
Water's nice, by the way.
[ she lifts a bare foot, kicking up a small splash below the surface of the dock, as evidence. her shoes still lay somewhere near the shoreline, long since abandoned. ]