you can call me star ;)

The first thing you notice about her is the way she watches reflections instead of people. You catch it in the train window- your own face clouding over hers, your tired eyes and purple eye bags floating somewhere near her shoulder. She’s looking at the glass, not directly at you, like she’s searching for something.

You look away first.

The train rattles somewhere between “charming European countryside” and “definitely the middle of nowhere.” You weren’t supposed to get on this train. You were supposed to get on the earlier one, the faster one that didn’t involve questionable upholstery and a man across the aisle eating tuna straight from the can. You’re not supposed to be on this train at all really. You’re supposed to be at home, doing something mundane like laundry or grocery shopping, but instead, you’re here.

And so is she. She’s wearing black- of course she is. Not in a dramatic brooding way, more in a “this fabric won’t show blood or coffee stains” way. Practical. Her red hair is tucked behind one ear, but a few strands have escaped, softening what is otherwise a face carved from cool disinterest. You tell yourself not to stare, but it proves to be quite difficult. There’s so many details to take in.

“You’re very subtle,” she says without turning her head.

Your soul leaves your body for a brief moment. “I was staring at the countryside,” you reply quickly.

“We’re in a tunnel.”

You focus your eyes to the window and find that the train is, in fact, going through a tunnel. It’s pitch black out.

“Mhm, very scenic. I love tunnels actually.”

You think you see the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. It’s definitely not a smile, but it’s something, and you count that as a victory. She finally turns to look at you properly. Green eyes, sharp jaw, rigid, curious in a way that feels a little dangerous, like she’s sizing you up and double checking the math.

“Why are you on this train?” she asks.

“Budget constraints and poor decision making,” you say. “You?”

A pause. “Work.”

“Ah. The mysterious kind?”

She tilts her head. “Is there another kind?”

“Accounting,” you offer.

“I’ve seen men cry over spreadsheets,” she says flatly. “It’s a dangerous job.”

A few heads turn, like they can feel the stagnant air between the two of you. Her attention remains pinned to you like a thumbtack through paper. There’s something about her that feels lonely. Not in a sad, obvious way, more like she’s solitary by choice. Permanently braced for impact. You don’t know why you sat next to her. There were plenty of other open seats next to far more normal people.

“Are you running toward something,” you ask lightly, “or away from it?”

Her expression doesn’t change. “That’s a bold question.”

“I’m a bold person.”

“You’re on the wrong train.”

“Bold and bad at logistics.”

That almost tug of a smile again. The tunnel ends and light floods back through the compartment. For a split second, you see her more clearly- a faint scar peeping over the collar of her jacket, her hands braced on the chair, her body angled towards the aisle like she’s waiting for something to happen. She studies you like you’re a puzzle she didn’t expect to enjoy.

“You ask a lot of questions,” she says.

“It’s a coping mechanism.”

“For?”

“Existing.”

A silence stretches between you, like she’s weighing her options.

“If you keep moving, nothing can catch up to you,” she says bluntly.

You cock your head. “Does it work?”

“Sometimes. But you don’t seem like someone who runs.”

“If you’re calling me boring, I’m offended. And I do run. I absolutely do.” You’re not quite sure what you’re referring to, or why you’re spilling so much to a complete stranger. Sometimes trains become liminal spaces like that. Spaces where things begin to slip through the cracks.

“Not from me,” she says testingly.

Your heart does something inconvenient. “I don’t know you,” you reply.

“You’re still here.”

You swallow. There’s something magnetic about her, sure, but you’re vulnerable and she’s a mystery. You know getting wrapped into something or someone may not be the smartest decision here.

“I could be a terrible person,” she adds casually.

“I guess you could,” you shrug, desperate to keep the conversation light.

She just searches your face for a moment, an action that feel likes waiting before a judge to decide your fate. You feel suddenly nervous, maybe because of her, maybe because you’re regretting your decision.

You clear your throat. “If you are running, I hope it’s towards something better.” You look away, ending the conversation. Yes, that’s good. No beautiful strangers, nothing tying you anywhere.

“And you?” she asks, despite your attention averting back to the window. “What are you running toward?”

You think about missed trains and missed opportunities. You should’ve made up your mind quicker, gotten on the earlier train to avoid whatever reflection this interaction is forcing upon you. Maybe you should’ve just stayed home. With your ex. In the apartment. That you share. You think of telling the woman beside you that you just couldn’t handle it anymore, that you’d moved to the city for her, that you’d passed up your dream job for her and that’s why you’re running. Running is grandiose for this situation. You barely have anything but your bag and the clothes on your back. It’s a futile attempt really. And you know that. But it still means something at least. The past few months had felt like everyone else got a map and you didn’t. A guide to survive life post grad. You’re breaking, but you’d never admit that to anyone.

“I don’t know yet,” you say finally.

The train begins to slow, a small station approaching. It’s small and forgettable and then you realize you don’t even know where you are. She stands, smoothing down her coat and grabbing a small bag from the overhead rack. She looks down at you, hesitates.

“Try to take the right train next time.” It sounds almost fond.

“Mistakes are part of the journey,” you respond.

Then, to your surprise, she leans down slightly, close enough that you can smell something clean and sharp- like winter air.

“Be careful,” she says quietly. “You ask too many questions.

You tilt your head. “You answer them.”

She smiles properly, the first time she has this entire ride. It transforms her, makes her look younger. Lighter. The train doors hiss open. She steps towards them and then pauses.

“If you ever find what you’re running toward,” she says without turning around. “I hope it’s worth sticking around for.

And then she’s gone. The doors close and the train rumbles. You sit there, staring at your own reflection in the window. Your heart is beating a little too fast, your face burning. You don’t know her name. But you’re not thinking about going back anymore. You’re thinking about the next stop and whether, maybe, you’ll choose to get off. Maybe this was a good choice, maybe she was a sign. Maybe you’re supposed to disappear for a little bit.

By the time the train comes to another stop, you’ve almost convinced yourself she was a sleep-deprived hallucination brought on by stale train air and unresolved emotional baggage. Almost. The station is small, one platform beneath a flickering light. A vending machine that looks like it’s lost custody of its own will to live. It’s late. The kind of late where your footsteps sound louder than they should and every shadow feels like it might materialize into something sinister. You wonder if your ex has noticed you’re gone. Of course she has. You wonder if she’s doing anything about it.

You adjust your bag on your shoulder and step off the platform and into the street. Cold air bites your face. You exhale, watching your breath curl upward like a ghost. New city, fresh start. At least for now. Even if it’s just temporary, even if you suddenly become logical and force yourself to go back home.

You make it approximately twelve steps before walking directly into someone. It’s not a gentle bump, more of a “I was looking at Google Maps and not my surroundings” kind of collision. You bounce back. They don’t.

“Oh my God- I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking, I-”

“You should.”

You freeze. That voice. You look up slowly, and of course. Of course it’s her. Standing under a dim streetlight, like she’s been personally curated by the universe for dramatic timing. Black coat. Red hair catching the light. Expression frantic in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“You got off an hour ago,” you say.

“I did.” She responds quickly, but she’s not looking at you. Her eyes are darting through the darkness behind you and to your right.

“You don’t live here.”

“Nope.”

“Are you following me?”

Her eyes seem to catch on something and then she reaches out, grabbing your arm and pulling you towards her. “No, I’m not,” she narrows her eyes, the reserved stranger you knew on the train suddenly no more. She’s fierce in a way that has you bordering on panic. “And I was really stupid for talking to you on the train, I-” she looks up again quickly and you try to turn your head to see what she’s looking at, but she stops you. “You need to come with me right now.”

“Sorry, what?” but she’s pulling you down the street, tugging your arm until you fall into stride with her.

“My name is Natasha,” she says quickly without looking at you, her hands rustling with something in her coat. You tell her your name, but she barely acknowledges it, her focus clearly on something else.

“Why the fuck am I following you again?”

She shoots you a look and then you hear the cocking of a gun from underneath her coat. Your eyes go wide and she gives you a look that says “keep moving”.

“I- fuck,” she hesitates. Your mind starts racing. Maybe she really is as mysterious as you were making her out to be. She continues to hastily scan her surroundings, one hand now out of her coat and back on your arm, the other holding what you presume is a gun. “I’m working,” she says flatly, like she’s decided against making something up. “I’m on a job and I got a little distracted.”

“A job? People normally just have jobs, they aren’t typically on jobs-”

“Would you give it a rest?” she shoots you a quick glare. “I’m planted here on purpose, I calculated a tip off point where they were supposed to find me, but I got off on the stop before instead.” She talks quickly, as if you understand a single word she’s saying. “It wasn’t until I got off the train that I realized how many brutes were on it. They should’ve gotten me while I was on it, but they didn’t. They think you’re me.”

“Excuse me?”

“They don’t know what I look like, that’s the whole point,” Natasha says with a hint of annoyance. “They think you’re me, and leaving you to die would’ve been great for my mission actually, it would’ve thrown them right off my trail- but I didn’t, I can’t.”

“Thanks I think.” The city approaches, the street lights becoming more frequent and the bustle of people becoming louder.

“Just keep your head down,” Natasha says firmly. And you do, letting her lead you through the streets, her grip on your arm loosening as the two of you get lost in the crowd. In any other situation you’d feel absolutely terrified. If you didn’t want to get away from your old life so badly, maybe you’d be horrified at this sudden side quest. But it’s more exhilarating than anything. You and Natasha walk for what feels like forever, until she swiftly pulls you down a dark alley.

“If you’re planning on killing me, make it quick.” You say it jokingly, but her lack of response makes your skin prick.

You trample through the darkness until she comes to a hard stop, flipping a switch and punching in what sounds like a code on a keypad. You hear the sound of a heavy metal door opening, and then a faint sliver of light peeks through the alley. She tugs you through a doorway, pushing a large red button with the palm of her hand, forcing the door closed behind her. You’re in a small hallway, with another metal door and just a single flickering overhead light. Perfect murder room. Natasha digs out a set of keys from her jacket pocket, the gun seemingly gone now. Part of you thought she was lying at first, that this whole secret agent thing was just a front to get you to hook up with her. But the dual security starts to make you think otherwise.

She gets the door open and pushes through. You follow her, straight into a big open room. A flat. And a nice one too. As nice as a windowless, concrete loft can get. You walk past her into the open room and you hear the keys being tossed onto a table and the door closing behind you. You think you hear her let out an exhausted huff, but you’re too busy taking in the scene. The loft could easily be sterile, almost medical with the gray walls and floors, but there’s sashes hanging from the ceiling, scarves tied together, strung across the walls adorned with tiny little string lights.

“Cool place,” you say with a shrug.

“Uh-huh.” Natasha walks past you, tearing off her coat and hanging it on a rack. Your eyes follow her as she walks across the room and into what you assume is the kitchen.

“So,” you call out, backpack still on, rocking back and forth on your heels.

“I have a spare bed,” Natasha calls out. She comes back into the room with a glass of water, handing it to you. “Here.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, taking it and taking a sip. The entire situation still isn’t registering, probably because you still don’t fully believe her.

Natasha just stares at you for a moment. She doesn’t look like that woman on the train anymore. She’s different, harder. “There’s food in the fridge, help yourself. Room’s around the corner, I’m going out.”

“Is this some weird human trafficking front or something?”

“What? No,” she scoffs. “I’m just going to scan the perimeter, I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Scan the perimeter?”

“Did you listen to me at all?”

“Kind of.”

“I’m trying to help you. If you want to leave, be my guest.” She pulls on a different jacket, a blue one, and a large white scarf. You believe her, you think. Probably.

“So, what- I’m just here until you let me out?”

“You’re here until it’s safe,” Natasha says absentmindedly, pulling on a pair of boots.

“I came here to exist in a new city, not a new dungeon.”

You push Natasha down the hallway, your hands on her lower back, steering her into the living room and towards the kitchen.

“What are you- stop.” She attempts to bat at you, but she doesn’t try quite hard enough for it to do anything.

“Just breathe, you’re fine.” You push her into the kitchen and then release her and she stops fighting as she takes in the scene.

“You know I don’t like-,” Natasha whispers, but her words seem to get caught in her throat.

“You like it?” You drop your hands to your sides. You’d spent the last hour and a half decorating Natasha’s kitchen and dining room for her birthday, locking her in her room to get it done. You strung a little star garland you cut out of green construction paper, string lights, balloons floating to the ceiling and even stayed up all night baking her a cake. There’s a pile of wrapped presents on the counter- you went out and bought her a silver watch she’d been eying, a couple Haruki Murakami books (her favorite author), another cashmere sweater to add to her collection, and a soft floral perfume that smelled like her the second you’d sprayed it in the store.

Natasha doesn’t turn around to look at you, taking in the decorations for a long moment. You know her birthday isn’t her favorite thing on Earth, but you wanted to give her a mini celebration just for her. No flashy surprise party, no big dinner, just a slow day where she doesn’t have to do anything except exactly what she wants to do.

Natasha turns to you finally and you notice that her eyes are glassy. “Thank you,” she says softly.

“Baby, don’t cry.”

“I’m not,” she says with a futile attempt at snark.

“I know you’re not a birthday girl, but we can do whatever you want today.”

“I might squeeze you until you explode.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

You find yourself with Natasha’s feet in your lap as the two of you watch a movie, the winter wind whistling across the window panes of the penthouse. The two of you are currently emerged in a blissful few months of absolutely nothing. Filming for Quinn’s next project doesn’t start until February, giving you time to just be together and finish moving all of your stuff over from L.A. You have everything in boxes in Natasha’s spare room, it’s all just a matter of unpacking now. Moving in together had come up with Quinn’s newest project proposal- a film adaptation of Rita Mae Brown’s Rubyfruit Jungle. The Macintosh empire has been growing with you and Natasha at the very center. It’s good, steady. More than you ever could’ve imagined.

“Hey.” Natasha kicks up her socked foot but you catch it before it can hit your face.

“Yes?” You turn to look at her and find that she’s grinning.

“I’ve decided what I want to do today.”

“Oh?” You narrow your eyes. “Does it involve me exploding?”

“Eventually,” she says, going absolutely deadpan. “But first, we order an irresponsible amount of Thai food, we don’t answer a single email, and you help me unpack exactly one box. One. I refuse to spend my birthday doing manual labor.”

You gasp. “One whole box? Don’t go wild.”

She nudges you with her heel. “Don’t push it.”

The movie continues to play in the background, something neither of you are paying attention to anymore. Natasha shifts, pulling her feet out of your lap so she can sit up and look at you properly. Her expression turns soft, something that makes your chest ache in that warm, familiar way.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” she says quietly.

“I know.”

“The cake. The presents. The… stars.” Her lips twitch.

“You love the stars.”

“I tolerate the stars,” she corrects. “Because you love them.”

You reach for her hand, threading your fingers through hers. “I just wanted you to feel celebrated. And… seen.”

Natasha goes quiet again, just studying your face. The city hums faintly far below the penthouse, the wind rattling the windows. Everything’s warm and safe.

“I do feel seen,” she says finally.

“Yeah?”

“It’s hard to hate my birthday when you make it feel like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I get to exist without earning it.”

You rub your thumb over her knuckle. “You don’t have to earn anything with me.”

“Careful. I might actually squeeze you until you explode.”

“You’re very fixated on that today.”

“It’s my birthday. I get one violent fantasy.”

You grin. “Fair.”

She kisses you then, slow and unhurried, in a way that feels more steady than anything. And when she pulls back she doesn’t go very far.

“Thank you,” Natasha says again.

“For what?”

“For building a life with me,” she says simply. It lands heavier than you would expect it to.

You glance toward the hallway where your half unpacked boxes sit in her -your- spare room. Soon-to-be-office. Soon-to-be-shared-closet. Soon-to-be whatever the two of you decide. The future doesn’t seem like something distant or abstract anymore. It feels like socked feet, winter wind, too much takeout, and a single unpacked box.

“Hey,” you murmur.

“Hm?”

“After Thai food and our one box, we could open your presents.”

She hums thoughtfully. “And if I hate them?”

“You won’t. I’m really good at giving gifts.”

“And if I do?” she teases.

“I’ll return everything except the watch.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “Why?”

“Because I engraved it.”

Natasha’s mouth falls open. “You did not.”

“I did.”

“With what?”

You shrug. “Just a date.”

“What date?”

You grin. “The day Her Blank Canvas began filming.”

“That’s not even when we started dating.”

“I feel like there was enough lesbian angst going on to qualify.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

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.