verb.
To come or go back to a place or person.
noun.
The firing of a weapon to counter a shooter's shot.
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They recoiled from their pasts, and in doing so found each other.
But the universe isn't kind enough to let a moment of peace last.
It took se...
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"Kid?"
Kat blinked heavily at the hand that was waved in front of her face, as she leaned against the doorframe of the compound kitchen, her eyes blearily staring into the space just above the lid of the jar of peanut butter that had been left on the surface that morning.
She didn't know how long she had been standing there for. Since she had made herself put one foot in front of the other to walk back from the lake. To return to a mission that she so desperately needed to see finished, but she couldn't make herself move. All she could do was stare at the jar and think about why it was sitting there.
Natasha had made herself breakfast before she left.
Natasha was gone.
"Hey, look alive." Tony murmured as he stepped into her line of vision, tilting his head as he bent to look into her eyes. "I need an extra set of hands in here."
"These hands?" Kat slowly held up one to show him the way they were still shaking, ever so slightly. She had tried to calm them. To breathe deeply. Hell, she had even tried pressing them against the doorframe in an attempt to coax her nerves to settle. To distance herself from the same reaction to trauma that she had witnessed in her father. He never managed to recover himself, not fully. She didn't want to consider what that could mean for her, for her work. If Natasha was one loss too many. If this was the injury atop an unhealed wound that she would never recover from. She didn't want to consider that. "The gauntlet is ready, Tony. You don't need me."
"But you need it." The man stood before her insisted quietly, reaching into his pocket to locate a small screwdriver and placing it in her raised hand. Evidently, he saw her doubtful expression, so he stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets as he glanced towards the jar of peanut butter. It was another moment before he spoke, his words slow and considered. "When I couldn't get the shaking to stop... When I couldn't sleep, or eat, or breathe... I tinkered." He murmured softly. "It's not going to go away, Kid. It never does. The people don't come back, and we've all got our fights we'd rather forget. Our ghosts, cages, caves... Whatever." He cleared his throat softly, glancing down at his shoes as he almost let a note of vulnerability slip into his voice. "But we gotta lean into what helps us get past it. We've gotta tinker, because Nat wouldn't want us to do anything else."
Blinking rapidly at the mention of their friend, Kat looked down at the little tool in her hand, slowly forcing her trembling fingers to close around it. It didn't stop the shaking, she could see the tiny flathead trembling in her grip, but as she tightened her hold, the movement lessened.
Biting her lip, she fought against the heat gathering beneath her skin, the itch in her nose that she sniffed back, the sting in the corners of her eyes.
"I..." She hesitated, trying to find the words she wanted. Trying to make sure they wouldn't come out wrong. Not small and pathetic. Natasha deserved more than that. "When we do this... When we get them back... Everyone needs to know." She whispered softly, clenching her jaw against the waver that threatened to appear there. "They need to know it was her. The whole world needs to know what she did for them – that Natasha Romanoff spent five fucking years watching over this wasted planet just to lay down her life at the last hurdle." Her grip on the screwdriver tightened further, her fingers gradually steadying as she did so. "She won't get to see it, but... They need to know."
