A Sorta Fairytale

A Sorta Fairytale With You

For three days, she didn't see anyone. She ate little, didn't answer her phone, and did her best not to leave her room. The others were worried, understandably, but she'd submitted to the brain scans and gotten a clean bill of health before running away. Because that was definitely what she was doing. It wasn't like her. But she couldn't face the others, not if they knew. Not until she'd decided what to do.

Midafternoon on the third day, her phone wouldn't stop ringing and she finally picked it up to see if there was some kind of crisis. Unlikely – it was Clint. It had occurred to her to call him, to get his, and Laura's, opinion of the situation. But, for some reason, she'd resisted that idea.

"Hey, Nat," he said in a gentle way that made her suspect someone had brought him in to deal with her.

"What's up?" she replied casually.

He paused, and she could hear a fond sort of annoyance directed at her when he spoke again. "How long are you going to do this?"

"This?" she echoed innocently.

It was as if she could hear his eyes rolling. "Hiding."

"It's a delicate situation."

"That's your specialty, Nat. You handle all kinds of sensitive missions without causing any international incidents. This hardly seems to be above your skill level."

She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. "It's just... uncharted waters."

There was another pause, after which he sounded surprisingly amused. "Well, 'Tasha, you seem like you need a push. So here it is. Your team is going to need you soon, both of you, and you need to clear the air before then. Go talk to him today."

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, but the fact that he knew why she was hiding didn't immediately strike her as strange. Still, he was right, however he got his information – they couldn't afford distractions like this. "Alright."

"Good. You'll be fine."

"Thanks." She hung up and frowned at her phone. Then, with a sigh, she dragged herself toward the bathroom to get ready. Dressing for the occasion always made her feel more confident, even if that didn't mean bringing an arsenal. She found herself standing outside Steve's door much sooner than she would have preferred and knocked with a traitorously shaking hand. Listening for movement inside, she prayed that she wouldn't have to come back later.

"Natalia," Barnes said when he opened the door, a flurry of emotions crossing his face before becoming guarded.

"James," she replied. "How's your side?"

"Fine." An awkward silence settled over them and he shifted his weight. "Steve's not here," he stated quietly. His expression might be giving her nothing, but she had seen the way his eyes widened and suspected his pulse was racing at the sight of her.

"Good, because I didn't want to talk to him," she forced out, surging forward. He obligingly moved out of the way and she walked passed him into the living room. One of the bedroom doors, the one she thought was Steve's, was closed, while the other was open and she could see how sparsely furnished Barnes' was. Much like her own, she thought irrelevantly. Turning her attention to the man in question, she noticed that his hair was damp and supposed he had showered recently. It smelled clean in here.

He was watching her, waiting, and she paused uncertainly. "I had to clear my head," she told him without preamble.

Nodding, he looked away from her. "I understand," he murmured after a long moment in which neither spoke, eyes still averted.