Romanogers One Shots

Dusk Till Dawn

Note: This story takes place in a combination of the MCU and the universe of Black Widow: Forever Red by Margaret Stohl.

"Steve! Will you help me get this freaking dye out of my hair?" Natasha shouted from the bathroom of the dingy motel room.

Steve sighed and walked into the cramped powder room with its sloppily grouted tiles and peeling paint. Natasha was bent over the grungy pedestal sink, fingers dug into her black sudsy hair. The dye was splattered all over the white porcelain as well as her shirt. Steve didn't bother to announce his approach-she already knew he was there-and reached out to pour more shampoo on her head before helping her rinse it. Pretty soon both their hands were stained black and thoroughly tangled in her hair and even then all the dye hadn't come out. Finally Natasha collapsed against the wall, and Steve against the toilet.

"You ready to give up yet?" Steve said, his expression bordering on a wince.

Natasha sighed. "I guess we'll have to if we're ever gonna get any sleep."

After getting cleaned up, they went about preparing the room for their departure in the morning. Natasha nearly ran into Steve on her way toward the closet.

He had the spare sheets in his hands already. "I'll take the sofa," he said softly.

She tried to smile. He was being nice, of course, because he was Steve, but she wasn't about to try and explain her bizarre reasons for wanting the sofa instead of the bed. Two many nights chained to one in Moscow. Instead she turned and walked to the bed, climbing under the stiff, scratchy covers before switching off the lamp.

And then she lay there. In the dark. In the ear-splitting silence with only the sounds of traffic and someone's bass on the other side of the motel to break up the quiet. And then there was her heartbeat, of course. Beating far too quickly. Did Steve have PTSD? Was he lying awake ten paces away while images of terror and darkness filled his mind? Or was his brain as strong and indestructible as his body? Did his psyche heal as fast as his skin?

Natasha rolled over, shutting her eyes. It didn't help. She lost track of her attempts to think about something trivial-anything but life or her past-and she must've fallen asleep. It might've even been for a few hours, but when she woke gasping for breath it only felt like five minutes.

"Natasha?"

The urgent whisper from across the room sent a bolt of adrenaline through her, and she instinctively reached towards the gun on the bed beside her before realizing. Steve. He must have heard her stirring.

"Go to sleep, Steve," she whispered back. Once again she rolled over, only this time she was struggling to keep her eyes open rather than closed. Exhaustion was pulling at them, and so were the nightmares. Alexei. Istanbul. Odessa. The Red Room. Ivan. New York. Sokovia. Was there no end to the terror? Everywhere she turned there would be the red. The blood. The flag, painted for her wounds. For her flaming hair, her veins, her skin. She felt the familiar tremor rake through her.

"Natasha!"

She jolted. He'd been talking to her, hadn't he? Asking if she was okay? But his voice was closer now, he was moving towards her. "I told you to go back to sleep," she said.

"And last I looked you weren't my mother," he replied as he came to stand at the edge of the bed. He knelt until he was eye level with her. "What's going on?" he asked softly.

She rolled onto her back and her eyes slid shut as a smile tugged on one corner of her lips. That was his line, every time. In that honest voice that should be directed at innocent, blonde CIA agents, not redheaded KGB assassins. He treated her like she was no different than any other woman he'd known-any other respectable woman, that is. But they both knew she couldn't be more worlds apart. She felt a drop of moisture slip between her lashes, crawling down her temple and into her hair. Now her pillowcase would be stained with mascara along with the remnants of that awful black dye. "I'm broken, Steve. Stay away from me. Stop treating me like a woman who deserves respect. We know I'm not that. Stop treating me like you could ever see me as anything but damaged, brainwashed killer. Because we both know you can't." This was what she wanted to say, but she never would. That was the problem, he did see her as something other than an animal. And he shouldn't.