Romanogers - Oneshots

Somebody that I used to know

Natasha gazes out at the city skyline, the tall buildings and their spires piercing the sky like needles, puncturing the watery grey like pins in a cushion. A far-away look is washed over her features, as if she's thinking of another place, another time. She can feel Steve beside her, and twitches.

Her eyes drop to the pavement, a long way down below, a grimace curving her lips. She can feel Steve doing the same.

Below them, the city is a writhing river of chaos. Discord flows through the streets, undulating waves of war. Every once in a while, a scream is carried up by the wind, but it is quickly cut short. The monsters are a swarm, a mob of thrashing, seething dark shapes. They blend together like strokes on a canvas, each one not distinguishable from the next. They cover most of the city, a blanket over the New York skyline. Black bodies cling to the sides of skyscrapers, carpet the pavements. The blood, that which they managed to spill, was daubed everywhere, and the stench was a repugnant musk that forces its way up your nose, making it wrinkle with distaste.

They had encountered a few earlier. No eyes were visible, but they seemed to be able to see all the same. Or perhaps it was just their extremely high noise sensitivity that alerted them to every single attack coming at them. They had tried to use this against them, first finding their seeming one weakness when an owner had whistles to their dog when there were only a few in sight, and the creature Steve had been fighting had screeched and clamped its claws over their ears (or at least sound sensors, since 'ears' wasn't really the right word), allowing Tony to blast it through the skull. Of course, one dog whistle - they'd palmed it off the fleeing owner - against thousands of things was not all that effective.

In the end, they had given up on their strength and tried to use their wits. Tony and Bruce has come up with the plan to set up some sort of electric dome around the city, and once every citizen had been evacuated, they would set off the highest frequency sound they could make, incapacitating them, and then finally blast them from drones hovering above. Complicated, but hopefully effective.

But there's a hitch. The evacuation was not going to be as simple as all that.
That's why Natasha and Steve are standing on the roof of a building, a number of civilians huddled in a corner, muttering in fear. They are the only people left in the city. It's funny, Natasha thinks mirthlessly. The City that Never Sleeps is empty, barren, 'cept from the people on this rooftop.

Suddenly, the building shakes. Tremors work their way up from the ground floor and a grinding noise comes from below. They're coming. A few bricks are dislodged and fragmented, accompanied by a smashing sound. She hopes it hit one of them on the head. She stumbles, the shaking catching her by surprise and snapping her out of her faraway place. Steve grips her arm, steadying her. She flinches, and he drops his arm, an expression she can't read suddenly coming over his face. Something like regret slices her heart, but she pushes it away. She can't help recoiling when he touches her. It's always so unexpected, familiar and foreign at the same time that a cringe has become her natural reflex.

But as much as she's told herself she doesn't want him, quailed the cravings, she still feels tingles where he touches her, albeit never, these days, and she hates it. Hates herself for still feeling those things, still wanting more, still pining. There's times when she just wants to launch herself at him, no matter where they are, and times where she almost reaches out, fingers stretch to clasp his hand, rest her head on his shoulder, but then she reminds her that she can't. Not anymore. Steve has them too, Natasha can see it. It's like instinct, like something natural, something they don't have to question. But when they remember, when the reaching arms drop, the fingers curl back into their palms and the space between increases yet again, it's like something's been torn away, something primitive, essential, core to their beings. The realisation is like a slap in the face every time, and Natasha hates herself for the way she feels. How, no matter how hard she forces herself to forget, the ache in the pit of her stomach, the craving, gets stronger and stronger until sometimes she feels sick. Sick with love. And Natasha hates herself.