Baby Captain Widow REWRITE

Chapter 1: On the run

Sickness and bile swirled in Natasha's stomach, nausea rearing its ugly head once more as she heaved over a white, porcelain toilet bowl. She couldn't hold it in anymore. Acidic remnants from their dinner last night spilled profusely into the toilet, coating her tongue in a thick layer of bile. Her body ached, her head pounded, and the world seemed to spin wherever she set her eyes upon. Closing her eyes so that the world would just stay still for a moment, Nat adjusted her position as her knees began to cry out on the brittle tiles that decorated the floor in an array of black and white. Her hand lifted, and she wiped the corners of her heart shaped mouth. Silence circled all around her in the tiny bathroom. The walls of the room were painted mint green, up until they reached half way up and met a little wooden border that sped around the room in a perfect square. From there to the ceiling, the walls were egg white. How neat the room appeared to be, made her cringe at the mess created by her stomach problems.

"Natasha?" Steve called from downstairs, his voice muffled by the walls. "Everything alright in there?" Concern was laced around his words like a ribbon, creating something which comforted her, soothing her banging headache.

"Yeah, I'm fine, everything's f- " Natasha began, punctuating her incomplete response with another sickening go at the toilet, missing it by about an inch. "Shit." She muttered, hastily reaching for an old rag, or just something to clean this mess from the floor. The homeowners were away, and had no idea they were housing two criminally wanted enhanced individuals, who would surely be arrested in 117 different countries if they were as much as recognised, and Nat wanted to keep it that way. Pacing over to the sink, she threw the rag down on the floor as if it were some disease-ridden thing, and turned on the tap. The cool water felt soothing against her clammy hands as she lifted some to her mouth to drink, letting the clear liquid envelope her tongue before swallowing. A gentle knock sounded on the wooden door, which was such a dark shade of brown it was almost black.

"'Tasha, do you need me to come in?" Steve spoke, his voice soft as to not spook her, as if she was some scared little thing. Truth be told, she was terrified. She had been carted out of her home for the unteenth time, her family was no more, she couldn't set foot anywhere without being instantly recognised by society given that she was the killer little girls called their hero. She'd tried to keep them together, she'd tried to keep everything from falling apart, but in the end, like it was all the time, it was a mere fantasy. A hopeless dream. Nothing more...than make-believe.

"I told you, I'm fine." She replied, wiping the unshed tears from her emerald orbs as she hastily sped over to flush the loo, nearly skidding on the foul-stenched mess she'd crafted on the floor. She dropped to her knees, swiping at the rag and began scrubbing and mopping it all up. The world hadn't ceased spinning around, like some messed up rollercoaster ride. Throwing the disgusting, threadbare rag into a laundry hamper, Nat moved across towards the door, which unlocked with a simple click. The door opened inwards, and there stood Steve in the doorway, his eyebrows knitting together in apprehension, muscles playing peek-a-boo from the sleeves of a worn, once scarlet t-shirt as his arms folded across his buff chest. Something zapped all the way down her spine as his baby blues took in her pale, pallid yet glowing complexion before meeting her own ivy eyes, which screamed exhaustion. It was as if they were reading a book in the form of one another's soul, finding similarities and comforts they had only believed had existed. Natasha found herself tearing her gaze away, closing her eyelids once more for a brief moment before exhaling and gesturing to their shared bedroom. "May I?" She muttered. Steve sighed and nodded, knowing she wasn't likely to talk about it at all. He shifted his position so that he was leaning against a wall instead, allowing her to retreat to the comfort of their room, not able to take his eyes off her.

They'd been on the run for over a year, but had only found each other again after 5 months. Confined to dirty two star motels and abandonned shacks, this cottage was a much desired and much needed comfort to them. But they couldn't stay for much longer, as they lived in caution in case of an unwanted interaction with any companions of Stark or the U.N. They could no longer carry their suits designed and created by Stark with them, as they had no way of knowing whether they were being secretly tracked. Natasha had managed to salvage a white snow suit, but that was all they had. Sure, they still had weapons on them; they'd be stupid not to. But that was what most of their supplies consisted of, if you didn't include worn out clothes and dry food. They were unable to feel anything but fear and anxiety thanks to the Sokovia Accords, and it would not be an exaggeration to say that the accords had ruined their lives. It had stopped them from feeling human. There weren't a lot of people they could trust, and even fewer that could help them.