We'll Fight Together (Romanogers / Steve X Natasha)

Questions

The kitchen table wasn't exactly big, but it's rugged spruce surface accommodated for the three of them. Steve was thrilled as he watched the two girls eat their sandwiches, realizing how nice it was to have company. He never wanted them to leave. He wanted to stay like this until the end of time, to be surrounded by people whom he hadn't wronged.

He was still convinced that he was in the right of course, in regards to both Bucky and the Accords. However, he felt guilty about the road he took in an attempt to prove his case. Landing his partners in jail, Rhody's accident, lying to Tony, fighting Tony... He was so fixed on saving his best friend that he forgot about his family, the Avengers. Yet, the more he thought about what could've been done differently, the murkier the waters became. It was a lose-lose situation, really.

Natasha finished her sandwich and reached for a napkin. In truth, she had never been a fan of PB&J sandwiches. Peanut butter and jelly on their own? Delicious. Together, mixed and intertwined like sugary strings of overwhelming flavor? Not her forte. Steve wasn't aware of that insignificant detail, however, so when his big blue eyes flicked towards hers she gave him a smile. Wiping her mouth with the napkin, she said, "That was wonderful, Steve. Thank you."

Across the table, Clea was eyeing the sink. She seemed to be contemplating something. The two heroes picked up on her unbeknownst hesitation. Steve spoke up. "If water is what you're after, then the glasses are on the top shelf. I don't have any ice, though, so just let the tap run until it's cold."

"Thank you, sir." Clea replied, dismounting her seat and moving towards the sink.

Natasha eyed Steve, a playful flicker in her eyes. "Since when does Captain America not have ice?"

Steve played along, a smirk lining his lips. "Ever since he was frozen in it for 70 years." The smirk suddenly left his face and his eyes glazed over. Every muscle in his body tensed up and Natasha realized what was happening at once.

Steve didn't enjoy talking about the war. He mentioned small aspects of it here and there, but never in detail. The details were a whole different story. They kept him up at night. They crept over him when he least expected them to, engulfing him in their shadow. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape them. He could go to therapy, talk to Sam, and try to forget, but he couldn't. He couldn't let everything go because although he knew the war was 70 years ago, it felt like yesterday. You can't just forget about a war overnight.

Natasha hadn't even considered Steve's war flashbacks. The guilt clawing it's way into her throat, she began to wonder what he was thinking about. What was the last thing he had seen before he went under? A sheet of ice? The falling snow? The frigid water rushing over the aircraft? He must've been terrified, and knowing that he had "died" alone made everything worse.

With Steve still in his trance, Natasha reached for his hand, which was resting on the table's uneven surface. She slid her hand inside of his and immediately underwent a sense of calm. As if on cue, he enclosed his hand around hers and she realized that their folded hands fit like a glove. 

Clea neared the table, a full glass in her fingers. Her face and hands were free of dirt now; she had opted to freshen up before eating. Sitting back down, she looked over at Steve and Natasha, who were still holding hands.

The memory that had haunted Steve waned and he was brought back to reality. If he had felt Natasha's hand in his, which he had, he didn't give much notice. He didn't pull away either, for he enjoyed being next to her. Whether in a room, or in battle, he took pride in standing by her side. He felt comfortable around her. In a world of fog, she was a breath of fresh air, a light in the dark. As long as she was with him, he could do anything.

Steve shifted in his chair, leaning forward. Natasha slid from his gentle grasp and he immediately wished she'd return. No. Keep focus, solider, he told himself while observing Clea. She had just retrieved herself a second glass of water. He began his interrogation, deciding to ask a simple question first. "Clea, what was on that plane?"

Clea looked up, but otherwise, she had no noticeable reaction. "Nothing important. Mostly fruit, I think, but I'm not sure. I never opened the crates."

"How did the plane crash?" Okay, a harder question now. Not just for Clea, but for Steve as well. After all, it reminded him of his "final moments" in the war.

Clea stiffened, but the answer eventually came. "There was a fight. Me and this... thing. It looked human, but it's face kept... changing. One moment, it looked like Beyoncé, and the next moment, it looked like an older gentlemen with silver hair and tinted glasses. I was scared. I didn't know what to do. So, I set fire to the plane and jumped."

The two Avengers shared a concerned glance. Natasha bit her lip; Steve leaned back in his chair. Returning his attention to Clea, he asked one final question. "Who are you running from?"

Clea set down her glass. There was a slight tremble in her movements, and as she looked back at Steve, he saw a strange sadness in her eyes. He never would've guessed that she was upset for him, for everything he had and was about to go through.

In a whisper, Clea spoke one terrifying word. "HYDRA."