Winter's Widow

Chapter 12

This chapter was addressing and explaining what happened last chapter. That's about it, this chapter isn't very important you can skip it if you want. Sorry I got kinda lazy with this one XD

Natasha's pov:

I'm in the training room again, at the punching bag. My favorite. This time, I'm not mad. I'll take it easy with the bag this time.

"Hey Nat." I hear Clint's voice from behind me.

I turn around to greet him.

"Hey Clint." I greet him with a smile.

He lost his smile when he saw the bruises.

'What the hell happened?" He asked, not trying to hide the concern.

"Got into a fight on a mission." I turn around and start punching again.

"Nat, don't you think you should rest? That's a big bruise."

"No, it's fine. it doesn't hurt." I lied.

"Are you sure? Nat, don't put your pride before your health." He warned me.

"Really, I'm fine. Don't worry about it." I lie with a smile.

"Alright Nat. I know your tough, just don't take it too far. It's ok to get hurt and ask for help."

"I know, Barton." I giggle.

"I'm going to get coffee, Want some?" He offers.

"Sure. Plain black." I reply.

"With two shots of vodka, I know, Romonoff." He cracks a smile, and leaves.

I turn around and get back to punching. Wow. He took that pretty well, I should have gone to him yesterday. It sucks that Bucky broke me yesterday. I guess it's a lot harder to hide emotions from him. Now I know how he works, so next time it should be easier to hide my feeling from him. I'll just treat him the same way I treat Clint. No matter how much he asks, I'm always fine. Do not let anything slip. Not like I did yesterday. I can't believe I did that. I need to stay away from him for now, so I can cool off.

"You're doing it wrong."

I turn around to the familiar voice. Great. I think I jinxed it.

"I don't need your help, Barnes." 

"Are you sure about that?" He says coolly, leaning in the doorway.

"Positive." I turn around to the punching bag, and get back to it. I'm a little cold towards him because of yesterdays slip up, which was totally my fault.

I hear footsteps coming near. He grabs my arm and goes behind me. He punches with my hand slowly.

"You need to put more of your upper body into it." He lets go for me to try.

I punch the bag, and it swings back.

"I didn't need the help. I was doing just fine." I say coldly.

"Yes, you did. How are the bruises doing?" He asks a bad question.

"They're fine. It's like they're not even there anymore." I snap at the soldier.

"Really?" He asks in disbelief.

"Yes." I confirm.

"I don't believe you." He says.

"Why not." I ask.

"Because I know you, and I know how good of a liar you are."

"Well, I'm obviously not that good. I broke yesterday, remember?" I narrow my eyes.

"Well, that was a very special occasion. Even you have to break, sometimes. You can't keep emotions in forever. You're showing hostility towards me right now, you're not hiding that." He points out.

"Well... I'm fine. I'm not lying, either. End of conversation." I start punching harder.

"...Fine. Whatever you say." He pauses.

"So, how about we start a new conversation?" He asks.

"I don't know. Depends on how much you piss me off." I answer.

He seems amused. For a split second, I see the amusement in his eyes. It's nice, seeing something other than death in his eyes. Staring at the steel blue eyes gets boring when all they portrayed was gunpowder and death. Now, I see some form of joy. For a split second.

This actually brightened my mood a bit.

"I'll try my best ma'am." He says cracking a faint smile.

He knows how to brighten my mood so fast.

"How about you take a break, so we can chat." He asks.

"Hmmmm... Fine."

When I see him, all I need to say to describe him is 'silver.'

His arm, his eyes, his dog tags. Silver. He's really something else.

We start walking to the living room, to take a break and chat.

The joy in his eyes is still there, but barely. The steel blue eyes don't often offer a feeling other than fear. Seeing something good is a rare, but beautiful sight. I'm looking in his eyes, and I don't hear a song of gunfire and screaming ringing in my ears. I don't see the gunpowder and ash. I don't feel scared. I don't taste the blood in my mouth. I don't smell the death on his hands.

It's nice.

We sit down on the couches in the living room and chat for a while, playing on our phones. I helped him figure a few things out, too. Now he knows how to use snapchat. He's learning, and healing.

I think it's safe to say he wont be bringing up yesterday's events anytime soon, and neither will I.