sit by my side
break bread at my table
rating: g
characters: Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff
warnings: none
summary: People fear what they don't understand; it's a human thing. But then again, so is trust. Or: A glimpse into the friendship of Sam Wilson and Natasha Romanoff.
"Trust her? Trust the Black Widow?" Incredulity, surprise, incomprehension. "You think you can trust Natasha Romanoff?”
You think of a woman coated in soot and dust on your doorstep, of the damp curls she straightens in a bathroom you’ve handed over to strangers with all the mess you’ve left still in there. You remember the hand that grabs yours and clamps down as you hang in mid-air, that holds on despite bullet wounds through shoulder and soul.
These people know about the legend, know about the ledger; they don’t know about the nights she crashes on your couch after an op, small and stretched out with a hand curled under her cheek. They don’t know that the next day she’ll take you out for Thai in exchange, gray eyes tired but warm as you order the spiciest item on the menu because life’s short and the food’s good. They don’t know about the front row tickets she gives you offhandedly a week after you mention that the show at Jiffy Lube (Live, not the car place) sold out before you got back to civilization, or the OJ in the Tower’s massive fridge labelled in neat handwriting for ‘Sam’s Spit Only :)’.
No one here sees the bruises, and blood, and the better world she is fighting for. They can’t see she’s a shoulder to lean on, a speed dial entry that will bring fists and knives and quiet companionship, a spy who watches soldiers and superheroes alike with exasperation and drags them all out when she can tell you’ve had enough. You think of Natasha Romanoff, Avenger and woman and so damn human, and laugh.
"Yeah," you tell them, knowing that they cannot understand, knowing that you’re perfectly fine with that. "Yeah, I do."
rating: g
characters: Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff
warnings: none
summary: People fear what they don't understand; it's a human thing. But then again, so is trust. Or: A glimpse into the friendship of Sam Wilson and Natasha Romanoff.
"Trust her? Trust the Black Widow?" Incredulity, surprise, incomprehension. "You think you can trust Natasha Romanoff?”
You think of a woman coated in soot and dust on your doorstep, of the damp curls she straightens in a bathroom you’ve handed over to strangers with all the mess you’ve left still in there. You remember the hand that grabs yours and clamps down as you hang in mid-air, that holds on despite bullet wounds through shoulder and soul.
These people know about the legend, know about the ledger; they don’t know about the nights she crashes on your couch after an op, small and stretched out with a hand curled under her cheek. They don’t know that the next day she’ll take you out for Thai in exchange, gray eyes tired but warm as you order the spiciest item on the menu because life’s short and the food’s good. They don’t know about the front row tickets she gives you offhandedly a week after you mention that the show at Jiffy Lube (Live, not the car place) sold out before you got back to civilization, or the OJ in the Tower’s massive fridge labelled in neat handwriting for ‘Sam’s Spit Only :)’.
No one here sees the bruises, and blood, and the better world she is fighting for. They can’t see she’s a shoulder to lean on, a speed dial entry that will bring fists and knives and quiet companionship, a spy who watches soldiers and superheroes alike with exasperation and drags them all out when she can tell you’ve had enough. You think of Natasha Romanoff, Avenger and woman and so damn human, and laugh.
"Yeah," you tell them, knowing that they cannot understand, knowing that you’re perfectly fine with that. "Yeah, I do."