Chapter Text
one way
adjective
(slur) interested exclusively in relationships as either a protector or protected
They could never form a complete circle, since Jim was one way.
Steve rarely sees Natasha alone in the month following the Battle of New York, though they all spend a fair amount of their time on the common floor of the Tower during those fragile weeks when they’re not out helping the recovery effort or (in Bruce and Tony’s cases) analyzing alien biology in a lab. She’s made herself Barton’s shadow, and Steve certainly doesn’t disapprove, given how gray and lifeless Barton looks despite the mandatory daily therapy sessions. Steve knows what it’s like to wake up realizing a member of your circle is ( both of your immediate links are ) dead, but he doesn’t know how to talk to Barton about it. Natasha seems to, or at the very least gives him comfort through her constant companionship. And she, technically, has lost more, but Steve isn’t going to pretend to understand. She’s calm enough, steady. Gentle inquiries to JARVIS suggest that she’s not a suicide risk, unlike Agent Barton. When he finally does find her unaccompanied, it’s three in the morning, and he just smiles sheepishly at her and nods to the kettle.
“Enough in there for another cup?” She nods and smiles softly. He finds a seat on one of the bar stools, leans his forearms on the kitchen island. “How’s Clint?”
She shrugs, leaning back against the counter. “Surviving. Don’t expect too much progress yet.”
“No,” Steve agrees. “I know it won’t be fast.” Natasha nods. “Are you… do you need anything?”
She quirks another half-smile at him and shakes her head. “I’m fine, Cap. Don’t worry about me.”
“You’ve lost a link before,” Steve surmises.
“Pretty and quick.” She stands on tiptoe to reach for two mugs, drops bags of something herbal into them before she elaborates. “I know it’s weird, but Clint and Phil were closer, even with me in the middle. And Clint… was alone for a long time. Before SHIELD found him. Before Phil found him.”
Steve considers that silently, as the electric kettle clicks off and she pours water into their mugs. She sits down across from him, slides his mug across the island. “I guess it’s a little weird,” he admits, but smiles to soften it. “I assume you had your reasons, the three of you?”
“Yeah,” Natasha agrees. “They were together first. Clint brought me in. I needed… stability, so he let me slip in between them for a while. It was never supposed to be permanent.”
“Ah.” Steve frowns. “They intended to link up again. After you found other partners.”
“Right. It lasted much longer than it needed to, really. Years. But...I was comfortable. They never rushed me.” She looks down into her mug, and Steve wonders if she feels guilt over that. Thinks she almost has to.
“Hard not to wonder,” he murmurs. “Trust me, I know a thing or two about that.”
She meets his eye, but doesn’t smile or frown, just sips her tea.
“Coulson wasn’t… looking for a protector, was he?” Steve’s not sure how to be delicate about this, in a new century, but Natasha just barks a laugh.
“Hell no. He was one way, through and through.” Her expression, once the laughter dies down, has a bit of challenge in it. He knows his startlement must be showing on his face, but he can’t help it. That term isn’t exactly nice, even now. One way is pretty much synonymous with “greedy” or “control freak,” depending on which way the person in question is. Steve takes a moment to consider what he says next.
“Did he… call himself that?”
“Sure. He wasn’t ashamed of what he was.”
“And… it didn’t bother you?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t put all my stock in closed circles, Rogers. Life’s too short.” He inclines his head to the side, not disagreeing, and takes another moment of comfortable silence to think through it. He hasn’t been awake long, but enough at least to contemplate the future. Fashions and attitudes are so strange now, but even so, he’s seen at least a few folks so far that captured his passing fancy, despite the weight of his recent (for him) loss. Abstractly, he can imagine some of them with a head in his lap, or kneeling at his feet, but never the reverse. He bites his lip and decides Natasha’s earned a confidence.
“I… well… I’ve kinda been wondering. Since I came out of the ice. If I might be… like that. Too. Just a protector—one way,” he says, swallowing down the uncomfortable feeling the term gives him in his gut. To his surprise, Natasha just snickers at him.
“Seriously?” He nods, but she grins back. “Bull shit you’re one way. What about Agent Carter?”
“Well… I mean… yes, but I just thought… maybe she was an aberration?”
Natasha laughs, open and gleeful, more relaxed than Steve’s seen her. “Take that back, Rogers. Peggy Carter was not an aberration.” He smiles, just a little, and ducks his head slightly. They’ve told him that Peggy’s something of an icon now, especially among powerful women, and though he hasn’t been able to visit her yet, hasn’t had the balls if he’s honest, that’s easy to believe.
“It’s possible, though. She was a one-of-a-kind dame. And it’s a different time.”
“So?”
“So… it’s hard to think of myself, well, being someone’s bottom, now.” He blushes furiously, but forces himself to use his words. It’s less just being protected that he has trouble picturing, but the submission implied by the more casual term, a submission he’d definitely dreamed about when he imagined himself as Peggy’s bottom.
“Take your time, then,” she suggests. “Trauma will do all sorts of things to what you desire.”
“So the therapists tell me,” Steve ribs, taking another large sip of his tea. It’s pleasant and minty, if unfamiliar. “You know… you might talk to Peggy some time,” he suggests. “I’m sure she’d have some perspective, on loss and all that. Maybe some ideas to help Agent Barton.”
“Maybe. Like I said, it’s not my first rodeo. You know how it is.”
Steve blows out a sharp breath, puffing one cheek. “I… not really. Not in the normal way. It’s still so sharp,” he admits. “I keep waking up, thinking they’ll be there. I’ll be looking forward to the dance Peggy promised me… we were still so new.”
“And Barnes?” she prompts, gentle. Still, he has to close his eyes against the memories.
“I… can’t. I don’t know how to…” He pauses, taking a few slow calming breaths as the therapists have recommended. Everytime he pictures Bucky’s smile it’s like a knife in his chest. “I know stability is important. Like you said, with Barton and Coulson—having two partners is supposed to balance you. I think it would have, if we’d had more time, but… he was my everything. And now he’s been dead for decades, and I don’t know how to grieve him.” Natasha gives him a sympathetic look, but now that the words are out, he just feels bone tired. “I… thank you for the tea, Agent Romanoff.” She just nods, and lets him rinse out his mug and make a tactical retreat. There won’t be much sleep for either of them tonight.