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anactualwolverine · 14 days ago

Text

༄ `. 𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓

summary : you finally decided to spell outloud your feelings for the redhead but got turned down - not that something else was expected but it still hurt. what happens when you actually give someone else the attention you used to give to natasha too?

genre : S.H.I.E.L.D. agent!nat x S.H.I.E.L.D. agent!reader

warnings : light angst, slightly cold nat.

words count : 2k || masterlist

an : based off this request from @natkisser :) thank you & i hope that goes up to your expectations bcs i feel like this doesn't make sense & it's frustrating. i've been rewriting this since yesterday and i'm still not proud of how it turned out tbh. (could still rewrite it if you dont like it.)

📍INT. S.H.I.E.L.D. BASE MORNING – CAFETERIA

SHIELD's Base cafeteria was buzzling with agents in most corners. Natasha had been sat on her usual spot by the window and as always, you appeared out of nowhere, ready to make her day full of yourself around.

Sliding a paper cup across the table, you stated. “Black. No sugar. Just how you like it.”

Natasha didn’t look up from the mission file she was scanning. “You always remember.”

You smiled nonetheless, leaning your hip against the table. “Someone’s gotta take care of you.”

“Mm,” Natasha hummed, taking a slow sip. “You do realize this borders on bribery, Agent.”

“I like to think of it as… pre-mission charm.”

Natasha glanced up briefly. A small, amused smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. But it was gone just as quickly as it came.

“Thanks,” She said quietly.

There were things unspoken between the two of you — never uttered in briefings, never acknowledged in sparring matches, never brought up in quiet corners of helicarriers or during the hush of night between missions. But they were there. As real and tangible as the tension in a drawn bowstring.

And everyone knew it.

Even if Natasha Romanoff never said a word, she knew.

Hell, a blind man would know. Anyone who’d seen the way you looked at her would know. It wasn’t subtle—not that you ever tried to make it subtle either.

So it was obvious. Way too obvious but you didn't care.

Even later, as she was at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s armory.

You watched as Natasha adjusted the straps on her tactical vest. The mission briefing had wrapped ten minutes ago, but you hadn’t moved.

“Your left holster’s twisted,” You said.

Natasha gave you a look. “You’re not my handler.”

“No. Just a perfectionist.” You stepped in without asking, brushing your fingertips lightly over the strap to fix it. “There.”

Their eyes locked for a second too long.

“You always do this,” Natasha said, voice low.

“Do what?” You asked, pretending not to know.

“Hover. Fuss. Look at me like I’m the damn sun.”

“Maybe because you are.”

Even as Nat rolled her eyes and walked away, you were still grinning like the idiot in love you were.

The truth is that you'd always felt something for the redhead ever since she showed up with Clint that day.

After all, how could you have not? It's not like most agents didn't look at her with the same heart eyes you did, just that unlike most, you'd been brave enough to approach her and actually got her to finally acknowledge you.

She'd never once crumbled from the flirting or the things you'd do.

It was the next day as Natasha sat alone in the training room, lacing her boots. Rain drizzled down the tall windows, painting the floor in soft gray light. She didn’t look up when you entered, not that she had to.

You walked in, no coffee, no reason - just your heart pounding behind your ribs like it wanted out.

Because you were about to do the one thing that was as stressul as any other shit you had done in your life.

Confessing to a cold Russian ex-assassin wasn't a daily task but you had to. You couldn't keep bottling those feelings , you couldn't keep hoping for her to say something you wanted to hear in the first place but didn't even get to say.

Hovering over the edge wasn't an option anymore, and you had to get a clear answer from this so,

“Can I talk to you?” You'd asked quietly.

Natasha looked up. A tilt of the head, a slight arch of a brow. “You’re talking.”

You smiled softly. “I mean... really talk.”

Natasha didn’t respond, just nodded toward the bench. You sat. The silence between you both was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that demanded honesty.

“I think I’ve made it pretty obvious how I feel about you,” You spoke up.

“You think?” The redhead raised an eyebrow.

“I know,” You corrected, smiling weakly. “But I’ve never actually said it. Not really.”

Swallowing thickly, you looked down at her hands. Gosh, this was it. The result would either be - rejected or get rejected

...

Or maybe given a shot if you were lucky enough ?

“I like you, Natasha. I’ve liked you for a long time. I just needed you to hear it from me—clearly, for once. Not in looks or coffee or tactical excuses.”

At first, it was complete silence. Then ;

“Don't do that,”

You only just as much as blinked, uttering a very quiet confused 'huh?' sound that you didn't even register yourself & the Russian was already continuing.

“You don’t want me,” Natasha added. Her tone was even, quiet. But her eyes betrayed a flicker of something—regret, maybe. “Not really. You think you do, but people like me don’t get that kind of ending.”

You frowned, “You don’t know that.”

“I know enough.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said softly. “Thanks for being honest.”

Natasha didn’t reply, so you stood, hands brushing down your pants “I’ll, uh… see you around.”

That was all you needed, an answer.

You couldn't actually hold that against her right? It was on you for falling for her, she never asked for anything but still, it does hurt to get turned down like that.

You felt no anger, you hadn't begged. Just… peace. Just acceptance - because you'd finally got what you wanted- an answer.

Maria Hill stood by the vending machines, chewing on a protein bar when you approached. She took one look at your face and tossed the wrapper.

“Jesus. How’d it go?”

You gave her a smile—small, but real. “Well,” you spoke up, exhaling deeply, “at least I can say I tried.”

Maria tilted her head, expression unreadable for a moment. “You okay?”

“I will be.”

“You’re not gonna go all brooding-Barton about it, are you?”

You chuckled dryly. “No. Just… gonna stop trying so hard. Let her breathe. Maybe I’ll even let myself move on.”

Maria nodded. “You deserve someone who doesn’t hesitate.”

You didn’t answer. Just nodded slowly and walked off, hands in your pockets, heart heavy—but finally honest.

That same evening, post work, you returned to your apartment.

The door clicked shut behind you and the moment it did, the silence hit you like a wave.

No comms.

No buzzing briefing rooms.

No mission tension.

Just the gentle hum of the fridge, and the soft pad of paws approaching on hardwood.

“Hey, trouble,” You murmured as yor cat, a chubby silver tabby with one torn ear, rubbed against your shin with a demanding mrrow.

You leaned down, scratching under the cat’s chin.

“Rough day,”

Your jacket landed on the coat rack with a lazy toss, and you padded toward your bedroom, peeling off your boots and switching into a worn gray hoodie and faded sweatpants. Your hair was pulled up lazily, face scrubbed clean. Stripped of your armor — literal and otherwise — you dropped onto the couch with a sigh, arms spread wide.

The tabby climbed right onto your chest like clockwork, purring like a tiny motorboat.

“Yeah, I know,” You hummed softly, running your fingers down his back. “You think I should move on too, huh?”

The cat gave a long, sleepy blink and purred in reply, curling up.

You smiled—just a little—and tilted your head back to stare at the ceiling.

“It’s not even her fault, really. She didn’t lead me on. Not once. I threw myself at her like an idiot, and she just… let me.”

The purring didn’t stop. Your cat kneaded at your hoodie, oblivious to heartbreak.

“I just thought maybe,” You whispered, “if I loved her enough, she’d… love me back.”

Just silence.

You closed your eyes, voice barely audible now. “Is that dumb?”

The cat headbutted your chin gently.

You chuckled—a weak, broken sound. “God, you’re so clingy. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

A soft buzz lit up your phone on the coffee table. A notification.

Not from Natasha.

Of course not.

But you didn’t check it anyway.

Instead, you sank deeper into the couch cushions, fingers tangled in fur, and finally let the heaviness settle.

Not a breakdown. No tears. Just the quiet weight of letting go.

Or at least trying to.

INT. TRAINING ROOM – 06:20 HOURS

Natasha stepped onto the mat early. Earlier than usual.

She never minded mornings. Her gloves were laced tighter than usual. Her movements — sharper, a little too aggressive.

She scanned the room between sets.

No you.

Not in the corner bench. Not by the lockers. Not leaning on the doorway with that stupid smoothie you always brought even though Natasha never drank smoothies.

Natasha frowned.

Maybe you were running late or maybe you were in another briefing.

Why the hell was she even caring now? She had the room all to herself without you around to distract her for once.

But that was just the first step of things changing. Not immediately but gradually.

The doors of the debriefing room opened and agents poured out in scattered twos and threes. Natasha stepped out last, flipping her file shut — just in time to catch you walking past. No wave. No wink. No cheeky “Where you headed, Romanoff?”

Just… a polite nod.

Professional.

“Agent,” You stated quietly.

Natasha blinked. “That’s new.”

You gave a tight smile. “Trying something different.”

And then you kept walking.

Natasha stared after you, that strange hollow feeling echoing in her chest.

You sat cross-legged on your bedroom floor, old records spread out around you. Something classic played softly — not sad, just mellow. Grounding.

Your cat lay belly-up on the bed, utterly useless.

You picked up your phone, thumb hovering over Natasha’s name in your recent texts.

Last Message:

“You made it back okay?" – Read 2 days ago

With a sigh, you exited the chat and tapped someone else instead. Someone who’d asked you out twice before but you'd never given a real answer.

[Text to Quinn]:

"Hey. If that offer for coffee’s still open, I could use a cup tomorrow." - 8:03pm.

You hit the send button with a racing heart. Not from excitement. From guilt. From ache.

You'd always shut down Quinn's attempt at getting to you, just because of your feelings for Nat and now that she'd rejected you, you wanted to make yourself forget her instead of looking miserable.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered to your cat as he seemed judgemental about your actions.

He simply yawned in reply.

SCENE: S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ – FRIDAY AFTERNOON

INT. S.H.I.E.L.D. COMMISSARY

The buzz of late lunch hour filled the space — clinking utensils, soft chatter, agents moving in and out in their usual rhythm.

Natasha walked in with a file in hand, intent on grabbing something quick and leaving.

But she froze halfway to the food line.

You were there — sitting at one of the corner tables, laughing softly at something Quinn said.

All while looking very relaxed.

You was in your casual blacks, legs crossed, a coffee between your palms.

Quinn was leaned in just slightly. Close enough.

And you didn’t lean back.

Natasha couldn’t hear what either of you were saying — didn’t need to. The body language said enough.

The worst part?

You weren’t performing or trying to get Natasha’s attention.

You didn’t even know Natasha was watching.

Which meant it was real.

You had moved on. Or were trying to.

That stupid hollow ache came back, clawing its way into Natasha’s chest like a slow-burning ember.

She turned away, almost bumping into Maria.

“Careful,” Maria said, raising an eyebrow.

Natasha’s voice was clipped. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

Maria followed her gaze, spotted you and Quinn, then looked back at Nat. “Yeah. I gathered.”

“She’s just… talking to him.”

“Uh-huh.” Maria folded her arms. “Like she used to talk to you?”

Natasha didn’t reply.

Later that night, Natasha sat on the edge of her bed in her tank top and joggers, staring at the wall like it might answer her.

The room was dark, save for the low golden light from a desk lamp. On her nightstand: a mug of untouched tea. A knife. Your favorite snack — the one she used to bring Natasha after bad missions — still sealed in its wrapper.

Natasha picked it up slowly, turning it in her hand and a frown made its way on her face.

"...You’re supposed to still be mine,” she whispered to the silence. “Even if I never asked you to be.”

She exhaled shakily, jaw tight.

You'd stopped bringing her coffee. Not out of pettiness, but respect. You started letting the mission rosters stand without interference. You didn’t volunteer to pair with Natasha like you used to. You laughed with others more often than you used to.

You flirted with other agents at HQ in passing conversation—not deeply, but differently. Like you was learning to let go.

But you still smiled at Natasha in the halls. Still nodded politely. Still offered backup when it was required.

You stopped trying to be her gravity. And Natasha noticed. Noticed when her locker was missing the protein bar you'd always slipped in for post-mission recovery. Noticed when she got sent on assignment with Barton instead, and you didn’t try to change it. Noticed the way your voice had a new calm distance when she briefed, like she was building walls brick by brick.

The worst part?

Natasha missed it. Missed you.

She missed the way you saw her—not the assassin, not the Black Widow, not the Red Room ghost—but just… Natasha. The woman behind the cold veneer. But now that gaze was turning elsewhere. And Natasha felt it like a hollow in her ribs.

She’d told herself it was safer this way. Cleaner. Simpler. But God, did she want things to go back.

She wanted the coffee. The winks. The little notes you sometimes left on mission files with dumb jokes only she would get. She wanted the woman who never gave up on her.

And now, she feared it might be too late.

Then, for the first time, she opened Y/N’s contact.

Typed ;

You looked happy today.

He must be funny.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then hit backspace.

Typed again.

I miss you.

But remained unsent.

Your cat was nestled by your leg, tail flicking gently.

The TV was on but muted — some nature documentary you weren't really watching. Your phone buzzed softly on the armrest beside you.

Natasha : 1 new message

Yourr heart tripped over itself before you reached for it.

You stared at the name for a long moment. The screen dimmed. You tapped it back awake.

You looked happy. - 9:34pm. He must be funny. - 9:34pm.

Unpolished. Vulnerable.

You blinked, unsure for a second if you'd misread it.

You didn’t open the message right away. You just stared at it sitting there on her lock screen like a bruise that hadn’t yet formed.

A pause.

Then your thumb hovered over it.

But you didn’t tap.

“She texts me now,” You whispered, mostly to yourself, barely audible. Your cat purred low, sensing your shift in energy.

You looked over at him with a sad smile.

“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t know what I’m doing either.”

You picked up the phone, unlocked it.

Read the messages properly this time.

And for a second — for a dangerous, foolish second — you nearly typed something back.

But then you remembered the way Natasha had looked at her the day you'd confessed.

How still she was.

How she hadn’t hesitated.

You swallowed.

You weren’t avoiding Natasha out of resentment. You never had.

You just refused to make someone uncomfortable in their own skin — refused to chase someone who had already told you no.

To reply now would be hoping for something again.

Something you’d already started to let go of.

Your thumb hovered above the keyboard

Then slowly, you locked the phone.

Let it fall beside you on the couch cushion.

And said aloud, voice soft and certain:

“I meant what I said… and I heard what she said, too.”

You leaned her head back, eyes fluttering shut as your cat climbed into your lap.

“If she really meant it, she’ll show me. And if she doesn’t… at least I’ll still have my peace.”

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