3 times Steve helped Natasha and the 1 time she helped him. Romanogers!

NO. 18 - PANIC! AT THE DISCO
Panic Attacks, Phobias

1.

"Romanoff, you go left and through the vents," Steve said.

"I feel like Katniss..." She muttered, glancing over at Clint.

"Well," he continued, "Barton is going from the opposite side while I follow you. Stark, fly up from the right side. Our intel confirms that you'll have a way in from there. Okay, and then Banner will stay here on the quinjet in case we need any backup."

"Copy that," everyone murmured in agreement.

Steve looked at Natasha, and she felt her heart skip a beat. Focus, Romanoff.

The Avengers had been tasked with infiltrating a warehouse, apparently being the main base for a weird low-level organization. Director Fury told them that a piece of leftover Chitauri weapons had been spotted on a recent reconnaissance mission. However, it was cancelled when the agents involved were forced to retreat and call for medical.

Clint nodded once at Natasha before slinging his quiver over his back. He then started bantering with Tony as they made their way along the treeline angling right of the facility.

Minutes later, Natasha found herself climbing up the left side of the building using a nearby staircase. She swung her legs up and eyed her surroundings before reaching out a hand to Steve (even though he didn't need it). They stood together on the roof and crouched down.

"Uh," Clint's voice came over the comms. "There's like two people here. Both are dead, gunshot wounds in the chest."

Steve and Natasha shared a look. Change of plans, hm?

The sound of a truck rolling in made him look up towards the front road. Thankfully, the quinjet was well hidden in the splattered forest of shrubbery and lime-green vegetation. "Truck coming from the north."

"Is it just me," Natasha said slowly, "or is it glowing purple?"

Indeed it was.

Steve replied, "Romanoff and I are closest. We'll go in."

"Alright. Birdbrain's unfortunately still with me."

"Hey!"

The truck stopped in the back garage and three heavily geared hostiles stepped out. They moved towards the back doors and opened them a crack, flooding the parking lot with a dark wine color. Garage doors already half closed, the soldier and spy quickly rolled under. Steve threw his shield and bounced it off of the side, hitting two in the chest. Natasha threw a well aimed punch and knocked out the other guy before he had even known what was happening.

Neither of the duo noticed the man still standing in the truck — until it was too late.

Natasha spotted him first. "Steve!"

He turned and saw as the man pressed the trigger on whatever Chitauri blaster he held. A steaming beam of lavender erupted from one end and sailed into the wall. Fire instantly exploded as debris fell down. The wooden beam it hit split in the middle, the top leaning down at a heavy angle as it struggled to remain upright. A wave of heat came up and met Natasha's lungs, making her cough and spasm. As part of the roof started to crumble, Natasha fell into a fetal position and tried to block out all the outside sounds. Her trembling hands curled protectively around her head.

It was at this moment, that the spy knew she'd die exactly like her parents had all those years ago... In a stupid fire. At least this one wasn't caused by Ivan and she wouldn't be taken to the Red Room... No, no! That miserable knockoff Hydra was gone. Natasha had made sure of that — but the more the thought plagued her, she couldn't help but pick on each and every loose thread in the tapestry depicting her life. She had to do something! Right? What if...?

Steve covered his nose and mouth with a piece of fabric ripped from his suit. He barely spared the dead man and Chitauri weapons a glance before resuming his search for Natasha.

"This is Rogers!" He gasped. "Was anyone else in the building? Tony? Clint?"

There was nothing but static, before Tony answered sarcastically, "We're right as rain, Cap. Is Red with you?"

"Er..." Steve trailed off and finally found Natasha. Her knees were clutched to her chest as she gasped for longer breaths and trembled in one of the most obvious panic attacks he'd ever seen. "Yeah—? We'll meet you outside."

He turned to Natasha. "Nat? C'mon, we have to leave and get out of the fire."

"They're already dead," she whispered in some sort of trance. Her whole body shook to match her racing heart. "I watched. He's outside and waiting for me."

Steve chose not to dwell on her strange words, and instead assumed she was having a flashback. "Nat, you're not there. It's Steve. I'm here with you and the Avengers — Clint and Tony and Bruce — are worried. We're a team, and all of us will make it out of here alive!"

Natasha didn't move still, but instead kept wildly darting her eyes around. "I-I... How... I..."

Steve scooped the barely conscious redhead into his arms and silently promised to himself that he would do all that he could to save her.

"Steve, thank you..." And then her vision went dark under the strain.

2.

"Guys!" Tony shouted excitedly. He ran into the living room of the tower, out of breath. "I got tickets!"

Bruce blinked. "Tickets to what?"

Before he could answer, Clint poked his head out from a nearby vent and snatched up the tickets. His face contorted into a mixture of excitement, confusion, and then worry in exactly that order. "Uh, I'm pretty sure we can watch this sort of thing on TV."

Tony shrugged. "Well, Pepper bought the tickets and told me to tell you guys to go. It's a matter of charity."

"Hello?" Steve said. "There's other people in the room, y'know."

Clint snorted. "Tony wants to go watch ballerinas tonight. We should buy him a pink tutu-"

"Hey!"

Natasha snickered and added, "I think a red and gold leotard would go great with that."

"Look," Tony said with a hint of both frustration and amusement, "Stark Industries recently gave a ton of money to all sorts of people and charities. We're going to a ballet show tonight since they invited us - and that's final, people! So clean yourselves up."

"That includes you!" Clint hollered back.

Hours later, Natasha found herself wearing a simple black dress and sitting in a large auditorium. Steve sat to her right, by the aisle, while Clint was on her left. Some people in the crowd whispered with a sense of eagerness, but Natasha only felt numb.

She didn't want to be there. Natasha knew she could brainstorm a valid excuse and lie to remove herself from the team's presence, but where would that get her in the endgame? So instead, Natasha sat motionless in her seat and silently awaited the ballet performance.

The sound of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake composition resonated with a mirage of beauty throughout the room, starting with an oboe. Thick, midnight black curtains swayed to the side and revealed the stage in its entirety. A line of dancers, each sporting sky blue leotards and pearl colored tutus stood in the center. The outfits looked clean and delicate on their bodies, and Natasha couldn't help but think about the blood that had stained her ballet shoes when she was a child.

Clint squeezed Natasha's hand encouraginly.

The ballet dancers moved in a synchronized manner, twirling round and spreading their arms out above their heads. Spin. Twirl to the right. Left and twirl again, moving between their friends. Natasha clenched the edge of her seat, knuckles turning white as she noticed how happy everyone looked while dancing. She'd been raised in doing the same art, yet both groups - the Red Room and then these dancers - ended up with two totally different outcomes. One was associated with talent and a certain fascination, while the other was a dance till death.

Their routine looked familiar to Natasha. She tapped her toe instinctively and tried to make it stop as soon as she realized. Glancing at her hand, Natasha saw it was shaking. Her breathing quickened. From the corner of her eyes, she saw both Clint and Steve give her a look of concern. Of course, Clint knew exactly what was causing her reaction. The lack of knowledge did not distract Steve, because he only wanted to help.

Swan Lake was still playing. As it neared the end, the violins and other brass instruments rose up in a big crescendo. It was known as a sign of failure in Russia, playing often around the collapse of the Soviet Union - a time she couldn't even properly remember anymore. Natasha's eyes darted around before she finally stood up and moved past Steve, reaching the aisle. Tony and Bruce were sitting a row lower, so they didn't notice their friend's sudden departure.

Clint got up to go after her, but Steve pushed him back down. The archer frowned, but let him go.

Steve opened the big auditorium doors and stepped out. He went into the lobby and tried to spot the familiar red hair peeking out from everyone. Not seeing her, Steve checked his watch for the time. As evening fell outside and put part of the world to sleep, the cerulean sky would darken into an assorted pallette of purple. The sun would set lazily on the horizon and slowly make its way down in order to allow the moon to rise. It was always a gorgeous sight.

The soldier made his through the lingering crowds of people and towards the stairs leading up to the roof. Steve climbed until finally reaching the normally licked door. He could tell that Natasha had quickly and efficiently picked the lock, and admired that trait in the assassin. On the roof, Steve spotted Natasha sitting on the ledge with her knees up to her chest.

He said nothing and instead crossed the rooftop over to her. Natasha's emerald green eyes sparkled with an emotion Steve had only ever seen on her during that fire: fear. She almost didn't even register the soldier grabbing her hand until he asked her:

"Nat, are you with me?"

But Steve Rogers was a constant in the tide of red blood across her ledger. Natasha put on a smile, looking over his shoulder to look at the rising moon. Neither of them said anything about Natasha's quick breathing or the way she leaned into his chest ever so slightly.

"I'll always follow you, Captain."

3.

Natasha tossed and turned. She sighed after a few long seconds and glanced at her flashing alarm clock. It read, 1:22 and continued to piss off Natasha with the blinking light flickering off. It was red - the same color as her bloodstained ledger.

She glanced at the dresser next to her bed and resisted the urge to open the first drawer. Natasha instead kept her hands under the blanket and tucked them inside the front pocket of her hoodie. She silently wished she had grabbed one of Clint's or even Steve's. Something about theirs provided comfort more than anything else Natasha seemed to have in her immediate reach.

The only sounds in the night (morning?) carried from the still busy and bustling streets of New York. To Natasha, silent screams echoed in her head as the nightmares progressed into the darkness around her. Although, the freshest ones were from a few days ago, as Natasha just couldn't bring herself to sleep. She didn't want to see nameless faces floating around her and coated with crimson blood.

The only small sense of joy came from knowing it was finally Christmas morning.

Natasha glanced at her alarm clock once again, only to discover a few minutes had passed. She threw it across the room. It was satisfying to hear it break into pieces upon impact with the floor.

Turning on her side, Natasha sat up and opened the drawer. Inside was a pair of silver handcuffs, shining in the pearlescent moonlight.

"J," she muttered, rubbing her temples, "who's awake right now?"

Jarvis replied instantly, "Captain Rogers is drawing on his floor and Sir is blowing up the lab at the moment despite my insisting that he goes to sleep. I suggest the same thing for you, Agent Romanoff."

Natasha rolled her eyes. How was it possible an AI cared so much about her sleep schedule? She also briefly wondered if it was just her sleep deprived imagination, or if Jarvis actually sounded concerned?

Picking up the handcuffs, Natasha ran her finger along the sharp curve. She played with the lock. The cold metal grew warm with her touch. Natasha stared at them and willed them to disappear into thin air. A sudden flashback to Madame B locking their wrists to a bed frame plagued Natasha's mind. The older woman always did it with practiced ease, moving fluidly between each girl until it was impossible to escape the Red Room without fatal punishment.

Natasha hesitated. "Is Steve still awake?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?

"Positive, Agent Romanoff," Jarvis confirmed. "Along with sleep, I'd recommend talking to him."

Natasha's head whipped up from where she was examining her handcuffs. "What? Has Tony been messing with your programming?"

Jarvis wisely chose to stay silent.

She suddenly threw the handcuffs across the room towards the alarm clock. The metal rang sharply through the air when it landed on pieces of the former clock. Natasha kicked her blankets off and opened her bedroom door, walking out into her floor of the tower. She continued towards the elevator and slammed what she thought to be the correct button.

The doors opened and revealed Steve's floor. He looked up, blue eyes wide with that lost-puppy-look.

"Merry Christmas, Steve," Natasha said, grinning despite herself.

Steve scooted over on the couch to make room for her. "It's past midnight? I guess time just moves quick sometimes."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Whatcha sketching?"

He held his leather bound sketchbook close to his chest. A red blush spread across his cheeks and onto his ears; that was the only shade of red that Natasha found herself in love with.

"Nothing. Couldn't sleep?" Steve asked, trying to change the subject.

Natasha half shrugged. "More or less. Also, remind to work with you on your lying skills."

"That bad, huh?" He retorted at her smirk.

She laughed at the repeat of the words she'd once told him while on the run from the whole Hydra fiasco. Natasha had made fun of him for being a bad kisser, when in actuality: she yearned to taste his lips again. Maybe not in that exact scenario, of course, but she's had worse before. The blue in his eyes sparkled with something that Natasha couldn't quite read with how fast it was.

She realized he was close enough to her for Natasha to feel the warmth of his breaths. Steve's eyes gazed into hers, and as if in a trance, they both leaned in. Their lips pressed against each other and Steve instinctively ran his hand through Natasha's firey red locks. Hot waves of passion rolled between the pair as they struggled to think about anything else. When they finally pulled away, both Natasha and Steve were breathing hard.

She took his hand and pointed up towards the ceiling. A string of mistletoe dangled down.

No words passed between them - just a comfortable silence where Natasha put her head on Steve's chest and closed her eyes, falling into a dreamless sleep instantly.

"I love you, Nat," Steve whispered. "Merry Christmas..."

Natasha smiled.

+1.

"C'mon, Steve!" Natasha grinned from the top of the quinjet. "We better get going if we're going to take down that drug cartel in Greenland."

He laughed at her tone. It was the exact same way a normal person would talk about a pair of shoes or somebody they liked a lot. But Natasha wasn't normal, and that's why Steve loved her.

Steve's smile wavered at the reminder of where they were going though. Greenland, surprisingly did not live up to its name at all. Instead, it was made up of ice and frigid temperatures. He wondered why Greenland was called Greenland and not Iceland like its own nextdoor neighbor. Steve really didn't like ice. It was helpful, but also a constant pang of pain when he remembered crashing that plane. He also felt a small feeling of guilt - having gone under during a war, then waking up and having people tell him, Hm? Oh, that ended back in '45.

"Steve?" Natasha asked. "Everything okay?"

He sighed, knowing it was impossible to lie to Natasha and get away with it. Walking back down the ramp, Natasha put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I... I thought of the crash."

Natasha kissed his cheek and he turned to look into her emerald eyes. "This quinjet won't crash, I promise."

"Because you're flying?" Steve joked.

Natasha snorted. "Something like that, and the first time? You were alone. This time..."

"We're together." He finished.

"A battle lost, but won at the same time."