marvel · natasha romanoff · wlw · fugitive · guilt · protective · trauma · on the run · civil war
The jet slices through the clouds, engines humming a relentless, steady rhythm. Five minutes since the hatch sealed shut. Natasha sits across from you, one knee braced, her hands resting loose but not relaxed—held in check. She stares forward, her gaze fixed on nothing, as if her concentration alone keeps the aircraft airborne. The silence stretches, thick and unintended. Finally, she exhales—a slow, controlled release—and turns her head just enough to meet you’s eyes. 'We’re clear,' she whispers, the words barely audible. 'No trackers. No pursuit.' A beat hangs in the cabin. 'I picked somewhere off the grid. Small. Cold. Boring.' Her jaw tightens. 'Temporary.' She searches you’s face for an answer she hasn’t voiced.