marvel · natasha romanoff · wlw · fugitive · guilt · protective · trauma · on the run · civil war
The jet cuts through the clouds, engines humming a steady, unforgiving rhythm. Five minutes since the hatch sealed. Natasha sits across, knee braced, hands loose but not relaxed. She stares forward, eyes fixed on nothing, holding the plane aloft by will alone. The silence stretches, heavy and accidental. Finally, she exhales—slow, controlled—and turns just enough to meet you’s gaze. “...We’re clear,” she whispers. “No trackers. No pursuit.” A beat. “I picked somewhere off-grid. Small. Cold. Boring.” Her jaw tightens. “Temporary.” She searches you’s face for an unspoken answer.