[ There were days when he was a kid . . . He'd been blessed with a poor constitution and he knew it, everyone knew it and never failed to ask him about his health or offer to help in whatever way they could, but he'd been a kid. He didn't want help, he wanted to play stickball with Bucky and his pals and make it to the manhole cover doubling as first base before the ball did. So he'd do these things he wasn't supposed to do, knowing that if he had an attack he could be resigning his mother to an afternoon of rubbing Steve's back in countless circles while he tried to gasp in wheezing lungfuls of steam over a boiling pot for however many hours it took to subside.
He's never told Natasha that, and now he's not sure he can, at least not like he'd want to, as an intimacy. But he won't tell her he can't be hurt, either. That's not the point. That's never been the point. He just needs to be a man who would try anyway, in spite of being well aware of his own mortality. He wishes she understood that. His lips part before he can really begin to know how to respond, but she speaks again and saves him from needing to make the effort.
The wipers are going as fast as they can, which still isn't nearly fast enough to keep up with the rain, and the moisture from their breath is fogging up the corners of the windshield despite the heater going full blast, still barely warm. It's as good an excuse as any not to look at her. He can feel her eyes on him and knows she can see the effort it takes to swallow past the sudden, aching lump in his throat. He speaks past it, low and just over the noise coming from both outside and inside of the car. ]
That's cruel, Nat.
[ He's in the car, here with her like she'd wanted. He doesn't still need to be convinced. He knows he's asked for her honesty before, but there's such a thing as too much of it, even for him. ]
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He's never told Natasha that, and now he's not sure he can, at least not like he'd want to, as an intimacy. But he won't tell her he can't be hurt, either. That's not the point. That's never been the point. He just needs to be a man who would try anyway, in spite of being well aware of his own mortality. He wishes she understood that. His lips part before he can really begin to know how to respond, but she speaks again and saves him from needing to make the effort.
The wipers are going as fast as they can, which still isn't nearly fast enough to keep up with the rain, and the moisture from their breath is fogging up the corners of the windshield despite the heater going full blast, still barely warm. It's as good an excuse as any not to look at her. He can feel her eyes on him and knows she can see the effort it takes to swallow past the sudden, aching lump in his throat. He speaks past it, low and just over the noise coming from both outside and inside of the car. ]
That's cruel, Nat.
[ He's in the car, here with her like she'd wanted. He doesn't still need to be convinced. He knows he's asked for her honesty before, but there's such a thing as too much of it, even for him. ]