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“I thought you were dead,” she is saying as she pulls on anything she can hold onto from the woman in front of her -- the solid black tac gear that hugs and protects muscles and curves alike, the long and silky plait of bright crimson hair she herself once loved to braid, the soft creamy skin with hidden constellation of birthmarks that bloomed upon secret yet sensitive spots far below the nape -- and she kisses dry plush lips, like her life depended on it, sobs escaping her in a broken: “I cannot survive finding you again.”
But Natasha is not the same comfortable warmth she yearns for, not the same familiar steady weight on top of her, not the hints of honeyed cinnamon nor the sharp acridity of gunpowder all familiar to her as their bodies intertwine within the heat and passion of their love; and icy fingers touches her body, returns her touches, numbing, numbing, numbing -- as if her Nat is nothing now but a mere spectre to exist only in memories and dreams.
And her empty, cold bed come blearing morning is a stark reminder that Natasha Romanoff will never again live and breathe by her side, and she can only grieve in silence, no gravestone nor ashes of the Black Widow to witness her horrid tears.