Natasha had a routine. When on base, she would always hit the gym late in the afternoon to get around the usual rush of users, staying long after the last person left. Some days she'd lose herself in yoga, others in boxing, still others in weights. Today was a cardio day, running relays through her own little area, working on agility, reflexes and stamina until her hair stuck to her face and breath came hot and harsh through over-worked lungs.
Grabbing a towel, Nat sat down on a bench, catching her breath and looking at herself in the large mirror. Nothing had changed -- not externally -- but ever since the battle with Loki she'd felt different. Even moreso since she'd seen him a few months earlier, inexplicably young and naive. It was an image she had trouble banishing, though one she'd managed not to talk about, even to Clint. Something simply felt wrong, like a mission ending in failure. A nagging, incessant sensation that something was out there and about to get her.
So she worked it off in the gym. Or tried to. But even as her lungs burned from excess, she still looked at the mirror and felt off. You're getting as bad as Clint, she thought, running a hand in frustration through her hair as she stood, toweling the sweat from her neck as she headed for the locker room. Maybe it was time to tell someone about what she was feeling. Her instincts were very rarely off, after all.
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Natasha had a routine. When on base, she would always hit the gym late in the afternoon to get around the usual rush of users, staying long after the last person left. Some days she'd lose herself in yoga, others in boxing, still others in weights. Today was a cardio day, running relays through her own little area, working on agility, reflexes and stamina until her hair stuck to her face and breath came hot and harsh through over-worked lungs.
Grabbing a towel, Nat sat down on a bench, catching her breath and looking at herself in the large mirror. Nothing had changed -- not externally -- but ever since the battle with Loki she'd felt different. Even moreso since she'd seen him a few months earlier, inexplicably young and naive. It was an image she had trouble banishing, though one she'd managed not to talk about, even to Clint. Something simply felt wrong, like a mission ending in failure. A nagging, incessant sensation that something was out there and about to get her.
So she worked it off in the gym. Or tried to. But even as her lungs burned from excess, she still looked at the mirror and felt off. You're getting as bad as Clint, she thought, running a hand in frustration through her hair as she stood, toweling the sweat from her neck as she headed for the locker room. Maybe it was time to tell someone about what she was feeling. Her instincts were very rarely off, after all.