Red

The lights inside Megan Starks loft glare down at her as she slowly sweeps up broken glass.

Her hands clench the broom handle tightly, her knuckles white, her movements slow and her entire body tense. The only sounds in the entire apartment are her breathing and the methodical swooshing of the broom and scratching of the glass on the hardwood floor.

And while her apartment was quiet, her mind wasn't.

She replays the events of the last hour over and over; her boyfriend's voice, once warm and loving now cold and detached. The shattering of glass as he smashed her favorite plates onto the floor. The door slamming shut when he finally walked out.

Their fight had started as they always do; with a wrong word.

Megan had gotten home ten minutes later from the store than usual. When she'd walked into the loft, Jason had been waiting for her, leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed and a pissed off look on his face.

"Where have you been?" He demanded, his voice hard and cold, but not raised. Not yet. That always came later. "You're late. You didn't call."

"The train was late," she explains softly, setting the shopping bag on the floor and taking off her coat and hanging it by the door. Her keys go in the bowl that sits on a small table by the front door and her purse goes on the table by the bowl. Her phone goes on the other side of the bowl. "I didn't think-."

"Of course you didn't," he scoffs, cutting her off. "That's the problem, you never think. Anything could have happened to you. You could have been mugged, assaulted in an alley, left for dead. That's why we have these rules, Megan. For your safety."

"It was just ten minutes," she whispers, her eyes on the floor.

"Just ten minutes," he repeats slowly. "Well, if that's all." Megan glances up at him, the tone of his voice making her heart sink. The smirk on his face made it sink even more. "You know, maybe you're right. Ten minutes is nothing in the grand scheme of things." He pushes off the counter and turns to the cabinets, opening the one with her dishes and pulling out a plate. He continues talking as he turns back to her, "what could possibly happen in ten minutes?"

Megan knew it was coming, but she still flinched when he slammed the plate down on the floor. The sound was sharp, the crash echoing through the loft as the shards bounced and skidded across the floor.

Jason turns and grabs another plate, smashing it against the counter this time. Then grabs another, this one meeting its end against the opposite wall.

And then another.

And another.

And another.

Each plate he smashed sent a stab through her chest and she had to force herself not to cry. Not to beg him to stop. It wouldn't have done any good, it never did. It would have just enraged him more. Made him break more things.

So she did the only thing she could do; she stood still, rooted to her spot until the sounds of breaking glass stopped.

When she looked up, he was breathing calmly and smiling. He walks over to her, stopping right in front of her and his hands come up to cup her cheeks. "You know I hate doing this, but I had to show you. You see what can happen in ten minutes, Meg? A whole world of destruction. Now imagine, instead of plates in the kitchen, it was you. You, broken and shattered in some alley, all alone." His hands were firm against her face, tightening ever so slightly. "But that's not going to be you, right? Because you're my good girl who follows the rules, right?"

"Right," she breathes out.

"And what are you going to do if you're running late?" He presses on, his hands pressing her harder.

"Call," she cries, tears finally slipping free and running down her face.

Jason tuts, "oh baby, don't cry. It's ok, I'm not mad. I do this because I love you. To show you have easily it would be for someone to hurt you." He leans in and kisses her forehead, whispering against her skin, "I love you, Meg."

"I love you too," she says.

His lips linger for a moment longer before he shoves her roughly against the wall, his hands finally leaving her face. "I'm going out. Clean this up, the place is filthy."

"Ok," she whispers as he grabs her keys and walks out, the door slamming closed behind him.

When he was gone, she did as he told her. She went to the pantry, her shoes crunching over the broken glass, got her broom and dustpan and started cleaning.

She tried to ignore the ache in her chest as she swept up the white china with the scalloped edges and the small daisies that decorated them. She didn't count how many he had broken while he'd been doing it, but a quick glance at the cabinet told her it had been nearly all of them. Only two plates sat in the cabinet, the rest were swept into her dustpan and dumped into the trash.

It took her a while to find all the pieces. Some had skittered under the stove, some were stuck in the hardwood floor, others had even managed to make it under the couch nearly twenty feet away. But in the end, she found them all and when she was done, there was no evidence of what had happened.

Well, almost none.

Propping the door open, Megan grabs the trash bag and heads down the hallway towards the trash chute at the end of her floor. The bag was heavy, the glass tinkling as she hoisted it into the chute, the door closing with a bang.

On her way back to her loft, a door creaks open and an old woman with white hair and pink rollers peaks out. "Awful loud tonight," the woman complains.

"Sorry Mrs Norris," Megan apologizes quickly. "A cabinet fell, broke most of my dishes. It won't happen again."

Mrs Norris hums and looks Megan over, "see that it doesn't." And with that, she closes the door, leaving Megan to disappear back into her own apartment.

With the door firmly closed behind her, she finally allowed herself to take a deep breath. To feel the floor under her feet. The heaviness of her limbs. The ache in her soul.

She sighs and heads towards the bathroom, taking a long hot shower before changing into an oversized hoodie that said Harvard across the chest. The hoodie was way too long, coming to a stop at her knees and she never bothered to wear pants with it.

Climbing into bed, she pulls the hood up as she snuggles into the blankets. The hoodie is soft and well worn, with a few small holes in the sleeves. Jason hated it, said that it looked ratty and made her look like she was homeless. He'd tried to get her to throw it away a dozen times, but she'd refused.

It was one of the only times she ever outright refused him.

It wasn't even about the hoodie, not really. It was about what it represented to her, because of who gave it to her. Or rather, who she'd stolen it from.

A ghost of a smile tugs at her lips as she pulls the hood tighter around her head, the faintest hint of perfume tickling her nose, even though she knew it was impossible. She's washed it countless times over the past seven years, but it still somehow smelled like her.

Like Natasha.

Because it was Natasha's hoodie. Her favorite one, and Megan had stolen it right before she went to college.

She'd stolen something from all the Avengers before she'd left; a pen from Bruce, an arrowhead from Clint that she strung on a necklace, Steve's favorite coffee cup, one of Thor's hair ties, a nanotech bracelet from her dad and the hoodie from Natasha.

She'd taken it on a whim. Megan knew it was the assassin's favorite, that she had probably been pissed when she found it gone, but Megan had taken it anyway. It was cold in Washington, she'd need all the hoodies she could get, was what she'd told herself.

But the real reason, the one she never wanted to admit even to herself, was that she had been scared.

It had been her first time leaving New York, living with strangers away from the comfort of her father's tower. Leaving behind all her friends and family, and she had been terrified.

And Natasha was never scared.

She was always calm, confident, never let anything bother her. Megan had seen her take down ten agents during training without breaking a sweat. She had watched footage of Natasha in battle, firing her gun with a small grin like she was having fun. She'd even heard Natasha telling jokes and teasing Clint while she got her wounds stitched up.

To Megan, Natasha was everything she wasn't and everything that Megan wanted to be.

So, she took her hoodie.

She wore it her first day of freshman year, walking into her first class like she owned it, trying to channel her inner Natasha.

And it worked.

Ever since, the hoodie had become her armor. Anytime she needed confidence, or swagger as she lovingly called it, she put it on. Or when she was missing home, missing her old life, on came the hoodie. Or, in times like this, if she needed to feel safe, she put it on.

Because Natasha was safe.

Natasha would never let anything hurt her.

And even though she knew it was silly, knew that it was just an article of clothing and not actual armor, it made her feel better.

It made her feel safe.

And so, snuggled in her stolen armor, Megan fell asleep. And she didn't dream about the broken dishes or Jason's rough hands on her. She dreamed about strong arms, gentle hands and green eyes.