2/2
And he'd been thinking about them - about other people. His conscience had been hypersensitive, of late (or at least, he wasn't accustomed to the way it made its presence known at unexpected and inconvenient times). He'd been thinking about the people in Eight he'd watched screaming, dying. He'd been thinking, mostly, about Jarvis. For better or for worse, he was primed for it, and in District Seven, he'd thought about Natasha.
She'd always been the one, until so recently, that he could rely on to be fine. She'd been the one person he knew would absolutely never need anything from him - not just that she wouldn't ask. She would never be so inconsiderate as to give him cause to worry about her in any way. The business with Bucky had shaken that, although not entirely - he knew he still didn't know the whole truth of it, and he'd allowed himself to believe, when the thought troubled him, that she knew what she was doing. But no matter what, he also knew that you couldn't protect yourself unless you had the right tools, the right information. So he'd thought he should give her that. They were on her home turf, after all. Just a heads up; just the barest of hints; just the most basic sketch, just in case, just ...
Just a fucking dumbass. What the hell was he doing?
"I know what I'm doing! Don't Rogers me - what a bunch of horseshit." He hadn't mentioned Rogers' name, of course, but he knew damn well he didn't have to. "I'm just telling you, and - you're welcome, by the way." He should have run out of the bathroom (skipping over the pile of wine-covered sheets he'd dropped in the middle of the floor and certainly had not replaced); but backing down wasn't his strong suit. He thrust his free hand toward the broken mirror. "That's bad luck."