⟡

Tucked into the corner of a booth, you exist in a pocket of stillness that doesn't quite belong in a place like this. 

One arm drapes lazily across the table, your fingers idly tracing random patterns as you wait. Your gaze drifts over the crowds, not really focused or searching for anything, just passing over the movements like background scenery in a place you're not really part of.

A figure stumbles into your peripheral vision, breaking the rhythm of your detachment. Before you can shift away or pretend not to notice, he's already there, leaning heavily against the back of your booth, far too close, and invading your space with the unmistakable scent of cheap alcohol and poor decisions.

"Hey, sweetheart," he slurs, words sticking together as he flashes a crooked, overconfident grin. "You want some—"

"Nope."

You don't even turn fully toward him. The word comes out flat and immediate, cutting him off mid-sentence without hesitation.

"Keep walking."

He pauses, blinking in confusion when the response didn't match the script in his head. His grin falters, twisting into something sour as his ego scrambles to recover.

"Bitch," he mutters under his breath, not quite brave enough to say it louder.

You don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

He barely makes it two steps before the universe corrects itself.

A solid collision sends him stumbling backward, his balance giving out as he catches himself awkwardly on the floor. 

"Hey—!" His protest starts on instinct, but it dies just as quickly as it began.

Because she's there.

Natasha stands over him, her posture loose, almost casual, but there's nothing soft about the look in her eyes. 

"Watch where you're going," she says, her tone low, edged just enough to make the warning unmistakable.

The man swallows hard, whatever bravado he had dissolving instantly. He scrambles to his feet without another word, disappearing into the crowd like he was never there to begin with.

You don't react right away, choosing to examine her quietly instead. 

There's something about the way she holds herself that captures your attention a second longer. Since you met her, Natasha has always been poised and self-assured, unshakable, as if she knows she's entirely in control.

Slowly, you lean your chin into your palm and sigh with exaggerated drama.

"My hero," you coo, your voice dripping with mock admiration.

Natasha huffs, unimpressed, and slides into the booth beside you with the ease of someone who belongs wherever she decides to be. Two drinks land on the table soon after.

"Shut up."

You grin, reaching for one of the glasses and lifting it to your lips.

"That took a while," you comment casually.

Natasha shrugs, already taking a sip of her own.

"Line was long."

"Mmhmm," you hum, unconvinced.

You don't need an explanation. You've known her long enough to read between the lines and figure out what really took up her time.

"Let me guess…new number?"

A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. Without answering, she reaches beneath the neckline of her top. She pulls out a small, folded slip of paper and flicks it across the table toward you.

"Two, actually. Stopped me on my way back."

You catch it easily, unfolding it with a raised brow. Messy handwriting with the message to 'call me' followed by a phone number. To top it off, in one corner is a lipstick mark stamped like a signature.

"And she got it into your bra?" you tease, glancing up at her. "That's dedication. Sounds like someone's going to have a very busy night."

Natasha relaxes back into the seat, giving a faint, noncommittal shrug.

"We'll see if I feel like it."

You smile faintly into your drink.

That's always her answer.

And you already know how it ends.

By the end of the night, she'll choose someone. She'll give them just enough of everything—attention, charm, pleasure. Something that feels dangerously close to real. Enough to make them think they've been chosen for something more.

And in the morning?

She'll be gone.

Another almost. Another story someone else will tell about her.

Your fingers trace the rim of your glass as your gaze flicks back to her.

"Do you ever think about taking one of them seriously?" you ask, quieter now. 

"No," she deadpans.

You laugh at her immediate response, your smile turning fond as you tilt your head at her expression, which has now shifted to an unamused glare at you. 

"I mean it, Natasha," you press, softer. "Maybe consider the possibility of falling in love with someone for once."

Natasha scoffs, shaking her head like the idea itself is ridiculous.

"Nobody who's handing out numbers to someone they spent ten seconds talking to is looking for love," she replies, matter-of-factly, raising the glass to her lip, before adding. "And neither am I."

The corner of your smile falters slightly, and you quickly look down at your drink before she can catch the shift in your expression. 

It's one of the clearest differences between you and her. Where she dismisses it, you still believe in finding the one—a love so certain there's no question, no doubt.

Meanwhile, Natasha Romanoff doesn't fall in love. Not really. Not in any way that lasts. Her walls aren't just high. They're reinforced, locked tight, and designed to keep everything out.

Even you.

And you're the closest thing she has to a best friend, aside from those she saves the world with.

You exhale slowly, pushing the thought down and steering the conversation toward something safer.

"So what's your secret, then?" you ask, letting the teasing edge return. You tap the paper. "How do you keep collecting these like trophies?"

Natasha raises a brow over the rim of her glass before giving a slight shrug.

"I know what people want to hear."

You make a face.

"That's such a cop-out answer."

Her smirk deepens, sharpening at the edges like she's already entertained by an idea.

"What?" she challenges. "You want a demonstration?"

You pause, but it's not really out of hesitation, not in the way it should be. It's curiosity. It's the pull of wanting to see what she does with that effortless charm she carries around like a second skin.

And maybe, if you're being honest, it's something else, too.

"Sure," you say finally, with a casual shrug that doesn't quite match the interest in your eyes.

You shift closer, turning fully toward her, and then you lean in with exaggerated confidence, deliberately overdoing it. Your voice drops, dripping with mock seduction, every word intentionally theatrical.

"Hey, beautiful," you murmur, laying it on thick. "Wanna come home with me tonight?"

For a split second, there's silence. 

Then Natasha laughs.

It's not the quiet, amused huff she usually gives you. It's fuller, something real enough that it catches you off guard. 

Her head tilts back slightly as the sound leaves her, her shoulders loosening and her guard dropping in a way you don't see often.

And for that brief second, you're not thinking about the bit anymore.

You're just watching her.

Watching the way her eyes crinkle faintly at the corners, the way her lips curve without calculation, the way the sound of her laugh settles somewhere in your chest and lingers there longer than it should.

"That's not even remotely close to what happens," Natasha says, shaking her head as she looks back at you, amusement still lingering in her expression.

You blink, pulled out of the moment, and then you laugh too. It's lighter, a little self-aware now as you lean back from her space.

"Yeah, alright," you admit, grinning as you shake your head at yourself. "That was too much."

You glance at her again, more thoughtful this time. 

It has always amazed you how she holds herself and how her attention works. Natasha doesn't chase, but somehow, she still pulls people in.

Your grin fades into a more contemplative expression. You shift again, slower this time, closing the distance without the exaggerated movement from before.

"Alright," you say, quieter now, your tone losing the performative edge. "Let me try again."

You take a slow breath, letting the noise of the club fade just enough to sharpen your focus. 

This time, when you look at her, you don't rush it. You let your gaze linger, unhurried, as it traces over her, catching the relaxed confidence in the way she sits, the subtle teasing curve of her lips, the way the shifting lights catch in her red hair and set it briefly aglow before slipping away again.

Only then do you meet her eyes.

"Hey," you say, your voice quieter now, steadier. "Mind if I join you?"

Something changes. It's subtle, so slight it could almost be imagined, but the air between you shifts, tightening just a fraction.

Natasha tilts her head, the corner of her mouth lifting into a small, amused smile. 

There's a flicker of intrigue there, something sharper beneath the surface, before she gestures casually to the space beside her.

"Go ahead."

With her permission, you slide closer, easing into her space. Your knee accidentally bumps against hers beneath the table. Instead of pulling away, you stay, letting the contact linger just long enough to be noticed. 

Then, sliding your arm along the back of the booth behind her, your fingers brush absentmindedly through a loose strand of her hair, catching it for just a second before letting it fall.

"So," you ask, your tone light but measured, "are you here alone?"

Natasha holds your gaze. For a moment, her eyes don't move, steady as she assesses you, but then in one second, they dip…to your lips.

It's brief, almost nothing, before she meets your eyes again.

But you still catch it. And the awareness of the action lands somewhere low in your chest, tightening unexpectedly at the way her attention feels.

"No," she says smoothly, as if nothing at all just happened. "I'm here with a friend."

There's a faint hint of amusement in her tone, like she's making a joke that you can't participate in.

Her fingers tap lightly against the side of her glass, a soft, rhythmic motion, before she tilts her head again, studying you with a look that feels far more intentional than casual.

"But," she continues, her voice dipping lower, slipping beneath the noise of the club so that you feel it more than you hear it, "I wouldn't be opposed to some better company."

Your brow lifts in exaggerated offense.

"Oh?" you hum, leaning in just enough to close the distance by a fraction, your knee pressing more firmly against hers beneath the table. "That so?"

Natasha's lips curve into that slow, knowing smirk she wears when she knows she's already ahead, when she's already decided how something is going to go.

"Mhm."

Her gaze drifts again, this time with no attempt at subtlety. It moves from your eyes, lingering at your mouth, down the line of your jaw and neck, and then to your collarbone before lifting back up again, like she's mapping something out in her mind.

It shouldn't affect you.

She hasn't even touched you.

And yet, heat rises anyway, creeping up your neck, settling across your cheeks before you can stop it. You swallow, steadying yourself before continuing.

"And what exactly qualifies as 'better company'?" you ask, keeping your tone teasing, though the curiosity underneath it is real and unguarded.

Natasha leans in closer. Not enough to erase the space between you. Just enough that it matters. Just enough that your focus narrows, sharpening until she's the only thing that feels clear.

"Someone interesting," she says.

Her fingers shift, sliding lazily across the table, near your hand. They're close enough that you're aware of the distance between them, of how little it would take to close it.

"Someone who knows how to hold their own," she adds, her eyes lifting to meet yours again, something like a challenge buried in the words.

There's a pause as she lets her words linger.

"And," she finishes, softer now, her voice lowering just enough to settle under your skin, "someone who knows how to keep my attention."

Your lips twitch, amusement flickering through your facade briefly.

"Oh, is that all?" you tease.

Natasha huffs out a quiet laugh, but her gaze doesn't waver. It stays locked on yours, steady and expectant.

"Think you can manage it?"

The way she says it, not quite cocky, but not entirely fake either. It feels like an invitation. Like she's waiting to see what you'll do with it.

So without thinking, you lean in—just a little.

"I don't know," you answer, tilting your head as if you're considering her instead. "You seem like you get bored easily."

"I do," she admits without hesitation.

You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing at her blunt honesty. Instead, you let your fingers tap idly against the back of the booth just behind her shoulder, grounding yourself in the motion.

"Then I guess I'll have to make sure I'm not easy to forget," you tease.

Her response isn't what you expect. 

There's no immediate smirk, no counter-teasing remark. Instead, there's a brief flicker of something warmer in her expression, gone before it fully forms. 

It catches you off guard as her amused grin returns on her face.

Natasha's fingers slide closer to yours on the table, brushing against yours lightly, as if she's offering you a glimpse of what her touch feels like without fully giving it.

"Careful," she murmurs, her voice low, threaded with quiet amusement. "That almost sounded like you're promising me a good time."

You grin, unable to help it now, caught up in the rhythm of it all, in the ease of this back-and-forth.

"Maybe I am."

For a moment, Natasha doesn't respond. She relaxes back in her seat, watching you thoughtfully.

Her gaze holds yours with that familiar spark of challenge resting just beneath the surface. It doesn't push. It doesn't press.

It just…stays.

Like she's waiting.

Like there's something unfinished hanging between you, and she's content to let it linger there as long as it takes.

And somewhere in that quiet, the space between you shifts.

Not all at once. Not in any way you could point to.

Just enough to stop it from feeling quite as defined.

And then everything shifts.

Natasha's lips curve slowly into that unmistakable, confident smirk, her brows lifting slightly, like she's just claimed victory without needing to say it out loud.

That's what breaks the trance. 

You blink, the moment snapping apart as your awareness rushes back all at once.

And suddenly, you're very aware of how close you are to her.

Your hand is now braced against the seat behind her. Your body angled more toward hers. One knee pressed into the booth, and the other shifted forward between her legs.

Like you were about to climb into her lap without ever realizing so.

Your breath catches.

When did you—

For a second, you don't move. You just look at her, then at the tiny space between you, then back again—trying to trace it back, to find the point where things shifted.

But there isn't one.

Just the quiet realization that it already has.

A soft, disbelieving laugh slips out.

"That—" you start, shaking your head slightly, still hovering there. "That shouldn't have worked."

Natasha's lips curve again, slower this time. There's satisfaction there, unmistakable, but beneath it, something softer flickers briefly.

"Mm," she hums, her voice low. Her gaze dips once to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "And yet…here you are."

Something in your chest tightens at that, sharp and familiar. You don't let yourself examine it too closely. Instead, you exhale and push yourself back, creating space, though not nearly as much as you probably should.

"Okay," you mutter, half to steady yourself. "That was—"

"Convincing?" she offers lightly.

You glance at her, narrowing your eyes, though a reluctant smile tugs at your lips.

"Dangerous," you correct.

She leans back, finally giving you some room, but not before her fingers brush briefly against your wrist as you pull away.

Just enough for her touch to linger, to stay with you.

"I did warn you," Natasha says, her tone light again. "If you're not careful, you might fall in love."

You scoff, settling back into your side of the booth, though your heart hasn't quite caught up with you yet.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Natasha. It's not that easy to make me fall in love."

"Good."

The word lands differently.

You glance at her.

She's looking at you with a serious expression now, not teasing, not amused.

"Don't fall in love with me," Natasha says quietly.

It's soft. Nearly lost beneath the music, beneath the noise, beneath everything else.

But you hear it anyway.

It settles somewhere deep, somewhere uncomfortable, tightening your chest in a way you don't have time to process, because just as quickly as it appears, it's gone.

Her smirk slides back into place like armor.

"Unless, of course," she adds casually, lifting her drink, "you want a full demonstration."

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reach for the folded paper. Without thinking too much about it, you tuck it back into the front of her top, your fingers lingering just a second longer on her skin before pulling away.

"Save it," you say lightly. "For your numbers."

And then you lean back. Back into your space. Back into the role you've always had in her life.

The best friend.

The one who is never supposed to cross that line.

The one who already did anyway.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You drag your spoon slowly through the soup, barely registering the motion as it disturbs the surface. The liquid folds in on itself, ripples spreading outward before settling again, only for you to repeat the same absent-minded movement. 

It's rhythmic, almost hypnotic, just something to keep your hands occupied while your thoughts drift somewhere else entirely.

"Not that good?"

The voice cuts cleanly through the fog.

Your head lifts, blinking as the restaurant comes rushing back into focus all at once—the soft amber lighting, the low murmur of conversations overlapping, the occasional clink of silverware against plates. 

Across from you, your date is watching with a small, curious smile, her expression gentle but searching, like she's trying to read what you won't say.

"Hm? Oh—no, it's great," you answer quickly, setting your spoon down with a soft clatter. Your hands retreat to your lap, fingers lacing together as if that might steady you. "I'm just…"

You falter, the excuse dissolving before it forms. Your gaze dips briefly, and you shake your head with a quiet exhale.

"Sorry," you add, softer this time, a note of sincerity threading through the awkwardness. "Would you excuse me for a minute?"

You're already pushing your chair back, offering her an apologetic smile, the kind you've perfected over time that hides more than it reveals.

She nods easily, gracious in a way that only makes the guilt twist tighter in your chest.

"Of course," she says. "Take your time."

That almost makes it worse.

You weave through the restaurant, past tables filled with people who seem entirely present in their own evenings, their laughter and conversations grounded in a way you can't quite access. 

The restroom door swings shut behind you, cutting off the noise abruptly, leaving you in a quiet that feels almost oppressive.

You exhale, long and unsteady, bracing your hands against the edge of the sink.

For a moment, you just stare down at the porcelain, your reflection hovering faintly in your peripheral vision. You try to gather yourself, to reconstruct the version of you that walked into this place with the intention of trying—really trying.

Because this should be working.

She's kind. She listens. She laughs easily, asks thoughtful questions, and remembers details you mention in passing. There's nothing forced about her, nothing sharp or complicated.

By every reasonable standard, this date is going well.

And it is.

So why does it feel like you're somewhere else entirely?

Your gaze lifts slowly, meeting your own reflection in the mirror. You look…distracted. Distant in a way you can't quite hide, no matter how hard you try.

Because no matter how much you focus, your mind keeps slipping.

Back to her.

Natasha lingers at the edges of everything, like a shadow you can't quite shake.

When your date smiles, warm and open across the table, your mind instantly replaces it with something else. A familiar smirk that builds at one corner first, like it knows exactly what it's doing to you.

When the light catches your date's hair, soft and golden, your thoughts betray you with flashes of red instead. How those scarlet strands fall just slightly out of place, like it refuses to be tamed, like it's part of her in a way that feels intentional.

And when your date's fingers brushed yours earlier, it should have meant something.

But all you could think about was the difference.

The way Natasha's touch never feels accidental. The way it always lingers just a fraction too long, like she's leaving something behind on purpose. Like she knows exactly how to stay with you, even after she pulls away.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your hands coming up to press against your cheeks.

"Stop," you murmur under your breath, sharper this time.

This is ridiculous. You're on a date—with someone real, someone present, someone who is actually trying to meet you halfway.

And instead, you're stuck on someone who has made it very clear that she doesn't want this kind of relationship. Not with you. Not with anyone.

You let out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand down your face before reaching into your pocket for your phone.

This is a bad idea. You know it is. Your thumb moves anyway. Because, despite everything, despite the logic, despite the self-awareness, she's still the person you want to talk to.

The line rings once.

"Hey, what's up?" Natasha's voice slips through the speaker, low and familiar, and something in your chest loosens instantly, like tension you didn't realize you were carrying finally gives way.

It annoys you. How easy that is. How immediate.

You press your lips together, pushing that thought aside.

"Hiding in the restroom," you say, leaning back against the counter, your tone dry but lighter than you feel. "While my date is probably wondering if I've escaped out the window."

There's a soft pause, and then a low chuckle that feels entirely too warm through the phone.

"That bad?" she asks, amusement curling through her words.

You huff quietly, your gaze drifting back to your reflection.

"No," you admit, and this time it's honest. "She's great. Really great, actually."

You hesitate, your fingers tightening slightly around your phone.

"It's just…" you trail off, your brow furrowing as you try to find the words. "I don't know."

There's a quiet hum on the other end, thoughtful and measured.

"Mm," Natasha murmurs. "You're distracted."

It's not a question. 

Your lips press together in a small pout because, of course, she can hear it. Of course, she can pick you apart without even trying.

"Maybe," you concede.

A beat passes.

"Need a rescue?" she asks, her tone shifting, still teasing, but there's an undercurrent there. Something just shy of serious.

And that's the problem.

Because you know she means it.

She would show up. Or give you an excuse convincing enough to leave. She would use all of her resources to pull you out of this moment without any hesitation.

The thought makes your chest tighten, not with relief, but something more complicated.

Your lips curve faintly, despite yourself.

"You offering?" you ask, letting a bit of that familiar back-and-forth slip in, something easier, something safer.

"Always," Natasha replies smoothly.

You can practically hear the smirk in her voice. Before you can call her out on it, her voice continues, softer this time.

"Do you want me to?" 

It hits you hard how quickly she is to say that. Because it's effortless for her. This dynamic. This closeness that never quite crosses the line, but never steps back either.

Her offer hangs in the air, tempting you with the promise of her presence.

You open your mouth to respond, something half-teasing yet also honest already forming.

"I–"

"Where did you say your wine glasses are?" The voice in the background cuts cleanly through the moment.

Your smile falters, the warmth from earlier cooling as the realization that she isn't alone settles in. 

There's a faint rustle on the other end, a subtle shift of movement. Natasha mutters something, her voice lower now, directed away from the phone. You can't make out the words, only the tone, easy and unbothered.

Truthfully, the revelation is not surprising. 

Natasha moves through people and spaces like she belongs anywhere she chooses to be. There's always someone, something, some orbit she exists within.

So why does it feel like something just dropped in your chest? Why does it feel like you've been caught off guard by something you already understood?

You swallow, your grip tightening slightly on your phone as you force your expression to smooth out.

By the time she comes back, you've already started building the walls back up.

"…sorry," Natasha says, her voice slipping back into place like nothing happened.

You lean more against the counter for some support, letting the teasing edge return to your tone.

"Felt like some company tonight?" you ask.

It's a casual question. Harmless in the way you say it. 

And yet a long pause fills the conversation as Natasha considers your tone.

"Something like that," she finally replies.

You nod faintly to yourself, your lips curving into something that almost feels like a smile.

"Good," you say. "Wouldn't want you getting bored."

The words come out easy, but underneath them, something twists, sharp and unwelcome.

You wonder if this is what Natasha meant. Why she doesn't ever want anything more with anyone. Maybe, if you learn to do the same, you wouldn't have this ache in your chest anymore.

"I should get back," you add, your tone shifting just slightly enough to signal an ending.

There's a pause on the other end again, this one longer.

"What were you about to say?" Natasha asks, referring to earlier before you were interrupted.

You glance at your reflection once more. At the truth sitting just behind your eyes. At the words you almost let slip, the ones that would've changed something, even if only for a moment.

You straighten, pushing off the counter.

"It's nothing," you say, softer now, but steady. "I'll manage."

Another beat.

"…right," she replies, quieter this time.

You hesitate for half a second before adding softly.

"Enjoy your night, Natasha."

You hang up before she can respond. Before she can pull you back into that orbit again.

The silence that follows feels heavier than before.

For a moment, you just stand there, staring at your reflection, at the version of yourself that almost said something you can't take back.

Your chest feels tight. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming.

Just…heavy.

Like something quietly settling into place.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your expression, pushing everything down into something manageable. 

Because out there, someone is waiting for you. Someone who chose to be here with you.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

By the time you step out into the cool night air with your date, something inside you has undeniably shifted.

The careful distance you maintained earlier has softened, dissolving into something far more natural and unforced. It becomes easier when you stop trying to define what this moment is supposed to mean, when you let go of the need to measure it against expectations or outcomes. Without that pressure, everything settles.

The conversation begins to flow with ease. There's no second-guessing, no pauses filled with overthinking. Your words come naturally, and so do hers.

At one point, she nudges her shoulder lightly against yours, teasing you about something you said earlier in the night. The gesture is small and playful, but it feels significant in its simplicity. 

This time, you don't hesitate. 

You respond instantly, matching her tone, letting yourself lean into the moment instead of analyzing it.

And it feels good.

There's no weight pressing against your chest, no lingering tension pulling at your thoughts. For once, your mind is quiet.

It's just two people enjoying each other's company without any expectations for more.

You hold onto that feeling as you continue walking. When you finally reach the front door of your apartment, your steps slow.

There's a brief pause as you stand there, your hand lingering on your keys. The small, familiar weight suddenly feels heavier, your pulse just slightly uneven as you turn back to face your date.

She's standing close, her expression open and soft. Still, there's an expectancy there too, not demanding or pressuring, but present enough that you can feel it.

You know this moment. You've been here before.

You could stop now, just like you always do. You could keep things simple. Say goodnight, thank her for the evening, and let this end the way so many others have—pleasant, harmless, and ultimately forgettable. 

Just another attempt at love that eventually fades quietly into the background.

But then your thoughts drift.

You think of Natasha.

You think of the way she moves through moments like this. She never hesitates, never allows doubt to creep in and complicate something that could simply be. She doesn't overanalyze or assign meaning where none is needed.

She just acts.

And for once, you decide to do the same.

You lean in first.

The kiss begins softly, almost cautiously, as if both of you are testing the space between you. There's a moment of uncertainty, a quiet question in the way your lips meet.

But it doesn't stay that way.

She responds immediately, stepping closer to you as if there was never any doubt. Her hand finds your arm, then slides to your waist, grounding you in the moment. The warmth of her touch is undeniable, real in a way that pulls you further in.

You feel it, the closeness, the simple, human pull of proximity.

It isn't empty.

It isn't meaningless.

But it isn't her, either.

And maybe…it doesn't have to be.

Maybe this can be enough to let you forget, even for a moment.

You deepen the kiss, allowing yourself to get lost in it. You focus on the immediacy of the sensation, on something tangible and present, something that doesn't ask you to wait, to question, or to ache for something more.

Your hands curl lightly at her collar, pulling her closer.

For a brief moment, it almost works.

It almost quiets everything else.

You just need a little more time, a little more distraction.

When you pull back, your breath is uneven.

Your forehead hovers close to hers, the space between you charged but fragile. The words that come next feel uncertain in a way you hadn't planned for.

"Do you…" you start, your voice quieter now. You hesitate, then push through it. "Do you want to come in?"

There's a flicker of surprise in her expression, but then she nods, a small smile forming as she prepares to answer.

"Guess you didn't need saving, after all."

The voice cuts cleanly through the moment.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. Your shoulders tense, and your breath catches sharply as something cold settles beneath your skin.

Slowly, you turn your head.

Natasha stands a few steps away.

One hand is tucked casually into her jacket pocket, the other loosely holding a pack of beer at her side. Her posture is relaxed, but her expression doesn't match it. 

There's something else there, something that immediately fills you with a sense of guilt.

Your date glances between the two of you, confusion quickly replacing the warmth that had been there moments ago.

"What is she talking about?" she asks, uncertain. 

"No, it's not what you think—she's my friend. I called her earlier but—," you say quickly. Your words come out rushed and defensive, and without thinking, your body instinctively creates some space between you and her.

And just like that, the moment collapses.

"I think…" your date begins, then falters. Her gaze lingers on you, searching for something that isn't there anymore. "I think I should go."

You don't stop her. You don't even try.

"Yeah," you say quietly. "That's probably…a good idea."

She nods, offering you a polite smile that no longer carries the same warmth.

"Goodnight," she says, her hand brushing your arm one last time before she turns away.

Natasha doesn't acknowledge her at all as she walks past. Her attention is fixed entirely on you.

The elevator doors close with a soft ding, and silence fills the space she left behind.

You don't look at Natasha, your gaze fixed on the ground in front of you. But in reality, you don't have to. Not when you can feel her presence, pressing into the air around you.

"What are you doing here, Natasha?" you ask finally, your voice tight.

"Checking on you," she replies, as if it's the most natural response in the world.

You let out a short, humorless laugh and turn to face her fully.

"Checking on me," you repeat. "Right."

Her gaze flicks briefly toward where your date disappeared, then returns to you.

"That didn't seem like you," she says.

Something in your chest snaps.

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

She steps closer, her expression tightening with confusion.

"What were you thinking?" she says more firmly. "Inviting someone you barely know to stay the night."

You scoff, shaking your head.

"Are you seriously judging me right now?" you shoot back. "Because that's exactly how you do things."

Her jaw tightens, just slightly.

"That's different."

"Why?" you challenge, stepping closer now. The frustration you've been holding back begins to surface, sharp and unfiltered. "Because it's you?"

"Because you don't—" she cuts herself off, exhaling sharply. "You don't see people like that. As a passing moment. You actually care."

"Well, you don't get to decide who I am, Natasha," you fire back, your voice rising. "Or what I'm allowed to do just because it doesn't fit whatever version of me you have in your head."

"That's not what this is," she says, her voice lower now, strained in a way you're not used to hearing.

"Then what is it?" you press.

Natasha doesn't answer.

And that silence is what pushes you over the edge.

"You always know exactly what to say," you continue, your voice sharper now, cutting through the space between you. "So what's wrong now, Natasha?"

"Stop," she warns, her tone low.

But you can't.

You're already too far in. You step closer before you can think better of it, crowding into her space, forcing her to look at you. She holds her ground for half a second, jaw tightening, until you shove at her shoulder with the next word out of your mouth.

"Come on," you push, bitterness creeping into your words. "Where's the charm? The part where you make this all make sense?"

At each push, she stumbles back without resistance. Again and again. Until her back hits the wall.

Your hand fists in the fabric of her jacket before you realize what you're doing, gripping tight, anchoring her there. 

Natasha's breath hitches, so quiet it almost isn't there, but you feel it. That tiny fracture in her control. Her eyes flick down to your lips for half a second, then back up to your face, so quick that you might've imagined it.

But you know what you saw. You see it in her face. Time and time again.

The hesitation. The truth sitting just beneath the surface.

Your chest tightens, anger unraveling into something far more fragile.

"Say it," you demand, your voice faltering despite your effort to keep it steady. "Just—say it."

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You can feel the heat of her through the jacket, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the tension coiled in her like a spring ready to snap. Close enough to see every flicker in her expression, every guarded thought trying to stay hidden.

And suddenly, you're exhausted.

Exhausted of the almosts. Of the half-answers. Of the way she looks at you like she's holding something back—something you're not allowed to hear.

Your grip loosens, and the energy to stand strong against her slowly drains. 

"You've known for a while," you say more quietly now. "I know you do."

For the first time, Natasha can't meet your eyes.

You let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand across your face, wiping at the tear forming there.

"God, Natasha, just break my heart already so I can stop—"

"I love you."

For a moment, you're not even sure you heard the words correctly. Your eyes lock onto hers, searching in disbelief.

"What?"

Natasha stands in front of you without any trace of her usual composure. The charm she relies on is gone, along with the practiced deflection, leaving only something unguarded and terrifyingly real.

"I love you," she says again, her voice softer now.

Everything around you seems to fall silent, yet your heartbeat grows louder and faster, as if it cannot keep pace with what is happening.

This isn't how things were supposed to unfold.

You release a breath that nearly turns into a laugh of disbelief, your head shaking faintly.

"That is…" you begin, but the rest of the sentence never comes.

Nothing makes sense.

"You told me not to fall in love with you," you manage instead, your voice unsteady.

"I meant it."

"Then what the hell is this?"

Natasha exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her hair.

"It is exactly why I said it," she replies, her tone edged with frustration. "Because this is what happens."

She gestures between the two of you.

"It becomes complicated. It becomes messy. It…” She cuts herself off, her jaw tightening.

You watch her, your chest aching with the weight of it all.

"So what do you do?" you ask. "Pretend it's not there?"

Her silence is answer enough.

You step closer, slower this time, until there is barely any space left between you.

Your hands rise hesitantly, hovering for a brief moment before you gently cup her cheeks, tilting her face so she can't avoid your gaze.

"Why can't I love you, Natasha?" you ask, your voice quiet.

She swallows, and you see the exact instant her control slips before she surges forward and presses her lips to yours.

Somewhere nearby, the box of glass bottles hits the floor with a sharp sound, but neither of you reacts. Natasha's hands grip you firmly, pulling you closer until there is no distance left.

A soft sound escapes you, and she catches it, reversing your positions and pressing you back against the door instead. She holds you there, her body anchoring you in place, and kissing you again with a breathless urgency.

Her lips move along your jaw and then down to your neck, finding the exact place that draws a sharp intake of breath from you as she presses against the pulse there.

Your fingers are tangled in her hair now, keeping her close while you struggle to steady yourself.

Then just as suddenly, she stops. Natasha's head lowers, resting against you as she breathes heavily against your collarbone.

"Everything…" she murmurs. "Everyone I have ever cared about…"

She lifts her head, and the steadiness in her eyes is gone, replaced by something fragile and afraid. Her hand comes up to your face, her thumb brushing gently across your cheek.

"I always lose them," she says.

Your brows furrow as you take in her words before softening in understanding. Your hands slide to the back of her neck, fingers moving in slow, soothing circles against her skin.

"Natasha, I…" You hesitate, knowing there are promises you cannot make. Still, there is one truth you can offer. "I will always love you, Natasha."

No matter what happens after this moment, no matter if everything returns to what it was before, that will not change.

The conflict remains in her eyes over whether this is the correct choice. 

You offer a small, reassuring smile and lift your hand to smooth the tension from her expression before cupping her face again.

"Hey, beautiful," you say gently. "Do you want to come home with me tonight?"

Natasha closes her eyes for a brief moment and rests her forehead against yours. A quiet, breathless laugh escapes her.

"That should not have worked," she mimics your comment from the other night, her gaze soft with fondness when she looks at you again.

Your eyes flick briefly to her lips before meeting her gaze, a playful grin forming.

"And yet, here you are."

She lets out a quiet, affectionate huff before kissing you again, opening the door behind you, and guiding you inside.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You are not surprised when you wake and find the space beside you empty, even though you had fallen asleep wrapped in her arms. The sheets are cold now, the warmth of her body gone long enough for the emptiness to settle in completely.

Just like you said. Another almost. Another story that someone else will someday tell about Natasha Romanoff.

The difference is that you know what existed between the two of you was real. Natasha feels it too. You are certain of that much. She cares about you in a way that goes beyond fleeting affection or temporary comfort. 

The problem is not whether she loves you. The problem is that she cannot bring herself to choose a life where she allows herself to keep that love.

With a quiet sigh, you push yourself out of bed and find your phone. Despite everything, concern still lingers heavily in your chest. You want to make sure she made it home safely, wherever "home" is for her.

You wander into the living room, staring at the empty message screen while trying to decide how to begin.

"Hey."

"God—Natasha!"

You jolt violently at the sound of her voice, clutching your phone tightly against your chest as your head snaps upward.

"Say something next time!" you blurt out, still breathless from the scare.

Natasha sits on your couch, though she looks nothing like the composed woman she usually is. Instead of lounging comfortably, she perches awkwardly on the very edge of the cushion, her posture tense, as though she expects to leave at any second.

A faint smile touches her lips as she watches your reaction with quiet amusement.

"I did say something."

You glare at her in silent reprimand before taking a slow breath in an attempt to steady your racing heartbeat. It does little to help. The panic fades quickly, replaced by something far warmer as Natasha's gaze drifts slowly over you as she waits. Her eyes move with deliberate attention, almost as though she is retracing every touch from the night before.

Heat creeps up the back of your neck, and you clear your throat softly.

"I thought you left," you admit.

Natasha shifts slightly where she sits, and her attention flickers toward the front door instead of you.

"I was going to," she says quietly. After a brief pause, she continues in an even softer voice. "But after nights like that…this is usually where I end up coming."

The confession carries an unfamiliar uncertainty, something small and vulnerable hidden beneath her usual composure. Like she's not sure if she's still allowed to do this.

Realization spreads through you slowly, and before you can stop it, warmth blooms in your chest. Out of every place Natasha could have chosen to run to, the place where she felt safest was here. With you.

You lean against the doorway for a moment, studying her quietly.

In the daylight, after everything that happened between you, she somehow looks younger like this. Not softer exactly. Just tired in a way that strips some of the sharpness from her edges.

Like she's waiting for the moment things become too real.

You move slowly toward the couch, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she wants to. But she doesn't.

When you sit beside her, there's still space between you, just enough to give the other some room to decide what to do next.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The silence isn't uncomfortable exactly. Just heavy with too many things finally sitting out in the open between you.

Natasha exhales quietly, her gaze fixed somewhere ahead instead of on you.

"You should know," she says at last, voice low, "I'm not good at this."

You glance toward her. 

"That's a first. Natasha Romanoff, not being good at something?" you tease lightly.

A humorless smile flickers briefly across her mouth as she gives you a sideways glance. Her eyes linger on your face before her smile falls.

"I leave," she says plainly. "Sometimes for days. Sometimes longer." Her jaw tightens faintly. "Sometimes I can't explain where I've been. Sometimes I won't want to talk about it even when I can."

There's frustration buried beneath the words. Not at you.

At herself.

You stay quiet, letting her continue at her own pace.

Natasha leans forward slightly, forearms braced against her knees now.

"I don't…" She pauses, searching for words she clearly hates having to say aloud. "I don't know how to let someone depend on me like that."

There it is.

Not I don't want you.

Not I don't love you.

Just:

I don't know how to survive being loved.

Her hands clasp together tightly.

"And when things start feeling…" She stops again, exhales sharply through her nose. "Too important, my instinct is to run before I can lose it."

She turns to look at you. There's no charm in her expression now. No teasing smirk to hide behind. 

Just honesty. Raw and uncomfortable.

"I meant what I said," Natasha says quietly. "About not falling in love with me."

Your chest aches a little hearing it now, not because it hurts, but because you finally understand what she was trying to do.

Protect you. Protect herself.

You lean back slightly into the couch, your eyes lowering for a moment as you gather your thoughts carefully.

"I know," you say softly.

Natasha's brows pull together slightly, almost like she expected resistance instead. Expected you to fight her on it.

You turn your head toward her again.

"I'm not going to sit here and tell you your fears aren't real, Natasha."

That gets her attention fully.

Because she's probably spent most of her life hearing some version of:

"Just trust me."

"It'll be different."

"You have to let people in."

As though fear is solved through persuasion.

But you don't try to take hers away.

"You've lost people," you say quietly. "You've spent your whole life surviving things most people can't even imagine." Your gaze softens. "Of course, loving someone feels terrifying to you."

Natasha stares at you silently. Almost startled.

You offer her a faint smile. 

"I can't promise you that fear ever goes away," you admit. "And I can't promise I'll never get hurt either."

Her expression tightens slightly at that.

"But I can promise something else."

You shift a little closer now, slowly enough that she can move away if she needs to.

She doesn't.

Your voice lowers softly.

"You never have to earn a place with me."

The words land hard. You can see it immediately in the way Natasha stills.

"I mean it," you continue. "If all you can give me some days is showing up on my couch at three in the morning and sitting there in silence?" You shrug lightly. "Okay."

A shaky breath leaves her quietly.

"If you need space, I'll give it to you. If you come back, I'll still open the door."

Natasha's eyes drop briefly, emotions moving across her face too quickly to fully hide.

"And if one day you decide this is too much," you add carefully, "then we'll survive that too."

That one almost breaks her.

Because what you're offering isn't pressure.

It isn't an obligation.

It isn't forever demanded upfront.

It's safety.

A place where she doesn't have to perform usefulness or perfection in order to stay.

Your hand lifts hesitantly before resting lightly over hers.

"No matter what this becomes," you say quietly, "you will always have a place with me. As my best friend, as…" You smile faintly. "Something more complicated than that."

A soft laugh escapes Natasha then. Small and breathless and painfully fond all at once.

Her fingers tighten around yours before she finally looks at you again.

And for the first time, Natasha looks less afraid of being loved. Not unafraid.

Just less alone inside of your love.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

It was the first you’d heard from her in weeks. You try to play along the best you can, knowing little about their situation at hand. Articles and broadcasts had been screaming the word “Ultron,” and you felt like you had somewhat of an idea.

“Yeah, of course- I just- you and the- um, the kids are okay?”

“Good as we can be.” There’s a pause, and you can feel like she’s hesitant to tell you more. The pitch of her voice returned to normal. It was obvious she couldn’t say too much about where she was or what she was doing. 

This fleeting moment would tie you over for right now. 

“I miss you,” you whisper, almost inaudible. Your hand curls around your phone tightly as you await her response. Whatever she was so afraid of revealing could pause for just one second. 

An eerie silence is followed by, “I miss you too.” 

She quickly hangs up after her confession, slamming Clint’s landline back to its charger in the wall. She was angry with herself, helpless in this situation. Natasha takes a deep breath before feeling her observing teammates' eyes on her.

A small smirk lines her lips.

“What? Clint’s not the only one with a secret.”

-

You don’t see Natasha for another week. Plus three more days. 

You knew better than to watch the news for accurate updates, but you couldn’t avoid it. You had seen how they’d twisted everyone’s perceptions of the Avengers; the world was like putty in their hands. 

They were brutal towards each member of the team, but the comments made about the conniving ‘Black Widow’ left a sickly feeling in your stomach. You preferred your information straight from the source itself.

Still, you wanted to protect her from all of it. 

You knew the risks. You’d felt them the second things between you and her began to turn real. 

You found yourself drowning in imaginary scenarios and overthinking every time she was assigned to a mission, or when an Earth-shattering event from the Avengers was broadcasting live on your TV. 

Everything in Natasha’s life was out of your control, including her safety. 

-

“Nat,” you whisper against her neck, after pulling her into your apartment. 

She holds you tightly, making up for lost time and explanations. Two soft knocks on your door had you instantly drop the cooking utensil in your hands, impatiently waiting for her return since the phone call. 

Her eyes close, lost in the warmth that now surrounds her. The scent from your sweatshirt fills her nose, along with the familiar smell of your apartment. It’s like she was saying, “finally”, as she practically melted into your embrace. 

The events of Sokovia were brutal, unlike anything you've seen from the Avengers since New York. You felt nauseous every time you thought of what could've happened. You pull her in closer to you.

“You should really give me a key, y’know. I could’ve surprised you.” She smiles at you, her eyes scanning your whole face.

You kiss her, wearing a wide grin you’re unable to shake. 

“I was under the impression you were able to break into the highest guarded facilities.”

“Hey,” Natasha frowns, but you kiss her again before she can say anything else. Your hands gently cup her face, pulling her in to meet your lips over and over. Her strong arms wrap around your waist, holding you steady.

Pulling away, your thumb strokes the skin on Natasha’s face, examining her like it was your first time. You landed on a forming scar in Natasha’s lower lip, slightly faded into the top of her chin, and she looked away, half-ashamed. 

You press your lips to the side of her face. “Did you eat? I’m making dinner.”

-

Natasha watches you as she sits on your couch. You’re in your own world, humming to soft music playing from a speaker, stirring bubbling water every couple of minutes. You move with ease, chopping up ingredients quickly, tossing them into a bowl. 

Natasha feels herself zoning out at the sight, thinking how different her life was just a week ago.

For a moment, she feels envious of your carefree spirit. You’re so happy to be cooking for your girlfriend, to share the same space with her, and grateful that she’s come home to you after weeks without seeing her. There’s a small smile that lines your lips, a love shining within your eyes each time you meet Natasha’s steady gaze. 

A warm dish of pesto pasta is served, and you place it in Natasha’s grateful hands, accompanied by a small kiss on her cheek. She takes a small bite as you beam down at her, watching her face for a reaction. 

“Very good. I love it.”

You sit next to her on the couch, your leg bumping into hers as the cushion dips beneath you. Always a little extra clingy when you haven't seen your girlfriend in a while, your body is slightly pressing against hers, taking in the comfort her presence possesses. 

“Mmm- hot,” you say between bites, reaching for your TV remote. Natasha gives you a small smile, continuing to eat her meal. 

The TV turns on, and onto the channel you’d been watching last. 

Of course, it was the news. 

Clips of Sokovia smothered in smoke play loudly, the volume louder than you usually had it at. There are images of buildings crumbled to the ground, wildfires burning down forests, and separated families…

It takes Natasha right back. 

“Turn it off,” she says suddenly, feeling the muscles underneath her eye beginning to twitch. The sound of her fork clangs against the ceramic. 

You’re fumbling for the remote, flipping through channels to change it to something different, but you can’t escape the media coverage. 

“Shit- sorry.”

As much as she wants to, she can’t tear her eyes away. There are clips of Sokovia burning, crumbling, and exploding in the sky. Footage of the Avengers fighting off armies of robots, structural damage to people’s homes, and stories of grief from family members of those they couldn’t save. 

“This week, live from Sokovia-”

“Artificial Intelligence from Tony Stark himself causing irreversible damage-”

“Secretary of State refuses to speak on behalf of the Avengers-”

Natasha practically rips the remote out of your hands. The screen turns black, and silence fills the small space the two of you share. Your leg that’d been resting on hers gets shaken off as Natasha sits up straighter, resting her plate on the small table next to the couch. 

“Natasha, I’m sorry I-”

“It’s not you,” she says gently, after exhaling a tight breath, like she’d been holding it in. 

You touch her thigh, searching her face with an earnest concern. For a minute, it’s like she’s not with you. And for a sliver of a second, she looked like someone else, a shell of the person who’d returned to you. An expression passes through her face, one that you couldn’t depict what she was thinking. 

Natasha found it so easy to forget all of the parts she hated about herself when she was with you. Sure, the Avengers did that as well, but this was different. With them, Natasha fought all the time, spending her days trying to atone for her past, answering to those who assigned her to missions.  

After a long week of fighting or a grueling mission, she’d return to your apartment if she wasn’t needed at the compound. She’d found safety and peace in your arms that she’d never quite had with anyone else before. 

In order to protect that, she wanted to be nothing but normal with you. 

“I’m not really in the mood for TV anyway, let me clean up.” Natasha stands, feet moving quickly towards your kitchen.

“Okay,” you say. Your eyes drift to her plate, more than half of the pasta still untouched. 

You watch her move around your kitchen with haste, like she’s driven to complete a task instead of existing in the space. She tightly wraps up leftovers, scrubs silver pans, and wipes down your countertops with disinfectant. 

You’ve seen this before, usually after a serious mission. Her walls, the careful distance, the way she folds everything inward where no one can reach it. Pushing too hard would only make her retreat further, and you don’t know how the events of Sokovia have affected her over these few weeks. 

Your chest aches at the thought.

“Nat,” you say, but she doesn’t turn around. She’s rinsing a bowl, eyes fixed on something that clearly isn’t your sink. 

You push yourself off the couch, and your movements are silent against the floor as you walk over.

Slowly, gently, your arms slide around her waist from behind. You’re careful, giving her more than enough time to pull away if she wants to.

You press yourself against her back, resting your cheek lightly between her shoulder blades. You can feel the tension there, coiled and stubborn. Just like always. 

Natasha relaxes against you. She stops her movements, letting the dishes rest in the sink. Neither of you moves; you just simply hold her, and she lets you. Your nose slightly digs into the fabric of her long-sleeve, and you press a kiss to the middle of her back. 

“I don’t care what we talk about,” you start, your voice gentle. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to say anything about work to me.”

Her breath catches subtly, but you feel the rise in her stomach. The water keeps running for a moment longer before she shuts it off. You shift slightly, loosening one arm so you can turn her around in your hold. 

She lets you.

“I just want you here.” 

Natasha nods, her jaw tightening as her hands slide over your arms, squeezing gently. Her fingers play with the hems of your sleeves. Her head hangs with sorrow, refusing to even look you in the eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, but you shake your head. “I haven’t even asked about you…”

You stifle a small laugh. Your hands move to hold her face, smoothing your thumb over her skin. Her hand follows, holding your wrist gently. “I think you’ve had more important things to worry about.”

“Hey, I’m serious. Tell me everything, tell me about work. Please,” Natasha smiles sadly. 

You lean forward and kiss her.

- 

The rest of the night settles into something quieter.

Dishes eventually get put away, this time together, slower. The music picks back up, low and steady, filling the spaces where words don’t need to go. You talk about nothing that matters. Your job at the office, neighbors, something dumb you saw earlier in the week. 

You make a small plan for tomorrow, wanting to bring her to a new coffee shop you’d found, just a few blocks away. 

Natasha listens more than she talks, but she stays close to you. Her knee presses into yours on the couch. Her hand finds your fingers absentmindedly as you talk, nodding along to your words and asking small questions.

Time passes quickly, and suddenly it has been hours since Natasha walked through your door. You kiss her softly once, then twice, before commenting how you’d like to shower. 

The apartment dims. 

Bathroom light spills into the hallway as steam curls out from the half-open door. Natasha listens to the familiar sounds of running water, the soft clatter of bottles, and soft music that plays from your phone. 

She hasn’t moved much since you’d left, sitting at the edge of your bed as she waited for your return. Your sheets are slightly rumpled beneath her hands, her fingers running through the white fabric. 

Her eyes are heavy, and they close, but she can’t seem to let her body fall just yet. There was too much at the forefront of her mind. Her body sways forward slightly, and she feels herself falling into a daze, waiting for you. 

The sound of running water stops, and silence follows. 

Natasha exhales sharply, burying her face in her hands, tightly pressing into her bones. Her hand drags through her short curls, then back over her face, her posture slumping with her movements. 

She only sits up when she hears the door open, taking her hands away from her face quickly. But you saw. 

“Hey,” you say, smiling faintly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Natasha breathes. She takes in the sight of you, wet hair clinging to your face, sporting a loose t-shirt and black underwear. “How was your shower?”

“So nice. Join me next time,” you grin, making Natasha blush, her head resting on her shoulder. Your voice echoes from the bathroom, putting something away that she can't see. 

You toss your clothes from the day into your laundry bin and miss the words Natsaha says next.

“Hm?”

“Come here,” she repeats, voice low. 

“Are you ready for bed?” You ask, obeying her command and walking over to her. Soft arms wrap around your thighs, her head leaning onto your stomach. 

Natasha nods, digging her face into you further, letting her eyes close, tucked into the smooth fabric of your shirt. 

Your fresh smell fills her senses, and the fragrance of your shampoo and lotion is all she thinks about for a moment. 

Your skin is warm and slightly damp against Natasha’s. You run your hands through her dark red curls, soothing the back of her head. 

She looks up at you, and all you can focus on are the green eyes you’ve loved for so long. The face you dreamed about at night, the body that you missed by your side each time she was out saving the world. 

“I missed you,” you say so carefully, she almost doesn’t hear it. 

“I missed you, too,” Natasha whispers back, her lips trailing over your stomach, leaning down to kiss your thighs. She rests her face back to where it was, nestled back into your t-shirt.

“Are you okay?” You ask again, your hand travelling to her neck, brushing through her baby hairs. Natasha doesn’t respond, and you cut her off before she can even think of a good enough response. “Shit, Nat, you’re bleeding.”

The black tank top she wore exposed her shoulders well enough, where you could see a long gash deep in her pale skin. Dark blood trickled down her back, and you quickly went to the bathroom to find your first aid kit. 

You fold a piece of gauze and press it into the back of her shoulder, applying a firm amount of pressure to soak up any blood that threatens to surface. Natasha winces slightly, sitting up straighter on your bed. 

“Must’ve just reopened, I didn’t even know I had one there,” Natasha comments. 

“How did you get this?” You pull the bandage away slowly, checking the progress. More pressure follows, pressing back into the wound. 

Earlier, you didn’t ask about the scar on her mouth or the healing scab on her wrist. You respected her boundary for not wanting to talk about work immensely, but you couldn’t help yourself now. There was always a line she hesitated to cross with you when talking about work, or even her past. 

Like if she showed you that side of herself, you’d never look at her the same way. 

“I uh, I was taken.”

“Taken?”

“I don’t remember a lot, but it was a pretty far distance. Must’ve happened there.”

Your movements slow, like you’re physically processing her words. 

“You were taken?” You ask again. 

Natasha nods once, eyes fixed somewhere on the ground. “It was quick,” she says. “One second I was with Clint, in the back of this truck, then…” She trails off, jaw tightening. “He had me.”

“He?”

“Ultron.”

The name feels heavier hearing it from her. Now it wasn’t something filtered through headlines or anchors, the sole word you’d been hearing for weeks on the news. This was something Natasha had dealt with face-to-face, something that had physically harmed her. Your stomach churns, and you try not to let too much emotion take over, keeping your composure. 

You dig through the first aid kit with one hand, still keeping your hand firmly pressed into her shoulder. You apply a thin layer of antiseptic before changing the current gauze with a fresh bandage. 

Natasha turns around, eyes staring into yours, still sitting with the weight of her confession. Your eyes drift back to the wound on her shoulder. Then to the faint scar on her lip. The bruises you hadn’t questioned.

How much had she chosen not to tell you?

“I’m glad you’re okay, I just…” Your expression softens, voice breaking a little. “You could’ve died.”

Natasha nods, unable to say anything in response to that. You can see her eyes well up with tears, and she swallows hard, a burning sensation travelling down her throat. Her eyes drift back to the ground as you begin cleaning up from your first aid kit. 

“There’s something else,” Natasha says. “It’s not an injury. This was after.”

You nod in understanding, urging her to continue. You make room next to her, setting the first aid kit on the ground, the mattress dipping beneath you slightly as you sit down. Your eyes scan over her face, trying to read her. 

“Steve and I, we were on top of the city, as it was in the air, it was getting harder to breathe. Pieces were falling off, people were still down there, and still in the city,” She cut herself off, shaking her head slightly. “It was bad, and we just…”

You don’t interrupt.

“I remember looking down,” she says. “And thinking, this is it.” 

Natasha lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, like she’s in disbelief that she’s even telling you this.

“I’ve been in bad situations before,” she continues, eyes distant. “But with this, there wasn’t a play, no way to fight it. No one was coming up with a solution. And I just,” Natasha lets out an exhale. “I was ready.”

“What?” You blurt out, frowning.  

You feel something twist painfully in your chest. Your hand inches forward, settling on her thigh, taking in the gravity of her words. You lean in closer, clinging to the sound of her voice, trying to process everything. “Natasha, I-”

She shakes her head quickly. “No, listen.” She takes a deep breath, debating whether or not she should say her next words. If she were you, she’d want to hear them. 

“I didn’t think about you.”

Your face is an unreadable expression, and Natasha forces herself to look away from you and your widened eyes, the sadness beginning to grow in them. She can’t bear it. 

“I didn’t think about anything,” she says. Her jaw tightens. “I just stood there and waited for it to be over.”

The sickly feeling that’d been with you since she’d been gone returns, but not for the reason she’s explaining. You don’t care that she didn’t think about you, about your relationship.

It’s something worse.

Your breath catches, and you feel yourself pull away. You can’t look at her.

Your mouth opens to speak, but you can’t find any words. You swallow, shaking your head slightly, like you’re trying to physically make sense of what she just said. “You were just going to let it happen?”

Her life, her precious, valuable life, wasn’t something worth holding onto in her eyes. 

“I keep thinking about it,” Natasha admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “Ever since. And I can’t fix it.”

Your brows pull together. “Fix what?”

“I can’t find a reason to make it better. And then I come back here,” she adds, quieter again. “To you. When I didn’t even-” Natasha cuts herself off, biting her lip, refusing to let any more words escape. 

You stare at her, silence filling the room, all except for her quiet breaths. You watch the slow rise and fall of her chest, her eyes that were covered with guilt.

What mattered was that she was still here. That she had come back home. 

“I don’t- I don’t care about that,” you say, your voice rising. “I don’t want just to be where you come back to. I want to understand what you’re going through. Even if it’s something like this, even if it scares me.”

Natasha studies you for a long moment, like she’s trying to decide if you mean it. If what she’s said isn’t too much for you to handle. 

“It should’ve mattered more,” she insists. “When I have this whole life here,” she weakly gestures between the two of you. “When I have you.”

You shake your head. It seems like she’s already decided the answer to this. You reach for her, intertwining her fingers with yours. Her hands are tense and cold, but your warmth spreads. 

“You called me. When you probably shouldn’t have with something that dangerous. That doesn’t seem like I don’t matter to you.”

“I know,” you say, but it comes out uneven. Your grip tightens around her hand. “I just… I don’t think this is something you could’ve controlled.”

Her mind flashes back. Her lungs struggling for air, Steve’s solemn face. The peace in her heart where there should’ve been devastation. All she could focus on was the view, grateful that this would be the last thing she laid her eyes on. 

“And as for me,” you add, “I don’t need to be the last thing on your mind for this to be real. I don’t care about that. I know that you love me, Natasha.”

Her breath catches slightly, and you pull one of her hands into you, resting your forehead on her skin, your eyes closing. Her hand moves to your face, holding your cheek with her hand, fingers hooking underneath your jaw. She can’t believe you, your words, the gentle look of love in your eyes, all just for her. 

“I’ve always known the risks of your job. I know the line of work you’re in, and I know your safety isn’t promised when this is your life. I know what that’s cost you,” you say softly, eyes locking with hers. 

Tears well up over green irises, and she bites the inside of her cheek, trying to contain herself. 

Her shoulders drop, tension easing just slightly, and her hand pulls away from your face, her shared warmth with yours disappearing. 

“I still should’ve thought of you,” Natasha whispers.

“You came back,” you say. “That’s the only part I care about.”

Her eyes widen in disbelief, colliding with the tears that stay glossed over. She looks at you like you’re not understanding a single word she says. 

And maybe you aren’t. You can’t understand the way she felt standing there, waiting for the end. Only she could. 

And as much as you want to reach into her body and fix the way she was feeling, you can’t.

Instead, you just reach for her. Your hand hovers for a second before it lands, like you’re not sure she’ll let you. Your fingers brush her wrist. “Hey.”

Natasha doesn’t move. Just sits there, shoulders tight, jaw clenched like she’s holding back, like she’s debating whether or not she deserves your soft touch, your kind words. Her lower lip trembles as she looks back at you. 

“I should’ve-” she starts, but the words fall apart before they can fully form. She breaks first, leaning into you. Her forehead hits lightly against your collarbone before she settles there, breath uneven against your skin.

“It’s okay,” you mumble, your face tucked into the side of her head. You pull back just enough to look at her, your hand sliding to her cheek, brushing away tears she didn’t even notice falling. Her skin is warm. Damp beneath your fingers. 

You press a kiss to the side of her face, and she leans in to kiss you. Her lips move with yours, slow and careful, breathing the scent of you in like she needs it. You taste the salt from her tears and savor the softness of her skin, her hands finding their way back to your face. 

When she finally pulls back, it’s only an inch, her eyes fluttering shut. She presses her forehead to yours. 

The rest of the night falls quiet, and your room floods with darkness. Shadows stretch across the walls as everything slows.

Natasha’s pressed up against you, one arm draped heavy over your waist, the other tucked between you to avoid her shoulder. Her face rests warm against your back, her breath soft and uneven at first, then gradually steadying.

There’s a quiet understanding between you. There are still things she hasn’t said, things you don’t understand yet. The unspoken promise to continue lingers in the air. 

But all of that could wait. 

Your hand moves slowly over her arm, tracing familiar patterns into her skin. Reassuring yourself as much as her that this is real, that you’re both still here. Natasha’s breathing evens out, until you can hear the moment she drifts completely. 

You feel the weight of her settling fully against you, and you tighten your grip, just slightly. 

And she stays.

-

Natasha has to resist the urge to snatch your phone out of your hands and throw it across the yard. It might be just a slight overreaction but she hates that phone. Hates the sound of it pinging, the way your attention is drawn away from her and towards the little device. And she especially hates the person who’s texting you.

Given that Natasha has hidden feelings for you it would’ve been hard for her to like any girlfriend you had. Lyra is particularly easy to dislike though. Natasha had met her a few times, particularly at the start of your relationship, back when everything was new, and you were excited and in love.

The first time she’d met her you’d all gone to a bar. Natasha had brought Yelena for back-up, Yelena being the only one she’d trusted with her secret. Lyra had spent the entire evening on her phone, ignoring all of your attempts at conversation and affection. It had made Natasha’s blood boil. This girl had won the fucking lottery and had the best girlfriend ever yet she couldn’t even appreciate you? It hadn’t escaped Natasha’s notice that you’d bought all their drinks too, Lyra not lifting her head from her phone long enough to offer to pay once.

If it had been up to Natasha she would’ve had nothing more to do with Lyra but you kept inviting her round. To parties, to work events, sometimes just to chill at the compound. Every time Natasha noticed something new about Lyra that pissed her off. The way she laughed a little too loudly when Tony had made a joke at your expense. How her eyes had glazed over when Steve had been praising a piece of work you’d done. Your arm around her waist, your attention on her but hers always wandering, always looking for something or someone more interesting.

Natasha had been your best friend ever since you’d moved into the compound - you’d come along at a good time. Natasha had finally relaxed into Avengers life, was finally allowing people in rather than pushing them away, realising she’d found a home for life. When you’d arrived, a scientist who’d been head hunted by Tony Stark himself, she’d been tasked with showing you around. You’d both clicked immediately. You were quieter, more reserved and sometimes afraid of your own shadow but your differences just seemed to work. Soon you were inseparable.

It hadn’t taken long for Natasha to develop feelings for you but she hadn’t acted on them, assuming you were heterosexual and not wanting to make you uncomfortable. She could’ve kicked herself when you announced you were dating Lyra. Realising she’d lost you to someone so awful only made it worse. If Lyra treated you well, Natasha would still hate her but at least she’d be comforted knowing that you were happy. You’re unhappy though. It’s obvious to everyone except for you apparently.

You’re in the compounds garden having lunch with Natasha. You’ve both gotten into the habit of having lunch together, a routine that Natasha looks forward to every day. Natasha watches as you check your phone then sigh, putting it back down without answering “Who was that?”

Natasha already knows that answer so isn’t surprised when you say it’s Lyra. “I asked if she wanted to come to the Avengers party tonight and she’s asking if she can bring a plus one. But… She’s my plus one. Right? Plus ones don’t get a plus one.”

“No,” Natasha replies thoughtfully, taking another bite of her food. “Who does she want to bring anyway?”

“Some girl from work she’s been hanging out a lot with. Marigold I think her name is.”

Natasha has to bite her tongue. It’s not unreasonable for Lyra to have a friend – your relationship with Lyra hasn’t affected your friendship with her after all. But there’s something about Lyra wanting to bring someone else to this party that irritates Natasha. Still, if Lyra was distracted by someone else, maybe she could have more of your attention to herself. That thought makes her cheeks flush and she has to look away quickly. She needs to get over this – you’re taken.

“You’re coming to the party, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” Natasha replies. “I’ll be there.”

“Stark loves an opportunity to throw a party, huh?”

Natasha nods. It’s true; Tony barely needs an excuse to decide they should all celebrate. Tonight was a particularly big celebration – Wanda’s birthday. She was turning twenty-one, and had insisted she didn’t want a big fuss but of course Tony hadn’t listened. “I tried to tell him Wanda might want something quieter. It’s Pietro’s birthday too after all, but he didn’t listen,” You say worriedly.

“She’ll be okay; we’ll keep an eye on her.”

You and Natasha had been particularly protective of Wanda ever since she’d joined, especially you. You were an only child and had seen Wanda as your new little sister, something she seemed to appreciate too. Natasha tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, watching as you glance down at your phone again. That stupid girl. Natasha is not looking forward to seeing her tonight but she can’t exactly bow out of Wanda’s birthday. Besides, she needs to be there. Needs to see you, even if it means seeing her too.

For the first couple of hours Natasha barely sees you but doesn’t think much of it until Wanda finds her and asks where you are. Although you’re not usually the life and soul of the party you normally work your way around the room, making sure you speak to everybody. Natasha asks some of the other Avengers and finds that none of them have seen you all night. You’d definitely been there at the start – Natasha had watched Lyra arrive, the way you’d wrapped your arms around her waist and she’d barely looked at you. Natasha had had to look away.

Natasha goes looking for you. The rest of the compound is empty during parties and at first all she can hear is the distant thump of music and talking. Her footsteps are slow as she approaches your bedroom until she hears the sound of crying from within. Natasha doesn’t even knock, just throws open the door and finds you sitting at the end of your bed, your head buried in your hands.

“Y/N?” Natasha quickly crosses the room, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “What happened?”

“Tony’s going to fire me.”

Natasha’s eye-brows furrow. You complain a lot about Tony but in a light-hearted way. The way one would complain about a particularly annoying brother. Tony finds great delight in winding you up, the way he does with most people, but it’s obvious to everyone that he’s fond of you. What could have happened during the party that would make you so convinced he was going to fire you?

“Start from the beginning,” Natasha encourages.

“Nat, I feel so fucking stupid.”

“It’s okay, it’s going to be okay. Just tell me and I can help you fix it.”

“Lyra brought her friend with her.”

Natasha frowns, feeling a stab of irritation and hatred for that annoying girl “Didn’t you tell her not to?”

“Yes but she brought her anyway and I felt like I couldn’t tell her to leave,” You sob. “They wanted a tour of the compound so I said okay.”

Natasha waits for you to continue, her hand rubbing over your back. When you don’t she prompts you “What happened on the tour?”

“I showed them the lab. I wanted- God, I’m so stupid; I wanted to show off to Lyra. She’s never cared about my work. I showed her something me and Tony had been working on. It’s top secret; I shouldn’t have- She took pictures, her and Marigold. I tried to get them to stop-”

You cut yourself off with a sob and Natasha wraps both arms around you, pulling you to cry into her chest as she strokes her fingers through your hair “Where are they?”

“I don’t know. They wanted to keep looking around, I asked them to delete the pictures, I begged…”

Natasha takes your face in her hands, turning you to look at her and her heart nearly stops when she sees the dark bruise beneath your eye “What the fuck-”

“Nat, please-”

“Who did this to you?”

“Nat-”

“It was that bitch, wasn’t it? I knew she wasn’t good enough for you but I never dreamed...”

“Nat!” You call but it’s too late, Natasha has jumped to her feet and is storming through the compound.

Natasha moves quickly, eventually finding Lyra outside smoking a cigarette with another girl who she assumes is Marigold. Lyra raises her eye-brows when she sees Natasha approaching “Oh! It’s the Black Widow, here to-”

Natasha doesn’t finish her sentence before slapping Lyra so hard that she’s knocked off her feet. Marigold gasps “Wow! Calm down, you can’t just-”

The other girl isn’t permitted to finish her sentence either before Natasha knocks her off her feet too. Lyra tries to get back up but Natasha puts her foot to the girl’s shoulder, keeping her down as she bends down, snatching up her phone “What the Hell are you-”

“Did you send those photos to anyone?”

“What photos?”

“From the lab. Or any others that you’ve taken in here that you shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking-”

Natasha leans her foot into her shoulder harder, making Lyra shriek and squirm but Natasha doesn’t let up. With a scoff Natasha turns her attention to Lyra’s phone. It’s locked but that’s no problem for the Black Widow. Soon she’s in, deleting all the photos, checking to make sure Lyra hasn’t sent them anywhere else. She scrubs the phone clean before picking up Marigold’s and clearing hers too. Once she’s sure there are no photos of anything there shouldn’t be she throws the phones on the ground, stamping on each one, breaking them completely.

Before either girl can complain Natasha pulls Lyra to her feet by the collar of her shirt “You stay away from Y/N from now on if you know what’s good for you,” She hisses. “I see you round here again and I’ll break both your fucking arms. Got it?” Lyra glares at her and Natasha kicks her hard in the shin “Do you fucking hear me?”

“Ahh! Yes, fuck!”

Natasha shoves her back to the ground “I oughta give you a black eye too you bitch. Now get the fuck out of here before I change my mind.”

Lyra scrambles to her feet, rushing off, leaving Marigold in the dust as she scrambles up after her. Natasha glares at them, making sure they’re off the premises before heading back to your room. Her expression softens as she sees your tearful face “It’s okay,” She reassures you; sitting down on the bed and pulling you back into her arms. “I deleted the pictures, you’re not going to lose your job. I wouldn’t have let that happen, no matter what.”

You sniffle “I was so stupid Nat.”

“I hated her from the start.”

“You did? Why didn’t you say something?”

Natasha smiles and rolls her eyes “You’re so oblivious. You really couldn’t tell I hated her?”

“No! I wish you’d said something. You’re my best friend; I value your opinion a lot.”

Natasha hesitates, her hand stroking up and down your back “Well, I… If I’m being honest… I didn’t like the way she ignored you. The way she didn’t seem to realise just how good she had it. How your face would fall every single time that she text you. It always seemed like you were running around after her and she never gave you anything in return.”

“I didn’t realise-”

“She should’ve made you happy Y/N. You always seemed so unhappy. It made my blood boil. If I’d only had a chance, I would’ve-”

Natasha quickly cuts herself off, realising she’s said too much. Her heart pounds in her chest so loud that you must be able to hear it. Neither of you says anything for a long moment so she starts to speak again “I just think-”

“Did you want a chance?”

Your voice is so quiet. Natasha closes her eyes, holding you a little tighter, as if afraid once you know the truth you won’t let her hold you like this ever again. Natasha thinks of the sleepovers where you’d shared a bed, staying up late and watching movies, just the way you’d told her you had as a kid. Sleepovers had been a foreign concept to Natasha and she’d loved them. Loved curling up next to you and falling asleep, the scent of your shampoo in her nose, your body soft and warm next to hers. What if you didn’t want to do that anymore?

“I love you Y/N,” She confesses quietly. “Seeing you with another woman killed me but having it be someone as horrible as her… Fuck, it’s been torture.”

Silence descends on the room again and Natasha continues to hold you, leaning her head against yours. After a couple of minutes you ask “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t know if you- You started dating a girl and I realised but by then… It was too late and I couldn’t…” Natasha hesitates. “Y/N, can I… Can I kiss you?”

“No.”

Natasha’s heart sinks and she squeezes you before starting to let go of you. You grab her arm “No! No, I meant- Nat, I’ve wanted you to kiss me forever. But… I want it to be perfect. I don't want a runny nose and red eyes and teary cheeks.”

Natasha looks down at you, cupping your cheek with her hand “So… You’re saying… You and me… We could go on a date?”

You nod “Yes. Well, not imminently, I need time to… Catch up with whatever the fuck happened tonight. And technically me and Lyra are still dating-”

“Ah, I uh… Don’t think you need to worry about Lyra anymore,” Natasha says, her cheeks flushing.

You smile through your tears “Nat… Did you kick her ass?”

“… I could’ve been worse in my defence. I actually really held back.”

You smile, leaning your head on her shoulder “Always looking out for me.”

Natasha huffs “Someone has to. And it wasn’t gonna be that- Forget her. Okay? I’m gonna take you on a date so good that you’ll forget you ever had any other girlfriend.”

Both of your girlfriends had been gone from the compound for days. They’d been called out to an active Hydra base in Russia, and three days later, things had gone south and they’d been in active combat since. You didn’t talk to them much, with battles and timezones and everything else that got in your way, but you had heard through the grapevine that Wanda was pretty banged up and Natasha had been left with no choice but to shoot to kill after a particularly gruesome fight. Hearing that never got any easier, especially when they were halfway across the world and had no idea when they’d return. It was missions like these that made you yearn for a simpler life. One where Wanda was an artist, Natasha probably took up something flexible like tattooing, and you did literally anything else to just have some peace and quiet and promised safety.

You had met Natasha first, after Maria recruited you to join Shield. She had been skeptical of you, as she was of everyone, but you broke down her walls as easily as you’d picked the lock to Clint’s farm the one time you were placed on a strike mission together. She had been hurt pretty badly, and his farm was the closest place to land. That had been an interesting day, no thanks to your girlfriend who was draped across your arm with a shallow bullet wound and a startled Laura who was screeching about blood on her new couch. Things with Clint were still chaotic as ever, but he eventually got over you busting his brand new lock, and the two of you joked about it now, although now you had a key so no locks had to be busted in the event of an unplanned visit happening again. When you met Wanda, she fell into your dynamic easily, and at first, neither you nor Natasha had realized that you’d kind of adopted her as a third girlfriend until a drunken night when she ended up in your bed and never left. Now, sleeping without them is hard, but you’re forced to manage as best as you can, seeing as you don't really have much of a choice.

It was going onto the sixth night without them home when you finally retired from the couch, and decided to head to bed, figuring that at two in the morning there was no chance of them coming back until the next morning at the earliest. It was hard enough when one of them was on an active mission with no return date, but when both of them were gone, it truly felt like your heart was missing from your chest and you were just going through the motions and holding your breath until they got back. Most people only had one person to worry about, but having two people to lose, with jobs in this line of work, you felt like you were always looking over your shoulder and expecting the worst. As often as they could, your girlfriends declined missions together, even though they felt comfortable on the battlefield together and it was a comfort to not be alone, but neither one of them wanted to risk not coming home to you. They didn’t have a choice this time, so reluctantly they packed up their duffles and headed for the quinjet, with a kiss on your head and a promise that they would fight to come home to you, that they would try to make it back. There were still two mugs of tea on the countertop in the mini kitchen, and although it was disgusting and the tea had gone bad, you couldn’t bring yourself to clean them up. If that was the last thing they ever touched with you, when they were just Wanda and Natasha and not Avengers, you wanted the picture of mismatched mugs burned into your eyelids for the rest of your life. They deserved to be remembered as real, genuine, soft and stubborn, sometimes infuriating but lovable and loved people, not just heroes who had a cause when things went south.

You tossed and turned for probably an hour, groaning in annoyance for how empty your bed felt without them. How had you gotten so attached? That was the one thing you’d tried your hardest not to do when you got into this, and yet here you are, in Natasha’s t-shirt and Wanda’s panties, unable to sleep because the bed feels too cold and the walls feel too big and the room feels too empty and your heart feels misplaced. You’d heard somebody say love is golden once, not burning red, and you’d never understood that until a moment like this a few years ago, when Natasha left for the first time and you were utterly alone in the tower. They were golden, they were light, they were pouring rain in the middle of the day with the sun shining and not a cloud in sight, and they are the best moments of your life that you wish you could frame in a moving picture, because no, a picture can’t say a million words when it’s them. You need every word in the dictionary and then some. You will never be able to elaborate on how much you love them without falling short, and feeling like there's still so much you could’ve said. Everything felt so gray without them. It had to be after three in the morning when you finally fell asleep, probably closer to four, but you didn’t think about how long you’d been waiting up for them, just flopped onto your back and sprawled out like a starfish, and let sleep take over so you could have a few hours without consciously missing them. Missing them was the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do.

You’re pulled from your sleep by hushed voices and a door closing, convinced that the hinges are louder at inappropriate times just to spite you. You try to ignore it at first, finally in a comfortable position and getting some rest after a long day of running trials with Cho, but the noises persist despite your displeasure. A sound between a groan and a whine is extracted from your chest when something bumps into the bed, and any thought of going back to sleep leaves your mind. Unlike your girlfriends who can sleep through a natural disaster and fall asleep again if god forbid it wakes them up, once your eyes open you’re awake for the day, and it seems like this is where your day starts.

Although with blurred vision from the very few hours of sleep in your eyes, you’re able make out Wanda hunched over the bed, grasping at her side that is noticeably bloody, while Natasha is digging through the drawers to your left probably attempting to find a loose fitting top for Wanda to change into. All exhaustion leaves your body at the sight of them, and you spring up, rubbing your eyes with a wince as they burn in disagreement with your current state of consciousness. Wanda’s head snaps up, on high alert, but she forces her shoulders to relax when she realizes that it’s just you and not a threat.

“Sorry, we didn’t want to wake you.” She apologizes weakly, through clenched teeth and apparent sleepiness. You wonder when the last time they got a decent amount of rest, when they weren’t looking over their shoulders in paranoia or tossing and turning in pain from an injury that couldn’t be properly treated, but you force yourself to not dwell on it too much. You can’t change the past, and neither can they, all that matters is how they recover, and how they need you to help them heal from everything they were exposed to while in Russia. You’re the clean up, another factor that nobody considers while talking about how romantic and protected you must feel having two superheroes as partners. If anything, you feel more exposed. Like all eyes are on you and a monster is always lurking in the room over.

“No, no that’s okay. I only went to sleep a few hours ago, anyway. Here.” You know that the shirt Natasha is probably looking for is the one currently on your body, and you offer it to Wanda with no hesitation, already making a b-line for her when she just barely has the strength to reach for it herself. You pull the bloodied top over her head gently, thankful that the blood it’s soaked with is dry, and her wound is covered in gauze, meaning they’d probably stopped by the medbay before they made their way in here. “A little banged up, aren’t you?” You comment, although it's rhetorical and you know she won’t tell you how it happened just yet. That usually comes a few days after the mission, when the trauma isn’t so fresh and they’re not still on edge that something else is coming for them. You help her out of her pants as well, thanking Natasha when she hands you a fresh pair of undergarments to pull up Wanda’s legs before you even have to ask.

“We’re still in one piece.” Natasha promises, coming up behind you and wrapping her arms around your waist. She’s tense all over, but she does her best to relax as she holds you, grounding herself in the moment and not the nightmares that have been going around in circles in her mind since getting on the quinjet to come home. “We missed you.” She kisses the skin beneath your ear, lingering for a few seconds before she untangles herself completely and gets ready for bed herself.

“That’s all that matters.” You reassure her, pecking Wanda’s lips gently, knowing she doesn’t have the energy or the strength to match any moment of passion right now. It’s not something that bothers you, maybe it used to, just the slightest bit, but it’s a routine you’re used to now. “I missed you too.”

“I told Steve we’re not taking any missions for a while. Especially not together.” Natasha hands you another one of her tops to slip into, and watches you throw Wanda’s bloodied one into the garbage beside your vanity. She won’t wear it again, not when it’s got so much history now, even if you could get the blood stain out. Again, it’s a routine you’ve found comfort in. The clothes they return home in almost always end up in the garbage, no time for working through PTSD that’s stitched into the fabric when you can just get something new to start fresh in.

“That’s good. I heard from Maria how tough this one was. I don’t know if I slept much the first few days.” You hate to worry them, or make them feel bad, but they hate when you’re not honest with them, and there’s nothing any of you can do about them being sent out on missions, so it’s not like you’re haroboring negative feelings toward them directly, which they understand, but your girlfriends do a great job of beating themselves up about certain things out of their control, this being one of them.

“Or at all. We still have cameras, you know.” Natasha muses, thoroughly amused when you turn a deep shade of crimson and kick Wanda’s discarded pants up toward her. Your other girlfriend, who has been noticeably quiet through the entire exchange, is curled up in bed, looking unbothered by the conversation but intent on finally getting some sleep in her own bed without the possibility of being blown to bits by the enemy.

“Spying on me, are you Romanoff?” You tease, shutting all the drawers Natasha left open and picking up all of her discarded clothes to throw them in the bin as well. She thanks you silently with her eyes that are practically bleeding with pain and adoration, but you don’t say anything. This is the least you can do for them right now.

“Gotta keep an eye on my girl.” Although it’s an easy statement, you know that it’s riddled with nothing but genuine anxiety. Both of your girlfriends are worrywarts when it comes to leaving you alone, for any amount of time but especially undetermined chunks like this mission, and although its heartwarming to be so cared for, it breaks your heart to know that they have valid reasons to be afraid. Another thing nobody even considers when they make comments toward your relationship. Wanda makes a huffing sound beside Natasha and both of your lips twitch in amusement, “On one of my girls, sorry, malysh.”

“You both should get some rest.” You comment, seeing that almost an hour has passed since they stumbled in. You won’t be able to fall asleep again, and even if you could, you’re apprehensive to crawl into bed with Wanda and accidentally hurt her more, so you have all intentions of wishing them a goodnight and going to finally clean up the mugs of tea that are resting on the counter.

“Where are you going?” Natasha wonders, watching you closely, like she’s scared that you’re going to fall apart right in front of her. You hate these moments, when they’re first getting back and they still feel like they’re stranded in a battlefield. It takes days to get back to some kind of normalcy without walking on eggshells, and by that time, they’re usually cleared to start training again and working their strength up for the next mission. One day, you just want to be done, but they’re not ready yet and that's okay.

“To clean up the tea mugs you left before you went. I didn’t have the heart to clean them up, in case…” You train off, but Natasha knows what you’re going to say and her face sinks even deeper.

“In case we didn’t come back.” She finishes your thought, hand rubbing Wanda’s back now that the woman is on her belly, seeking pressure against her wound that’s probably aching beneath the gauze. She shouldn’t be putting any pressure on it, but you’re not about to scold her right now. She needs to be comfortable, any torn stitches can easily be mended tomorrow morning when she’s well rested.

“Yeah.” You breathe out, releasing the tension that gathered in your shoulders at the simple thought of losing them. They’re okay this time, you can let go of all that pent up anxiety and dread for the time being. But it crosses your mind that there's always next time, and they might not get so lucky.

“Will you stay with me? Please?” Wanda asks, voice muffled by the pillow her face is pressed into, her arms beneath her head as she gives Natasha full access to her back, and the aching muscles that have probably been pulled a couple thousand times since leaving. Natasha works harder at releasing some of that tension, looking at you with broken eyes that you can’t say no too. Your worries are squandered when Wanda speaks again, lifting her head just enough to be able to see your face, peering into your eyes with a passion and seriousness that burns you inside. “You won’t hurt me, stop thinking that. I just want to hold my girl.”

“Ahem.” Natasha clears her throat, and Wanda lets the slightest smile pull her tired lips upward.

“One of my girls, sorry, detka.” She apologies before dropping her face back into the pillow, tightening her grip on it when Natasha hits a sore spot in her back. The redhead keeps at it, knowing how easily the Sokovian can pull her muscles when she’s lifting heavy things with just her tendrils.

“Are my thoughts that loud?” You ask meekly, abandoning your intention of straightening up the kitchen and instead coming closer to the end bed, still without pants and just Natasha’s shirt that hangs to your mid thigh.

Natasha stops rubbing Wanda’s back in order to grab at your thighs and pull you closer, rubbing the skin of your legs the same way she had been rubbing Wanda’s back. Though she’ll never admit it, you and Wanda have a sneaking suspicion her love language is physical touch, and that just maybe, physically feeling you both silences her anxieties over you just disappearing from her. Whatever her reason, neither of you protest, and admittedly crave her touch by the end of the night when you crawl into bed.

“Mhmm, I promise I’m okay. Doesn’t really hurt anymore, s’just sore.” She promised, sounding half asleep the longer she lays, adjusting her head so her neck is turned toward both you and Natasha, but her eyes are closed, a content smirk on her lips that only grows bigger when she hears you sigh your agreeance and then feels the bed dip with your weight as you climb into bed.

“Lay your ass down, or I’m gonna fall asleep sitting up.” Natasha scolds, playfully slapping your ass as you crawl over her and into the center of the bed, which is no longer warm from your body. You settle in between them, humming contently when Wanda loops an arm around your waist and then Natasha pulled you into her chest, your legs intertangling messily beneath the sheets.

“I missed this. I can’t sleep when you’re gone, everything feels so empty.” You admit, letting your eyes close even if you’re going to have a few hours of painful silence and stillness before you can even consider actually falling asleep.