Elle

You were biting your lower lip as you tried to set your phone over the table. You kept bouncing your leg nervously as a tiny voice in your head told you how much in trouble you would be in as soon as your girlfriend made it back with your food. And maybe that voice was right, maybe your phone not staying in place was a sign for you to move on...

But you saw the trend and you had to try it with Natasha.

However, the thing about your super-hot spy girlfriend was that she sucked at these things. It wasn’t like she wouldn’t follow instructions down to the dot. None of that, she would if you just asked. But not before asking a lot of questions and taking away the fun out of it.

Your girlfriend was funny. She really was. But the redhead wasn’t chronically online like you were, so getting her to understand why certain trends were funny for civilians like yourself was a hard task.

And you found an easy fix. A risky one too. Because recording Natasha to see her natural reaction could be funnier than expected, a total failure or something that got you in so much trouble that the rest of the Avengers wouldn’t see you for two days.

This one was harmless, though. Or so you told yourself when you finally managed to set the phone properly.

The redhead came back with a plastic tray, ignoring curious glances that followed her silently as she balanced your food carefully with the tip of her tongue darting out as a sign of her concentration.

“They’ve got milkshakes. And I know your favourite is the strawberry one, but I also know your period is close so you could magically be into the chocolate one. So, I bought all four flavours” Natasha announced when she arrived at the table, her eyes twinkling with that sweet devotion that was only reserved for you.

You chuckled “And people dare to call you scary” you smirked and the redhead rolled her eyes, ready to sit across from you until you tutted “What are you doing?”

“I want to eat? I’m famished” she replied and you shook your head.

“Yes, I know that. I mean what are you doing over there when there’s a seat next to me?” you insisted and Natasha smiled, already walking around the table to sit next to you and you hummed contently “So much better”

The redhead leaned and pecked your cheek, as if there weren’t several people around you that were pretending they weren’t looking at you with that same curiosity your girlfriend always attracted.

You couldn’t blame her. The world truly believed she was as scary as she looked in the news. And she could be, you’ve seen it more times than not but not in the way they thought.

“Am I supposed to ignore the phone that is recording?” Natasha whispered in your ear, and you giggled “Detka”

“It’s just a food review. Actually, would you help me with it?” you asked sweetly and the redhead started to shake her head “Please, please, please” you pouted and Natasha wanted to whine, feeling how her will-power abandoned her as it always did when it came to you and your cute face “It’s better this way, please”

“Fine, fine. What do you want me to do?”

It was scary how fast you came up with a whole dynamic knowing damn well you were about to poke the bear for views and likes. Natasha listened carefully while mentally scolding herself for letting you turn her into whatever version of herself that was.

The redhead would follow you to the gates of hell, that was a very scary fact. For her, at least.

“Okay, so we can try the milkshakes first!” you finally said, a smile so big that it reached your eyes that Natasha’s heart melted “You go first!”

“Fine, whatever” the redhead inhaled sharply and took a sip of the strawberry one, she hummed before passing it over to you “I think you won’t like it, it isn’t sugary enough and that’s why I love it”

“Let me see” you said with suspicion, grabbing a napkin and wiping the straw clean before taking a long sip. Natasha threw you a confused look, her green eyes now glued to your fingers as you held the straw against your lips “No, I think you can never go wrong with strawberry. It’s good, I would add more whipped cream”

“What was that?” the redhead asked, and you raised a brow with faux confusion.

“That maybe you are right? I need a little more sugar...”

“No, that’s not...” Natasha sighed and you waited patiently “Whatever, I’m probably hallucinating out of starvation. Which one is next?”  you chuckled and slid over the chocolate one. The redhead took a sip and scrunched her nose “Too sugary. I prefer dark chocolate”

“Yeah, yeah. My fit girlfriend, whatever” you teased her, ignoring the way your girlfriend was eyeing you when grabbing the napkin and cleaning the straw once again before taking a sip “I would’ve added chocolate syrup! Strawberry still my fave! Do you want to...”

“You did it again” Natasha furrowed her brows and you tilted your head.

“What?” you laughed softly “Let’s move to...” Natasha grabbed the vanilla shake and took a sip before giving it to you “Ooookay” you chuckled and cleaned the straw again, hearing her groan and taking the cup before you could take a sip “Natasha...”

You watched her lick the straw with her eyes glued to yours before passing the cup over once again. You feigned confusion, cleaning the straw again as the vein in your girlfriend’s forehead popped.

“What are you fucking doing?” she hissed, licking it again “Drink”

You chuckled nervously “I’m trying to” you cleaned it again and took a sip, listening to your girlfriend growl as one of her hands turned into a fist “Oh, this is actually...”

Natasha grabbed the cup and took a long sip, her movements faster than your mind because when you registered them, she was already pressing her fingers on your cheeks as your mouth fell open. You flinched when your girlfriend spat the milkshake in your mouth and closed it.

“Don’t you ever dare to that shit again” Natasha growled and wiped her lips clean, tutting when you tried to clean your face “You will stay like that” you tried to fight back, your cheeks burning as you felt your panties getting damped when her voice dropped impossibly lower “And once we get home, I will make sure you are fucking covered in my spit and my cum because you are fucking mine. Understood?”

“Yes, Tasha” you muttered, biting your lower lip as you stopped recording.

“Good girl. Now, eat”

And you did, because your girlfriend just nailed the trend, but she was also about to ruin your ability to walk for the next few days. Maybe she had a point, people do extremely stupid things for attention.

In this case, was it worth it?

Natasha’s gaze is steady on the ceiling. Focused and unblinking, like she would miss the sound if she closed her eyes for a millisecond. She lies on her mattress, arms crossed behind her head. Natasha’s jaw ticks as time passes by, and her heart’s starting to beat to the sound of skin slapping against skin.

Her jeans begin to tent as her ears start to isolate the sound of your breathy moans and needy whine, forgetting just for a moment that it’s somebody else who pulls those sounds out of you. It’s taking all of her not to palm herself to full erection, but god damn it if she’s not jealous of whoever’s fucking you right now.

Maybe you knew she was going to come back early, so you brought someone home with you. It’s probably your revenge for all those times she too brought a girl back without warning you, and that one time she’s gotten so horny they didn’t even make it to her room, and you walked in on them getting nasty on your sofa.

Natasha wasn’t able to forget how flustered you looked that night, and with your cries of pleasure, her mind supplies her with images of how you look right about now.

Fuck it.

She unzips her jeans and hastily pulls them down along with her briefs. Natasha spits on her palm and begins stroking her dick, and groans at the contact.

The tip of your fingers would probably barely touch when wrapped around her. Oh, how she wishes it was you. 

Natasha wanted to just barge in and get rid of whoever was with you and take their place. To let her hands explore how warm your skin would be, to watch as a shiver runs through it as she trails her tongue down the expanse of your abdomen.

How you’d fit on her cock like you’re made for it.

Any other time, she would take her time to explore and worship every part of you, have you come again and again and again with her tongue. On her tongue.

But right now, her strokes get faster as you whimper, “I’m fucking close, don’t you fucking stop.”

If it was her, she’d make you beg for it, but nonetheless, the expletives made her cock twitch, and her hips buck into her hand to chase her high at the same time as you. Go on, baby, cum with me. 

“I’m coming, oh you feel so fucking good, Nat, fuck!”

Natasha just moaned out loud.

She spills into her hand and some spurt into her tummy and thighs, and yet she still can't stop gripping her cock up and down, milking herself dry.

Her ears are still ringing with how you cried her name, and she's not even sure if that was real. It's not long until she comes again, this time with your freshly fucked face etched into her mind. 

Natasha looks at her cum stained hand as her breath returns to normal. She's sure your pussy would look heavenly with her spend leaking out of your cunt. 

She hears the telltale sign of that person scrambling out of the room. Natasha smiles. It's not serious if they're not staying the night.

Good.

When she hears the door shut, Natasha wipes her cum on her briefs as she puts them back on, leaving her jeans out on the floor. Her oversized shirt reaches the hem of her undies, she thinks it's decent enough, and walks out of her room.

Natasha sees you stop in your tracks as you see her by the fridge, pouring two glasses of water. Her eyes never leave you as you step closer, only speaking as she hands you the other glass.

“Didn't know you're home early, Nat.”

“Sure did.”

“I wish you told me, so I could—”

“Could what? Not bring someone here?”

“I— even if I did, it's none of your business. You always bring a girl into your room, so why can't I?”

Natasha closes the distance, and she feels your breath hitch as she turns to whisper in your ear. “I didn't say anything that you can't, detka. But if you do, maybe don't moan someone else's name, yes? I kinda feel bad for your hookup.”

She absolutely doesn't, and she's still not sure whether what she heard earlier was not a figment of her imagination, but with the way your breath just stuttered—she gets the confirmation she needs.

And fuck if it's not the sexiest thing ever. You, moaning her name, thinking of her while somebody else is fucking you?

She's getting hard again.

“If you just make a move, you could have this all for yourself, y’know?” Natasha raises her shirt to let you see her bulge, letting her dick flex against her boxers. She smirks as she follows your gaze down. “No bringing home strangers anymore. Just you and me, baby girl.”

Your eyes meet hers again. “C-can I?”

Natasha’s tongue is in her cheek as she thinks about it. Of course, you can, so she grabs your hand and lets you palm her clothed cock, but she wants to give it to you properly. She wants you clean, devoid of the trace of the stranger’s touch on your body. 

Hers.

As much as it pains Natasha, she pulls back from your touch. “It's getting late, baby. Rest up. We’ll talk about this again in the morning.”

You could only stare at her back as she retreated to her room, feeling your cunt clench around nothing with her parting words. 

Once a month at school there’s a special session where everyone can talk about their loved ones who were taken from them in the blip. Compulsory attendance for everyone. Nobody can argue it doesn’t apply to them because everyone lost someone in the blip. Some were more fortunate than others but everyone had lost someone. Opening up to people has never really been one of your strong suits but this feels even worse because everyone knows that your sister blipped. Now once a month you’re forced to pretend that you miss her when deep down… You don’t.

That thought makes you feel horrible but it’s the truth. You’d never been close with your sister. If she was the sun then you were the moon, only seen when she wasn’t there. Even then, sometimes you might as well be invisible as far as your parents were concerned.

Everyone’s attention turns to you as the teacher asks you to recall one of your favourite memories about your sister before the blip. You shift through them before landing on one that sticks out to you. It was your birthday. Your Mom, Wanda, had made you a cake and the candles were lit as she approached you, everyone singing happy birthday. Your sister had squealed with excitement at the sight of the cake. Your Moms’ had let her blow out the candles for you. When you’d complained they’d told you that you were too old to throw a tantrum over something like that. You’d wanted to cry but then your sister had started snivelling and you’d gotten into trouble for making such a big deal about it.

The next day your Auntie Yelena had taken you to the mall to buy you something for your birthday. You’d told her about it and at lunch Yelena had bought you a cupcake, making the staff put a candle in it and sing to you when they brought it out. You’d pretended to be embarrassed but secretly you’d loved having your own moment and the opportunity to make your own wish.

Your cheeks always burn when you remember that wish.

I wish I didn’t have a sister.

You’d had no idea that that wish would come true. And worse, that it wouldn’t change anything.

You don’t recount this story in front of your classmates. The details change as they always do when you’re forced to do this stupid stuff. You and your sister next to each other, you let her help you blow out the candles, her joyous expression as she claps happily. Everyone smiles. Nobody ever wants the truth.

When you get home from school you find Wanda in the same place she is most days. Sitting by the window, flicking through that photo album full of pictures of your younger sister. “Hey Mom,” You say quietly. “You had a good day?”

Wanda glances at you before quickly turning her attention back to the album in her lap, her finger tracing over her favourite photo of your sister. It’s the one where she’d just been born, placed into Wanda’s arms. Natasha’s there too, her gaze on their newborn daughter, completely smitten. You weren’t there. You’d gone to stay with Auntie Yelena, waiting for news of your baby sister’s birth.

You were your parents’ first child but Molly, your little sister, was your parents’ first biological child. They’d adopted you a couple of years previously. You could still remember your life before them. Your birth mother had been kind and clearly loved you dearly but was unable to successfully parent you. She made a lot of bad decisions until eventually you’d been removed from her care. You’d spent a year in a group home before being adopted by the two superheroes, Wanda Maximoff and Natasha Romanoff. From the moment you’d met them you’d adored them, they were everything you’d ever hoped for in parents’. Wanda was forever pulling you into her lap, to rock you and sing to you whilst Natasha loved spending time with you, teaching you to play chess and running around after you in the park.

You’d been excited for the birth of a baby sister. Natasha and Wanda had sat you down, telling you the big news. They’d kept you involved every step of the way, letting you pick out furniture for the baby’s room, taking you to Wanda’s scans, even letting you pick out her name. You’d chosen Molly based on a book that Wanda liked to read to you at night time. They’d made it seem like having a baby sister would be something fun.

After your sister’s birth it hadn’t taken long to start resenting her. Whenever Auntie Yelena came round she reassured you that your Moms’ still loved you very much, but having a baby required a lot of care and attention. Soon they’d settle into a routine and they’d start to have more time for you again. That in the meantime though she’d be there if you ever wanted to talk or needed a cuddle.

Years had passed. Molly had grown from a baby into a girl and things never got better despite Yelena’s reassurances. There was nothing you could do to get your Moms’ attention – you would always come second place to their precious biological daughter.

One day your Moms’ had taken you and Molly to the compound. Both of them were letting Molly play on the climbing equipment, beaming whenever she squealed with delight. You were sat near Yelena, supposedly watching her throw knives but spending more time watching your Moms’ with your sister. “Why don’t you go and join them?” Yelena had asked you.

“I don’t want to intrude,” You’d replied quietly. “They’re having fun.”

“Bet they’d have even more fun if you went over.”

“Nah, they’re happy without me. It’s okay. I’m having fun with you.”

Yelena had ruffled your hair, “Come on. I’ll teach you.”

You’d had fun learning how to throw knives but your heart had cracked a little whenever you heard your sister squealing with laughter. Your Moms’ never played with you like that anymore.

Natasha comes into the living room, absent-mindedly ruffling your hair. “Hey kid. Good day at school?”

“It was okay. We had to do that blip conversation thing again. It was-”

Your voice trails off as you realise neither of them is listening to you. Natasha has joined Wanda, looking down at the photo album, her own fingers tracing over the photo of newborn Molly. You still feel guilty about your wish. Deep down, you know you didn’t cause this. It wasn’t your fault that Thanos snapped his fingers just days after your birthday. You’d been relieved to find neither of your Mom’s had disappeared. Their relief that you’d not been snapped either had been short-lived when they realised Molly was gone.

As for you… The real crushing disappointment had come when nobody heard from Yelena. Your beloved Auntie, the only person you could turn to whenever you were feeling upset or lonely. Even all these years later if you can’t sleep you take out your phone and read through the old messages you used to send to each other. Yelena had always been available when you needed her. Any day, at any hour. And you miss her so much.

Even with your sister gone, your parents don’t have time for you. You’d tried. After the first year, nearly everyone had given up hope that the snapped civilians could be brought back. Steve Rogers had made a speech to the nation about how we needed to forge a new life, not forgetting the people we’d lost but learning to live without them. That was when you’d truly started begging for your Moms’ attention.

“My birthday’s coming up,” You’d told them. “I was thinking maybe we could do something just the three of us-”

Those had been the wrong choice of words. Wanda had burst into tears, wailing about how it should be the ‘four’ of you. Natasha had held her close, rocking her back and forth in her arms, pressing kisses to the top of her head. When Wanda had calmed down a little you tried again “Sorry… I just… Maybe for my birthday we could go axe throwing? That looks fun. Or maybe-”

“I don’t think Mom’s in the frame of mind right now to talk about your birthday,” Natasha had said gently. “You and me can talk about it later, okay?”

You hadn’t talked about it. Your birthday had gone by without a fuss. No cake, no presents, not even a birthday card. When Molly’s birthday had come around there’d certainly been a fuss even though she wasn’t here to celebrate. Wanda had made Molly’s favourite meal and you’d all had to sing happy birthday to her even though she wasn’t there to hear it. That night you’d cried yourself to sleep. When Natasha heard you she just thought you missed your little sister.

Wanda sniffles, looking up from the album and finally meeting your gaze. “Y/N…”

“Yes Mom?” You ask, stepping closer.

“There’s going to be a mission,” Wanda says. “A difficult one. A complicated one. But we think… We think maybe it could bring back the people who’ve been snapped.”

Oh. That’s why she’s being extra sentimental about the photo album today. “We need all hands on deck,” Natasha says, her gaze also turning to you. “You’ve been doing some training at the compound lately and we thought maybe… Maybe you’d like to help out.”

You had been training more at the compound over the past couple of years. It hadn’t seemed fun at first without Auntie Yelena there but one day you’d picked up the throwing knives again. Instantly you felt closer to her. Hoping it would help you get closer to your Moms’, you’d thrown yourself into training. It hadn’t worked but you were proud at the thought of continuing your Auntie’s legacy. That there was a little piece of her inside of you.

“Yeah, I… I’d like to help. What do you need me to do?”

“Tony suggested that you go with me,” Wanda says. “But if this doesn’t work… I want to be with the last remaining family I have.”

“You and me have switched,” Natasha clarifies. “I’ll go with Wanda and Nebula. You’ll go with Clint. He’ll take care of you, I trust him.”

Wanda’s words sting harder than you’d care to admit but you push them aside as hope blooms in your chest. If this works… If you can really get back the people who’ve blipped… Then you could get Yelena back. You wouldn’t have to feel so lonely anymore.

“When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow,” Natasha says. “Briefing in the morning and then we’ll get to work.”

Wanda holds her arms out for you and you immediately rush into them, burrowing your face into her neck. “We could finally get Molly home,” Wanda says, kissing your forehead. “Then we’ll be a family again.”

You don’t reply – just savour the feeling of being in your Mom’s arms. You love her so much. It makes your heart ache to know you’re not enough for her. For now though, you’ll make the most of her embrace. Who knows when she’ll next hold you like this if Molly returns?

The briefing is over before you know it. When it’s time to leave your Moms’ barely look at you, Molly clearly at the forefront of their minds. You try not to mind too much. Soon Yelena will be back. You’ll tell her everything that happened over the past five years and she’ll make it better. Yelena will make everything better.

Travelling through space and time to Vormir is a strange feeling and Clint puts his hand on your shoulder when you arrive “It’s okay kid. I got you. We’ll be out of here before you know it.”

You nod, following after him. Clint had reassured you that your first mission should be relatively easy. From the information Nebula had given them, they knew there wouldn’t be anyone to fight. You could just figure out what you needed to get the stone and then get out of here.

It’s you who figures it out first.

“One of us doesn’t get to go home,” You say quietly, looking over the cliff edge. “It’s a soul for a soul. One of us needs to die.”

“Me then,” Clint says, without hesitation. “You’re just a kid. I’m the adult-”

“You have kids though,” You say dejectedly. “No one will care if I don’t go back.”

“Hey!” Clint puts his hands on your shoulders, turning you to face him. “You’re wrong. Nat cares about you. Wanda cares about you. They’re your Moms’, they-”

“Just want Molly home. They’ll be okay with just Molly, they don’t… They won’t miss me. They wish I blipped instead of Molly anyway.”

Clint stares at you, his eye-brows furrowing “Kid…”

“You have three kids. They’ll all need you when they get back. Nobody needs me Clint. Nobody at all.”

He shakes his head “I’m not gonna let you-”

“Just tell Auntie Lena-” Your voice cracks and you have to swallow hard, trying again. “Just tell Auntie Lena that I missed her. And I wrote… There’s a letter, for my Moms’. In my bedroom. Tell them it’s there.”

“Kid-”

“Promise me Clint. Promise you’ll tell her. This is my choice. Okay? I’m choosing to do this.”

Natasha pours herself a drink, taking a long swig. She can hear Wanda tucking in Molly upstairs. The last couple of days had been strange. They’d finally reunited with Molly. Everything they'd been praying for all these years. Their daughter, their girl… But it had cost them you.

Natasha still hasn’t fully forgiven Clint yet. You were supposed to be safe on your first mission, Clint was meant to be keeping an eye on you. He said he’d offered to go, had fought you for it – but you’d won in the end. Natasha wonders how hard Clint had truly fought; given you were only a teenager. “She’s your kid Nat,” Clint had said. “Takes after you, stubborn as Hell. None of us could’ve stopped her going after something she truly wanted.”

Her joy at being reunited with Molly was dampened by the loss of you. Even if you weren’t hers biologically you were still her first kid. The first person to ever call her Mama. And now you’re gone forever because Natasha wasn’t there to protect you.

Clint had told them about a note you’d left them in your room. Once they’d gotten Molly settled Natasha had gone straight into your room to read it, hoping it would bring her some kind of peace. It hadn’t. It had only made her feel worse. One section in particular had stood out to her.

‘I know you wish it was me instead of Molly that blipped. I was the disposable one, ever since Mom announced she was pregnant. Even so, I love you both. And I’m glad I got to be your daughter, even if just for a little bit.’

Natasha goes to take another long swig of her drink, interrupted by the sound of the door opening and slamming closed. When she turns to look she finds Yelena crossing the room, a look of relief on her face “Natasha!”

Yelena hugs her older sister tight, and Natasha buries her face into her shoulder, also breathing out a sigh of relief “Lena… I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too. I came as soon as I could; I knew you must’ve been worried.” Yelena pulls back to look up at Natasha. “Are your family okay? Did they… Did they blip?”

“Molly did. She’s upstairs now with Wanda.”

“Y/N’s okay? Can I see her?” Yelena feels her heart beat faster with anxiety when Natasha doesn’t immediately answer her. “Natasha…”

“Y/N didn’t blip but she um… She trained so hard while you were gone; she was so close to being a real Avenger. It was all hands on deck for the mission to bring you all back and uh…” Natasha feels her throat tighten and she has to close her eyes, looking down. “Y/N’s… Y/N’s dead, Lena. She died getting the soul stone.”

Yelena doesn’t say anything for a long moment before sinking onto the couch, her mouth open in disbelief. Natasha swallows hard, pouring Yelena a drink and placing the glass in her hand. “I know. It uh… It hit me and Wanda hard.”

For a long moment there’s silence before Yelena shoots her drink, putting the glass down heavily on the coffee table. “How could you let her?”

“I- I wasn’t there-”

“You weren’t there?” Yelena asks coldly. “It was her first mission. Who did she go with?”

“Clint. I- I wanted to be with Wanda, if I’d known-”

“You sent her on her first mission without- Fuck, I should’ve interfered back when I had the chance!” Yelena rises to her feet, pacing back and forth. “Five years I was gone. Five years she was stuck with you both. Please tell me you paid her an ounce of attention while Molly was gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Yelena snaps furiously. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“Yelena,” Wanda appears in the doorway. “Is everything okay? Molly’s upset by the loud voices-”

“No everything is not okay!” Yelena shouts. “Y/N is dead.”

“Yelena-”

“All you ever talk about is Molly. Molly, Molly, Molly. God, Y/N deserved so much better.”

Wanda crosses the room to put her hand on Natasha’s arm. “Yelena, I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“Yes you do,” Yelena says angrily, watching Natasha’s expression carefully. “Y/N was always watching from the sidelines, watching Molly get all the attention. And she never complained to either of you, not once. Even on her birthday, she never got the attention. You were both too busy fawning over Molly.”

Wanda rubs a hand up and down Natasha’s arm. “Yelena, we- It wasn’t like that.”

“Yes it was,” Yelena says, looking between them both with obvious distain. “I don’t… Even want to imagine. What the last five years were like for her.”

“Lena, please-”

“I’m done,” Yelena says, shaking her head. “I should’ve taken Y/N when I had the chance. She would never have- I would never have let this happen to her. Not under my watch.”

Natasha takes a step forward “Yelena-”

“Don’t contact me again. You should both be ashamed of yourselves. Now you have what you wanted. One perfect daughter. One.”

Before either of them can say another word Yelena leaves, slamming the front door behind her, causing Molly to cry loudly from upstairs. Wanda sighs “I should go and-”

“Yelena’s right, Wanda,” Natasha says quietly. “We let her down. What did we even do for her birthday this year? Or last year?”

“Nat-”

“You read the note too Wands. We- We shouldn’t have-” Natasha gasps, her eyes filling with tears.

Wanda rubs her hand up and down Natasha’s back, her own eyes filling with tears. She looks around the living room, realising for the first time that there aren’t any photos of you up. There are plenty of Molly, and some of Natasha and Wanda. They’d never put one up of you though. Had never thought to.

Wanda bursts into tears, realising too late what a horrible Mother she was to you. How unloved you must’ve felt in your final moments without Yelena around to pick up the pieces of where they’d let you down. Natasha wraps her arms around Wanda’s waist, both of them hugging each other as they sob.

The kind that happened so abruptly it completely stole the air from your lungs and made your body lose its axis. You gasped, grabbing blindly for the handrail in the confined space, a cry of pain escaping your lips as your ankle twisted beneath you at the same moment the lights went out... 

Pain shot up your leg.

"Shit-"

Stupid, stupid heels, stupid job. And most of all, fucking stupid elevator.

For half-second, there was only silence in the box you were trapped in. Heavy silence and the blood rushing in your ears before it raced south to warm up your ankle.

Then the cables screamed. The entire lift dipped a terrifying inch, maybe more - metal screeching against metal, and your body slammed into the mirrored wall behind you, the impact knocking a strangled cry from your throat.

"Oh my God," you whispered, widening eyes darting around in the dark. "Oh my God, oh my God-"

The emergency lights flickered on, bathing the small space in a sickly red glow.

Your hands were already shaking. You sucked in a deep breath before lunging for the control panel, hitting the red button in clouded panic. Door open. A soft, broken whimper slipped out as heat bloomed around your ankle, sharp and throbbing. 

You exhaled hard, eyes narrowing as you hit the alarm button. Alarm, alarm, alarm again. You pressed it so hard your fingertip hurt.

Nothing.

The alarm gave a weak, frankly pathetic buzz that died almost instantly.

"Hello?" Your voice cracked as you leaned toward the speaker anyway. "Hello?! Can anybody hear me? I-I’m stuck, I-"

The elevator answered with another grinding groan before it slowly - so slowly it felt like moving in slow-motion - shifted again. Lower, just a tiny, insignificant fraction, but it was enough. Enough for your brain to supply the images: snapping cables, freefall, the box crumpling like a soda can when it hit the bottom. 

With you inside it. 

All because you refused to come to work early to climb up twenty-five flights of stairs.

Your knees gave out before you even realized it was happening, you slid down the mirrored wall, your back dragging against the cold surface until you hit the floor. You brought your injured ankle closer, only now realizing just how much it was burning. You were probably not going to be able to walk out of there - if the doors accepted to open again one day, that was.

Oh, God.

You did not like small spaces.

You did not like not being in control.

You definitely did not like the sound of metal giving up.

"It’s fine," you muttered to yourself, breath coming too fast. "It’s fine. Elevators don’t just-"

The car dropped another inch.

You screamed, hoping if you were loud enough whatever Gods there were out there would come and get you out of here themselves.

⧗

Natasha Romanoff had been halfway through her second coffee at their usual café when the call came in.

Elevator malfunction in a building downtown with presumably one occupant trapped. Structural concerns.

She was already on her feet before the dispatcher finished.

"Alright, let’s move," Clint muttered, tossing his cup in the trash and dragging a hand through his hair. "Too early for this kind of bullshit."

The engine roared to life, their sirens cutting through the late afternoon traffic as they cut across the streets.

Natasha stood in the back of the truck, one hand braced against the rail, the other clenched tight at her side. Her jaw was set hard enough to ache. Elevator calls were unpredictable, they could go either way - minor inconvenience or catastrophic failure. She sure hoped it was not the latest. However, the words structural concerns made something cold coil in her stomach.

They pulled up in under seven minutes, fortunately they were not far from the building when they received the call.

Natasha was out of the truck before it had fully stopped.

A small crowd had gathered outside the building, tension thick in the air. She scanned them once, before zeroing in on the man pacing near the entrance.

The building manager looked pale, sweating through his shirt. 

"It’s stuck between floors," he rushed out as she approached. "We think twenty-one and twenty-two. We tried resetting the system, but it’s not responding. And we h-heard-" His voice wavered. "Someone said they heard it drop."

Natasha’s expression did not change, but something in her eyes went sharper - dangerously so - as she recognized the situation for what it was.

"How many people are inside?"

"One. I-I think."

"You think?" Natasha scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "Name?"

"I-I don’t know?"

She shook her head, of course he did not, why would he know anything useful? Natasha was already turning away from him, biting down the inside of her cheek to keep herself from screaming at him. 

"Team’s arriving in ten." Clint said, jogging up to reach her side. 

Natasha let out a short breath, pinching the bridge of her nose for half a second as she forced herself to think rationally.

Ten minutes.

Yeah, no.

Her gaze snapped back to the building, already calculating distances, access points, worst-case scenarios.

"That’s too fucking long. I’m not waiting." 

Clint exhaled, looking at her as if he already knew the end of the story.

"Nat-"

"I’m going." She cut him off, already heading inside.

⧗

Inside the elevator, you were crying now. 

Quiet and panicked tears that refused to stop, slipping endlessly down your cheeks no matter how hard you tried to steady your breathing. Your chest hitched in uneven rhythms, every inhale too sharp, every exhale too shallow.

As if it was not bad luck enough already, you had discovered your so-called waterproof mascara was not as waterproof as the bold words on the package made it sound to be. You had dark streaks smudged beneath your eyes, sticky and uneven, making your reflection in the mirrored wall look... ridiculous, or pathetic. Or both.

You looked like an actress trying too hard to win an award for a drama.

And then there was your last straw; your damn phone. Because you had also discovered that you had no service inside this creepy box. Because, of course there was not. You had tried 911 anyway - once, twice or maybe five times - but each attempt failed before it even began, before you could hope. No signal, no lifeline, nothing.

The red emergency light was still on, though. Making everything inside feel smaller, the walls too close, the ceiling too low. And the air hotter, thin, like every ragged breath you took was not quite enough to fill your aching lungs. And just for that, you were grateful for being the only one here. You could not imagine panicking like this in front of someone else. Or even being stuck for God knew how long in here with someone else.

Especially that creepy Dylan guy who could not take a hint to save his life. So, yeah... you supposed the situation could be worse. 

Another groan tore through the walls as soon as you finished your thought. 

God, you really should learn to hold your tongue. 

It was the third in under five minutes, you had been counting.

Your hands flew up to your ears, palms pressing hard as you squeezed your eyes shut, as if you could block it out, as if ignoring it might somehow make it all stop.

"I don’t want to die," you whispered to no one, to yourself, to whatever Gods out there that must have heard you by now but seemingly decided to do nothing about your case. "Please, please, I don’t want to die."

Your voice sounded so small to your own ears, like it did not even matter. And then, there was a sudden metallic clang echoing from above. As if answering you, finally.

Your hands slipped from your ears, hovering uselessly in the air as your brows pulled together, confusion cutting through the panic.

Another clang, louder this time.

And then... voices? Were you hearing voices? If that was true, they were definitely muffled, distant and barely distinguishable. Though you were not quite sure you had not started imagining things. That was what the brain was supposed to do, right? Hallucinate something comforting when reality became too much?

Your head snapped up at another sound, your heart beating with newfound hope.

"Hello!?" You shouted, scrambling to your feet as best as you could, a sharp whimper escaping when your ankle screamed in protest. You clung to the handrail, leaning heavily against the mirrored wall, slowly sinking back into a sitting position. "I-I’m in here! Please! Anyone?"

Something heavy thudded against the top of the elevator.

Then a voice. You were sure of it this time. It was clear and calm and authoritative.

"Fire department! We hear you."

The sob that tore out of you was immediate and uncontrollable. Your hand flew to your mouth, pressing hard as if you could somehow contain the sound, but it shook through your whole body anyway.

"We’re going to get you out," the voice continued. A beacon in the chaos. A lighthouse in the fog. "I need you to step back from the doors."

"I-I am!" Your voice cracked badly, but you stumbled back as much as your ankle allowed, deciding to ignore the new noise coming from the elevator.

Tools met metal then. A harsh, grating sound filled the air as something outside strained against the doors. The entire elevator creaked in protest, a deep and very unsettling groan vibrating through the walls.

You watched, unable to look away, as the doors jerked before you felt the elevator shift under your feet.

The elevator fucking moved beneath your feet.

"No, no, no-" You choked, panic surging back as you slid down the wall again, your body refusing to stay upright.

"Hey!"

The voice was closer now. Right outside. Your head snapped up from where you thought the person was, lips pressed into a tight line.

"Stay with me. What’s your name?"

For a second, you forgot how to speak.

You swallowed hard, whispering it back in a shaky tone.

"I’m Natasha. I need you to look at me when I get this open. Can you do that for me?"

You nodded frantically before realizing she could not see you as she called out your name to make sure you were listening.

"Yes-yes, I can do that." You finally breathed.

A sharp grunt echoed from the other side.

Then suddenly a gloved hand appeared, forcing its way between the doors.

You held your breath as the gap widened, one inch first.

Then two. The metal shrieked in protest like it was alive, like it was fighting her every step of the way.

But then, you saw her.

First, her arm - muscles straining, veins taut beneath sweat-dusted skin, shiny bicep flexing hard as she forced the doors apart manually.

Then her shoulder, the short black sleeve of her shirt covering most of it, stretching tight.

Then her face.

The red emergency light behind you clashed with the brighter hallway lights spilling in from outside, casting her in something almost unreal. The glow caught on the edges of her helmet, creating a halo effect that made her look-

Not real. Not human, at least. 

You had been asking for a God all this time when you should have prayed for an angel.

A streak of red hair clung to her cheek, damp with sweat, and her green eyes locked onto yours with sharp, unwavering focus.

"Hey, you’re okay." She said, as if it were fact, her lips offering you a small yet gentle smile.

The doors opened wider, revealing the misalignment - the elevator sitting a good foot below the hallway floor.

Natasha’s gaze assessed the inside in seconds.

"Alright. It’s stable," she called over her shoulder to someone you could not see  before nodding at whatever answer she received. Then her gaze softened as it returned to you. "Can you walk?"

You tried, but the second you put weight on your ankle, pain exploded up your leg, sharp enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

You gasped, shaking your head, your hands gripping the bar tighter.

"I-I don’t think so. My ankle, I-"

You expected frustration, maybe impatience. Anything of that range. But Natasha just nodded once, quick and decisive as she shifted closer.

"It’s okay. That’s alright," her voice lowered slightly before she braced one boot against the frame and forced the doors wider with a low, controlled exhale. "We’ll adjust."

Behind her, you could hear someone securing something metal against the frame above. More clanging. More tools. The elevator trembled faintly and you flinched.

Her eyes snapped back to yours instantly.

"Hey," she said, firmer this time. "Stay with me. It’s secured from the top. It’s not going anywhere, alright?"

You searched her face for a lie or at least doubt but did not find any. Just certainty.

Natasha adjusted her footing, one boot planted firmly on the hallway floor, the other testing the edge of the elevator.

"I’m coming in," she warned, her tone turning serious again. "It might shake a little when I transfer my weight. That’s normal, you do not need to panic."

Normal...

You almost wanted to laugh at how fragile that word sounded. But you nodded anyway, your throat tight, your eyes locked on her like she was the only stable thing left in the world.

Your gaze caught on a strange, almost irrelevant detail - the glint of light along her left ear. Multiple piercings, small pieces of metal catching the hallway light. Your brain latched onto that stupid detail even through the panic you could feel rising.

Behind her, you caught a glimpse of movement - her colleague stepping in, rope in hand. He clipped it to her harness with practiced ease, giving her shoulder a firm, reassuring tap.

She did not look back.

The elevator dipped half an inch the moment she slid through the gap with controlled precision. You gasped, hands flying to the wall.

Natasha did not even flinch, she simply moved like she trusted it - like she understood the language of metal and tension and load-bearing structures better than fear ever could. She crouched in front of you immediately, one of her gloved hands finding your arm without hesitation.

Up close, she was even more unfairly breathtaking. A thin sheen of sweat clung to her temple. A faint smudge of grease near her jaw. Her green eyes were sharp, assessing but warm. 

Your entire world narrowed to green.

"Hi." She said quietly, her lips twitching into the faintest smirk that made you weak in the knees.

Your brain short-circuited.

Great.

Of all the moments.

Of all the possible moments.

You had to be a gay disaster right now. Of course. And get caught while checking her out.

You let out a shaky, hysterical half-laugh - still reeling from seeing her entering your space so easily. 

"Hi."

Before you could utter another word, another distant metallic groan echoed through the shaft, low and threatening. 

Natasha’s jaw tightened slightly.

"Alright. We’re going to lift you out," she said, focus snapping back into place. "As you can see the car is about a foot low, so I’ll boost you up to Clint - that guy over there. He’ll grab you, and I’ll be right behind. Got any questions?"

You shook your head quickly, instinctively shifting closer to her as the elevator creaked again, your breath catching.

"We’re not falling," Natasha murmured, her hoarse voice wrapping around your ears. "I’ve got you. All I need is for you to wrap your arms around my shoulders. Can you do that?"

The certainty in her tone did something to your spiraling mind.

You scooted closer and circled your arms around her neck. You tried not to wince too much as she carefully slipped one very muscular arm carefully behind your back and the other under your knees before lifting you effortlessly. Like you weightless nothing at all. 

The elevator trembled faintly as she stood, but she adjusted without hesitation, her stance shifting in tiny, precise movements - like balance was something she negotiated with gravity every single day.

You looked at her, suddenly hyper-aware of the proximity. The strength coiled in her arms. The heat of her body through her clothes. The steadiness of her breathing compared to your own chaotic one.

"Oh God-" You choked as the car trembled all around you, your fingertips digging into the fabric of her shirt.

"Shh, it’s okay. I would not be in here with you if it wasn’t secure," she said steadily, her hot breath ghosting your cheek as she turned, bracing her back against one wall and her boot against the other to give herself leverage. "I don’t gamble with old elevators."

You swallowed hard, your eyes flicking nervously around as the walls creaked.

"That probably doesn’t sound as... comforting as you want it to be..."

A soft huff of amusement brushed your ear, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine, the hair at the back of your neck raising in consequence.

"Okay, then I don’t gamble with pretty girls I’m rescuing," she corrected, chuckling faintly at the openly shocked look you gave her. "Alright," she added, like she had not just short-circuited your brain entirely, again. "It might feel like it’s moving like crazy, okay?"

"Okay..." You grumbled weakly, not liking her last words very much.

"Clint!" She called upward, her voice snapping back into command. "I’ve got her, we’re moving."

A man’s face appeared at the gap, giving you both a quick thumbs-up.

"Copy that."

"On three..." She murmured to you, but mostly to herself. 

And then she was moving. Natasha bent slightly, grounding her stance - then pushed upward with controlled, explosive strength.

You cried out - not from pain, but from the sudden motion of everything. And then hands grabbed you under the arms.

"You’re good." The man, Clint, reassured you as he hauled you onto the hallway floor.

The second you were clear of the elevator, your body sagged in relief. The carpet felt like heaven beneath your palms.

You twisted immediately, panic snapping back just as fast.

"Natas-"

The elevator shifted again just as she grabbed the frame to pull herself up.

There was a loud, ugly snap from somewhere above. You froze, lips parting. Everything inside you went cold.

Natasha did not panic, she surged upward in one fluid movement, boots scraping harshly against the metal as she hauled herself through the gap.

The elevator dropped five inches the moment her weight cleared it.

A collective gasp rippled from both you and Clint. You stared at the open shaft, your heart pounding violently in your chest.

A second later, Natasha rolled onto her back beside you, her breathing heavier now, not uncontrolled, but very real as she took off her helmet. For the first time, you could actually see the adrenaline in her eyes.

Clint let out a low whistle, patting her shoulder as he helped her out of the harness. 

Natasha pushed herself up, completely ignoring him, her eyes already on you.

"You okay?"

You nodded numbly before a sudden, illogical anger spread through your veins.

"You said it wouldn’t do that!" You exclaimed, smacking her arm.

Her eyebrow lifted, surprise flickering briefly across her face - ignoring Clint’s snort behind her as he walked away.

"Actually," Natasha replied, far too calm for your liking. "I said it would not collapse with you in it, not that it would not move at all..." She said, lips threatening to pull into a smirk that she forced herself to contain - like she knew exactly how close she was to getting hit again.

"Oh my God." You groaned into your hands, dragging your hands over your face, fingers pressing hard into your hairline.

But the second you felt your throat closing in again, something in you shattered completely. And then, before you realized it, you were shaking uncontrollably. The adrenaline you had been running on for what felt like hours disappeared from your system all at once, leaving nothing behind to hold you together.

Your hands started shaking, then your arms, then everything.

Natasha was immediately on her knees in front of you, tugging off her gloves as she reached for your forearms.

"Hey-hey. Stay with me."

You could not stop crying.

You tried to speak, you really did, but nothing came out except broken gasps that refused to form words.

Her warm hands closed around your wrists, warm and firm, her thumbs pressing gently but insistently against your pulse points.

"Breathe with me," she instructed gently. "In."

You tried. Failed a few times, but she did not lose patience. She shifted closer, close enough that you could feel the heat of her, close enough that her presence alone started to anchor you, almost close enough to press her forehead lightly to yours.

"Come on, I know you can do it. In," she repeated before taking a slow, deliberate breath - deep enough that you could see it, feel it. "And out."

Your body followed the rhythm instinctively before your mind could catch up.

In.

Out.

In-

Out...

The world slowly stopped spinning quite so violently. The noise faded. The impossible tightness in your chest loosened just enough for air to finally, generously reach your lungs.

And suddenly you were made very aware that you were half in her lap. Very aware that your hands were fisted in the front of her shirt.

"I-I really thought I was going to die..." You whispered, voice hoarse and fragile.

Her thumbs brushed under your eyes, wiping away tears and smeared mascara.

"Well, clearly you didn’t." She said quietly.

Your laugh came out wet and shaky. 

"That’s... that’s because you’re apparently made of steel."

One corner of her mouth lifted.

"Sometimes I wish."

You huffed something that might have been a watery chuckle.

Your face crumpled again as the last of the adrenaline drained out of you, leaving you raw and exposed. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed your face into her shoulder, your arms wrapping around her.

You felt Natasha freeze for half a second before her arms came around you as well. Firm and protective.

"It’s alright. I’ve got you." She repeated softly.

You were still trembling, a faint tremor running through your body. If you had not been so close perhaps she would not have even noticed it. But she was close and she did notice.

"It’s over now. You’re safe." She murmured, shifting a little closer on her knees. Slowly, hesitantly, one of her hands came up to rest against the back of your head.

You pulled back once your brain caught up with the realization of just how close you suddenly were, your entire face heating up with embarrassment. 

"Sorry-I just, you saved-"

"No, no," she said quietly, shaking her head. "It’s okay. Really. I get it."

There was an awkward pause before you realized her hand was still on you. She seemed to realize it too as she withdrew, clearing her throat slightly.

"I’m... I should probably check your ankle?"

You nodded, wiping at your face in a completely useless attempt to fix or even hide the damage.

"Sorry," you muttered. "I’m not usually this... dramatic?"

A corner of her mouth twitched as she shot you a knowing look. 

"You weren’t. But even if you were, you were trapped in a failing elevator. So... I think you’re allowed," she replied, shifting to your extended leg. "I always preferred stairs, you know."

Her hands were surprisingly gentle as she examined your ankle. You hissed when she pressed along the outer bone.

"Yeah," she murmured. "That’s tender."

Her thumb brushed lightly over the area before she leaned back.

"Looks like a sprain. Maybe a mild one. You’re lucky." 

Lucky.

You almost laughed in disbelief again.

Natasha glanced toward the stairwell where two more firefighters were coordinating with the building manager.

"Medics are downstairs," Clint called over. "Stairwells all clear."

Natasha looked back at you, assessing as she pursed her lips.

"Alright," she said, decisive again. "You’re not putting weight on that."

You blinked. 

"I can hop-"

"Nope."

Before you could argue further, she slid one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees again, lifting you as if you weighed nothing at all just like she previously did.

Another startled sound left you, hands instinctively flying to her shoulders. 

"Natasha-"

"Relax..." She said smoothly, adjusting you against her chest. 

"You don’t have to carry me all the way," you muttered, acutely aware of how solid she felt under your hands. And how steady she was. Which was a very welcomed thing after the situation you experienced. "I can... hobble... or something."

She snorted softly as she began the descent.

"Well, I think you already had your elevator moment. Let’s not add 'faceplanting down the stairs' to today’s crazy résumé."

Your lips parted in offended disbelief. 

"Yeah," she said dryly. "You’ve done enough dramatic for one afternoon."

You actually gasped this time. 

"Excuse me-"

"The screaming?"

"I was falling!"

"You dropped an inch."

"An inch is a lot when you think you’re about to die!"

That earned you a low, amused hum, deep enough that you felt it vibrate through her chest where you were pressed against her.

God. This was unfair.

She took the steps steadily, controlled, one at a time. Her grip never faltered, not even slightly - which was also very much unfair. You looked up at her face, catching her eyes flickering over yours before lingering. There was a beat where you hesitated, eyebrows furrowing slightly at the seemingly amused look on her face, your cheeks warming up under the attention.

"...What?" You asked warily, narrowing your eyes slightly.

There was a pause, followed by a flicker of mischief in her green eyes.

"Nothing."

"Natasha."

She exhaled slowly through her nose, like she was actively trying not to laugh.

"You look like a raccoon."

You stared at her, blinking in confusion.

"I-what...?"

She nodded solemnly, tipping her chin toward your face. 

"Mascara situation. It’s... everywhere, very feral, very committed."

You stared at her, scandalized.

"I almost died and you’re bullying me?"

"I’m not bullying you," she replied gravely, adjusting you slightly higher in her arms. "I’m appreciating the aesthetic. You fully committed to the smoky eye look."

A choked sound escaped you, half laugh, half disbelief, as you tried to glare at her. Your lips betrayed you first, twitching at the corners despite your best effort.

She caught it instantly.

"There it is..." She murmured.

"I hate you." You muttered, though your voice wobbled with a laugh.

"Kinda doubt that."

You could not help but smile at her, shaking your head before awkwardly wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks.

"Better," she said quietly. "That’s better."

You rolled your eyes, though there was no heat behind the action. 

"You’re unbelievable."

"Meh, I’ve been called worse."

The stairwell echoed with distant voices and the steady rhythm of boots on concrete, but in the space between you, everything felt... quieter. You bit down your lip, really wishing you were not imagining things.

Now that the panic had ebbed, you found yourself studying her properly.

Freckles scattered beneath a sheen of sweat. A faint cut near her brow. Green eyes that had locked onto yours like you mattered the second those devilish doors opened.

"Am I heavy?" You asked suddenly.

 Natasha scoffed, giving your face a clear once over.

"I lift people twice your size in full gear."

"Oh," you said, pretending to consider her words. "So I’m light like... what? A backpack?"

She tilted her head slightly, as if genuinely thinking it through.

"Mhm... More like an angry kitten."

You gasped, smacking her shoulder. 

"Raccoon and kitten? Pick a species, Natasha."

"Raccoon aesthetic," she corrected smoothly. "Kitten attitude."

You were fully smiling now.

It felt strange - how easily she could pull you out of that spiral without even really knowing you. Like she had simply decided fear did not get to win today.

She reached the final flight, the soft afternoon light filtering up faintly from the lobby below. Sirens flashing through the glass doors.

You hesitate, talking yourself out of saying what you wanted to, but when will you ever get the chance to if not now?

"Alright, I have to ask... Do I at least look like a cute raccoon?" You asked quietly after a full minute of convincing yourself to finally get the words out.

Natasha did not hesitate, her lips offering you a charming smile.

"Oh, the cutest I’ve ever rescued, for sure."

Your stomach flipped in a way that did not resemble anything you experienced in the elevators.

The lobby doors burst open as you finally stepped out into the open air. The cool breeze hit your face and you inhaled sharply - you had not realized how badly you needed that until your lungs filled with it. It was perhaps the first full breath that did not feel like borrowed oxygen.

Paramedics hurried forward with a stretcher, voices overlapping as they approached. But Natasha did not set you down immediately.

"Possible ankle sprain. No loss of consciousness. Minor shock." She reported, her tone shifting seamlessly back to professional as her eyes flicked to one of the medics who nodded at her.

"We’ll take it from here."

You tightened your grip on Natasha for half a second longer than necessary. She looked down at you again, something unreadable flickering in her expression now that the urgency was over. She crouched, lowering you carefully onto the stretcher, hands lingering at your waist just long enough to make your pulse jump.

The sudden loss of contact felt... noticeable.

She stepped back as the medics started examining your ankle, asking questions.

You answered automatically but your attention never really left her, your eyes neither.

Natasha ran a hand through her slightly disheveled red hair, pushing it back from her face as the wind picked up. The adrenaline was still humming under her skin, you could see it in the way her jaw was set too tight, her fingers almost buzzing with restless energy. But she was already shifting back into that composed, controlled version of herself. She spoke briefly with Clint, answering a question from someone else. And suddenly, the thought of her just... walking away felt unbearable. And unfair.

"Natasha?"

She turned immediately at your voice, brows lifting.

You swallowed, heart hammering for an entirely different reason now.

"Yeah?"

Your throat felt tight again, but not from fear.

"Thank you. Truly," the words were simple, too small compared to what she had done, but you meant them with everything in you. "Thank you for saving my life."

Her teasing edge from earlier left her completely.

For a moment, she did not look like the confident firefighter who had climbed into a failing elevator without hesitation. She just looked like a woman who had been very, very scared of being too late.

"You’re welcome, just... doing my job." She said quietly, smiling at you as she reached for your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Your heart did that stupid thing again.

One of the medics cleared her throat nearby, smiling sheepishly as she interrupted the... moment. 

"We’re going to transport her for X-rays."

Natasha nodded absently, not pulling her hand away until she absolutely had to, her eyes staying on yours.

"You’ll be okay?" She asked.

You hesitated, biting down your lips. Then, before you could overthink it-

"...Will you visit the hospital raccoon?"

Her mouth curved slowly, something warm and amused - and dare you say even relief - settling into her expression.

"I’ll make sure to bring waterproof mascara recommendations."

You scoffed, swatting her hand away playfully. She winked at you, watching as the stretcher you were on reached the ambulance doors.

"You’re safe now." She whispered, winking at you.

And the way she had said it, certain like a promise made you unable to not smile back. You believed her completely.

Hope you enjoyed this silly fic!🤭 Actually working on a longer fic right now but I had this idea for a while so here it is!! See you - hopefully - soon :))

The coffee shop doors open with a chime. The barista taking orders looks up immediately, but the one behind her remains unfazed, focused on the espresso machine. Natasha enters, baseball cap pulled down enough to cover her eyes, a mask covering the bottom half of her face. She’s greeted with a smile at the front, while the second barista continues their steady rhythm of making drinks.

The aroma of coffee beans fill the shop. The hints of earthiness and cocoa notes fill the air, bringing a sense of warmth and comfort. Light wooden tables with matching chairs are occupied by customers, whose chatter settles in the background acting as a backtrack. Sunlight streams through the windows that go from floor to ceiling. The sunlight stretches across the floor where it naturally brings her eyes to the white marble counter where the barista who greeted her stands, taking orders and writing them on cups or stickers for the mugs for those staying in the shop to drink their coffee.

Natasha walks to stand at the back of the line, carefully deciphering the chalkboard resting behind both baristas even though she knows she’ll get a black coffee in the end. The chalkboard is haphazardly written but somehow charming—just barely readable. Doodles span across the margins, including a hand-drawn loaf of bread with eyes, declaring: ‘Look out day. Bready or not, here I crumb!’

The line moves forward steadily until she’s standing at the marble counter.

“Hi there! What can I get for you today?” the barista at the register asks with a bright smile and voice to match. Natasha's eyes drop to the name tag pinned to the light brown apron.

Meg, she notes.

“Just a small black coffee to-go, please,” Natasha requests politely. She reaches for her credit card as Meg taps the order into the system.

“Of course! May I get a name for that?” Meg asks. 

“Natalie,” she responds smoothly

Meg scribbles the name and order on a white paper cup with a marker before placing it behind her. The second barista reaches for it with a fluid motion, before glancing at the order.

“You’re all set,” Meg says while pointing to the end of the counter where a small group waits. “The drink will be at the end when it’s ready. We put them in alphabetical order so there’s no confusion.” 

“Thank you.” 

Natasha walks to the end before looking around the space again. The shop is full of the sounds of low conversations and clinking of mugs. Her attention is drawn by the barista behind the espresso machine.

The barista is moving with a rhythm that is almost hypnotic. A stray beam of light glints off the name tag pinned to the apron, catching her eye.

Y/N, mouths Natasha beneath her mask. Your name rolls off her tongue, melodic and smooth—just like your movements. You grab a pitcher with practiced motion, pouring milk into it before bringing it to the steam wand. You stare intently at the heating liquid, tucked away in a world of your own.

Your black shirt and blue jeans compliment the warm brown of the apron. She can barely make out the side of your face where your hair falls forward, just your eye staring intently at the pitcher. You pour the espresso into a mug before pulling the pitcher of steamed milk off the steam wand, wiping the metal clean with a swipe.

Maybe a trainee? Natasha wonders, watching how focused you are on the milk. The intensity seems a bit much for a simple latte.

But the thought vanishes the moment you tilt the mug. 

She watches, mesmerized, as you pour the steamed milk in a hypnotic pattern. With a delicate flick of your wrist, the milk melds with the espresso—the foam transforming into a perfect, delicate swan.

Definitely not a trainee. 

You carefully slide the finished mug into the section labeled “A-F,” before pressing the order sticker next to it and tapping the call bell. 

A man steps up, reads the sticker, before claiming the mug. Natasha watches from her spot at the end of the counter, noticing him scanning the area for something. He looks up at you, but you’ve already turned away, starting the next drink.

“Can you sprinkle some cinnamon on top?” the man directs towards you.

It’s as if he hasn’t said a word. You continue your task, slowly pouring hot water over a fresh bed of medium roast grounds. She can see the beginnings of her own name—Natalie—on the side of the cup that is beneath the filter holder.

“Hello?” The man’s voice rises as he waves his hand choppily next to your face. 

You jolt, the stream of hot water breaking. Droplets of scalding water skip across the white marble, narrowly missing your arm. Natasha’s hand tightens on the strap of her bag, her eyes narrowing at the man. Meg’s eyes flick toward your sudden movement.

“One moment,” Meg says to the customer at the front. She takes quick strides toward the end of the counter. “What can I help you with?”

“I need some cinnamon on top,” he says, gesturing to the mug frustratedly, his eyes casting towards you with impatience. 

Natasha’s jaw clenches, tension growing. Meg offers him a smile but Natasha notices it looks tighter than the one she received when she ordered earlier.

“I’m happy to do that for you. Though, next time just ask at the front when you’re ordering, it’ll be done for you so you don’t have to ask here.” 

Meg moves into your line of sight, her shadow stretching on the counter beside you. She grabs the cinnamon duster in front of you, bumping her hip against yours with a playful nudge. You offer her a small, grateful smile before turning back to the pour-over—the light catching the conflicted expression slowly settling over your features.

Meg sprinkles a hefty amount of cinnamon over the foam before pushing it towards him.

“Have a great rest of your day,” Meg says. Her voice is flat, the customer-service tone gone, and her smile not even attempting to reach her eyes. She turns away before he can even respond. 

The man casts one last glance at you—noticing how you don’t even bother looking up again, before he turns away with a huff.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. He makes sure it’s loud enough for you to hear, but your focus never wavers from the pour-over in front of you. You don’t even blink.

She watches as you click the lid into place on her drink. You take a slow, deep breath—as if resetting, before turning toward the end counter. You tap the call bell, the metallic sound echoing throughout the shop, and place the cup gently in the “N-Z” section.

Natasha approaches the counter to claim it. As she reaches for it, your eyes drift to hers in acknowledgment. You give her a radiant smile. The corners of your eyes crinkle and the curve of your lips show nothing but warmth. It’s as if you’re thanking her without a single word, a silent hope that she enjoys the coffee.

Her hand pauses mid-air. She feels like she’s stunlocked from the brightness of your smile after the tension with the man before. You give her one last fleeting smile before giving her a nod and turning back to the espresso machine, picking up the next cup.

Natasha snaps out of it, her fingers curling around the cup sleeve. “Thank you,” she says, voice slightly muffled behind her mask.

Your hands never miss a beat, already pumping syrup into a new white cup and unscrewing the cap of a milk jug. You don’t acknowledge her thanks. You don’t even flinch.

She frowns, the paper cup feeling heavy in her hands. Maybe she didn’t speak loud enough.

“Thank you,” she says again, her voice louder, projecting through the mask.

You continue pouring the milk into a fresh pitcher, while an espresso shot pulls in front of you, a soft smile playing on your lips as you watch the components of the mocha latte come together.

She sighs, a flicker of disappointment in her chest when you don’t look her way. She takes one more glance at you, before she goes. You look serene—unbothered by the honking cars outside and booming laughter in the corner of the shop. Like you’re living in your own quiet world.

No point in bothering her, she thinks, fingers tightening around her cup as she turns away and walks out the door. 

The cold Manhattan air wraps around her, but the warmth in her hand keeps the chill from permeating. She pauses, looking back one last time. She can only see your back through the glass of the door, the elegance of your movements is visible even from the sidewalk.

It feels like she’s looking from the outside into your world. Yet she knows that even if she were to enter the shop again, she’d still be an outsider.

What does the world look like to you? she wonders, the thought lingering as she finally turns to walk back toward the Tower. — Natasha’s hands burn in the biting cold, until they’re numb. Snow swirls around her boots and drifts into her red hair before slowly melting, dampening her strands. Her cheeks are flushed a raw, wind-burned pink, her skin feeling rigid and freezing as she felt about herself. 

Cold.

She had just returned from a two week long mission. Bruises that were beginning to purple cover the expanse of her torso, where she had taken a brutal fall that she didn’t have time to break. A square of medical tape plasters her right cheek, where a piece of glass had cut her skin.

She was forced to go to the med bay, where she was brought face to face with the very person she was running away from. Bruce. Seeing him was a constant reminder of what was broken about her—of why she’d never be accepted for who she was.

She needed to get away. From the Tower. From him. From the team, who looked at her with barely hidden pity at how her and Bruce had turned out. She needed to be somewhere where she wasn’t expected to speak. Somewhere she didn't need to explain herself.

The golden light from the coffee shop door spills across the snow-covered sidewalk. The sun had set an hour prior, the early winter stealing the light before the day was truly done. Winter was here in full force, and on the sidewalk, where the only other light comes from distant lampposts, the warmth of the shop feels like a welcome sign.

The snow crunches beneath her boots as she walks closer, pausing right in front of the glass. The air is still biting, but at the sight of your back—still focused, still moving with unexplainable grace—she feels the first bit of warmth since she landed.

Constant.

She pulls the handle to the door, the bells chime muffled from the warm air rushing to greet her. It’s a slow night with only two tables occupied, the threat of piling snow keeping most people at home. Her hands begin to hurt from the heat rushing back into them. The pain is a distant reminder that she can feel.

The hanging lights cast a warm glow over the shop. She glances up at the chalkboard, the doodles had been changed. A cookie with bulging muscles proclaims: 'You’re a tough cookie.' A small, involuntary smile tugs at her lips, the movement stinging against the cut on her cheek.

She walks up to the marble counter, noting that Meg was nowhere to be seen. You’re alone.

A hand-written sign taped to the marble catches her eye, the messy handwriting reading, “Give me a wave to order.” An ocean wave with sunglasses is doodled next to it.

She waits until you finish the drink you’re working on, seeing that there are none after. She slowly reaches out her hand before giving a hesitant wave in your peripheral vision.

You turn towards her, a warm smile already gracing your lips. The biting cold feels distant standing here in front of you. You tilt your head at her.

“Hi,” she says, voice sounding small. “Can I get a…latte? For here.”

 Her voice falters towards the end. Her usual “Black coffee, to-go” script veers completely off course. She doesn’t want to leave yet. She wants to bask in the warmth and stillness she’s found here even if it’s just for a little.

You nod, tapping her order into the register. You grab a sticker, scribbling her order before finishing with her name—Natalie.

“You remember me?” she asks, the words slipping out before she can stop them.

It had been two weeks since she’d last been here, she’d worn a mask and a baseball hat that barely showed her eyes. She’d gone out of her way to be just another face in the crowd.

You nod, giving her a small, confused smile. It’s as if you’re wondering why she would even ask.

She’s still in shock as she taps her card against the card reader. How? She hadn’t done anything worth remembering.

By the time she looks up to see if you’ll explain, you’ve already turned away. A ceramic mug in your hand and a jug of milk in the other.

She’s used to being the one who does the recognizing. Used to being the ghost that no one remembers, but having the burden of remembering everything.

She takes slow steps to the end counter, your practiced movements never falter. The quiet hiss of the milk steaming and the low hum of the espresso machine settle between you two, filling the gap where words usually fill. Your focused gaze on the heating milk is identical to her last visit. Just by sight, you know when it’s done, pulling it off of the steam wand.

After pouring the espresso, you don’t let her watch. Instead, you turn away, blocking her view of the mug. Natasha tries to crane her neck to see, trying to catch a glimpse of the hypnotic movements from the last time, but you’ve built a wall with your shoulders. 

She’s about to say something when you turn around. Carefully placing the cup in front of her. It’s not an intricate swan or a simple leaf. Instead, a perfect smiley face made of foam looks back up at her.

Her fingers curl around the mug, its warmth permeating through her skin. She glances up at you to see a smile—one that matches the cheerful foam, awaiting her.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

She watches as your eyes drop to her lips, tracking the movement of the whisper. Your smile widens, the warm lights making your eyes shine a golden hue. You don’t say a word. Instead, you open your hand, tapping your middle finger to your chin before extending it gracefully toward her. 

Before she can even ask what the gesture meant, you’ve already turned away. Brushing off stray espresso grounds and clearing the steam wand a few times.

She watches as you clean the counter, mesmerized, before Meg appears from the back and snaps her out of her trance. Her hand curls tighter around the mug before she makes her way to a small corner table.

She sips the latte, the foam smiley face slowly fading away with each sip, but she feels lighter with every swallow.

Delicious, she thinks, staring down at her cup. Across the room, she catches the movement of Meg speaking to you. Meg is animated, hands moving constantly as she talks to you as if she’s acting out a story. Natasha is about to look away when she sees you reach up, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear.

Earbuds? she wonders. Maybe that’s why you didn’t hear her the first time. She squints, eyes narrowing to confirm her observation.

She freezes. 

The light catches the sleek curve of the device nestled in your ear. She’s seen it before. A similar model to the one she’s seen on Clint’s nightstand after a loud mission.

They’re hearing aids.

The realization hits her like a wave. The lack of reaction to the door chime, the way you jolted when the man’s hand invaded your space, the ignored thank you. It wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t that you were simply focused on the task at hand. It was just silence.

Beneath the table, she slowly extends her hand, palm up. The image of your gesture earlier replays in her mind. The gentle way your finger tapped your chin and the soft extension of your hand toward her. She copies your motion, not being able to replicate the gracefulness in which you moved. Her hand feels heavy in comparison to yours.

Her eyes drift to you again, where you’re smiling and nodding at what Meg is saying. Your gaze darts between Meg’s lips and her eyes. Your eyes are bright and comfortable. The kind of expression you only share with someone you trust.

Your expressions tell a million stories that words could never begin to explain. You aren’t broken by the silence. 

How? 

Ever since meeting Clint, joining S.H.I.E.L.D, then the Avengers, she’s spent every waking moment running away from the quiet. Silence is dangerous—the memories of the things she’s done wait there, jumping at the chance to drag her back down. It’s where she’s forced to face herself.

She watches as you tilt your head, your lips curved into a small, soft smile as you look at Meg.

She finishes the last sip of her latte before standing up. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sharp sound echoes throughout the shop. Meg turns to her immediately. It takes a moment longer for you to react, following Meg’s gaze.

Natasha walks to the bin, carefully placing her mug on the rack before turning towards the counter.

“Have a great rest of your night!” Meg calls to her, her voice bright even after a long shift.

Natasha offers her a quick smile, already starting to turn away when she sees you raising your hand.

You wave at her before bringing both your index fingers to the corners of your mouth. You lift them into a smile, mirroring the latte art you’d made earlier.

A genuine, uncontrollable smile takes over her features. The cut on her cheek doesn’t sting anymore. The cold she felt within her no longer resides. She doesn’t feel apprehensive about returning to the tower.

Natasha waves back at you before bidding Meg a goodnight.

She walks onto the sidewalk, the biting Manhattan air stopping just at the surface of her skin. She turns back one last time. Your back is turned, disassembling the espresso machine for the night.

She turns in the direction of the tower, beginning the journey back with light steps.

I want to know your world. — Natasha pushes the door open to her room. The common room had been empty when she arrived—Tony and Bruce were probably in the lab, and Steve was either in the gym or turned in for the night. Clint, the one person she needed to talk to the most, was still on a mission with no clear end date.

Part of her felt relief. It meant she wouldn’t have to explain the recklessness of her injuries or why she didn’t greet the team when she returned. 

She sheds her outwear, hanging it up. Every motion tugs at the blossoming bruises surrounding her ribs, forcing a wince. She sinks into the chair at her desk, leaning back and closing her eyes. The passing image of your smile clouds her thoughts.

She shakes her head, flipping open her laptop to start her mission report. The blank report stares back at her, waiting to be filled out, but a flash of the gesture you had given her at the counter steals her attention.

Her fingers hover over the keys. Instead of inputting the first steps of her mission, she clicks on a search engine.

What does it mean in sign language when someone taps a flat hand to their chin before extending it towards another person?

The answer appears in front of her instantly. Thank you. Or: You’re welcome in response to a thanks. 

It wasn’t just a random hand motion. You were acknowledging her in the only way you could. The realization settles in her chest—you had “heard” her whisper, not with your ears, but by watching the movement of her lips with focused, deliberate care.

You had seen through her facade of indifference. You hadn’t pitied the wound on her face or the exhaustion in her eyes. To you, she was just Natalie. A returning customer who looked like she could use a smile.

Natasha raises her own hands, bringing her index fingers to each corner of her mouth, pulling them up into a mimicry of your smile as she had left. She removes them, realizing a genuine smile had taken its place

She wants to bask in it—a warmth that doesn’t burn. A heat that melts the ice within her without scorching her as a whole.

She deletes the previous search from the bar. The mission report is long forgotten. She types a new question.

How do you learn sign language? — Natasha walks slowly across the sidewalk that is piled with fresh snow that has accumulated overnight. The snow illuminates the streets, giving a natural light in the otherwise darkness. 

Her hands are buried deep in her pockets, but they’re far from idle. Even as her fingers ache in the freezing temperatures, she wills them to move, clumsily copying the motions she had studied on her laptop screen until 4 AM. Flat hand. Near forehead. Palm facing outward. Extend hand away. Like a salute—a soldier’s movement. Should be simple. 

The sign, designed to be a beginner’s gesture, feels anything but that. The woman in the video made it look fluid and natural, but when Natasha had tried to replicate it in the mirror, it was like her hand was made of lead. The movement was choppy, a stark contrast to her usual lethal grace.

She catches sight of the coffee shop door, the glowing warm lights shining through the glass. Every step closer sends a jolt through her chest, her heart rate picking up with nervousness that she hasn’t felt in a long time.

Through the glass, she sees you restocking cups and lids. The shop is empty, the late-night quiet settling over the shop with an hour left before closing. Her hand shakes as she settles it on the handle, pushing through her nerves as she opens the door, the familiar chime of the bell signaling her arrival.

The visit feels identical from the last two except for one thing. Your back isn’t turned away. You’re already looking at her, eyes meeting hers the moment she steps inside.

She watches as you put a sleeve of paper cups down, walking to the register. You’re already grabbing a sticker, writing her name on top before looking up to give her a gorgeous smile. She can see the tiredness in your eyes—but even so, you’re radiant. The warm glow of the lights feel brighter with every expression you make.

Her breath catches, her thoughts momentarily freezing as she gazes back at you. You tilt your head to the side, a silent, curious question in the way you watch her.

“Double shot vanilla latte for here, please,” she says, the words falling out of her mouth before she can stop herself.

You nod, tapping the order into the register before popping the cap off a marker to write the details on the sticker.

She mentally facepalms, the weight of disappointment at the missed opportunity sinking into her chest. She had missed it. The chance to sign a simple Hello to you. The very sign she’d been practicing all day for this moment.

She taps her card against the tablet as you turn away to start the drink. Her feet feel heavy as she makes her way to the end of the marble counter.

You’re grinding the espresso beans when you suddenly turn to her. She meets your eyes as you lift one of your index fingers, hovering it over the corner of your mouth before pulling it up, mimicking a half-smile. 

You had noticed. Even through the practiced mask she wears to protect herself, you had seen right through her.

You turn back to the coffee grinder as if it were nothing, tamping the espresso grounds with a fluid motion. Even with the currency of time always depleting, you had chosen to spend some of yours on her. She feels warmth bloom inside her, melting the disappointment she felt earlier. 

She watches, mesmerized, as you assemble the latte. The pump of the syrup, the hiss of the steam wand, the rich, smooth pull of the espresso shots. She wonders if you’ll make it a surprise again tonight. Her thoughts are answered when you bring the steaming pitcher and the ceramic mug over to the marble counter, right where she can see.

You glance up at her, a playful smile on your lips, before tilting the mug. She expects the same, hypnotic movements that she’s seen before, but this time, the pour is simple. A plain white circle of foam sits atop the mixture of espresso and milk.

She quickly looks at you when you make no other moves, trying—and failing—to hide her surprise and slight pang of disappointment at the lack of art. It’s as if you can read the “Where’s my swan or leaf?” written across her face, your smile turning into a wide grin. You grab a toothpick, dragging it through the top two sides of the circle. You turn, grabbing a pinch of cocoa powder, dotting on what appears to be eyes, before rotating the mug toward her.

It’s a cat. One with lopsided ears and one eye slightly larger than the other. It stares up at her with a clumsy sort of charm.

Natasha looks up, her eyes finally breaking away from the lopsided cat to meet yours. A smirk crosses over her features, her voice dropping into a teasing lilt. “I guess you’re not perfect at everything.”

You gasp, mouth dropping open in a feigned look of insult. You can barely hold the expression long enough before morphing into a silent laugh.

Natasha has to catch her breath, forcing herself not to stare at you in awe. She watches the way your shoulders shake, the way your eyes crinkle in the corners, and the genuine joy you exude. You look adorable. It’s a word she doesn’t use often, but there’s no other way to describe the sight.

You turn away, walking back to the register, and her heart drops. The interaction had lasted a few minutes, but to her, it felt like seconds.

Her thoughts are beginning to spiral, wondering what she could’ve done or said for you to continue the interaction, when you return. You’re holding a scrap of sticker paper. You scribble something quickly before sliding the paper across the marble to her. 

She looks down, recognizing the messy handwriting from the one on the chalkboard. 

Nobody’s perfect - H.M.

She stares at the slip of paper in disbelief, the emotional whiplash hitting her with full-force. 

“Hannah Montana?” she asks, her voice a mix of incredulity and confusion.

You nod, giving her that same adorable, soundless laugh that makes her breath catch. You gesture to the mug, your eyes urging her to have a sip.

She brings the edge of the ceramic to her lips, the scent of vanilla and rich espresso enticing her. She takes a slow sip, savoring the velvety warmth of the liquid.

“Delicious,” she whispers in awe before taking another sip.

You smile at her proudly before turning to clear your workspace. She glances down at her watch, realizing she’s probably stopping you from doing your closing tasks.

She waves her hand gently near you, catching your attention once more.

“I’m sorry, can I transfer this to a paper cup? It’s gotten late and I don’t want to hold you up.”

You give her an appreciative look before grabbing the mug and transferring it. You hand it to her before sliding the scrap of paper from earlier back to you. You scribble something down before sliding it back to her.

Her eyes track the newly added line.

See you again!

She peers up, a smile tugging at her lips. “See you,” she breathes out quietly. She lifts her hand hesitantly, trying to remember the gesture you had given her the day prior.

Her open hand moves rigidly to her chin, her fingers tapping it, before heavily dropping down and extending it to you.

Your eyes widen for a fraction of a second before offering a small, genuine smile.

You repeat the action back to her, though yours is filled with grace and an ease in your movements. You’re welcome.

She gives you one last fleeting smile before grabbing the paper cup along with the scrap of paper. 

She passes the trash can on her way to the door, the logical side of her telling her to toss the note into the bin since there’s no further use for it. It’s a messy scribble with a pop-culture joke. There’s no tactical use for this.

But her fingers won’t loosen their grip. She wants to remember this—the lopsided cat, the silent laughter, the look of surprise on your face.

She pushes through the door, the chime of the bell echoing through the shop that is now truly quiet. Outside, her footsteps from earlier have already been covered by a fresh wave of powdery snow. She takes her first step, breaking the untainted white canvas.

The sound of crunching snow echoes through the street. The moon reflects off the peaks of the snow while the cold air bites at her skin. Everything is the same as when she first arrived, yet she feels different. 

She clutches the paper deep in her pocket, thumb rubbing grazing your handwriting, already thinking about when she’d be able to see you again. — The elevator doors slide open, revealing the dim, luxurious common room. Natasha can hear the low drone of the TV playing quietly. She keeps her steps light, trying to pass by without being noticed.

A head pops up over the back of the couch, messy hair catching the light of the TV.

“You’re back late,” Clint notes, his voice rough with exhaustion.

She freezes for a fraction of a second before her composure snaps back into place. “So are you, apparently,” she responds, her voice level.

“Just got back from a mission. Turned into a simple recon.” He sits up, shifting so he can observe her properly. “Out late with a secret boyfriend?” he asks, a teasing lilt clear in his voice.

She rolls her eyes—a gesture she reserves almost exclusively for him and Tony. “No, Clint, I just had some stuff to do,” she says, her tone dismissive.

He points a finger to her hand. “Things that require a vanilla-scented latte past evening? Also, since when do you do sweet? Double also—” his eyes narrow, tracking the way her other hand hasn’t moved from its position, “—what’s in your pocket?”  

 “Sometimes I like something a little sweet,” she responds, her annoyance flaring to sound convincing. “And there’s nothing in my pocket. My hands are just cold. It’s snowing outside, in case you didn’t notice.”

She pauses, the edge of the note in her pocket brushing against her fingers. She meets his eyes. “You know American Sign Language (ASL) right?”

“I mean, yeah,” he says while gesturing towards his hearing aids. “It would be a pretty big disservice to the deaf community if I didn’t. Why?”

“Teach me,” she says. It’s not a request. Her gaze is unwavering.

“What?” he asks, brow furrowing in disbelief. “Tasha, you already know enough. Between the military signs and the tactical handspeak we use in the field, you’re practically fluent”

“Not those,” she says, her impatience slipping through. “I mean…for a conversation. Real words. Not just target on your right or breach on five.”

He squints at her, head tilting. “Why on Earth would you need to know that? Need to ask someone how their day is?”

“Forget it,” she snaps, turning on her heel and heading to the hallway.

“So, it’s a deaf secret boyfriend?” he yells after her, his grin audible. “I know you admire me but there’s a lot of fish in the sea!”

She can still hear his boisterous, annoying laughter echoing down the hallway as she closes her door shut.

She leans her back against the door, the cool wood a stark contrast to the warmth still present. She finishes the rest of her-now cold latte, savoring the sweetness of the vanilla before walking over to the trash. She hesitates for a moment before dropping the paper cup inside, but keeping the note firmly in her hand.

She smooths out one of the corners that had bent in her pocket, her thumb tracing over your charming handwriting. She reads it over a few times. Just two lines, but she can still picture the focused look in your eyes as you wrote them.

She looks around her sterile room until her gaze settles on the small wooden box on her dresser. It’s where she keeps her jewelry she rarely wears—necklaces and rings that serve as disguises more than pieces she adorns herself with willingly. She pulls the drawer open, tossing the gold and silver aside without care. They feel cold and meaningless compared to the piece of paper in her hand.

Carefully, she places the note down against the red velvet. It looks out of place. A piece of paper in a box meant to hold priceless jewelry. Somehow, in her eyes, it fits perfectly. She closes the drawer, finding herself wondering how many notes it would take to fill the box. — Natasha wakes to a room flooded with a translucent glow. For the first time in months, she had slept through the night. Usually needing a mission that pushed her to her absolute limit to have a full night’s rest. She stretches her arms above her head, the tension in her shoulders easing, before standing to pull back the curtains.

Below, the city has transformed into a winter wonderland. Cars struggle through the heavy accumulation of snow, tires spinning in place futilely. Snow flurries drift through the grey sky, landing freely wherever the wind takes them. The city feels quiet, the usual bustle muffled by the heavy snow blanketing every surface.

She moves through her routine, changing into a pair of leggings and a hoodie for her workout. She pulls open her bedroom door, stopping when she sees an object resting in front of her living space door.

It’s a book—a hefty, thick one that looks untouched. She leans down, fingers brushing the spine as she picks it up carefully. American Sign Language for Beginners. 

She flips open the front cover, finding a purple sticky note stuck to the first page:

I don’t know why you suddenly have an interest in learning ASL, but here’s a guidebook for idiots like you. -Clint (aka your favorite friend)

A small, endearing smile tugs at her features as she looks down at the sticky note. She can feel the weight of the book, heavy and solid in her hands. It would be a commitment, a steep learning curve, and even then, this would just be the beginning. 

She flips to the first chapter: Introductions.

An image of the steps to say Hello appear in front of her, identical to the ones she had studied in the videos. The very sign she had let slip through her fingers at the counter. Her fingertips trace the picture, following the lines of the printed hand before dragging them down the edge of the book, feeling the texture of every single page as she skims them. She taps her finger against them in quiet contemplation.

Slowly, she reaches her hand up. She follows the steps displayed, her movements still rigid, still lacking feeling. Even so, her decision had been made. — The workout had long since been forgotten. Natasha sits on the hardwood floor of her living space, back pressed against the foot of the couch and the heavy ASL guidebook propped open against her knees. She rubs her eyes that are laden with exhaustion. The room was dimmer than it had been hours ago, though the snow still casts a soft, ghostly glow throughout the room.

She tries, for what feels like the hundredth time, to go through the alphabet without a single mistake. Her hands that are usually so precise seem to have developed a mind of their own.

She constantly keeps mistaking S for T. They are so similar, yet completely different in meaning. Both require a closed fist, but while S demands her thumb to rest directly across her fingers, T requires her to tuck it tightly between her index and middle finger. It’s a slight nuance, but it can mean the difference between spelling tight and sight.

She has mastered a multitude of languages throughout her time as a spy. She can blend into a crowd in Paris, Beijing, or even Berlin without suspicion. Her undercover operations have always benefited from her ability to mimic and adapt. But somehow, sign language isn’t clicking with the same ease. It was one thing to speak a language—it was another entirely to put her words into motion.

She stares at her fist, her thumb flipping between the two positions until her joint aches. In the Red Room, a mistake in form would result in a beating, a sharp, physical reminder that being anything less than perfect was unacceptable. It made any girl who wavered in her posture tense with a deep, systemic fear. 

But here, in the quiet safety of her quarters, the consequences are different. There’s no one to hit her if she misplaces her thumb, but the silence feels heavier.

A mistake here means failing to even catch a glimpse into your world. It means continuing to stand at the other side of the marble counter, watching as you navigate a world of silence and still offer a smile. She doesn’t understand how you can do that. How you can accept the quiet without it destroying you. She doesn’t want to just watch. She wants to be a part of that world.

She looks up at the cream-colored ceiling, the restless motion of her thumb finally stopping. What’s the point?

She hardly knows you. Even calling each other acquaintances would be a stretch. She was just another customer and you, a barista. Your worlds had collided by pure chance. It didn’t have to mean anything. She didn’t need to be sitting here on the floor, making a fool of herself for someone who was probably just being nice. Her fists clench tightly, her nails digging into her palms.

She takes a deep breath. 

But then she remembers the shine in your eyes when you smiled. Your silent, breathless laugh, that she could somehow hear in the way your shoulders moved. Your gentle movements. Your messy but charming handwriting. The smiley face. The lopsided cat. The silly pop-culture joke. The way you looked at her head-on, gently removing her mask without her even realizing.

She breaths out, her fists slowly unclenching as the tension drains from her shoulders. She doesn’t know why yet, but she’s mesmerized by you. And she wants to find out why.

She sighs, looking down at her hand, crescent shaped indents littering her palms. She looks up at the guidebook still resting against her knees. Her hand moves into a fist again, thumb resting on the side of her index finger.

Alright, she thinks, her focus sharpening. Let’s take it from the top.

Starting again from A. — The streets and sidewalks have finally been cleared of the heavy snow that had encapsulated the city. Piles of snow cover the sides of streets while snowmen stand guard in the front of buildings. A week has passed since the storm, and Manhattan was slowly beginning to return to its usual frantic energy.

The cold, grey sidewalks lead Natasha forward, the remaining snow at the edges acting as a pale guide under the dark sky. She’s bundled up this time, having learned her lesson from the past visits. Warm boots, fleece-lined leggings, and a heavy black trenchcoat over a thick sweater. She can see the fog of her breath against the night, pulling her bag closer to her to conserve heat.

The familiar warm glow of the coffee shop seems to shine brighter as she nears. Her hand hovers over the handle, the cold metal grounding her.

She lets out a slow, nervous breath. Just do it like you practiced, she chastises herself, her fingers twitching in her pocket. 

She pushes open the door, the bell chiming with a sound she knows you won’t hear. She looks up from her boots, her eyes scanning the space. There’s only three tables occupied, already seated with their drinks half-finished. And there, behind the marble counter, you stand alone again.

Her eyes are drawn to the chalkboard above you, where a coffee bean with a flirty smile says: ‘I’ve bean thinking about you.’ She recognizes your handwriting, smiling despite herself when she realizes that every doodle she’s seen in the shop has been yours.

She walks up to the marble counter, her heart hammering in a way she can’t suppress.  She notices the same wave sign from two visits ago taped to the counter. She’s mid-way through raising her hand to catch your attention when you turn towards her, meeting her eyes. The shift in your expression is instant—transforming from deep thought to bright recognition.

Before she can second guess herself, she turns the wave into a mock salute. It’s the beginner's greeting from the guidebook and videos. Forcefully etched into her mind after failing to do it the last encounter and the countless hours she’s spent studying the guidebook. 

You tilt your head, eyes widening as the realization: the gesture was intentional. You give her a small, breathtaking smile, raising your own hand to repeat the motion back to her. Where hers was rigid and hesitant, yours is fluid, seamless and practiced.

You’re already reaching for a sticker, writing the first letter of Natalie, when she reaches out. Her fingers cover the back of your hand, stopping you from continuing.

“Um—my name.” She pauses, her cheeks heating up as she quickly releases your hand. She tries to remember the signs for ‘My name is,’ but the guidebook pages slip through her mind like sand. Instead, she says aloud, “My name is actually—”

She raises her hand, her knuckles turning white as she forms a fist, tucking her thumb between her middle and ring fingers. N. 

Her fingers move slowly, her green eyes staring daggers at her hand that is lifted. Every letter feels like a battle she’s struggling through as she tries to recall them, until she reaches the end. She presses her index and middle finger together, pointing them outward to the side—H—before finishing with the oh-too-familiar, A.

Natasha.

You stare at her as the silence in the shop stretches. Her thoughts immediately begin to spiral. Did I just do everything wrong? Did I confuse the S and the T again? I swear I double-checked the—

Her frantic internal monologue is interrupted by the fluid movement of your hand. 

You begin fingerspelling her name back to her—N-A-T-A-S-H-A—your fingers moving much faster and more assured than she did. You tilt your head, your eyes searching hers with a silent, playful question, as if asking: Was that right?

She nods, her eyes fixed on your hands as you resume writing from where she had stopped you, carefully writing her actual name onto the sticker this time. You glance up at the chalkboard menu, a silent prompt for her to order.

“Oh, um. I’ll just get a plain latte this time. For here,” she says, her voice a little breathless as she realizes she’s been standing at the register for a while now.

You tap in her order, a small smile playing on your lips. You turn towards the espresso machine the moment she pulls out her card, ceramic mug already in hand. She quickly taps her card against the tablet before rushing to the end counter to watch you work. 

The milk is already steaming and an espresso shot is pulling in front of you. It feels like a mirror of the previous time when you bring the mug and steaming pitcher over, placing them right where she can see. But this time, you have the espresso shot glass next to you, a dark amber residue remaining at the bottom.

You tilt the mug, pouring the milk in a slow, steady stream until a perfect white circle of foam rests atop the dark liquid.

A cat again? Or maybe a bunny? she wonders, watching as you grab a toothpick.

You dip the tip into the leftover espresso, coating it. You begin to move it across the foam like a pencil, dipping back into the glass occasionally with a focused expression. With a final flick of your wrist, you rotate the mug towards her.

Natasha :)

The handwriting looks a bit shaky, the letters blooming slightly into the foam, but there is something so you about the effort.

She’s about to take a sip when the sharp scrape of chairs echo throughout the shop. The remaining customers stand, as if sensing that she wants to be alone with you

You’re still looking down at the mug, your eyes tracing the name you wrote on the foam, when Natasha taps her finger against the marble. The motion catches your eye, forcing you to look up at her. She points toward the door, where the departing customers are waving their farewells. You break eye contact with her instantly, offering them a radiant smile and a wave that feels entirely too familiar to her.

She feels a sudden, sharp pang of irritation in her chest—one that she can’t logically explain. It’s the realization that she isn’t special, you offer that same warmth to everyone.

She is still trying to process the sting when you turn back to her, your hands moving in a quick blur of signs. She tries to replay the motions in her mind, desperate to connect them to diagrams in the guidebook but she finds nothing. You’re looking at her expectantly, head tilted like you’ve just asked a question she’s already failed to answer.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice sounding small in the quiet shop. “I only started learning a week ago. After… after I spoke to you.”

Your expression changes in an instant. The comfortable, playful look in your eyes vanishes, replaced by the same conflicted, guarded look she’d seen when Meg had stepped in to help you with the man at the counter when you couldn’t yourself. It’s a look of tired endurance.

She feels like she’s said all the wrong things. Your eyes drop to the marble counter, making it impossible for her to say anything with the limited knowledge she has right now. The silence between you hangs heavy, thick with the implication of pity that she never intended to give.

You turn away, grabbing a piece of sticker paper. You write slowly, tiredly, like you’ve had this conversation dozens of times before. You slide the paper across the marble.

Why did you decide to learn sign language?

She pauses, a part of her recoiling at the thought of being vulnerable. But as she looks up and sees the genuine exhaustion etched onto your face, she decides to be honest. “I wanted to be able to talk to you.”

Your expression doesn’t soften. You scribble a new line, pushing the paper back to her tiredly.

It’s okay to talk to me normally. You don’t need to go through the trouble.

“I—I know.” She struggles to find the words. She still hasn’t figured out what it is about you that made her this way—why she studied videos on sign language until 4 AM after only seeing you twice, why she spent an entire week obsessively trying to memorize every word, every diagram in the guidebook. How all the tiredness she felt from staying up all night studying and practicing signs washed away when you smiled at her. How can she put that into words?

She didn’t want you to think that this was pity. That she was just another person who felt sorry for the deaf girl.

“I know I don’t need to.” Her hands move instinctively as she speaks, a restless, upward motion to enunciate her point. “But I don’t want to just be another customer. I want to meet you where you are.”

She meets your eyes, feeling vulnerable, but her gaze doesn’t waver. Her eyes filled with determination and honesty.

You look down, pen hovering over the paper as if you’re deciding. Finally, the pen touches the paper. You write slowly—even slower than before—carefully considering every word. You finally slide the paper to her.

Sign language isn’t easy. It’s a long journey.

She knows. She already searched for the numbers, finding it would take two to five years at a minimum to reach fluency. It would be a hell of a journey, a steep climb through a language that she was struggling through just the basics of.  It’d be easy to quit now.

She nods, and for a split second, she swears she sees a flicker of disappointment on your features. A shadow of expectation that she was preparing to give up like everyone else.

“You’re right,” she says, her mind having already been made up a week ago when she sat feeling helpless in the silence of her room. “It’s a long journey. But I’ll get better. I’ll keep practicing until one day, we can have a conversation where spoken words aren’t needed.”

She meets your gaze, her green eyes steady and unwavering. “You won’t have to keep meeting me where I’m at. I’ll keep going through this journey. Every day. Until one day, we’ll meet in the middle.”

The silence between you is heavy and charged, both caught in each other’s gravity when the chime of the door opening shatters the moment. She turns, seeing a man taking long strides to the counter. She reaches out, gently tapping your hand that is holding the pen.

“Customer,” she says quietly, over-enunciating the word before pointing in the direction of the register.

You shake your head, as if clearing your thoughts, offering her a quick, appreciative smile before turning to tend to him.

Her fingers curl around the ceramic mug, clenching tighter than necessary. She brings the rim to her lips, carefully avoiding the foam that is adorned with her name. She can’t bring herself to ruin it. The latte is past the point of being hot, more lukewarm than anything. She glances at her watch, noting that the shop would be closing soon.

She watches you interact with the man—the way you tilt your head and nod in practiced understanding. The same flare of irritation from before surges through her, stronger and sharper this time, until the puzzle pieces finally click into place.

Jealousy. 

She was jealous when you looked at others. Wanting your radiant smile to be just for her alone.

“I only want you to look at me,” she breathes out in realization.

You and the customer move toward the end counter, a paper to-go cup in your hand. She finds herself sighing in relief—he isn’t staying. She wants a bit more time with you. 

She watches as you prepare the simple mocha. Your hands move faster than usual, yet remain perfectly precise. You slide the cup to him with a smile, and he offers a quick thanks before the bell chimes behind him.

You turn to her as she finishes the rest of her lukewarm latte, setting the ceramic mug down gently against the marble.

She doesn’t know what to say. The air in the shop still feels charged with the truth she’s just admitted to herself. She wasn’t sure if her honesty had reached you, if  you truly understand that this isn’t a fleeting whim or pity.

Your arm lifts, your flat hand touching your chin in a gesture she recognizes as the beginning of Thank you. But then, you move it down, landing it softly on the palm of your other hand. Your lower arm steadily moves into a horizontal line across your chest, while your other hand curves over it in a slow, graceful arc—like the sun dipping below the horizon.

“What does that mean?” she asks, her face a mixture of confusion and pure admiration at the fluidity of the movement.

You tilt your head, a challenging, playful smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth. You meet her gaze, your eyes screaming:  Try to figure it out.

You turn away, effectively dismissing her for the night and begin disassembling the espresso machine. She stands there, lingering for a moment. She feels a strange mix of emotions she can't quite categorize yet—half-impressed by your skill, and half-tethered by something deeper, something she hasn't quite figured out how to name.

She reaches out, fingers curling around the scrap of paper left on the marble counter. She tucks it deep in her jacket pocket, careful not to crumple it.

It’s more than just a note now. It’s a promise.

She pushes through the door, the chime of the bell echoing behind her as she steps back out into the biting New York winter air. As she walks the familiar route back to the Tower, her hand rests in her pocket, tracing the ink. She’s already mentally flipping through the pages of the guidebook, already trying to commit the sign you had shown her to memory. She was going to show you that this wasn’t just words. She’ll meet your challenge.

“Well, Clint,” she breathes out, a crest of white fog blooming from her lips into the cold night. “It’s definitely not a deaf boyfriend.”

— Pt. 2 — Numba 4. I wrote this on a whim while I was practicing ASL since it's been a minute since I used it. I'm not sure if I'll do a part 2 to this, make this a series, or just let it stay as a one-shot. Let me know!

I know most people who've read my other stories might be wondering where the POV switches are. My thought process was that since many people don't know sign language, you'd be able to relate to Natasha a lot here. If I do end up doing a part 2, it'll be Reader's POV and you'll learn more about them (us?). Thank you as always for reading! 😊

The ramp of the quinjet lowered with a hydraulic hiss. Steve was already halfway down and barking something over his shoulder to Sam about debriefing.

Natasha remained seated for a moment longer, one elbow resting on her knee and her weapon dismantled in her gloved hands. She pulled the slide back again, testing the resistance and her jaw tightening when it caught just slightly, but enough. Enough to matter and to have nearly cost her on the mission.

Clint noticed, because Clint noticed things other people didn’t with her, “That thing still giving you trouble?”

“It jammed twice.” she said coolly. “And the recoil feels wrong.”

Clint winced in sympathy. “That bad?”

“It nearly got me shot.” That sobered him. He shifted his bow from one shoulder to the other. “Did you have Y/n look at it?”

Natasha’s brows drew together. “Y/n?” she repeated, unfamiliar with the name. Clint blinked as if surprised. “You don’t know you?”

Natasha gave him a flat look that should’ve answered the question on its own. He huffed out a laugh. “Tony’s little tech nerd.”

Her expression sharpened instantly. “Tony’s what?”

Clint held up both hands. “Not like that!! She works in the lab. Tiny thing with a scary brain. Fixed my bow trigger assembly once when it kept locking under tension.” He gave his weapon an affectionate pat. “Actually improved it, I’m still mad about it.”

Natasha snorted softly, but the tension in her shoulders didn’t ease. “And how old is this genius?”

Clint shrugged. “Young.”

“That inspires confidence.”

“I’m serious.” He fell into step with her as they headed inside. “She knows her stuff.”

“So does Tony.” Natasha replied.

Clint gave her a look. “Yeah, and Tony also tends to ‘improve’ things until they explode or develop sarcasm.”

She almost smiled at that. “Besides..” Clint added, pushing through the glass doors into the tower, “if Stark couldn’t figure it out, she probably can.”

Natasha slowed a fraction and that caught her attention more than she wanted it to. “You’re exaggerating.”

Clint shook his head. “Nope.”

There was an irritating sincerity in his voice that made it hard to dismiss. Natasha glanced down at the weapon in her hand. Something about entrusting one of her guns, one of the few things in this world she relied on without hesitation to an unknown person made her instincts bristle. Minutes later, when the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, noise spilled out immediately. Something sparked with a sharp snap followed by an irritated mutter and music played low from unseen speakers. Natasha stepped out and paused.

The lab was a disaster. Tools lay scattered across half the available surfaces. Open blueprints overlapped each other in messy stacks and an Iron Man gauntlet sat disassembled beside what looked suspiciously like an upgraded toaster. Natasha’s gaze flicked over the wreckage with thinly veiled judgment. Of course Tony would call this organization. Then she heard it, the sound of someone bumping into something solid. Natasha turned toward the noise and moved silently through the maze of workstations. That was when she saw her.

A young woman, crouched beside an open cabinet and one hand buried elbow deep in wires and components, the other gripping a screwdriver between her teeth. She looked up at the sound of Natasha’s footsteps and Natasha knew that look. She had seen intelligence in Bruce, calculation in Tony, precision in Vision. This was different and for a beat, neither of you spoke, then Natasha said, “I’m looking for Y/n.”

The girl blinked and then, to Natasha’s immediate irritation, laughed. “Well.” She said, removing the screwdriver from between her teeth and rising to stand, “that makes this easy.”

Natasha’s expression didn’t change. “Why?”

The girl wiped your hand on her shirt and offered a small smile. “Because you already found me.”

Silence and Natasha let her gaze travel over you slowly now. Young, far too young and no visible signs of combat training or calloused knuckles. No scars she could immediately see from where she stood. You looked like a university student who’d accidentally wandered into the world’s most dangerous workshop. This was the person Clint trusted with precision weaponry?

Apparently you caught every shade of doubt that crossed Natasha’s face, because your smile thinned with practiced patience. “I get that look a lot.”

Natasha folded her arms. “Do you.”

“Mhm.” You tilted your head. “The ‘you look twelve, why are you allowed near expensive equipment’ look? Very common.”

“You don’t look twelve.”

“That is somehow worse.” Your gaze flicked to the dismantled weapon in Natasha’s hand. “You came for a reason.”

Natasha hesitated only a second before extending the gun toward you grip first. “It’s misfiring. Slide resistance feels off and jammed twice in the field.”

Your whole posture changed the moment the weapon entered your hand. The shift was immediate and startling. You turned the gun over once, fingers moving with familiarity rather than carelessness and eyes scanning its construction.

And then, without missing a beat, you said, “Modified Glock platform. Custom balancing on the frame, reinforced internals, personalized grip pressure compensation…Tony didn’t do this. Someone older, way more patient.”

Natasha stared at you. That was the first crack in her certainty. Most people saw “gun.” Maybe “expensive gun.” Very few could identify custom work from a glance, and fewer still noticed the old craftsmanship buried beneath later upgrades.

“Go on.” Natasha said carefully.

You looked up then and for the first time there was a flicker of satisfaction in your expression. “You’ve got wear here.” you murmured, thumb brushing lightly along the side. “Not enough to matter by itself. The real issue is probably in the recoil spring housing or the feed alignment. Maybe both if you’ve been using this configuration for a while.”

Natasha said nothing and you took that as permission to continue and walked toward a marked shooting lane built into a reinforced section at the far end of the lab. Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Testing it.”

You opened a case of ammunition with casual efficiency and Natasha moved instantly, “Stop.”

You looked over your shoulder and Natasha stepped closer. “You don’t load a weapon unless you know how to handle it.”

For one suspended moment, the lab seemed to hold its breath. You turned fully then, one hand resting lightly on the workbench and the other still holding the magazine. “I’m twenty three, by the way.” you said evenly. “And I know what I’m doing.”

Slowly, Natasha dropped her hand, “Well, then.”

You loaded the gun with deliberate movements and checked the chamber, adjusted your stance and faced the target downrange. Natasha expected awkwardness, some hesitation in the shoulders, some weakness in the wrist, some sign that this was theoretical knowledge at best..Instead, you planted your feet, lifted the weapon and fired. Three shots cracked through the lab in controlled succession. The sound reverberated off metal and glass and Natasha’s eyes flicked to the target.

Centered.

You lowered the gun, expression thoughtful rather than impressed with yourself. You fired twice more, slower this time, clearly listening to the mechanics between each shot. Then you pulled the slide back, tilted the weapon, and made a small considering sound.

“Huh.”

Natasha crossed her arms tighter. “You found something.”

“Yeah.” You ejected the magazine and set the gun on the table. “It’s exactly what I thought. Slight feed misalignment and a worn spring assembly that’s compensating badly under pressure. It’s subtle, but at your fire rate?” Your eyes lifted to Natasha. “Subtle is enough to get you killed.”

Natasha glanced at the gun again, then back at you. “Can you fix it?”

You gave her a look that was almost offended. “Yes.”

That actually pulled the ghost of a smile from Natasha. “How long?”

You picked up the weapon again and walked toward a crowded workbench lit by an overhead lamp. “A few hours. I want to take it apart properly, check whether anything else got thrown off by the wear, and make sure it’s field-stable after.”

Natasha leaned one shoulder against a nearby pillar. “And if I need it before then?”

You set the gun down on a black mat and reached for tools. “Then I’d tell you not to use it.”

There was something unexpectedly calming about the answer and Natasha watched you for another moment, watched the way you moved through the clutter with total ease, as if this maze of metal and madness were an extension of yourself. You never seemed to search for tools, your hands just found them. Natasha let her gaze drift around the lab, there were signs of you everywhere once she started looking. A mug abandoned near a terminal, filled with cold tea rather than coffee, blanket thrown over the back of one chair and a stack of scientific journals marked with sticky notes in different colors. Not a visitor, then.

“Who are you?” Natasha asked finally.

You didn’t look up from the weapon you were dismantling. “That’s a broad question.”

Natasha’s gaze moved to the side wall and stopped. There, half hidden behind a hanging holo-display, were framed photographs. In one, Tony looked years younger, thinner in the face, his smile less curated somehow. Beside him stood a man in military uniform, broad shouldered and stern, though there was warmth in the way he looked at the camera. Another photo showed that same man crouched beside a much younger you, maybe seven or nine, holding a little toy robot with an expression of absolute delight. In another, Tony had one arm around the man’s shoulders and the other around little you, who were perched on a lab stool and grinning. Something in Natasha’s chest went unexpectedly still and glanced back at you. You hadn’t turned or followed her gaze. But Natasha knew you’d noticed anyway.

“You work here.” Natasha said, quieter now.

You smiled faintly, still focused on the internal pieces laid out before you. “Pretty much.”

Natasha studied you for another moment, sensing the edge of something private there, some line she could cross if she pushed harder, so she chose not to. “I’ll have it ready in a few hours.” you said. “You can come back then.”

Natasha inclined her head once. “I will.”

She turned and left the lab with quieter steps than she had entered with. But by the time the elevator doors closed, the image of you standing in that pool of workshop light and grease-stained, unbothered, frighteningly competent had rooted itself somewhere in her mind.

When Natasha returned later, the tower had fallen into the softer hush of evening. She stepped out of the elevator expecting the same controlled chaos as before, instead, she slowed.

Tony was there, that alone wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the way he was sitting. Tony was not a man who sat still unless he was performing stillness for someone else’s benefit. He lounged, sprawled, prowled, gestured, paced. He filled silence so it didn’t have the chance to become uncomfortable. But now he sat on the edge of a worktable, shoulders squared, elbows on his knees and listening. You stood in front of him with a datapad in one hand and a wrench in the other, speaking quickly about something Natasha couldn’t fully hear from the doorway.

She stayed where she was for a moment. The dynamic between them was…startling. Not assistant and employer or mentor and student, not exactly. You didn’t perform deference for him and Tony, who bulldozed through most conversations like they were designed for him to win listened when you spoke.

Pepper appeared at Natasha’s side so quietly that even Natasha was mildly annoyed she hadn’t noticed her approach. “Well.” Pepper said, amusement threading through her voice, “that expression means you’ve either found a new problem or a new mystery.”

Natasha turned her head. “Maybe both.”

Pepper followed her gaze toward Tony and you and sighed “Ah.”

Natasha hesitated, which for most people would have looked like no hesitation at all. “Who is she?”

Pepper’s eyes softened immediately. She crossed her arms, looking out into the lab for a moment before answering. “That depends how far back you want me to start.”

Natasha said nothing and Pepper took that as permission. “Her father worked for Tony years ago.“ she said quietly. “Not lab staff, but security. He was former elite military, very good at what he did, very serious, very impossible. He was assigned to Tony during some of the uglier weapons contracts overseas.”

Natasha glanced back at the old photographs in her memory. The uniformed man.

“He was with Tony in Afghanistan.” Pepper continued. “In the convoy.”

Natasha’s attention sharpened. The convoy and the attack that changed everything..The one that ended with Tony captured, wounded, dragged into that cave where the first Iron Man suit was born from blood and scrap metal and desperation.

Pepper’s voice lowered further. “He went with Tony when they were attacked. He made it through the initial hit and made it all the way to the cave.” She swallowed once. “But the people holding them…they made an example of him.”

For the first time in a long time, Natasha had no immediate response. Pepper stared out at you, who were now pointing at something in a holographic display while Tony argued with exaggerated offense. “They killed him in front of Tony.”

The words settled heavily between them and suddenly the shape of everything shifted. The pictures, the familiarity..the way you belonged here.

Natasha looked at Pepper. “What about her?”

Pepper shook her head. “Gone before that. She didn’t really have anyone left. Tony never says it outright, because guilt makes him defensive and weird and louder than usual. But he blamed himself..For all of it. For the convoy, for the weapons and what happened to her father. So when he came back…” She exhaled softly. “He made sure she had a place. At first it was supposed to be temporary. Safe housing, schools, support, all of that.”

Natasha looked back toward the lab floor. You were laughing at something now, shaking your head while Tony pretended to look wounded. “It wasn’t temporary.” Natasha said.

Pepper smiled sadly. “No. It wasn’t.”

“She grew up here.”

Pepper nodded. “Around the lab, around Tony, around every terrible influence this tower had to offer. Mostly Tony.” A pause. “She’s brilliant. Honestly brilliant, Natasha, the kind that makes people uncomfortable because she sees things too fast.”

Natasha thought back to you diagnosing her weapon in under a minute, Yeah..that fit.

“She used to sit on a stool and watch Tony work for hours.” Pepper continued. “Then she started asking questions. Then correcting things. Then solving things before anyone else had the chance.” A small smile touched her lips. “The first time she told Tony one of his calculations was sloppy, I thought he was going to faint from indignation.”

Natasha let out the smallest breath of amusement. Pepper’s expression gentled. “He loves her. In his own impossible way. Not always perfectly, but completely.”

Something in Natasha tightened unexpectedly. Maybe because she understood imperfect love better than she understood perfect versions of it. Maybe because families built from loss always struck closer than she liked. Or maybe because the girl she had dismissed on sight was suddenly no longer just some overconfident twenty three year old in a grease stained shirt. She was a survivor. A child of violence who had somehow grown into brilliance instead of bitterness.

Natasha looked at you differently after that and perhaps she hated that she had to be told the story to get there. Pepper nudged her lightly. “You came for your gun, didn’t you?”

Natasha’s gaze flicked to your workbench. “I did.”

“Then rescue it before Tony decides to redesign it into a satellite.”

That, at least, sounded believable. Together, they stepped fully into the lab. Tony looked up first. “Ah, the assassin returns. For legal reasons, I assume not for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Natasha said.

You turned at the sound of Natasha’s voice and the moment you saw her, you straightened immediately and set aside the datapad. The easy humor in your face shifted into focus again, though this time Natasha noticed it came with something else too. Without a word, you reached for a case on the bench and opened it. Natasha’s gun rested inside on dark foam, cleaned, reassembled, every piece gleaming with careful attention. You picked it up with both hands and offered it to her.

“I replaced the spring assembly, corrected the feed issue, and rebalanced the internal tension.“ you said. “Also adjusted the slide response slightly so it should feel smoother under rapid fire. I didn’t change anything major without asking.”

Natasha took the weapon and it settled into her hand like something familiar and newly sharpened at once. She checked the weight firs, then the slide.

“Try it.” you said, almost too quickly, then visibly reined yourself in. “If you want.”

Natasha moved to the lane and loaded a test magazine. Tony, Pepper and you all watched. She raised the gun, narrowed her focus, and fired. Each shot landed true and the recoil settled exactly where it should. When the magazine emptied, Natasha lowered the gun slowly and for a heartbeat, the room was quiet.

Natasha turned back toward you and you stood very still. And there it was again, that contrast Natasha found herself noticing too much already. The confidence was real and the intelligence, undeniable. But beneath it was something softer, harder to earn. A kind of old watchfulness, as if part of you was always bracing for dismissal anyway.

“It’s better.” she said and because apparently Natasha had not been clear enough, she added, “Much better.”

A flash of relief lit your face so quickly it was nearly gone before anyone else could have noticed, but.

“Good.” you said, trying and failing to sound casual. “I told you I knew what I was doing.”

Natasha looked at you for a long moment. “Yes.” she said quietly. “You did.”

Something passed between you both. A shift in the air like the beginning of static before lightning. You seemed to feel it too, because your finger tightened slightly around the edge of the bench. “If anything feels off after extended use.:” you said, voice softer now, “come back.”

Natasha’s gaze held yours. “I might.”

Tony looked between you with immediate suspicion. “I don’t like whatever this vibe is..”

Pepper sighed. “No one asked, Tony..”

You laughed softly under your breath and ducking your head as if to hide it. Natasha found, to her annoyance, that she liked the sound and she holstered the gun and turned toward the elevator. But when she reached the doors, she glanced back once, you were already back at the bench, talking to Tony again, one hand moving animatedly as you explained something technical. It should have been easy to leave the moment there. Natasha had spent most of her life walking away from moments. But later, alone in her room, cleaning a gun that no longer needed cleaning, she found her mind drifting back downstairs.

Natasha lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, irritated with herself. It was ridiculous, she barely knew you. You were a scientist, too young and too clever. Far more interesting than Natasha wanted you to be. And yet she could still hear your voice. I’m twenty three. And I know what I’m doing. She closed her eyes and for the first time in a while, someone had surprised her. And somehow, that was the most unsettling part of all. Because she had a feeling this would not be the last time you got under her skin.

Days later, the party had started out louder than Natasha expected and she had, for reasons she still wasn’t entirely sure how Tony had talked her into, ended up behind the bar. But not that she minded, it gave her something to do with her hands. She moved with effortless precision behind the polished counter, pouring whiskey, sliding glasses across the surface, opening beer bottles with economical movements. “Another?” Sam asked, raising his empty glass with a grin.

“You’re getting slower.” Natasha said, pouring anyway.

“That hurt.”

“You’ll survive.”

He laughed and took the drink from her hand. Natasha turned toward the shelf behind her, reaching for another bottle just as she heard a voice at the bar.

“Am I too late to be dramatic and order something impossible?”

Natasha turned and paused. You stood on the other side of the counter, half leaning against it, smiling at her. For one strange, stupid second, the noise of the room dulled. Natasha had seen you in the lab, in grease smudged shirts and oversized clothes and a halo of static energy that seemed to belong to solder smoke and machine light. But this..this was different.

You looked softer tonight, though no less bright. You wore dark jeans and a simple fitted top beneath a loose jacket, like you still hadn’t fully accepted that this was a party and not just a temporary interruption before you returned to the lab. Your hair was down for once, falling around your shoulders in a way that made you look younger and older at the same time. There was no grease on your cheek now, no ink on your fingers that Natasha could immediately spot. And somehow that was more distracting than it should have been.

Natasha recovered quickly, “That depends.” she said. “Do you have ID?”

You stared at her for half a heartbeat and then laughed and Natasha felt something unexpectedly soft unfurl low in her chest. It was such an open sound, like the kind that slipped out before someone could decide whether to hold it back..And Natasha hated how much she liked it.

“God..” you said, laughing harder now. “Was that a joke?”

Natasha leaned one forearm on the bar. “I’m capable of humor.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t. I’m just…pleasantly surprised.”

“You say that like it’s rare.” You tilted your head, smiling at her with that same impossible brightness. “It feels rare.”

For a moment Natasha only looked at you. Then she reached for a glass. “What are you drinking?”

You glanced over the bottles lined behind Natasha, all expensive and gleaming under the lights, then back at her. “Cola.”

Natasha blinked once. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You’re at Tony Stark’s party.”

“Yes.”

“There are bottles behind me worth more than some people’s rent.”

“I know.”

“And you want cola.”

You smiled, a little sheepish now. “I’m not a big fan of alcohol.”

Natasha picked up a clean glass and filled it with ice. “Bad experience?” There was no pressure in the question, just quiet understanding. You watched the cola fizz into the glass. “No dramatic story, actually. I just don’t like feeling out of control.”

Natasha’s hand stilled for the smallest fraction of a second before she slid the drink toward you. “That.” she said, “I understand.”

Your eyes flicked up to hers and something softer entering them. “Yeah.” you said quietly. “I figured you might.”

Their fingers brushed briefly as you took the glass. The contact was slight, still Natasha felt it and apparently she wasn’t the only one, because your smile shifted just a little afterward. Natasha straightened and glanced at the room. “You don’t usually come up for these.”

“I know.”

“So why tonight?”

You took a sip of your drink before answering. “Because Pepper threatened to drag me upstairs herself if I stayed in the lab all night.”

“That sounds like Pepper.”

“She said and I quote, ‘You are twenty three years old. Go stand near people and pretend you’re not married to a circuit board.’”

Natasha snorted into a laugh before she could stop it and you looked absurdly pleased with yourself for causing it. “There it is..” you said.

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make a thing of it.”

“Too late.”

The conversation came easier than Natasha expected. That was what unsettled her most. She was good at talking when talking had a purpose. Extracting information or manipulating a scene. But this didn’t feel like that. It felt…easy.

You stayed at the bar long after receiving your drink, and Natasha did not ask you to move along. They talked between orders and interruptions, in fragments at first, then longer stretches. About the music, which you claimed was “Tony trying to prove he has mature taste.” About Steve, who looked like every loud laugh in the room physically stressed him. Natasha learned that you didn’t sleep enough, forgot to eat when you were working, and had a habit of carrying around three different pens despite claiming you were “fully digital now.” You learned that Natasha preferred bourbon over vodka, which shocked you on principle, and that behind the dry remarks and unreadable face was a sense of humor sharp enough to catch you off guard whenever it surfaced. And every time you laughed, Natasha felt that same warmth again.

Eventually the crowd shifted toward the center of the room where Thor, with all the grandeur of a king and all the smugness of a man very sure of his own mythology, had set Mjolnir down on the low table like a challenge. Natasha stepped out from behind the bar and somewhere in the movement you ended up beside her, the two of you settling close together on the edge of a couch with the easy momentum of people who had already decided, without saying it, to keep each other company.

“Ah, yes..” you murmured, sipping your cola as Rhodey rolled his shoulders dramatically. “Male ego. Nature’s most renewable resource.”

Natasha turned to look at you, and the deadpan delivery nearly made her smile outright. “You’ve been around Tony too long.”

You kept your eyes on the scene in front of you. “That implies I had a choice.”

Rhodey grabbed the hammer first and nothing happened. You clicked your tongue sympathetically. “A strong showing.”

Natasha crossed one leg over the other. “Very graceful.”

Then came Tony, of course, because Tony would rather combust than let Rhodey fail alone. He used both hands. Then the gauntlet. Then logic, as if somehow technology would convince an ancient magical hammer to reconsider. Steve gave it a try next and the room grew subtly quieter. Even Natasha leaned forward slightly, watching the set of his jaw, the way his hand tightened around the handle. There was the faintest shift, so slight Natasha would’ve missed it if she weren’t trained to notice impossible things. Thor sat up so fast it was almost comical, but it stopped and Steve let go. The room erupted into noise again, but Natasha felt you shift beside her, both of you catching the same detail and filing it away without comment.

Someone, Sam, maybe, or one of the others looked over at you suddenly and said, “Your turn.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “What? No.”

“Come on!”

“You built half the weird stuff in this tower.” someone else added. “That’s basically wizard adjacent.”

You held up both hands. “Absolutely not.”

“Scared?” Clint asked from across the room, grinning.

You pointed at him. “Deeply, yes.”

The room laughed and Natasha angled toward you. “Try it.”

You turned to her in mock betrayal. “You too?”

“You’ve been making comments all night. Back them up.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You do it.”

Natasha’s expression remained cool. “I have nothing to prove.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then why are you panicking?”

“I’m not panicking!” you said quickly. “I’m preserving the mystery.”

Natasha looked pointedly at the hammer. “Afraid it’ll crush your ego?”

You clutched your chest. “That was mean..”

“It was accurate.”

You leaned in a fraction, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “You know what I think?”

Natasha did not move away. “What?”

“I think..” you said, smiling wildly now, “you should do it.”

Natasha let out a soft incredulous breath. “No.”

“Do I sense fear?”

Natasha turned fully toward you then, one eyebrow arched. “Careful.”

That only made you grin harder. For a fleeting second the room and the hammer and the noise around them seemed to blur at the edges. It became just this, your bright eyes, the playful challenge in them, the warmth of your shoulder nearly brushing Natasha’s and then the world split apart.

A metallic crash tore through the air and glass shattered somewhere to the left. The room lurched from laughter into violence so quickly it barely felt real. Natasha was on her feet before the first scream fully landed and she moved on instinct, grabbing the nearest civilian and shoving them behind cover just as one of the drones opened fire across the bar. Then she heard it, “Y/N!” Tony’s voice completely in panic.

Natasha snapped her gaze through the chaos and found you half crouched near the couch they’d been sitting on, helping a woman to the floor behind overturned furniture.

“I’ve got her!” Natasha shouted back.

She didn’t wait to see if Tony heard, she was already moving. A drone lunged into her path and Natasha shot it clean through the head and grabbed you by the wrist just long enough to pull you behind the nearest pillar as bullets tore through the space you’d occupied a second earlier.

“You okay?” Natasha demanded and you nodded too fast. “Yes.”

“Stay down.” That should have been the end of it.

But fights never stayed simple. Another drone crashed through the upper railing and landed hard enough to shake the floor. Natasha fired twice, rolled under a spray of sparks, came up low and fast and then something slammed into her side. Pain burst through her ribs and her gun flew from her hand, skidding across the floor out of reach.

She hit the ground hard and breath punching out of her lungs. The drone turned toward her with terrible mechanical precision, arm lifting and weapon charging. Natasha twisted, reaching for a bla- a shot rang out.

The drone jerked once and dropped beside her in a heap of sparking metal. For a second Natasha didn’t understand what had happened. Then she looked up and stood a few feet away, Natasha’s gun still in your hand. Your face had gone pale and you stared at the weapon like it had burned you. Then immediately, almost violently, you dropped it. The gun clattered against the floor and Natasha pushed herself upright despite the ache in her side. “Y/n..”

Your eyes snapped to hers. “Are you okay?” Natasha asked. It was the same question as before, but now it meant something different.

“Yeah.” you said, though the word came thin. “I’m okay.”

Natasha rose fully and picked up her weapon. “You saved my life..”

There was no time to answer properly because another drone shrieked somewhere behind them and Natasha touched your arm only briefly. “Stay with me.”

Together you moved, Natasha fighting, you staying low, helping steer terrified guests out of open lines of fire. You weren’t built for battlefield chaos, not like the others, but you adapted. And then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. The room fell into a ragged silence of smoke, sparks, broken glass and everyone breathing too hard.

Natasha stood among the wreckage, chest rising and falling. Around her, the others regrouped and Tony’s face had gone hard in the way it always did when fear turned directly into anger. Then his first gaze went to you. “You hurt?”

You straightened from where you had been helping someone up. “I’m fine.”

He looked unconvinced, but there were bigger fires burning now and they all moved to the lab. The mood there was nothing like the warmth of the party before. Broken drone parts had been dragged in for analysis and FRIDAY’s voice had replaced JARVIS’s familiar calm, and the absence of him was its own kind of wound. Natasha stayed near the back at first, leaning against one of the tables while the others argued in widening circles. Everyone was talking and no one was listening, in the middle of it all was the gaping fact that Tony had created something catastrophic and kept it to himself long enough for it to breathe.

You stood near one of the side consoles, silent now. You looked tired in a way the others didn’t yet. Not physically, though that too, your shoulders were too tight and your hands flexed and curled at your sides when you thought no one was looking. Once, your eyes drifted toward the place where JARVIS’s core systems usually displayed and something in your expression changed. You stepped forward and everyone else was still fighting with each other when you cut in, voice not loud, but precise enough to slice through all of them. “Stop!”

It worked. Maybe because you rarely demanded the room unless you had something worth saying. Maybe because they all knew it. Tony turned first. “Y/n-”

“No!” You moved closer to the main display, “You’re all arguing about who’s responsible and yes, great, that’s definitely a conversation, but it doesn’t matter if we don’t figure out what he wants next!”

You pulled up fragments of code, satellite maps, intercepted data, broken command strings salvaged from the drone they had brought down. “He talked about peace.” you said, eyes scanning. “He quoted Stark. He called the Avengers a roadblock. He didn’t attack this tower just to scare us.” Your fingers moved faster. “He’s not thinking like a person. He’s thinking like a mission with no moral limiters.”

Natasha watched Tony watch you and there was fear there still, yes. But also trust, absolutely and immediate. You zoomed in on one data trail and then another. “There.”

Bruce leaned forward. “What?”

“He took something before he left.” You pulled up a set of missing files, then connected them to external systems. “Not just access.“ You looked from screen to screen, putting the pieces together so fast Natasha could almost see the pattern forming in real time. “He’s building toward something bigger. He’s not running, he’s preparing.”

“For what?” Steve asked.

“To end the fight permanently.” you said. “His definition of peace is extinction level control.”

The words settled like ice into the room and Tony moved beside you. “Can you track where?”

“Not exactly yet. But I can narrow the likely targets if you stop arguing long enough to let me work.” That might have been rude coming from anyone else. From you, in this moment, it was simply true. Natasha saw the subtle shift then, everyone recalibrating around your conclusion, not because you demanded authority, but because you had earned it. After some minutes, when everything settled again, Tony looked over at you and asked quietly, “You sure you’re okay?”

You didn’t look at him when you answered. “I’m okay.” But Natasha heard the difference. She knew what “I’m okay” sounded like when it meant please don’t ask me to feel this right now. Eventually, after too much adrenaline and too many revelations, the room thinned. You closed out one last screen and stepped back too, “I’m going to bed.” you said quietly. Tony looked like he wanted to argue or stop you to check you over again just to make sure you hadn’t hidden an injury because you thought everyone was too busy. Instead he only nodded. There was something achingly paternal in the way he said it.

You gave him the faintest smile and turned toward the hall. Natasha found herself moving after you before she had quite decided to. The corridor outside the lab was much quieter, the noise of the tower fading behind you both and for a few moments, neither of you spoke. Then Natasha said, “You’re not fine.” You glanced over, tired but amused. “That was fast.”

“You dropped my gun like it had insulted you.”

“I probably would’ve preferred it insulting me.” You shook your head once, as if trying to throw off the whole moment. “I just..” You exhaled shakily. “I hate that.”

Natasha’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “Shooting?”

“I can shoot. I know how. My dad made sure I knew how to protect myself. But I don’t like it..I don’t want to.” A pause. “Not people.not even things pretending to be people.”

They walked a little further and the adrenaline had burned off enough now that the emotional aftermath was settling in. Natasha knew that feeling intimately. The emptiness after violence and the way your body realized all at once what it had just survived. “I really am okay.” you said after a moment. “Just…not good with things that sound like that.”

Natasha understood more than she said. “You did what you needed to do.”

“I know.” You stared ahead. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No.” Natasha said. “It doesn’t.”

That seemed to ease something small in your expression. You reached a long stretch of hallway lined with doors and quiet art Tony had almost certainly bought to prove he had taste and you slowed a little.

“Thanks.” you said.

Natasha looked at you. “For what?”

“For earlier.” You hesitated. “At the party. At the fight. For…not making me feel stupid after.”

Natasha stopped walking and you stopped too, “You could never look stupid.” Natasha said before she had fully decided to say it. Your eyes widened just slightly, caught off guard and then your smile came back,

“That..” you said softly, “might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Natasha crossed her arms, „You’ve known me for two conversations.”

“Exactly. High praise.”

That drew a real smile from Natasha this time and you noticed it immediately. Then you smiled too, almost wildly happy in a way that made you look younger than twenty three and somehow even more luminous. Natasha had the absurd urge to just keep you looking like that.

You resumed walking, slower now, neither in much hurry to end the moment. “I liked talking to you tonight.” Natasha said at last.

You turned your head toward her so quickly that Natasha almost regretted it, not because it was wrong, but because the look on your face was so unguardedly pleased it hit harder than expected.

“I liked talking to you too..” you said and Natasha held your gaze for a beat. “Even when I made fun of you?”

You grinned. “Especially then.”

They had reached your door now and you paused in front of it, one hand resting lightly on the frame, suddenly looking less like the brilliant scientist from the lab and more like simply a girl at the end of a very long night, standing in the soft hallway light with tired eyes and a smile you couldn’t quite hide.

Natasha stopped beside you and for a second neither of you moved. “Goodnight, Y/n.” Natasha said.

Your smile softened. “Goodnight, Natasha.”

The use of her first name, spoken so gently, sent a quiet warmth through her chest she chose not to examine too closely. You opened the door, then hesitated and looked back over your shoulder.

“I’m glad it was you.” you said.

Natasha’s brow furrowed slightly. “What?”

“At the bar.” you said. “When I came upstairs. When the robot attacked. After.” Your smile turned shy, but no less sincere. “I’m glad it was you.”

For once, Natasha had no immediate clever answer. So she told the truth, “I’m glad it was me too.”

You looked like that sentence might keep you awake all night. Then you slipped inside your room and closed the door softly behind you. Inside, leaning back against the door the second it shut, you pressed a hand to your own face and let out one breathless, disbelieving laugh. You were smiling so hard it hurt. Not because of the party..Not because you had survived an attack, or helped decode a global threat, or held yourself together in front of Tony and the Avengers and everything else pressing in from all sides. But because Natasha Romanoff had walked you to your door. Because she had smiled..because Natasha had said she liked talking to you.

You slid down onto the edge of your bed still grinning helplessly at nothing, heart too awake to let the rest of your body catch up and out in the hallway, Natasha stood there for one beat longer than necessary. Then she turned and headed toward her own room. Halfway down the corridor, she realized she was smiling too.

The next morning, Natasha woke earlier than usual. Not because she had slept well, it really was the opposite. She had spent most of the night drifting in and out of shallow rest, her mind sliding helplessly between images she did not especially want to revisit. And, far more distracting than any of those should have been, the memory of you standing at her door in the dim hallway light, smiling like Natasha had handed you something precious without realizing it. That one stayed.

Natasha stood in the kitchen now in gray training clothes and bare feet, one hand wrapped around a mug of black coffee she had let go lukewarm without noticing. She was alone at first and then she heard footsteps. She looked up automatically and you walked into the kitchen with the particular kind of exhaustion only highly intelligent people and people who refused to sleep ever seemed to perfect. Your hair was a mess, tangled from sleep and there was a faint pillow crease still pressed into one cheek.

Natasha’s chest warmed instantly so suddenly, so quietly, that for one stupid moment she only stood there holding her coffee and staring. There you are, some traitorous part of her thought. You looked up, spotted her and smiled. It was sleepy and soft and so immediate that Natasha felt the warmth in her chest deepen into something almost dangerously tender.

“Morning.” you said, voice still rough with sleep and Natasha swallowed once before answering. “Morning.”

You shuffled toward the coffee machine, paused, then glanced over your shoulder. “Are you judging me?”

Natasha lifted one brow. “For what?”

You gestured vaguely at yourself. “Existing like this.”

Natasha let her gaze move over the oversized sweatshirt, the mismatched socks and the unruly hair. There were many things she could have said, “You look tired.”

You snorted softly. “That was kinder than what I expected.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“I’m learning that.”

The coffee machine hissed to life and you leaned against the counter while it brewed, your shoulders still a little slumped with sleep and for a few seconds neither of you spoke. It should have been awkward but it wasn’t. Natasha found that unsettling in the now familiar way you unsettled her by making silence feel easy.

“How’d you sleep?” Natasha asked.

You made a face. “Badly.”

“Nightmares?” You glanced at her, then away. “Not exactly. Just one of those nights where your brain keeps replaying everything in the worst order possible.”

Natasha’s fingers tightened slightly around her mug. “Yeah.”

You looked back at her then, and there was no performance in your face. “You too?”

Natasha gave the smallest nod and the coffee finished. You poured some into a mug, then added an amount of sugar Natasha found mildly offensive and enough milk to turn it a lighter brown. She watched you in quiet disbelief. “That is not coffee anymore.”

You pointed the spoon at her. “This is a hard morning. I’m adapting.”

Natasha almost smiled. “To sugar?”

“To survival.”

That got a soft breath of laughter out of her and you looked unreasonably pleased. You took your mug and crossed to the island, stopping on the opposite side from Natasha. For a moment Natasha only looked at you, she should say something else, she thought, something casual, something that would stop this dangerous, slow feeling from unfurling every time you entered a room. “You sure you’re okay?”

The same question from last night and your smile changed. “I’m okay.” you said. Then, after a small pause: “Still don’t like guns. Still don’t like robots trying to kill people. Still slightly offended the universe ruined my cola.”

Natasha’s mouth curved despite herself. “That bad?”

“There was shattered glass in it!”

“A tragedy.”

“Exactly!”

You both smiled then and you wrapped both hands around your mug and studied Natasha for a moment over the rim. “And you?”

Natasha tilted her head. “And me what?”

“Are you okay?”

The question landed differently coming from you. Natasha was not used to being asked things she didn’t know how to deflect. “I’m fine.” she said automatically and your expression turned knowing in a way that was becoming increasingly dangerous. “That sounds fake.”

“You’re bold before nine in the morning.”

“I’m observant before nine in the morning.”

Natasha looked down into her coffee. “I’ve had worse nights.”

You nodded like you understood what that answer really meant and wouldn’t force more from it than Natasha was willing to give. It should have made Natasha feel relieved, instead, it made her feel seen. Which was worse.

“Good.” you said quietly. “I mean..not good that it was bad. Just good that it wasn’t worse.”

Natasha looked at you again. You, clearly realizing how badly you’d phrased that, groaned and dragged one sleeve over part of your face. “I should not be allowed to talk before coffee..“

Natasha did smile then. “There.” you murmured. “Worth embarrassing myself for.” Natasha shook her head, more amused than she wanted to be and then the morning ended. FRIDAY interrupted with updates and footsteps started appearing in the hallway. The tower woke around them and you both had work to do.

But the day dragged. Natasha told herself that was because everyone was strained after the events of the previous night. Because Tony was impossible when he was guilty or Steve was angry, Bruce withdrawn, Thor absent, Clint restless, and the whole tower felt like it was bracing for something worse. All of that was true..still, it did not explain why she read the same report three times without absorbing a single line. Or why every passing thought seemed to drift, irritatingly, toward the kitchen that morning.

By midday, Natasha was irritated enough with herself that she went to the gym and put an hour into the punching bag. It helped! For almost twenty minutes..And then by late afternoon she found herself standing outside the lab with her gun in her hand and an excuse she knew was weak. You looked up the second Natasha entered and smiled. Natasha hated what that did to her pulse.

“Hey.” you said, straightening. “What happened?”

„I think it broke again.“ you blinked and walked over, took the weapon gently and looked at it. Then you looked at Natasha, then back at the gun. Natasha held steady under the scrutiny.

“There’s nothing wrong with this.” Natasha folded her arms. “You checked quickly.”

“I don’t need to check slowly.” You turned the gun in your hand once, then held it out toward Natasha but did not let go right away. “The slide tension is perfect. The balance is exactly where I set it. Also, you cleaned it.” Natasha narrowed her eyes. “And?”

“And you only clean it like this when you’re restless.”

There it was again..that infuriating perception. Natasha exhaled once through her nose. “You’re assuming.”

“No.” you said lightly. “I’m observing.”

You handed the gun back and Natasha took it, but instead of leaving, she stayed right where she was. “You caught me.” Natasha admitted.

You laughed, “You came all the way down here pretending your gun was broken just to see me?”

It sounded much worse when you said it out loud..Natasha resisted the urge to retreat immediately from the conversation and hated that the urge existed at all. “I came..“ she said carefully, “because I was in the area.”

You stared at her. “The area?” you repeated.

Natasha kept her expression perfectly neutral. “Yes.”

“You were in the basement tech lab area.”

“I move around.”

That made you laugh harder and Natasha, despite herself, stayed to listen to it. “Okay.” you said, still smiling. “Sure. Of course.”

Natasha gave you a dry look. “You don’t believe me.”

“Not even a little.” You leaned back against the bench, crossing your arms loosely. “You could’ve just come down here, you know.”

Natasha looked at you. “Without a reason?”

You held her gaze. “Seeing me can be a reason.”

For a heartbeat neither of you moved. Then you looked away first, suddenly busy with a screwdriver that definitely did not need adjusting and a faint flush had risen into your cheeks. Natasha felt something low and warm settle inside her.

She stayed for twenty minutes. Long enough to ask what you were building, long enough to watch you explain it with increasing animation, your hands moving faster as you talked, your eyes lighting in that unmistakable way they did when your mind fully caught fire. Natasha understood perhaps half of the science and almost none of the equations, but she found she liked listening anyway. She liked the shape of your thoughts. The way excitement transformed you and the ease with which you moved from brilliant to awkward to teasing and back again.

By the time Natasha left, the restlessness that had driven her downstairs had gone strangely quiet. That should have warned her but it did not.

Two days later, she returned because she claimed the grip felt different. It did not, you knew it instantly. This time you took the gun, squinted at it dramatically, and said, “Terrible..I’ll need at least six hours alone with it.”

Natasha crossed her arms. “You’re mocking me.”

“Yes.” you said. “But gently.”

Natasha should have left, instead she leaned one hip against the workbench and asked, “What are you working on?”

You brightened at once. “I’m glad you asked..”

She had not asked because she was glad, she had asked because it was the fastest available cover for the fact that she was standing in Tony Stark’s lab again with no legitimate reason to be there. But within minutes you had launched into an explanation of drone interference shielding, a new stabilizer for one of Clint’s ridiculous trick arrows, and three separate complaints about Tony’s filing system, which apparently involved “vibes, arrogance, and complete disrespect for naming conventions.” Natasha listened and watched..and left much later than she meant to.

After that, the pattern formed almost without permission. A missing knife sheath buckle, a comm unit that “sounded strange“, a holster strap that “might not be sitting right.” Once she came down carrying nothing at all and had the audacity to claim she was looking for Tony. You, who had long since stopped pretending to believe her, just leaned against a table and said, “Tony is upstairs.”

Natasha looked around the lab. “I know.”

“You’re very bad at this.”

Natasha arched a brow. “At what?”

You smiled, far too fondly for Natasha’s peace of mind. “Lying to me.”

There were other moments too. Natasha passing the kitchen and finding you half asleep over toast and scientific journals, then quietly taking the burned piece from the toaster before it could set off the smoke detector. You appearing at the shooting range door with a tool kit because Clint had mentioned Natasha was there, and you “just happened to be nearby.”

Natasha discovering, after a late briefing, a cup of black coffee already sitting on the counter near her usual seat in the conference room because you apparently remembered how she took it. You asking once, very casually, “Do you always scowl when you read, or only when the report is boring?”

Natasha replying, “Do you always hover in doorways, or only when you’re trying to distract me?”

You grinning. “Only when it works.” .And it did work. The problem, Natasha realized slowly and with some alarm, was not just that she liked being around you. It was that she was beginning to look for you.

In rooms, in passing conversations, in the spaces between one task and the next. Natasha would enter the kitchen and check automatically if you were there. She’d hear footsteps in the hall and know, absurdly, whether they were yours before turning. She found herself memorizing the difference between your work clothes and your sleep clothes, between your distracted smile and your delighted one, between the laugh you gave everyone and the quieter, softer one you seemed to save for when Natasha said something unexpectedly kind.

And you..you noticed. Natasha could tell you noticed because you started waiting less carefully. Smiling sooner. Letting your eyes linger a beat longer but neither of you said anything. But something was happening. Natasha had spent so much of her life around false intimacy that genuine tenderness felt almost more destabilizing than violence ever had. And yet she kept returning.

It went on like that for weeks. Time lost shape around the pattern of finding each other. Every excuse Natasha invented became thinner. Every smile you gave in response became more obvious in its affection. There were moments where the air between you felt so charged Natasha could almost hear it, when your hands brushed passing tools, when Natasha leaned too close to look at a screen, when you said her name in that softer voice you seemed not to use for anyone else.

Still, neither of you crossed the line. Until one afternoon Natasha walked into the lab and found you humming under your breath while sorting through a tray of tiny metal components. You looked up at the sound of Natasha entering and immediately laughed. “No.”

Natasha stopped. “No?”

“No fake equipment emergency today.” You pointed a screwdriver at her. “I’m setting boundaries.”

“That confident?”

“You’ve used gun problems twice, communication issues three times, and one completely fictional knife imbalance.”

Natasha lifted a brow. “You noticed.”

You stared at her. “Natasha.”

The way you said her name was almost enough to undo her on the spot. She stepped further into the lab and you set the screwdriver down slowly. Something in the air shifted and Natasha stopped on the other side of the bench and looked at you for a long moment, letting the silence stretch.

There were many ways Natasha knew how to do difficult things. This one felt absurdly harder than most of them. She had faced weapons pointed at her without blinking. Had lied to kings and killers and monsters. Had survived rooms built to break people. And still, this..standing in warm afternoon light with one brilliant girl looking at her like she mattered made her pulse feel less manageable than combat.

“You know.” Natasha said at last, voice lower than usual, “for someone so observant, you’ve missed something.”

Your breath caught just slightly. “What?”

Natasha held your gaze. “I keep coming back.” she said, “because I want to see you.”

Natasha took one step closer and the space between you narrowed. “I don’t need an excuse.” she continued, “Not really. I just…” She exhaled softly, something like a laugh at herself. “I wasn’t sure how not to make it obvious.”

At that, you smiled and then smiled harder. And then, to Natasha’s helpless affection, smiled so much it looked almost impossible for one face to hold. “You are saying this..” you said with happiness, “while standing in front of a week and a half of evidence.”

Natasha actually laughed once under her breath. “Yes.”

You put both hands over your own mouth for a second as if trying to physically contain how much you were smiling and failing completely. That made Natasha’s chest ache in the gentlest way.

“There it is..” Natasha murmured.

You lowered your hands. “There what is?”

“That smile.”

You looked positively luminous now. “You did that.”

For a beat, Natasha could only look at you. Then she decided there was no point in halfway measures anymore. “Come to dinner with me.” she said.

You blinked and Natasha went on before either of you could retreat. “A real dinner. Somewhere outside this tower. No broken weapons or fake emergencies. No pretending I was in the area.”

Your eyes widened just slightly and Natasha’s voice softened. “A date.” And that did it..you smiled so widely Natasha thought, absurdly, that if Tony walked in now he’d probably assume some major scientific breakthrough had happened.

“Yes.” you said immediately. Natasha felt warmth spread through her so suddenly and completely it almost left her unsteady. You laughed again, softer this time, shaking your head at yourself. “Sorry. I could’ve played that cooler.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

Your expression turned almost unbearably fond. “You asked me on a date. There was never any chance of cool.”

Something in Natasha’s face must have softened, because your own smile gentled in response.

“When?” you asked.

“Tomorrow night?”

You nodded too quickly. “Tomorrow night is perfect.”

“You don’t know where we’re going.”

“I don’t care.” Natasha’s brow lifted. “That sounds irresponsible.” You leaned forward slightly over the bench between you, eyes bright. “I trust you.”

The words hit deeper than they should have or perhaps exactly as deep as they should have. Natasha looked at you for a moment longer, then let herself smile. “Tomorrow night.” Natasha repeated.

“Tomorrow night.” you echoed, still smiling like the sun had personally chosen you. Natasha turned to leave before she could do something reckless like stay there just to keep looking at you.

Halfway to the door, she heard you call after her.

“Natasha?” You stood where she had left you, hands braced against the workbench, happiness still written all over your face in ways you had clearly made no effort to hide.

“I’m really glad your gun was broken all those times.” you said.

Natasha smiled and the sight seemed to light you up even more. “Me too.”

The next day, Bruce was at the central console, reading through streams of salvaged code with the deep frown that meant his mind was moving too fast for his body to keep up. Tony stood a few feet away, one hand braced against the edge of a workbench, flipping through projected diagnostics with terse and irritated flicks of his fingers. And you sat cross legged on a wheeled lab stool in the middle of it all, staring at a broken Ultron processor fragment as if you personally intended to insult it into revealing its secrets.

There was a difference in you today. Tony noticed it first because Tony noticed changes in the people he loved with the intensity of a man who would rather die than admit how often he worried. “You’re smiling at dead code..” he said without looking up. “That’s either deeply concerning or wildly adorable. I haven’t decided which.”

You didn’t glance away from the screen. “Maybe I’m in a good mood.”

Bruce looked up briefly over the rim of his glasses. “That’s suspicious.”

You gasped softly in mock offense. “Wow. Betrayed by both of you in under ten seconds.”

Tony finally turned his head, narrowing his eyes at you. “No, no. There’s a thing here.” He pointed at your face. “That expression. That is not your usual ‘I’m about to defeat technology with hatred’ expression.”

You rolled your stool back a little with a nudge of one socked foot. “I have more than one expression.”

Tony snorted. “Questionable.”

Bruce, far kinder and therefore far more dangerous in moments like this, asked mildly, “Does this have anything to do with tonight?”

You blinked once and Tony straightened immediately. “Oh my God.”

“No.”

“Oh my God!” he repeated, more delighted now. You dragged both hands over your face. “Please don’t do this.”

Tony’s grin went wicked in under a second. “Romanoff..” Bruce tried to hide a smile and failed. “Tony.”

“What?” Tony said innocently. “I’m just connecting data points. Bright mood, distracted behavior..Rechecked one outfit three times in the reflection of the vibranium cabinet this morning..”

You whipped around on the stool so fast it squeaked against the floor. “How do you know that!?”

“Because this is my lab and you are not subtle.”

Bruce coughed into one hand, clearly suppressing laughter now. You groaned and slumped forward until your forehead nearly hit the console. “I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t.” Tony said immediately, “You are glowing and I’m very happy for you and also personally offended.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. “You are impossible.”

“And yet beloved.”

Bruce, still scanning the code, added quietly, “You seem really happy, Y/n.”

That softened something in you and you looked down at your hands and tried very badly to hide a smile. “I am.”

Then the doors to the lab slid open and Natasha stepped inside. It was ridiculous, the way your entire face changed. It happened in an instant, like someone had turned a light toward you from the inside.

Natasha saw it and despite all the training in the world, despite every hard lesson that had taught her to contain every visible reaction before it could betray her, she felt that same quiet warmth bloom low in her chest. It had been happening more often lately.

Natasha leaned one shoulder against the doorframe as it shut behind her. She had changed out of training clothes and into something simpler. The kind of look that always seemed effortless on her even when it absolutely wasn’t.

“Hi.” you said, and even that one little word sounded too bright.

Natasha’s mouth curved at one corner. “Hi.”

She stepped further into the room and for a second, neither of you said anything else.Not because you had nothing to say, but because you had too much and there were people here and the air had changed again in that charged, delicate way that always seemed to happen when you looked at each other too directly for too long.

Tony, naturally, ruined it. “She’s been weird all day..” he announced and you whirled. “Tony!”

Natasha arched one brow. “Weird?”

“Glowy“ Tony corrected. “Distracted and smiling at inanimate objects.”

“They’re not inanimate, they’re inactive!” you shot back automatically.

Bruce murmured, “That wasn’t really the point..”

Natasha folded her arms, eyes still on you. “Is that true?”

You looked somewhere between horrified and delighted. “I am being publicly slandered.”

Natasha let the silence stretch just enough to make you squirm. Then she said, very quietly, “A little.” And just like that, your expression softened into something almost helplessly fond.

Bruce removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We are working.”

“Yes, Doctor Banner, we’re aware.” Tony said. “Unlike these two, who are apparently starring in a deeply irritating subplot.”

You reached behind you without looking and threw a rolled up cleaning cloth at him. He caught it midair with a look of personal betrayal. Natasha stayed where she was a moment longer, then moved closer to the main console.

“What are we looking at?”

Bruce’s expression shifted immediately, all humor draining out beneath the seriousness of the work. He tapped one of the projected files open. “Recovered fragments from one of Ultron’s secondary processing cores. We thought it was dead. It wasn’t.”

“Anything useful?” Natasha asked.

“Maybe.” you said, rolling your stool aside so Natasha could see the data. “Or catastrophic..still deciding.”

Natasha glanced at you. “Comforting.”

You smiled. “I try.”

Bruce pointed to a dense string of layered architecture. “This section doesn’t map cleanly to the rest of Ultron’s behavioral code.”

Tony’s jaw tightened. “Which means if he built it as a contingency, he expected to lose parts of himself and survive anyway.”

Natasha looked back at the processor fragment on the containment platform. She had lived too long to trust things that looked harmless. “You think it’s still active.”

“We think..” Bruce said carefully, “it might become active if it finds the right pathway.”

That did not improve anything. You spun slowly on your stool, studying line after line of code. “We’ve kept it isolated. Sandbox only. No live connection to tower systems. No remote access, nothing it should be able to jump through.”

Tony folded his arms. “Should being the important word there.”

Natasha’s gaze lingered on you for a beat. “And after this?”

You looked up. “After this what?”

“Tonight.”

It was a simple question and it landed like a spark. Your entire face lit again before you could stop it. “Tonight..” you repeated, trying and failing to sound calmer than you felt. “Right.”

Tony muttered something about needing stronger alcohol and Bruce looked fixedly at a blank corner of the lab. Natasha let herself enjoy your visible happiness for just a second longer. “Are you almost done here?”

You glanced at the processor shard, then back at Natasha. “I should be.”

“That doesn’t sound confident.”

“It’s science..” you said. “Confidence is how things explode.”

Tony lifted one finger. “Correct!”

Natasha’s mouth twitched. “Should I be worried?”

You leaned in just slightly, lowering your voice like this wasn’t a room full of people with excellent hearing. “About the date or the lab?”

“Both.”

A tiny laugh escaped you. “Date? No.”

“And the lab?”

You glanced at the processor again, and for the briefest second something in your face tightened. “Undecided.”

Natasha held your gaze another moment, then nodded once. “Don’t be late.”

Your expression turned wonderfully stricken and pleased at the same time. “I won’t.”

Natasha almost smiled, then pushed away from the console. “I’ll leave you to it.”

But she didn’t go far. Only to one of the side stations, where she pretended to check a tactical update while the voices behind her rose and fell through the rhythm of work. For a few minutes, the lab felt almost normal. You were alive in this room in a way you were nowhere else. Natasha listened with half an ear and found herself already thinking ahead to later, to where she might take you, to what you might wear, to whether you’d be nervous or smiling or both.

Then suddenly every screen in the lab flickered and Bruce stopped typing. A tone sounded overhead, but not yet an alarm but close enough to make every nerve in Natasha’s body sharpen. “FRIDAY?”

The AI answered immediately, but her voice carried a subtle distortion Natasha had never heard before. “Sir, I am detecting unauthorized activity within the isolated processor chamber.”

You were already moving. You slid off the stool and crossed to the containment platform, bringing up diagnostics in a blur of blue light. “That’s not possible..”

On the sealed tray in the center of the chamber, the damaged Ultron fragment pulsed once red, the color hit the room like a gunshot. “Back up!“ Bruce said sharply.

Natasha was already moving closer to you, not away and the red pulse flashed again. Then the chamber glass filled in one terrible second with branching silver black threads, like frost racing over a window except this frost moved with intention. It spread across the inside of the containment case in writhing, microscopic filaments, splitting and rejoining, devouring the surface in spiderweb patterns too fast to track.

You went pale. “What the hell-”

Bruce’s voice changed first. “Tony..?”

Tony was already seeing it. “I know.”

Code erupted across the nearest screens in violent bursts. “FRIDAY, lock it down.” Tony snapped.

“I am attempting containment.” she said and this time the distortion in her voice was worse.

The chamber itself gave a high mechanical shriek and Natasha saw it then , a seam opening beneath the processor cradle, venting a faint silver vapor into the reinforced casing. Not smoke, but particles. Thousands of them, moving like dust with a mind of its own. Bruce’s face lost what little color it had. “Oh no.”

“What?” Natasha demanded.

Bruce stared at the readings with naked horror. “It isn’t just code..”

You were typing so fast your hands blurred. “It’s built into a nanite substrate-”

“A hybrid vector.” Bruce finished, already moving toward another terminal. “Digital transmission and airborne replication. If the chamber breaks seal-”

“It spreads through the lab.” Tony said and Bruce looked at him. “Through the tower.”

Natasha’s stomach dropped cold. “How far?”

Bruce didn’t answer fast enough, but you did. “If it gets into the main ventilation or system core, not just the tower..” you said, voice thin now, all the brightness burned out of it. “Outside..Hospitals, defense grids, anything what’s connected. Anything breathing near enough to inhale particulate expos-“ Now, the first real alarm went off.

“Containment breach imminent.” FRIDAY said. “Emergency quarantine recommended.”

“Recommended?!” Tony barked. “Do it!”

The lab shuddered and heavy blast shutters began dropping over the exterior glass with deafening force. Internal doors disengaged with a series of mechanical clanks. The central chamber hissed as pressure systems shifted around it. On the main display, a tower map lit up red and yellow in spreading sectors.

Your eyes flicked over it once and widened. “No.”

“What?” Natasha snapped.

You pulled up the quarantine sequence and felt the blood drain from your face. “The inner seal didn’t engage.”

For one impossible second nobody moved. Then everything happened at once. On the display, one quarantine door, the final barrier between the infected chamber and the rest of the lab remained half open, jammed on some internal fault. Past it, silver black particulate already streamed into the air like glittering ash.

“If that door doesn’t shut..” Bruce said, voice low with dawning certainty, “..the whole floor is exposed.”

Tony was already running toward the emergency override panel. “FRIDAY, manual seal!”

“Manual seal unavailable from current terminal.” she replied. “Override required at interior control station.”

Natasha turned sharply. The interior control station was on the wrong side of the spreading breach, way too far and too late: “Everyone out.” Tony ordered.

“Tony-” you started.

“Now!”

The command in his voice cut through all argument and Natasha grabbed your wrist. “Move.”

They ran. Bruce was ahead, sprinting for the outer corridor and Tony slammed one control after another as he moved, trying to trigger backup containment from every available point. The lab lights strobed red white red white. Behind them the infected chamber screamed as metal warped under pressure. Screens burst one by one into static, code spilling and crawling. Natasha kept hold of you as you ran, fingers locked around your wrist and for one split second in the middle of the catastrophe, she felt you squeeze back. Then you looked over your shoulder and saw it. The main quarantine display on the wall to their left flashed a single brutal message in red:

FINAL SEAL FAILURE - MANUAL ENGAGEMENT REQUIRED Below it, a countdown began.

00:09

00:08

“No..” you breathed and Natasha saw you see it and tightened her grip immediately. “Don’t.”

But you had already turned enough to understand what it meant. If the final seal stayed open, the virus would leave the chamber entirely. It would get into everything and everyone. Natasha yanked at you harder. “Y/N!”

Tony had reached the outer threshold, Bruce just ahead of him, both of them shouting now, the exit corridor only a few yards away. But the countdown kept falling.

“I can close it!” you said.

Natasha’s heart lurched so hard it felt like impact. “No!”

“There’s an interior override-”

“Y/N, no!”

Tony turned, hearing it and his face changed in a way Natasha would remember for a very long time. “Don’t you dare.”

00:05

There are moments in life that do not feel like decisions until after they are over. This was one of them. You pulled free, a sharp twist of your wrist, and a burst of movement, instinct carrying you before thought could catch up. Natasha’s fingers slipped and for one stunned half second she thought you were only stumbling. Then you ran back toward the interior station.

“No!” Natasha shouted, the word tearing out of her raw and uncontrolled and Tony was yelling too now. Bruce swore and turned as if he might go after you, but the chamber behind them cracked with a noise like splitting bone and a stream of silver black particles burst wider into the open air.

00:04

You reached the panel ans slapped one hand against the glass screen, the other flying over the controls with terrifying speed. The inner barrier began to descend.

“Y/N, GO!” Tony screamed, but you were already too deep. The final seal came down with catastrophic speed and the outer quarantine doors, sensing the containment completion, roared shut in automatic sequence. Natasha lunged too late. The blast door slammed between them with a force that shook the floor and silence hit like a physical blow. Someone was breathing too hard, maybe all of them, but the kind of silence that comes when reality fractures so violently the mind cannot keep up.

Natasha stared at the sealed glass and steel wall in front of her. On the other side, through the reinforced quarantine barrier, you stood frozen at the manual override station. Your hand was still resting against the panel and your chest rose and fell too fast. The red emergency lights painted your face in flashes and for a second you only looked at the door, not understanding, but then it arrived. Natasha saw the exact moment it did. You stepped back once, eyes widening, gaze flicking from the sealed barrier to the spreading silver black haze still trapped in the inner chamber behind you. You hadn’t meant to stay, that was the unbearable part. You had only meant to save them..

“O-Oh my God..” you whispered, though no one could hear it through the glass. Natasha hit the barrier hard enough that pain shot through both palms.

“Y/N!”

The sound of her own voice shocked her too loud, too raw and stripped of every layer of control she usually wore like armor. Your head snapped toward her. On the other side of the barrier, you looked impossibly young all at once. Not because you were weak, because shock had peeled everything else away. Tony reached the glass an instant later. “Open the damn door!” he barked.

“Containment breach isolated.” FRIDAY said. “Warning: reopening quarantine will trigger uncontrolled viral release.”

Tony whirled toward the nearest terminal like he might tear it apart with his hands. “I said open the-”

“Tony.” Bruce’s voice was quiet and terrible. He stood a few feet back, staring at the containment readings projected overhead. The numbers changed too fast, pulsing with contamination growth, airborne density, system corruption markers. His face had gone deathly still.

“If that seal opens..” Bruce said, every word forced out through horror, “..it gets out.”

Tony looked at him as if he had spoken in another language. Bruce swallowed once, “Not just here. Everywhere.”

Natasha’s hands stayed pressed flat against the glass. On the other side, you took one shaky step towards her. You stopped just inches from the barrier, your face when you looked at Natasha..God. It was shock, yes. Fear, absolutely. But beneath both there was something worse. You looked apologetic, like you were sorry.

“Open it..” she said, voice low and lethal now, not looking away from you. “Find a way.”

Tony was already doing exactly that. He tore through one interface after another, dragging up release protocols, purge options, venting pathways, reverse seals. “There has to be a bypass. There is always a bypass.”

“There is..” you said, but they couldn’t hear you through the barrier, but they saw the shape of the words. Tony stared and you lifted a trembling hand and pointed once toward the exterior control panel. Then you shook your head. No bypass they could use, not safely.

Bruce reached the same conclusion a second later. “She’s right.” Tony rounded on him with a fury so sharp Natasha half expected the room to ignite. “Don’t.”

Bruce didn’t flinch. “The viral particulate is stable only because the quarantine is holding pressure and temperature around it. If we break the seal now, we aerosolize the entire substrate.” He looked toward you again, devastation cracking through his voice. “We wouldn’t just lose the tower.”

Natasha could barely breathe around the pressure in her chest. On the other side of the glass, you pressed one hand lightly against the barrier and it wrecked Natasha. Without thinking, sh lifted her own hand to match it on the opposite side. Glass between them..Only glass and it might as well have been the end of the world. Your eyes locked on hers, you looked stunned still, like part of you had not caught up with what your body had done. You looked like someone who had been on the verge of leaving for dinner and had instead stepped directly into a nightmare. Natasha’s throat tightened so hard it hurt.

Tony’s voice broke the air behind her. “FRIDAY, I want every containment model, every antiviral option, every nanite disruption sequence, every goddamn solution you can think of.”

“Yes, boss.” FRIDAY replied immediately.

Bruce was already moving toward another station. “We need to know whether exposure’s begun, whether it’s only airborne, whether it can cross skin, whether it mutates-”

Tony snapped, “Then figure it out!”

“I’m trying!”

Natasha barely heard them. All of her attention stayed on you. A thousand things crowded at once behind her ribs, all fighting for the same impossible space, fear, helplessness, rage and beneath all of it a terrible, piercing tenderness she could no longer deny or control. This was supposed to be your night..She had been thinking, only minutes ago, about dinner and laughter and where to take you and whether you would smile like you always did when you got nervous and excited at the same time. Now there was a reinforced quarantine wall between you and a virus on the other side that could kill millions if it escaped.

Your eyes flicked down once, then back up. You mouthed something and Natasha read it instantly. I’m sorry. Something inside her snapped. “No.” Natasha said, fierce and immediate, even though you couldn’t hear. She shook her head hard once. “Don’t.”

You stared at her and Natasha swallowed against the burn in her throat and forced the words out anyway, slower this time, so there would be no chance of misunderstanding. “You do not apologize.” Recognition flickered in your face and then pain. Then something so soft and shattered in your expression Natasha had to curl one hand into a fist against the glass just to keep from breaking with it. Behind her, Tony spoke again, but his voice had changed. It had gone quieter, which was somehow worse.

“She saved us..” No one answered because what answer was there? That was the truth sitting in the center of the room, bright and merciless. You had seen the failed seal..You had understood what would happen if no one acted..and you had run back and now you were sealed inside because of it.

Tony stopped moving altogether. He stood at the console staring through the glass at you, and for one terrible instant Natasha saw not Iron Man, not the billionaire genius, not the man who always had another idea, another machine, another impossible save. Just Tony. Just a man who had once watched your father die because of the world he built and now stood helpless on the other side of another door. His face crumpled for only a second, so brief most people would have missed it. Bruce looked between them all and seemed to age five years in as many breaths. “We’ll find something.” he said, and it was impossible to tell whether he was promising them or himself. “We’ll find something.”

Natasha’s hand stayed where it was, you’re stayed there too. And in the awful quiet between alarms, Natasha remembered the way you had smiled that morning in the kitchen. The way you had promised not to be late. The way your whole face had lit when Natasha walked into the room. The way you had looked seconds before everything went wrong, alive with anticipation, with happiness, with the fragile hope of something beginning.

All of that was still here. Trapped and held in place by glass and steel and the knowledge that opening one door could condemn millions. Tony took one step toward the barrier. “Kid.” he said, voice breaking on the word and your eyes shifted to him. He put his palm flat against the glass too, a few feet away from where Natasha stood.

“I’m getting you out.” he said and no one in the room believed in impossible things more stubbornly than Tony Stark. And the first time, Natasha needed him to be right. Your lower lip trembled once before you caught it between your teeth and steadied yourself and nodded.

The sight nearly undid Natasha. She pressed her hand harder against the barrier and on the other side trapped in the poisoned light of the sealed lab, you fought to hold back your tears, while the virus hissed and shimmered behind you like a living threat. The date never came, the night had not even started and still, somehow, everything had already changed. Three people outside the glass stood there in helpless, brutal clarity, staring at the girl inside and knowing with absolute certainty that if that door opened before they found a cure..millions would die.

Because once upon a time, Wanda was the star of the PTA meetings, and definitely the star in the baked goods department. She’d always been great when it came to baking, and had finally seemed to find an outlet (however unconventional) to showcase those skills. She’d bring all kinds of goodies to the meetings: scones, banana bread, cookies, pies. People were always clamoring to learn the recipe, to figure out Wanda’s secret.

How did Wanda balance motherhood; wrangling two twin boys and juggling all their activities and extra curriculars, while still finding time to get her hands dirty in the kitchen? And well. Wanda was self-aware. She knew she loved the attention, the hype. But if she’d known how short-lived it would all be, she probably would’ve allowed herself to bask in it more.

All last year, Wanda had been the PTA champion. But now? One month into this new school year, you came along and stole all of Wanda’s thunder. Because you just so happened to be a baking expert as well, and wasn’t that just fantastic?

Though Wanda knew it wasn’t just been your baking skills that had everyone obsessed. She also believed it had a lot to do with you being a fish out of water. You’d moved here from out west. Somewhere in California, if Wanda had heard correctly. It was the accent, had to be. No twang. Not quite Valley Girl. Way too many “likes” every few words, if Wanda was being honest. She didn’t get it. It’s not like you were the only city folk to ever move here. But the way you got treated? You’d think you were god herself.

Now, you catch Wanda’s eye across the gym and you smile. To anyone else, that smile probably would’ve read as genuine. Even pretty. But to Wanda, it didn’t read as anything other than a shit-eating grin. She scowls and looks away.

Soon, the PTA meeting is drawing to a close, and Stella, the team leader, claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. She rattles off a few closing announcements that Wanda is only partially listening to, until she hears the words ‘field trip’ and her ears perk up. Before she can stop herself, she’s blurting out, “We can have the next meeting at my house. I’ll cook.”

The room falls silent and 40 pairs of eyes fall on Wanda.

“We’ll need to plan for the upcoming field trip, right? And we won’t be able to use the gymnasium next weekend because the kids will be having their fall dance,” Wanda’s mouth is moving as if on autopilot now. “…so I don’t mind hosting at my place.”

More silence meets Wanda’s words, and just when she’s starting to sweat, you pipe up. “Well, I think it’s a great idea. Now, we won’t have to cancel.”

Wanda’s face burns. Of all people to agree with her. But before she can snap that she doesn’t need your help, Stella speaks again. “You make a good point, y/n. And you too, Wanda. So it’s settled. Next week’s meeting will be held at Wanda’s house.”

Wanda’s body goes rigid. She should be happy about this, right? This is what she wanted. Except no. She hadn’t wanted you to be credited for her idea.

You beam Wanda’s way again, your eyes bright. What, does she want a cookie? Wanda thinks bitterly to herself. For simply agreeing with me? Wanda audibly scoffs, looking away from your preposterously-deep eyes. Well, she didn’t need your help. In fact, she didn’t need anyone’s.

***

Wanda had been up cooking since six a.m. She was preparing for tonight’s PTA meeting, yes, but at the speed she was going? You would think it was the end of the world.

By ten a.m, she had all of her desserts finished. And the next hour consisted of checking on the food in the slow cooker, cleaning up the kitchen and living room, making sure her boys’ respective bags were packed (they were spending the weekend with their father) and of course, popping little hands away that tried to sneak a taste of the party food.

By the time the boys’ father came at noon to whisk them away for the weekend, the sky had darkened significantly, replacing the earlier sunshine of the morning, and it dawned on Wanda then that she’d forgotten to check today’s weather forecast. She’d foolishly thought that if it did rain, it would be little other than a light drizzle, and that it was sure to peter out before evening time came. But as the day wore on, the sky only got darker, and by two o’clock, it was already pouring.

Still Wanda held out faith that the storm wouldn’t last. Though the chances of having completely clear skies within the next four hours were slim, Wanda would settle for no rain and leftover humidity. But when the rain still didn’t let up, Wanda began to lose hope. And sure enough, at a quarter to six, the rain check texts started pouring in.

After the third consecutive text, Wanda lowered her phone, looking around at all her hard work. All the effort she’d put in to planning this night, preening over how tonight’s party was sure to be the talk of the town. How no one would even care about your stupid sticky buns anymore, because they’d all be too busy gushing over Wanda’s showmanship. All of those hopes effectively washed out by a goddamn rainstorm.

Wanda was just about to accept defeat and start putting the food away, when her doorbell rang. Wanda froze. Someone was here. Someone had decided to come anyway, despite the storm.

A feeling like triumph bloomed in Wanda’s chest and she practically raced to her front door to answer it. But the face she sees on the other side is one she wasn’t expecting.

There you stood in a raincoat and rain boots, hair slightly damp from the rain. In your hands, you gripped a container. Wanda hadn’t realized she’d been staring at you wide-eyed, but you certainly did, and a nervous laugh bubbles up from your throat.

“Sorry, hi,” you say, speaking a little louder to be heard over the rain that was currently performing a militant march against your roof. “I wasn’t sure if you’d cancelled. There weren’t any updates to the group chat or anything, so…I figured it was still on. I…guess I’m the only one?” you peer out at Wanda’s driveway as you say this, noting Wanda’s Explorer as the only vehicle there.

Wanda glowers at you, fixing her mouth to tell you to get lost, but then your eyes flicker back to hers. The look in your eyes gives her pause. A mix of vulnerability and…maybe even pity in those deep eyes. She doesn’t know whether she wants to tell you off or pull you closer, to check and see if your skin was as warm as it looked, despite the rain coming down around you.

Oh for god’s sake. Where did that thought come from? Wanda thinks to herself.

She clears her throat, trying to get her bearings back. “Well, the PTA meeting is off,” she says stiffly. “But you shouldn’t be driving in this weather, and you came all the way here, so…you might as well come in and wait it out.”

Wanda could hardly believe the words she was saying. Here she was inviting you, you, a woman who might as well have been the bane of her existence, into her home. She must really be losing it.

“Thanks,” you chirp, stepping past Wanda into her foyer. She shuts the door behind you.

“Coat closet is to your left,” Wanda says, eyeing the puddle of water that was collecting at your feet. She’d have to mop later.

“Thanks,” you say again, shrugging off your rain jacket and stowing it in the linen closet to your left.

As you turn back to face her, Wanda takes in your outfit. You looked nice, though she loathed to admit, in your cropped white turtleneck and dark, high-waisted jeans. And even though your hair was wet, Wanda had to admit it didn’t take away from how pretty you were. If anything, it made you look prettier. Damn near ethereal.

Her eyes fall on the rain-dappled container you still held in your hands. You follow her gaze. “Oh, I wasn’t sure if it would be okay to bring anything, but I brought over a few pieces of pound cake that I made,”

Of course you did.

“Right,” Wanda says. “Well, the kitchen is just through here. You can just set it on the counter,” Wanda leads the way through her foyer and into her kitchen, with you sloughing off your rain boots and following behind her.

She watches you look around as you walk into her kitchen, taking in your surroundings as you carefully deposit your container of pound cake onto her counter, right next to the lemon cake she’d made for tonight.

“I love the walls,” you say. “Did you paint them yourself?”

Wanda glances at her kitchen walls as if seeing them for the first time. “Yeah,” she replies. “I did,” the walls were a pretty shade of mauve with peonies—Wanda’s favorite flower—painted along the baseboards.

“It was actually project of mine that I’d been wanting to get around to for months,” Wanda continues to explain her process, though she isn’t sure why. “I couldn’t stand that awful beige color it was before, so this past summer, I finally hunkered down and repainted. Gave my kitchen a makeover,”

You nod, taking all of this in as you continue to browse. Wanda looks around too, but she’s looking to make sure nothing is out of place. She’d cleaned her kitchen earlier, yes, but she’s checking to make sure she hadn’t left out a dirty dish rag or something. She isn’t sure why this would embarrass her so much even if she did. Why did she care what you thought of her kitchen? Her style of decor? She didn’t. She couldn’t.

Wanda clears her throat again and moves around the kitchen island to the counter on the other side. Here, she grabs a bottle of wine and opens the cabinets in search of her good wine glasses. “Well, I was saving this for the function, but I guess since it’s just me and you…” Wanda turns back and walks over to you, setting one glass in front of you and keeping the other for herself. “Would you like some wine? I actually sprang for the good stuff, believe it or not,”

You smile gratefully. “I’d love some, thank you,”

Wanda nods, and pours some into your glass, the burgundy liquid sloshing into the cup. Then, she pours some for herself, eager to hurry and take a sip to calm her nerves.

You lift your wine glass toward hers. “To getting rained out?” you joke.

Wanda smiles, even though she’d really like to grit her teeth. She knows she shouldn’t take it personally, knows you probably weren’t trying to be ugly, but then why did it feel like someone had just rubbed salt in her wound. Wanda prided herself in being a good host, and now tonight, she wouldn’t even get a chance to prove it.

“To giving a damn,” she counters. “Even if the weather doesn’t give a damn about us,”

“Hear, hear!” You say, clinking your glass against Wanda’s before taking a swig of its contents. “Mm. This is the good stuff, by the way. Very nice,”

A drop of wine misses your mouth and Wanda watches as it makes its all the way down your bottom lip, heading for your chin before you swipe it away with your tongue. Suddenly, her entire face feels too hot and she takes a sip of her wine to cool off. She’s suddenly feeling off-balance. Completely off-balance. She’d had so many petty comments she’d been ready to levy at you, but now standing with you at her kitchen counter, sharing wine while ignoring the intoxicating scent of perfume coming off of you, Wanda couldn’t remember a single sassy thing she’d wanted to say.

“So,” you break the silence before Wanda gets the chance. “Where are your little ones? I’m surprised that all of the food you made seems to still be in tact. No successful swipings, huh?”

Wanda tries not to smile, but it’s impossible, involuntary whenever she gets the chance to talk about her boys.

“Oh, they definitely tried,” she says. “But they’re with their dad for the weekend, so they have the misfortune of missing out on this little shindig,”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were separated,” you say, looking at Wanda with new interest. “How long?”

Wanda shifts somewhat uncomfortably. It’s not like she was ashamed to be separated. Divorcing her children’s father was the best thing she’d ever done for herself. It wasn’t that their father was a bad person. He was a great person, actually. But Wanda had realized that she could never love a man that way, that when she thought about who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, what they looked like, she pictured the soft skin and curves of a beautiful woman. And to ignore that and stay in her marriage, would be like choosing imprisonment.

Her ex-spouse had been a good sport about the whole thing, very supportive. But not everyone felt the same. And Wanda knew people talked about it. Talked about her. Whispered behind their hands like Wanda was some walking scandal. Hell, one woman would even cross herself every time she was merely in the same room with Wanda. Thank god she’d moved cities and no longer attended the PTA meetings, because Wanda wasn’t sure how much thinly-veiled bigotry she could take before she started defending herself with her fist.

So Wanda was always wary about any conversation with someone new that might’ve included having to out herself.

“Just over a year,” she answers. “It was an amicable split. We’re still great friends,”

“That’s wonderful,” you smile.

“What about you?” Wanda asks, realizing she actually didn’t know anything about you at all. Aside from the fact that you’d moved from California.

“Never married,” you reply. “I adopted my daughter a few years back. I wanted to be a mother so bad, but I was terrified of carrying a child. Always had been. And even if I weren’t, I definitely wasn’t having kids the old-fashioned way because I’m not attracted to men,” you laugh. “So I adopted my little one, and soon, we moved here,”

Wanda had been listening diligently to your explanation, but her brain snagged on a few very specific words: I’m not attracted to men. She’s not sure why, but she wants to tuck those words in a safe place. Play them over and over on a loop in her head like her favorite song.

Okay, so you were also queer. Great. Fantastic. There was absolutely no reason for Wanda to be excited by this information. So why was her heart beating faster?

Wanda is saved from having to think about any of this when the kitchen lights flicker above your heads once, twice, before going out completely. And it’s not just the kitchen lights either. The entire house has gone dark. A blackout surely orchestrated by the storm still raging outside.

“Oh, damn it all,” Wanda grumbles aloud, making you laugh.

“Got some candles anywhere?” You ask, carefully setting your wineglass down on the counter.

“Yeah, in the drawer next to the stove,” Wanda answers, blindly feeling her way around her kitchen island. Her hip catches a corner in the process, causing her to swear again, and another laugh from you follows. Wanda ignores both the pain shooting up her hip and the thought that you have a cute laugh, as she finally reaches the stove side of the kitchen island, doing so without any further incident.

She runs her hand along the side until she finds the hard knob of the drawer and pulls it open. Feeling in the dark, she locates the handle of a multi-purpose lighter and pulls it free. It takes another second before she can close her hand around the tea candles she kept in there too, but once she does, she pulls them out and lines them up on the counter, lighting each wick and creating enough light to see your face across the island.

“Have any more?” You ask. It’s a good question, Wanda figures, seeing as she seemed to be down to only three candles left.

“There are some scented ones on the mantle in my living room. I suppose you could light those,” Wanda says, handing you the lighter over the counter.

“Sure,” you say, and armed with Wanda’s multi-purpose lighter and your phone’s flashlight, you step carefully toward the living room.

Wanda doesn’t follow immediately. For a moment, she just stands at her kitchen counter, watching you walk away, just barely making out the switch of your hips as you go. Her heart is still beating a little faster than she’d like, and she takes a steadying breath to calm it.

This is nothing, she tells herself. She just needed to wait out the storm. Surely, the storm would end soon, the power would come back on, and then you’d be on your way. And Wanda wouldn’t have to think about any of the weird feelings that had been stirring inside her since you arrived.

Wanda grabs her wine glass, and yours, just to be nice, balancing the wine bottle in the crook of her elbow as well as she followed you into her living room.

You’d lit all of Wanda’s scented candles by the time she got there, filling the room with a mix of spicy and sweet scents.

“Hope it’s okay, I just lit them all,” you say. “Figured we needed all the light we could get, even if we have to settle for a small migraine in the process,”

“That’s fine,” Wanda says, walking over to her coffee table and setting the bottle of wine down. “I grabbed your wineglass for you, by the way,”

“Oh, thank you,” you take the glass from Wanda’s hand, downing another sip. Her eyes betray her, watching the way your lips wrap around the glass. She rips her eyes away as soon as she can snap out of it, and takes a seat on the couch.

Much to her chagrin (and okay, maybe a twinge of excitement as well), you cross the room too, sitting next to Wanda on the couch. There’s a respectable amount of space between the two of you now, but Wanda swears she can feel your body heat, and she can definitely smell your perfume, the sweet fragrance somehow coming through despite the scented candles assaulting her senses.

Wanda takes another dreg from her wineglass, hoping for some liquid courage. And the odds seem to be in her favor, a soft buzz starting to set in her head.

“So, uh, what made you want to leave California?” Wanda asks, needing desperately to fill the silence, to give her mind something to focus on that was not the divine-smelling woman beside her.

You shrug, tracing your finger around the lip of your glass. “A mix of things. I wanted the change of scenery, yes, but…I also think my little one will fair better here, rather than the big city we left behind,”

“How old is she?” Wanda asks. “Your daughter?”

You smile. “She just turned six,”

“Oh, she’s just a baby,” Wanda coos, momentarily forgetting herself.

“Yeah,” your smile broadens. “But she was having trouble when she first started school. The kids were mean. Which is crazy. I know that kids can be mean, but I figured she wouldn’t have to worry about that until hell, at least the third grade. But now, you’re telling me kids start getting mean in kindergarten?” you sigh, shaking your head.

“Anyway, I figured moving here would be better. And so far for her, it has been. She’s making so many new friends, and I can tell she’s happy here. And that’s what matters to me the most. My little bug’s happiness,”

Wanda feels herself smiling, a tightness in her chest. “You sound like a good mom,” she says softly.

“I try to be, at least,” you reply. “I try to be as involved as I possibly can. Joined the PTA because I wanted to feel like I was contributing to something, you know? And I’ve always loved to bake, so…imagine my shock when I start baking for the PTA meetings, and everyone’s telling me I could be on Master Chef or something,”

A week ago, Wanda would’ve seen this as humble bragging, and rolled her eyes, but maybe it was due to the wine swirling through her bloodstream; turning all her feelings around and making her feel soft and gooey. Instead, she smiles, even throws in a chuckle as she moves closer.

“You wanna hear something so deeply petty?” she asks, pretty sure she was slurring a bit as she spoke.

Your eyes light up. “Sure,”

Wanda’s grin deepens. “I actually loved your sticky buns last week. But I was…I dunno…in competition with you for so long. Because last year, everyone cared about the baked goods I would bring in, and I felt like a hero. Didn’t wanna share the limelight or admit that someone else could also be good at what I was good at,” Wanda takes a breath. “…and I couldn’t just be a woman and tell you that I thought you were good. I just had to keep competing,”

You smile sadly at her. “But you’re good too, Wanda. You’re great. And I didn’t come here looking for enemies. You know that, right?”

Wanda swallows hard, her cheeks blushing, and she takes another sip of wine as if that would steady her. “I know,” she says. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t try to be friends from the start,”

Your smile goes soft and you reach out, taking Wanda’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “That’s okay. I still like you. I have all this time, I’m not gonna stop now,”

Those words seem to do irrefutable damage to Wanda’s nervous system and her blush reaches her ears. She clears her throat, reaching for the wine bottle and upending the rest of it into her glass, once again, pulling a beautiful, amused laugh from your lips.

The next hour is spent just like that; the two of you drinking wine while telling each other everything about your respective lives. At some point, you’d both caved and had some of the food, throwing compliments back and forth about your respective dishes.

Somehow, you’ve reached the subject of your respective baking, and you’re now engaged in a clean argument about what makes the best apple turnovers. Wanda even finds herself spilling a few of her baking secrets, entrusting you with this information. In that moment, Wanda felt like she could tell you anything and her secrets would be safe with you. Then again, she was two and a half wine glasses deep by now.

“…I actually add a hint of spice to my icing,” Wanda says.

Your eyes seem to bug at this revelation. “No! Really?”

“Not a lot, not enough that you can even taste it, really. Just…a pinch,” Wanda holds up her thumb and index finger to indicate this. “Of paprika or pepper. But you have to get the measurements just right. If it’s even just a little unbalanced, you’re gonna have some really disgusting icing, and everything is ruined,”

You chuckle again and Wanda playfully shoves your shoulder. “You think it’s dumb, don’t you?” she accuses.

“No, no, not at all! I actually think it’s really innovative,” you reply, eyes widening in earnest. “I remember the apple turnovers you brought in a couple weeks ago, and I thought the icing was really good. Like, the best I’d ever tasted,”

“Now, you know my big secret,” Wanda says “Don’t you dare go running for the hills and telling everybody, because I’m not above hunting you down,”

“Don’t worry, Wanda,” you giggle. “Your secret’s safe with me,”

“Good,” Wanda leans closer, squinting playfully at you. “Because trust me, I know how to make people disappear. Or I know how to find people to make other people disappear. I’m very determined. I’m crafty,” Wanda was very sure she was slurring now, but she was too tipsy to care.

“That, I believe,” you say softly, and Wanda thinks it’s her imagination, the way you give her a once-over. It’s quick, but Wanda can feel the burn slowly spread through her entire body as you check her out. That was you checking her out, wasn’t it? Certifiably, it was.

Wanda swallows hard, her own eyes drinking you in. Your glossy eyes and flushed cheeks, beautifully backlit from the glow of the candles. You were so damn beautiful. And in that moment, it was the only thing Wanda could think about. The only thing she could focus on.

Which is probably why she doesn’t stop herself from reaching out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. And you lean into the touch, as if you’d expected it, your eyes flicking up, gazing at Wanda through your lashes.

Wanda can feel her heart beating against her ribs, following the motion with her eyes as she tucks your hair on the other side too, then lets her hand drop to your shoulder and slide down your arm. Your breath trips as she does, and it’s music to Wanda’s ears.

“Wanda…” you murmur, leaning further into Wanda’s space.

“Y/n…” she responds, her own voice sounding foreign to her own ears. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard it sound this husky before.

And because her wandering hand seems to have a mind of its own, it drops to your waist, cupping and pulling you closer, until your forehead just barely brushes hers.

She swallows hard, her eyes darting to your lips and then back to your eyes. Her brain fizzes as she watches your eyes follow the same trail. And then, you were meeting her gaze again, pupils completely blown. She knows it’s from the alcohol affecting her too, but she tells herself that in that moment, this was mutual. That you were just as attracted to her as she was to you. That you wanted to kiss her just as badly as she wanted to kiss you. Because in that moment, Wanda wanted to kiss you so badly. And so that’s exactly what she does.

Wanda closes the gap, her lips connecting with yours in a soft, tentative press. It’s chaste, just Wanda testing the waters. Not even enough for you to kiss her back. When she pulls away to gauge your reaction, your eyes are still closed, lips still softly puckered. You wait one second, two, before letting your eyes flutter open and catch on Wanda’s.

You stare into each other’s eyes, an entire silent conversation being had in that three-second window, and then, your hand was reaching up, cupping Wanda’s face. And she was tilting her head, leaning into you again, and stealing another kiss from your lips.

This one is deeper, longer. Wanda has a game plan this time, and it’s to pull as many wonderful sounds from your lips as she can. She starts by tilting her head back the other way, changing the angle. And this succeeds in pulling a soft noise from your mouth. Both of Wanda’s hands are on your waist now, and she pulls you into her. In the process, you lose your balance, stumbling on top of Wanda and bringing her down with you. The back of Wanda’s head hits the arm of the couch with a soft thud and she grunts.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I didn’t mean—“

“Shh,” Wanda kisses you again. “It’s fine, get up here,” she takes you by the hips, pulling you firmly onto her lap, and you gasp, your hands finding purchase on either side of Wanda’s head.

“You’re so beautiful,” Wanda murmurs against your lips as she breaks another kiss to trail her mouth down your neck instead. “So, so beautiful,”

To Wanda’s great relief, you tip your head back, giving her free real estate of your neck. And god, she takes it. Her mouth is greedy as it trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your heated skin, sure to leave marks in her wake.

“Wanda, oh god,” you moan, and Wanda can feel your hips shift against hers, looking for friction.

Wanda groans, biting down at the skin above your collar and making you moan. Her hands go under your sweater then, feeling the soft skin of your stomach. She pauses her onslaught of kisses to pull back and look at your face.

“Lift your arms for me?”

You nod without argument, lifting your arms and letting Wanda slide the sweater up and over your head. She’s careful to avoid the lit candles on the coffee table as she discards it. For a moment, she just lets her eyes scan your torso, then, she’s reaching for the clasp of your bra, snapping it off with one finger, staring at your perfect breasts when the material falls away.

“Baby girl, you’re a vision,” Wanda says before leaning in, kissing your throat, the peak of your shoulder, your arm, the valley between your breasts.

Your head lulls back, soft sighs escaping your lips, transitioning into moans when Wanda finally wraps her lips around one of your nipples. She hums into your skin, swirling her tongue around the peak, and pulling a soft cry from your lips. You rock your hips harder against Wanda, and her hands dig into your hips as she guides your movements.

“Wanda,” you moan, your hands digging into the other woman’s shoulders. “More, I need more…please…I wanna touch you too,”

Wanda releases your breast with a soft pop, then kisses your jaw, then your lips. “Then touch me too, pretty baby,” she drawls.

And you do just that, ridding Wanda of the flowy top she’d been wearing, her bra too. Wanda pulls herself to an upright position, and when her bare breasts press against your own, she moans.

“Shit, baby,” Wanda murmurs, her teeth nipping at your neck as her hips buck up into you, chasing the pleasure. “You feel so—“ Wanda cuts off with a soft ‘oof’ as you press her down against the couch cushion.

“I wanna go down on you,” you breathe against Wanda’s neck before kissing it. “Tell me I can. Please,”

Wanda’s heart is a riot in her chest and as she looks up at you, the way your chest rises and falls quickly, your beautiful chest wet from her mouth, desire pools in her gut and between her thighs.

“You can,” Wanda replies. “You absolutely can. God, I want you,”

You grin cheekily in response. Shit, now there’s a shit-eating grin. Wanda watches, her own chest heaving as you kiss your way down her body. Your fingers skillfully pop open the button of her jeans and slide the zipper down before pulling the fabric down Wanda’s legs. Wanda kicks them off, impatiently, letting them join the other discarded clothes on the living room floor.

You smile at Wanda’s panties and she thanks any god that will listen that she’d chosen cute underwear today. Hot pink cheekies to be exact. Not like she was expecting anything to happen at tonight’s PTA meeting. She’d just plainly wanted to feel cute. But that split second decision had definitely made all the difference, the look in your eyes close to feral, darkened with desire as you settled yourself between Wanda’s legs.

You place a kiss to each of Wanda’s trembling thighs before sliding her panties down at an agonizingly slow pace and, god, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this turned on by another person. Probably never. She hadn’t dated anyone in the year since she’d separated from the boys’ father. And a lot of that came from the fear of being a late bloomer lesbian in her late thirties. The only action she got was from her vibrator, and even that was becoming infrequent due to having little free time.

But this? This carnal burn she got as this beautiful woman rid her of her underwear, hot breath sliding just where Wanda needed it the most. She’d never felt this. And in that moment, she never wanted to feel anything else.

Your tongue licks a wet stripe up Wanda’s center, ending at her clit, and a curse escapes her lips. In reply, you smile and repeat the motion. And then you open her up with your tongue, lips working her over good and proper, breath fanning over her thighs.

Wanda’s gaze shot to her living room ceiling, her back bowing as delicious pressure tightened her stomach. Her hand snags on your scalp, pulling at your hair, which makes you moan into her, which makes Wanda moans again.

“Dear god, baby girl,” Wanda moans, her teeth catching on her lower lip. Wanda didn’t think there were words for how absolutely skilled your mouth was. She didn’t think she could find them if there were. Her hips rock in time with your ministrations, bucking up against your mouth. She was determined to keep her eyes open, her gaze on the ceiling, but when you sucked on her clit, hard enough to make her knees buckle, she cried out and her eyes squeezed shut.

She tried to focus on something else to keep herself from coming right then and there. Anything else. But everything else was bringing her closer too. Your perfume surrounded her and your hands, currently under her thighs and guiding her to rock against her mouth over and over and over, were about to send Wanda to an early grave.

“Taste so sweet,” you mumble against her, your tongue flicking forward and back before exploiting that one spot that had made Wanda about lose it the first time. “Sweeter than anything I’ve ever tasted. So hot and perfect,”

So Wanda really, really liked dirty talk. And now she found, she especially liked it when you were the one speaking. One more perfectly filthy phrase like that and she was liable to come apart at the seams.

And you, as if you were a mind reader, immediately rose to the challenge. “Come on, sweetheart. You’re so close. I know you want to come and I wanna give it to you. Taste so good, let me take you there,” and Wanda was no match for the velocity at which her orgasm hit her then.

Her body shakes, her vision going completely white. She thinks she may have screamed your name, but she’s not sure, all the blood rushing to her head now. Your mouth doesn’t stop moving until Wanda does, and when she does, you finally come up for air, chin glistening.

Wanda’s hand darts out, sliding around the back of your head and pulling your mouth to hers, paying no mind to the fact that your mouth was wet with the taste of her.

Wanda’s hands are greedy, and she paws at the remainder of your clothing, wanting you to be just as naked as she was. And you oblige her, sliding off your jeans and underwear, and slotting a leg between Wanda’s thighs to give her something to grind against. She immediately takes the bait, moaning when your thigh lines up perfectly with her center.

But she wants to pull the same noise from your lips, so she does the same, her thigh sliding in right where you need her, pulling a guttural moan from your lips.

“Fuck me,” Wanda practically growls, one hand sliding around to squeeze the swell of your ass. “Please,”

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” you breathe against her neck, before lifting your hips and bringing them back down, stirring up delicious friction that makes Wanda bite her lip.

Wanda mimics your movements, moaning at the slide of your wetness against her thigh, hers against yours. And your mouth has already gotten to work, sliding all over Wanda’s neck and chest and making her eyes roll back.

But it wasn’t just that, it was everything: your breasts sliding against Wanda’s with every move, your hands gripping her waist, the heat against her thigh as you grind against her. And you were so wet. She could feel it, feel you, with every pass.

“Wanna make you come,” Wanda pants, taking both your hands in hers, entwining your fingers.

You nod, soft pants escaping your lips now. “I’m so…I’m so close, Wanda. I’m so—“

“Look at me,” Wanda breathes. “Wanna watch you do it,”

You do as she says, meeting her eyes, and within seconds, you were falling apart completely. The sensation starts between your thighs, spreading out toward the rest of your body, and sending a fiery tingle up your spine. Your eyes roll back, a gorgeous moan tearing from your throat, and it’s the most beautiful thing Wanda’s ever seen and heard.

She kisses you everywhere: your neck, your lips, your temple, your shoulder. She keeps kissing you, slowly dragging you back down to earth, the reality of everything you’d just done together on her living room sofa.

You collapse on top of her, your head seeking refuge in her neck as you catch your breath, your hearts rapid and beating out of sync from each other.

Wanda’s hand goes to the back of your head, smoothing your unruly hair down. And in turn, you nuzzle against her neck before placing a kiss there. Wanda smiles, wrecked and sated. “That was incredible,”

“That doesn’t even feel like the right word, honestly,” you say with a breathless laugh before lifting your head to smile down at the woman beneath you.

Wanda raises a brow. “Incredible isn’t the right word?”

“Too small,” you shake your head. “I was thinking more along the lines of astonishing, extraordinary…”

“I was thinking you’re a dork,” Wanda says, but there’s an absence of malice in her voice. In fact, she cups your face and pulls you in for another kiss.

That seems to be the moment that the power decides to come back on, an abrupt stop to the atmosphere that had settled over the two of you. Wanda looks up at you then, thinking you’re even more beautiful in the light.

Shying away from Wanda’s gaze, you look around her living room and clear your throat. “Well, there goes the power. I guess we should…snuff out all these candles now?”

It’s also then that Wanda realizes that the rain outside has also stopped. The storm was over, and thus, so was the power outage. But Wanda didn’t want this to end. Whatever this was. She was sexually attracted, yes. But she also wanted to wake up with you tomorrow. Make you breakfast. Make you laugh. Listen to all your stories, all your anecdotes. And just enjoy your company.

“Or…” she says, placing a finger under your chin to turn your face back toward her. “We could pretend we hadn’t noticed the power came back on. Keep doing…what we were doing?” She punctuates her coy question with a kiss on your shoulder. “I mean…” Kiss. “…unless you have…” Kiss. “…somewhere else…” Kiss. “…you need to be?” Kiss.

With each kiss, Wanda makes her way further up until the final kiss ends on your lips. You smile into it, chasing Wanda’s lips before she pulls away.

“Nothing that important,” you breathe. “You could say I’ve cleared my schedule,”

“How fortunate for me,” Wanda says, giving you another kiss before gently extricating herself from beneath you. You shamelessly watch her naked form strut over to the light switch, and the last thing you see is that sexy smirk before she flips the switch, plunging her living room back into darkness.

Natasha nudged the metal door shut behind her with her foot, a plastic grocery bag swinging lightly from her hand. The single fluorescent strip overhead flickered before settling into a steady, tired buzz.

Across the room, Steve and Bucky stood near the center. Between them sat the man they’d grabbed during the escape from the warehouse. He was tied to a metal chair—hands zip-tied behind the backrest, ankles secured, posture rigid but unharmed. His face was tense, eyes darting between the two super soldiers towering over him.

Nat paused a moment, reading the room. No blood. No bruises. Just pressure.

Good.

“Anything?” she asked.

Steve glanced over at her. “No.”

Bucky shook his head slightly. “He hasn’t said much.”

The man shifted uncomfortably in the chair but stayed silent.

Nat set the grocery bag down on an overturned crate and began pulling things out—wrapped sandwiches, bottled water, a couple bags of chips. “Good news,” she said dryly. “I brought food.”

She tossed a sandwich toward Bucky. He caught it easily.

Steve took the other.

The man in the chair watched the food like a starving dog.

Nat noticed immediately. She grabbed the last sandwich, unwrapped it slowly, then took a bite while maintaining eye contact with him.

The message landed.

He swallowed.

Steve wiped his hands on a napkin and stepped back a little, giving Nat room. Bucky followed, leaning casually against a support beam—but still close enough that the prisoner knew exactly where he was.

Nat dusted crumbs from her fingers and dragged another crate across the concrete floor. The scrape echoed through the storage space. She sat down in front of the man, elbows resting on her knees. Calm and patient.

“Alright,” she said.

The man tried to hold her gaze. He lasted about three seconds before looking away.

Nat smiled faintly. “Let’s try this again.” She tilted her head slightly. “Who told you we were coming?”

The man said nothing. Not even a shrug.

Just silence.

Nat studied him for a moment, expression unreadable.

Steve leaned against a nearby crate, arms crossed, watching quietly. Bucky stood a few steps behind the chair, metal arm resting loosely at his side. Neither of them intervened.

Nat exhaled softly. “Okay.” She reached down to the holster at her thigh and drew one of her guns in a smooth, practiced motion. The man’s eyes tracked the weapon instantly.

Nat raised the gun slowly. Then aimed it directly at his groin.

The man froze.

For the first time since she’d walked in, he made a sound.

“…What are you doing?”

Nat didn’t answer. She simply watched him.

“You wouldn’t,” he said quickly, trying to recover his confidence. “You’re not gonna—”

The metallic rack of the slide cut him off as Nat chambered a round. The sound echoed sharply through the storage unit.

His confidence vanished. “Wait—”

Nat’s voice remained calm. “I’m going to start counting,” she said.

Both Steve and Bucky didn’t move. Neither of them looked surprised.

“Ten.”

The man swallowed.

“You can’t—”

“Nine.”

His breathing sped up.

“Eight.”

“Okay, okay—”

“Seven.”

His voice cracked. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Six.”

The barrel didn’t waver.

“Five.”

The man started shaking.

“Four.”

“WAIT.”

Nat’s finger rested lightly on the trigger.

“Three.”

“Okay! Okay!”

He leaned forward against the restraints, panic breaking through.

“I’ll talk!”

Nat didn’t lower the gun.

“Two.”

“Someone tipped them off!” he blurted.

Nat stopped counting.

“Go on.”

The man’s breathing was uneven now.

“I don’t know who it was,” he said quickly. “We never got a name.”

Nat’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Who gave the order?”

“A handler,” he said. “Remote. Voice only. But he said the intel came from someone who knew your team.”

Steve straightened slightly.

“Define knew,” Nat said quietly.

The man shook his head frantically.

“That’s all I got! I swear!”

Nat kept the gun steady.

“He said the source knew how you operate,” the man rushed on. “Your response times. Your entry patterns. That you’d come after the backup drive.”

Silence settled over the storage unit. Natasha’s eyes hardened slightly. “Then explain something to me,” she said calmly.

The man shifted in the chair.

“Why separate us?”

He didn’t answer.

Nat tilted her head, studying him.

“Why split Wanda and Y/N from us?” she continued. “And why bring thirty men for a retrieval mission?”

Still nothing.

The man stared at the floor.

Nat sighed softly. Then she lifted her gun again and pressed the barrel firmly against his groin.

The reaction was immediate.

“HEY—!”

“Answer the question,” Nat said quietly.

His breathing spiked.

“I—I told you everything—”

Nat pressed the gun harder.

The metal clicked lightly against the chair frame.

“You’re holding back.”

“NO, I—”

Nat’s voice remained calm. “Three seconds.”

The man panicked instantly.

“WAIT!”

Nat didn’t move the gun.

“One—”

“Okay! Okay!”

He leaned forward against the restraints, shaking now.

“They wanted enhanced targets!” he blurted.

Nat’s eyes narrowed. “Which ones.”

“They said if the trap worked we were supposed to split the team and grab whoever we could!”

Bucky straightened slightly behind the chair.

“Who,” Nat repeated.

The man swallowed hard.

“The brief listed priorities,” he said quickly.

Nat pushed the barrel a fraction closer.

“Say them.”

“The Winter Soldier!” he said immediately.

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

“And the wolf,” he finished quickly.

Silence fell again. Steve looked at Nat. The man kept talking now, words tumbling out. “They said those two were the priority targets if separation happened! Especially the wolf. That’s why there were so many of us—we were supposed to overwhelm you long enough to isolate the wolf and him!” The man signal to Bucky.

Nat lowered the gun slightly. “Capture,” she said.

The man nodded frantically. “Alive.”

Another heavy silence settled over the storage unit.

Steve’s voice came low. “Why those two?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t know! That wasn’t my clearance!”

Nat slowly stepped back. Her mind was already moving through the implications. Separate Y/N and Bucky, and capture them. Someone hadn’t just studied the Avengers. They’d built an operation around their specific weaknesses. And that meant the man had been right about one thing. The source didn’t just know the Avengers.

They knew them very well.

---

Wanda & Y/N’s POV

The next few days became a pattern.

Move.

Disappear.

Move again.

They followed Nat’s instructions exactly. Twenty-four hours in one place—no more. Then gone.

The first motel lasted one night. By morning they were already back on the road. 

A small bus station two towns over. Cash tickets. No questions asked. They sat near the back, backpacks at their feet, heads down. The bus rattled through farmland and sleepy towns while Wanda watched reflections in the windows and Y/N quietly tracked every movement around them.

No Avengers tech.

No powers in public.

No patterns.

Just two travelers moving west.

The second stop was a roadside inn near a truck route. Cheap carpet. Cigarette burns in the dresser. The kind of place where nobody remembered faces.

Y/N checked the room first. Habit. Door frame. Windows. Bathroom vent. Under the bed. Only after she gave a small nod did Wanda close the door.

They slept a little easier that night. Not much.

By the third day they were already crossing state lines.

Gas stations. Diners. Greyhound routes. Rides from strangers who didn’t care who they were as long as they paid for gas.

Y/N drove when they rented cars under fake names Wanda created with careful magic. Wanda navigated and watched the rearview mirror for the same headlights appearing twice.

Every town looked the same. Every night felt temporary.

Somewhere on the fourth evening they stopped at a diner outside a highway junction. The neon sign flickered. Inside smelled like coffee and frying oil. They took the booth closest to the exit.

Y/N automatically slid into the booth seat facing the door.

Wanda noticed. She always noticed.

It had become instinct now—Y/N’s back to the wall, eyes on entrances, every reflection in the diner windows giving her another angle of the room.

The waitress approached with a coffee pot and paused for half a second. Her eyes flicked over Y/N—taking in the height, the broad shoulders, the sharp features. A quick once-over, not hostile. Just… appreciative.

Wanda raised a brow.

The waitress didn’t linger long. She poured their coffee and walked away.

Wanda took a slow sip, pretending she hadn’t seen it. Then she set the mug down.

“Do you think they’re still looking for us?” she asked quietly.

Y/N didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were already moving around the diner—the trucker at the counter, the couple arguing softly near the window, the cook passing plates through the kitchen window. She catalogued every movement before finally looking back at Wanda.

“Yeah,” she said simply. Honest.

Wanda exhaled slowly.

Y/N tilted her head slightly, lowering her voice. “But we’re moving. Different states. Different routes.”

Her fingers tapped lightly against the coffee mug. “Makes it harder.”

Wanda nodded. Before she could respond, the waitress returned with a small notepad.

“Ready to order?”Her attention went immediately to Y/N. Not subtle about it either.

Wanda noticed. Of course she noticed.

Y/N, meanwhile, was still studying the menu like it required serious analysis. She didn’t even look up.

The waitress shifted her weight slightly, waiting.

Wanda watched the exchange over the rim of her coffee cup, expression carefully neutral.

Y/N finally spoke. “Burger,” she said, still looking at the menu. “Fries.”

The waitress lingered half a second longer than necessary. “Sure thing,” she said, voice a little brighter.

Wanda ordered next. “I’ll take the grilled chicken sandwich.”

The waitress scribbled it down but her attention kept drifting back to Y/N.

Y/N finished scanning the menu, apparently deciding nothing else on it was worth further thought. She closed it and handed it back. Only then did she look up.

Their eyes met briefly as she passed the menu across the table.

The waitress smiled. A wider one this time. “Be right back with that,” she said.

She walked away.

Wanda watched her go.

Then she slowly turned back to Y/N.

“…You have no idea that just happened, do you.”

Y/N frowned faintly. “What happened?”

Wanda leaned back in the booth.

“The waitress.”

Y/N blinked once.

“What about her.”

Wanda studied her for a moment, then shook her head slightly.

“Nothing.”

Wanda reached for her coffee again.

Y/N watched her for a moment, still slightly suspicious, like she knew there was information she was missing but couldn’t identify what it was.

“…Okay,” she said eventually.

The diner hummed around them—silverware clinking, a trucker laughing at something on the small TV above the counter, the steady hiss of the grill from the kitchen.

Y/N picked up her coffee mug but didn’t drink.

Instead she scanned the room again.

Door.

Kitchen exit.

Windows.

Same routine.

After a moment she set the mug down.

“I need to use the restroom,” she said quietly.

Then she glanced at Wanda, expression serious in that automatic, protective way she always had now.

“You okay here?”

Wanda blinked at the question.

They were sitting in a diner in the middle of the afternoon.

Still—She understood why Y/N asked.

“I’ll survive,” Wanda said lightly.

Y/N studied her another second just to be sure. “You’re sure?”

Wanda gave a small smile. “Yes.”

That seemed to satisfy Y/N. “Okay.”

Y/N slid out of the booth, stretching slightly as she stood. The movement drew a couple quick glances from nearby tables—mostly because of her height. She ignored them completely. Her attention stayed on the room as she walked toward the back of the diner where the restroom signs hung above a short hallway.

Wanda watched her go. Then leaned back against the booth seat.

For a few seconds everything felt… normal. Just another roadside diner. Just another quiet stop on the road.

Then the waitress returned with their drinks refilled. And her eyes immediately flicked toward the hallway Y/N had disappeared into.

Wanda noticed that too.

---

The waitress returned a few minutes later balancing two plates. The smell hit the table before the food did—grilled meat, fries, toasted bread.

“Burger and fries,” she said, placing the plate in front of the empty seat.

“Chicken sandwich,” she added, sliding the other plate toward Wanda.

Wanda thanked her quietly, though her eyes flicked briefly toward the hallway again.

Right on cue—Y/N appeared, walking back toward the booth. She slowed when she saw the waitress still standing at the table and stopped a step behind her, waiting patiently so she could sit once the woman moved.

The waitress finished placing the condiments. Then she turned. And immediately walked straight into Y/N.

Not a full collision. Just enough.

“Oh—!” the waitress said, stumbling forward like she’d been surprised.

Wanda saw it perfectly. Too perfectly.

It was deliberate.

Y/N reacted instantly, hands coming up to catch the woman by the arms to steady her before she could fall.

“Sorry,” Y/N said automatically.

The waitress looked up at her with wide eyes.

“Oh my god, that was my fault,” she said quickly.

But she didn’t step back. Instead, her hands slid up Y/N’s arms where Y/N was holding her. She squeezed lightly at Y/N’s biceps. “Wow,” she laughed softly. “You’re strong.”

Wanda’s chair scraped half an inch against the floor. Her hand had already tightened around the edge of the table.

For a split second she was very close—very close—to standing up and slapping the woman across the diner.

Y/N, meanwhile, looked completely confused. She released the waitress immediately.

“…Sorry,” she repeated, stepping aside so she could pass.

The waitress smiled again, clearly not bothered in the slightest. “No worries.”

Then she walked away toward the counter.

Wanda was still staring at her.

Hard.

Y/N slid back into the booth across from her and reached for the ketchup bottle like nothing unusual had happened.

“…What?” she asked after noticing Wanda’s expression.

Wanda inhaled slowly. Very slowly. She picked up her fork.

“Nothing.” But the word came out tight.

Very tight.

Y/N frowned slightly. “…What’s wrong?”

Wanda didn’t look up from her plate.

“Eat,” she said.

Cold. Flat.

Y/N paused for a second, clearly sensing the shift but not understanding it.

“…Okay.”

She nodded once and picked up her burger.

The rest of the meal passed in silence. Not the comfortable kind they’d had the past few days. This one was stiff and heavy. Y/N ate slowly, occasionally glancing up at Wanda like she was trying to figure out what had changed. Wanda kept her eyes on her food, expression controlled.

When they finished, Y/N reached for the bill before Wanda could.

“I’ve got it,” she said.

Wanda didn’t argue.

The waitress came back a minute later to collect the cash.

Y/N handed it over politely.

“Thanks,” she said.

The waitress smiled again. The same smile.

“Of course.”

Then she did something else.

As she handed back the change, she slipped a small folded piece of paper into Y/N’s hand. And winked.

Wanda saw it. Every second of it.

Y/N blinked down at the paper in confusion.

Before she could even open it—

Wanda snatched it out of her hand.

Y/N startled slightly.

Wanda unfolded it just enough to see the phone number scribbled inside. Her jaw tightened. Without a word, she shoved the paper straight back toward the waitress.

“You dropped this,” Wanda said sharply.

The waitress blinked, clearly caught off guard.

Wanda didn’t wait for a response. She grabbed Y/N’s wrist.

“Come on.”

Y/N barely had time to stand before Wanda was already pulling her toward the diner door. They pushed outside into the cool evening air. Wanda released her hand the second they hit the sidewalk and started walking toward the motel across the road.

Fast.

Y/N stood there for a moment, completely confused. “…Wanda?”

No answer.

Wanda kept walking.

Y/N hurried after her.

“What just happened?” she asked.

Still nothing.

Wanda reached the motel walkway and kept moving toward their room.

Y/N followed a few steps behind, brow furrowed.

“…Did I do something?” she asked finally.

Wanda didn’t stop walking.

And Y/N still had absolutely no idea why Wanda was angry.

---

They reached the motel room in silence.

Wanda pushed the door open harder than necessary and walked inside. The door shut behind them with a sharp click.

Y/N watched her for a second.

Wanda paced once across the small room, still wound tight with irritation.

Before she could start pacing again, Y/N stepped forward and gently caught her hand. Not forceful. Just enough to stop her.

“Wanda,” she said quietly. “What’s wrong?”

Wanda turned around sharply.

Her eyes flashed.

“You kept letting that bitch flirt with you,” she snapped.

Y/N blinked. “…What?”

“The waitress,” Wanda continued, words coming faster now. “She kept staring at you and bumping into you and touching you and you just—stood there!”

Y/N looked even more confused. “I didn’t even look at her.”

“That’s not the point!”

The jealousy clouding Wanda’s thoughts pushed the words out before she could stop them.

“You just let her do it!”

Y/N opened her mouth again. “I didn’t—”

Wanda slapped her arm.

Not hard. Just frustrated.

“You’re impossible!”

Y/N stared at her like she was trying to translate a language she didn’t speak.

Wanda kept going.

“You’re smiling at her and letting her grab your arms and taking her stupid number—”

“I didn’t take—”

“You might as well have!”

The room went quiet for half a second.

Wanda’s chest rose and fell quickly. Then the words slipped out.

“You’re my little wolf.”

The moment they left her mouth—She froze.

Oh.

Oh no.

Her eyes widened slightly. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

The silence stretched.

Y/N looked at her—

But before she could say anything, Wanda turned abruptly, tripping over her own thoughts. “I’m—” she started, then stopped, clearly flustered. “I’m going to shower.” It came out too fast, too sudden. She didn’t wait for a response. She walked straight to the bathroom, pushed the door open, and slipped inside. The lock clicked.

The room fell quiet.

For a second, Y/N just stood there.

Then she smiled—soft, slow, something warm settling deep in her chest as Wanda’s words replayed in her mind.

You’re my little wolf.

The feeling spread through her, grounding and steady, making everything else go quiet. Mine.

Y/N leaned back against the wall, arms crossing loosely, gaze still fixed on the closed bathroom door. A faint, almost unconscious purr started low in her chest.

“Oh,” she murmured softly.

The sound of the shower turning on filtered through the door. Y/N tilted her head slightly, listening, then pushed herself off the wall and sat on the edge of the bed, still facing the bathroom.

Waiting. Patient. Content.

Because for the first time since all of this started—

She understood.

And she liked it.

---

Wanda’s POV

The moment the door locked, Wanda pressed her back against it and exhaled sharply.

“What is wrong with me,” she muttered under her breath.

The question didn’t go away.

If anything, it got louder.

She turned on the shower too quickly, the pipes rattling in protest before hot water finally rushed through. Steam began to fill the small bathroom, curling against the mirror as Wanda stepped under the spray.

She braced her hands against the tile, head dipping forward.

Jealous.

The word sat heavy in her chest.

No.

That wasn’t right. They were friends. That’s all this was supposed to be.

She had just ended a relationship. Everything was already complicated enough without… this.

So why did it feel like that?

Why did her chest tighten when the waitress touched Y/N?

Why did she want to—God—hit her?

Wanda groaned softly, letting the water run over her face.

“It’s just because it’s us,” she told herself. “We’re on the run. We only have each other right now.”

That had to be it.

Proximity. Stress. Adrenaline.

Not jealousy.

Not anything else.

She straightened, scrubbing her face harder than necessary, frustration building the more she tried to make it make sense.

“I’m not jealous,” she insisted quietly.

But the words didn’t feel convincing.

Her jaw tightened.

She finished the shower quicker than she meant to, movements sharper now, controlled in that way she used when her emotions got too close to the surface.

By the time she dried off and got dressed, her expression was set.

Neutral.

Composed.

Controlled.

She opened the door.

Steam followed her out into the room.

And immediately—Y/N was there.

Close. Too close.

With that soft, bright smile—open, warm, unmistakably happy in a way that hit Wanda straight in the chest.

Like a puppy waiting at the door. Like nothing had happened. Like everything was simple.

Wanda’s stomach flipped, but she shut it down instantly. Her expression cooled. “What?” she said, tone flat.

The shift was immediate.

Sharp.

Deliberate.

Y/N’s smile didn’t disappear—but it faltered, just slightly.

Wanda stepped past her without another word, moving toward the bed like the moment hadn’t mattered.

Like she hadn’t just—

No.

She wasn’t going to think about it.

Not now. Not like this.

---

Y/N’s POV

Y/N blinked as Wanda brushed past her.

The shift was immediate.

Cold and distant.

Wanda didn’t look at her again—just went straight to the bed, pulling the blanket over herself and turning onto her side, back facing the room.

Y/N stood there for a second, confused.

A few minutes ago—

Wanda had said you’re my little wolf, after getting mad that the waitress flirted with Y/N.

She’d been flustered, sure—but there had been something real in it. Something that made Y/N’s chest feel full and steady and right.

Now—

This?

Y/N hesitated, then smiled again—soft, careful—and walked over to the bed.

“Hey,” she said gently. “Do you want to… talk about what happened?”

She kept her voice light.

Not pushing. Just offering.

Because she knew what it was.

Jealousy.

And that—that made her happy.

Not in a smug way. Not in a selfish way. Just… relieved. Because it meant Wanda was starting to feel it too.

Even if she didn’t understand it yet. Even if she didn’t have a name for it.

The imprint didn’t need words.

It just was.

Y/N’s chest warmed at the thought.

But Wanda didn’t turn around. “I don’t want to talk, Y/N.”

The words were cold.

Sharp and final.

Y/N’s smile faltered. “…Okay,” she said quietly.

But Wanda wasn’t done.

“I said I don’t want to talk,” Wanda added, more irritated now, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. “Just—drop it.”

Then she shifted further away, like she was putting distance between them even on the same bed.

Y/N went still. The warmth in her chest flickered. Confusion took its place.

She stood there beside the bed, unsure what she’d done wrong.

Had she pushed too much?

Misread something?

…Misread everything?

The silence stretched.

Wanda didn’t move. Didn’t look back.

Y/N stayed there for a while, just standing, trying to make sense of it.

Then, slowly, she nodded to herself.

“Okay,” she murmured softly.

Maybe… she was wrong. Maybe Wanda wasn’t ready. Maybe she didn’t understand what she felt yet—or maybe she didn’t feel it at all. The thought stung more than Y/N expected.

She turned away from the bed and headed for the bathroom instead. “I’ll—shower,” she said quietly, though she wasn’t sure Wanda was even listening.

No response.

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Inside, Y/N leaned her hands against the sink for a moment, head lowered.

Was she mistaken?

The question lingered, heavier than anything else.

Maybe the imprint… wasn’t something Wanda was ready to know.

Not yet.

So Y/N did the only thing she could think of.

She gave her space.

Let her breathe.

Let her calm down.

Even if it meant standing on the outside of something she felt so deeply, so instinctively—Alone.

---

Unknown POV

The room was silent in the way only places built for control could be. Cold metal. Harsh white light. No windows. No distractions. Only consequence.

“You had them.”

The voice was low. Not raised.

That made it worse.

The subordinate stood rigid in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders locked, every muscle screaming not to move.

“You had the Avengers contained,” the man continued, pacing slowly in a tight circle around him. “You had numbers. You had positioning. You had advance knowledge of their movements.”

A pause.

“You had everything.” The man stopped behind him. “And you still failed.”

The word dropped like a blade.

The subordinate swallowed. “Sir, the operation encountered unexpected—”

A sharp crack echoed—

Not a strike. Not yet.

But the man’s hand slamming against the metal table hard enough to dent it.

“Do not insult me,” he said quietly.

The subordinate froze.

“Do not reduce incompetence to unexpected variables.”

The man moved again, stepping into his line of sight now. His expression was calm—too calm. His eyes, however, were not.

“You knew the wolf would be there,” he said. “You knew the witch would follow her. You knew exactly how the team would respond.”

Another step closer.

“And still… you lost them.”

The subordinate’s voice faltered. “We deployed recovery units immediately. We—”

“You lost the wolf,” the man cut in. The words sharpened. “You lost the primary target.”

The air in the room seemed to tighten.

“And instead of correcting that failure,” he continued, voice dropping further, “you allowed one of your men to be captured.”

A flicker of something dangerous crossed his face.

“They are probably talking to him right now.”

The subordinate’s breathing grew shallow. “We are attempting to contain that breach—”

“It has been,” the man said slowly, each word deliberate, “almost a week.”

A week.

“And you have nothing. No sightings. No trails. No recoveries…Nothing.”

The man stepped back, running a hand slowly across his mouth as if physically restraining something darker.

“They are moving,” he said quietly. “Constant relocation. No patterns. No signals.”

He looked back at the subordinate.

“They are learning.”

A beat.

“And you are not.”

Silence pressed in.

The subordinate forced himself to speak. “We’ve expanded the search grid. Transit hubs, rural motels, highway surveillance—”

“Not enough.”

The words snapped this time. The man’s composure cracked—not outwardly, but in the sharpness of his tone, in the way his hand flexed like he wanted to tear something apart.

“You think this is about the Avengers?” he asked, almost incredulous.

A humorless smile tugged at his lips.

“They are distractions.”

His gaze darkened.

“The wolf is the objective.”

The way he said it—

Not just interest.

Obsession.

“The wolf is essential,” he continued, voice quieter now, but far more dangerous. “Not as a soldier. Not as a weapon.”

He stepped over the spreading blood without looking down.

“As a source.” A slow breath.

“You all keep making the same mistake,” he went on. “You see what she can do and think that is the value.”

His gaze hardened.

“It isn’t.”

He paced once, measured, controlled. “She was born with it,” he said. “Not injected. Not engineered. Not grafted onto a failing host.”

A faint tilt of his head. “Natural integration.”

That word carried weight. Reverence twisted into something clinical. “Do you understand how rare that is?” he asked softly, though there was no answer. “Her physiology didn’t reject it. Didn’t degrade. It stabilized. Adapted. Perfectly.”

His jaw tightened.

“We were going to begin replication.”

A pause.

“The first stage—serum extraction and synthesis—should have been complete by now.”

His fingers flexed once at his side.

“But every attempt since her escape has failed.”

Another step.

“Unstable subjects. Rejection. Collapse within hours.”

His voice dropped further.

“Because we don’t have the original anymore.”

Silence pressed in.

“She is the source,” he said. “Without her, we are guessing.”

A beat.

“And Hydra does not guess.” His eyes flicked once more to the body on the floor. “They let her slip through containment once,” he continued coldly. “Interference from the Avengers.”

Another pause.

“Unacceptable.”

His gaze sharpened.

“And now—after we found her again—after we rebuilt the trail, reestablished surveillance, positioned an entire operation around reacquiring her…”

His voice thinned into something lethal.

“You lost her.”

The words echoed.

Flat. Final.

“She should have been back on a table,” he went on. “Sedated. Contained. Ready for extraction.”

His lips pressed into a hard line.

“Instead, she is out there. Moving. Adapting. Surrounded by variables we cannot control.”

A flicker of anger surfaced again—colder this time, refined into something precise.

“And because of that,” he said quietly, “your failure is not a mistake.”

He turned.

There was already a gun in his hand, pointed directly at the subordinate’s head.

For the first time, the man broke.

“Sir—wait—please,” he stammered, composure shattering instantly. “I can fix this. I’ll find her. I’ll—”

The safety clicked off.

“I’ll do better,” he rushed, voice cracking now. “Just give me another—”

The shot cut him off.

Clean.

The bullet snapped his head back, and he dropped where he stood, body hitting the metal floor with a dull, lifeless thud.

Silence followed.

The smell of gunpowder lingered.

The man didn’t move for a moment, gaze resting on the corpse like he was evaluating the result of an experiment.

Then—

He exhaled slowly.

Calm again. Controlled.

He lowered the gun and turned his head slightly toward the far side of the room.

Another subordinate stood there.

Frozen. Eyes wide. Waiting.