Pretty face, wicked mind!🔥

The silence between you is loud. Familiar. Full of everything that hasn’t been said in weeks.

She hasn’t looked at you yet, not really. She’s scanning the mission brief like it contains a hidden threat, flipping each page with surgical precision. You don’t know how she can be so still. You wonder, not for the first time, if she trained herself to stop fidgeting. Or if she ever did it at all.

Your knee bounces again.

“You’re twitchy,” she mutters.

You don’t flinch. “I call it ready.”

That earns you a look. Her eyes finally lift, and when they meet yours, you feel it in your stomach. Natasha doesn’t just look at people--she studies them. Dismantles them. You’re not exempt. Never have been.

“You call everything ready,” she says, voice flat, low. “Even when you’re not.”

That one stings. You smirk anyway. “And yet I’m still alive.”

She hums softly, no smile. “For now.”

You shift your weight, lean back on your hands, let your head tilt just slightly -- defiant. “You nervous, Romanoff?”

She turns another page. “Not for me.”

That shuts you up.

There’s something in her tone. Not sarcasm. Not clipped or cold. Something quieter. Heavier.

You sit with it for a second.

You’re not sure who breaks the silence next. Maybe it’s both of you. Her hand closes the file at the same time your boot squeaks against the floor. She stands, tucking the folder under one arm, other hand dropping to her thigh holster with ease. Always armed. Always precise.

You stay sitting, watching her check gear like it’s instinct.

“Mission’s tight,” she says without looking up. “Compound’s low grade, underground. Hydra splinter. Intel says they’re close to releasing the nerve agent. Target has the formula and the samples.”

You nod slowly. “We intercept, extract, and torch the rest. Silent entry. No kill unless provoked.”

She nods. “One vent point. Two entrances. No backup. You and me.”

Just you and her. Like it always is when it matters.

You feel your throat go dry.

She continues. “Preliminary scans show traces of an unidentified neurotoxin. Weaponized, possibly air-based. Could be absorbed on contact. Most likely internal dispersal through blade, syringe, or microdose powder. Symptoms could be delayed.”

“Symptoms?” you echo, heartbeat slowing.

She finally looks at you again. That same unreadable calm. But her eyes-- her eyes are molten steel.

“Paralysis. Hallucinations. Nervous system breakdown. Slow death, not quick.”

You stare. “Sounds like a party.”

“Not a party I’m letting you die at,” she says sharply, too fast, too raw.

You blink.

It’s the first time she’s slipped.

Her jaw tightens. She adjusts her gloves like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just say the quiet part out loud.

You step off the table, slow. Move to the bench where your gear waits. You buckle your vest, still feeling her gaze crawl across your shoulders. It burns more than the lights.

“So what’s the play if one of us gets tagged?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light.

“Immediate evac,” she answers without hesitation. “There’s a bunker inside the north wing. Medical station. Supposed to be cleared. If we get hit, we get out. Fast.”

You hesitate. “And if only one of us gets hit?”

She doesn’t answer.

You turn. She’s standing too still now, eyes unreadable.

“Natasha.”

Her eyes close for a second, lashes dark and low.

Then.... “Then I carry you.”

The words drop like a blade.

You don’t move. She doesn’t flinch. There’s something between you now--buzzing, electric, unbearable. Not new. Just exposed.

You try to speak, but she’s already reaching for her sidearm, strapping it tight. Her movements are clean, practiced, but her hands shake just once--barely a tremor.

“Don’t get cocky,” she says again, voice soft. “And don’t be stupid.”

“I’ll try if you do,” you fire back.

She steps close.

Too close.

You feel her breath, smell the faint metallic oil of her gear. Her hand brushes past your shoulder as she picks up your earpiece. She holds it out to you between two fingers, like a dare.

You take it slowly, keeping your eyes on her face.

Her voice is a whisper now. “You ready, detka?”

The word sinks into your chest.

You want to say yes. You want to say always. But the way she’s looking at you, the weight in her gaze like she already knows something’s going to go wrong, it steals your voice.

So you nod.

She turns without another word.

You stare at the empty space where she stood.

And your heart doesn’t slow until you’re in the quinjet, five thousand feet in the air, staring down at the lights of a compound you’re going to walk into side by side.

And maybe not both walk out of.

The quinjet lands like a whisper against the backdrop of midnight fog.

Your boots hit the earth with a muted crunch-- mud, wet leaves, something darker. Fog curls around your calves in heavy tendrils. The compound looms ahead like a bunker out of time: slabs of decaying concrete, overgrown with ivy and moss, hunched in silence. You can't even see the stars. No moon. Just that dull gray pressure in the sky, like the whole world is waiting to hold its breath.

You breathe through your mask. Natasha lands beside you, silent as a shadow, her silhouette barely more than a shift in the mist. You catch a glimpse of her profile, jaw tight, eyes sweeping the treeline, already calculating exits and ambush zones. She's wired. More than usual.

You follow her to the compound’s eastern breach, a rusting utility panel half-covered in vines. You crouch beside her. The air smells like mold, metal, and ozone. She slips a fiber optic camera into the crack and studies the interior. Her breath barely stirs the fog.

She taps her comm. "Two guards, perimeter. Cameras looped for six minutes."

You nod. No words. The rhythm between you doesn’t need them.

You breach low. Silent takedown. The first man doesn’t even grunt before you’ve got his weight cradled to the ground, Natasha already dragging the second into the brush with a nerve pinch that leaves him twitching.

Inside, the compound is colder. The hallway smells like ammonia and rot. Overhead fluorescents flicker, half powered, some buzzing. The sound of your boots, soft-soled and careful, blends with the steady hum of unseen generators. You track together like wolves.

You take point. Natasha follows close. Close enough that you can hear her breathing through the comm.

You turn a corner and pause. Hold up one hand. Two guards. Talking in hushed Czech at the far end of the corridor. Natasha slides past you, calm, slow, predatory. You admire how easily she moves--like she’s dancing with ghosts. Within seconds, the guards slump silently to the floor.

You keep going. Left. Then another left. Then a flight of stairs that smell of oil and chemical burn.

The lower levels are worse. Damper. Darker. A faint blue light pulses under the lab door. You know it before you open it: this is where the poison lives.

"Scan for tripwires," she murmurs.

You sweep the frame with a small UV torch. Nothing. It’s almost disappointing.

"Too easy," you murmur.

She doesn’t reply.

You slip inside first. The lab is bigger than expected--long tables covered in sterile cloths and scattered notes, beakers, syringes, unmarked vials. The overhead light casts everything in a washed out, antiseptic blue. Shelves of equipment line the walls. An exhaust system hums in the ceiling.

Natasha peels off toward a terminal, hands flying over the interface. You start moving through drawers, lockers, storage bins. You find a canister sealed with four steel clamps--filled with clear vials, each bearing only a biohazard symbol.

You hold one up. "Found your death juice."

She glances back. "Don’t open it."

"Wasn’t planning to."

"Then don’t joke."

Her tone makes you pause.

You meet her eyes. There’s something in them. Something sharp. But she turns away too fast.

You secure the canister in your pack.

A noise. Behind you.

You pivot--weapon up. It’s a lab tech. Unarmed. Late 40s. Balding. Panic in his eyes. He lurches forward like a man with nothing to lose.

You intercept easily. Grab his wrist. Twist. Drive him into the wall.

He flails, and for a second, you think it’s over, until you feel the sting.

A flick of steel. A knife. Small. Coated with something faintly oily.

You slam your elbow into his face. He collapses.

You look down.

A slash along your ribcage. Not deep. Not even painful yet.

You exhale. Roll your eyes. “Asshole got a lucky scratch.”

But Natasha is already beside you.

“What happened?”

“Knife. Didn’t even feel it.”

She peels your suit open before you can stop her. The cut is dark already, edges rimmed in angry red, skin swelling fast.

“Fuck,” she hisses. “You’re dosed.”

“What? No, it’s--”

Then your hand starts to tremble.

You try to grip your weapon. Miss.

The ground tilts.

“Y/n.”

You hear her voice like it’s underwater.

Your knees buckle.

She catches you.

Your vision tunnels.

Cold tile under your spine. Lights bloom too bright above.

“Y/n. Hey. Stay with me.”

She’s kneeling beside you. Her gloved hands move fast--checking your pulse, your pupils. You see panic blooming in her face, cracking through that iron surface.

“I’m fine,” you slur.

“You’re not.”

You try to sit up. Your muscles ignore the command.

Natasha curses under her breath. She rips off her glove and touches your face. Her hand is warm. Grounding.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she says, but her voice isn’t steady. “I’m gonna fix this. I promise.”

You reach for her wrist. Miss again.

“It was just a scratch…”

“Not with this compound. They laced it. Probably aerosolized it, too.”

You blink slowly. The room spins.

“I don’t want to die in a place that smells like feet,” you mumble.

That gets the smallest sound out of her. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“Shut up,” she says gently. “You’re not dying.”

She hoists you up into her arms.

You sag against her chest, your cheek against the stiff fabric of her vest. Her heart is pounding like a war drum.

“Hold on,” she whispers. “Just hold on for me, detka.”

You think you nod.

But then the world goes dark.

Everything is dim, and then everything is too bright.

You drift in and out, each blink a flicker of a memory you can’t hold onto. One moment you're in her arms. The next, your body is weightless. The cold metal beneath your back shocks you, makes your spine jerk, but it’s like your brain is buffering behind it.

Then comes sound.

Not an alarm. Not shouting.

Just her.

Natasha’s voice is high, sharp. “No, no, no, stay with me.”

You open your eyes. Barely.

The room above you spins. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, too harsh, too fast. You see the outline of her, her shoulders broad, hunched over drawers, flinging them open one by one.

The metal clatter is deafening.

Each slam, each rip of a cabinet door is edged with panic. She’s never like this. Not even in the field. Not even when bullets are flying.

But now she is.

She mutters to herself in Russian, breathless.

"Gde ty… gde ty, blyad', poka…"

She opens a drawer, slams it shut, moves to the next. Plastic vials scatter across the ground. You try to lift your hand to stop her.

You can’t.

She doesn’t hear you, but she hears something, the small choking noise that escapes your throat.

She drops everything.

Races back to your side.

You see her face now. Closer than ever. Bare. Vulnerable. Her braid is half-undone. Sweat beads along her brow. Her eyes look glassy. Haunted.

“Y/n?” she says softly, kneeling. “I’m here. Hey. Look at me.”

You do. Just barely. Her face swims, double vision, haloed in fluorescent light.

“I’m gonna fix this. You hear me?”

Your lips move. Nothing comes out.

She grabs your hand. Holds it to her chest. You can feel her heartbeat slamming beneath her suit.

She swallows thickly. Then leans down. You feel her forehead press to yours for a split second.

Then she bolts again.

You hear the hiss of a cold storage unit being cracked open. A lock disengaged.

She exhales like she’s been punched.

"Please, please…"

A beat.

Then: “Yes.”

She’s back at your side within seconds, sliding to her knees.

She holds the auto-injector up like it’s holy. Sleek metal. Faint blue glow in the vial. She checks it three times, her hand trembling, then steadies it against your neck.

You flinch.

She freezes.

“Hey,” she whispers, moving closer, her voice dipping low, quiet, coaxing. “It’s okay. It’s gonna hurt, but I need you to trust me.”

You blink, sluggishly. Your breath rattles.

She cups your face with one gloved hand, her thumb sweeping across your cheek. Her other hand holds the injector firm.

“Y/n,” she says your name like it’s breaking her. “Detka… please. Let me do this.”

She waits. Just for your eyes. Just to see that flicker of understanding.

You nod. Or maybe you don’t.

But she can’t wait any longer.

She drives the needle into your neck.

The world shatters.

Your body jerks.

You scream.

White fire floods your veins like acid. Every nerve sears. Your back arches so hard your shoulders leave the table. Your mouth opens, but the sound is pure agony.

Her hand is over your mouth in an instant.

“Shhh, detka--I know, I know, I know--I’m here.”

You claw at her with your free hand. You can’t stop. You need it to stop. It’s worse than the poison. It’s like you’re being burned alive from the inside.

She holds you through it.

She leans over you, her hand firm over your mouth, tears leaking down her cheeks. Her other hand clutches your shoulder. She’s shaking as hard as you are.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re gonna be okay. Just hold on, baby, please. Stay with me.”

Your legs thrash. Your hands slap at the gurney.

Then it crests.

The fire fades. You collapse. Chest heaving. Gasping for air.

Natasha pulls her hand away, but doesn’t let go of your face. She strokes your cheek with the backs of her fingers.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs, over and over. “You’re okay, detka. I’ve got you.”

Tears slip down your face now.

Not from the pain.

But from the look in her eyes.

Raw. Terrified. In love.

Your voice is wrecked. “Thought I was gonna die.”

She leans close. Her lips brush your temple.

“You’re not allowed to,” she whispers. “Not while I’m breathing.”

You half-laugh, a broken sound. “You’re bleeding.”

She looks down. There’s blood smeared across her forearm. Yours. From your fingernails.

She doesn’t care.

She brushes sweat from your brow and kisses your knuckles.

“Talk to me,” she pleads. “Anything. Keep talking.”

You blink. “Hurts.”

“I know.”

“Still burning.”

“I know, detka. I’m here.”

Silence hangs for a second.

Then, softly, almost broken:

“I can’t do this without you.”

You stare at her.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper.

She leans forward, forehead pressed to yours again. Her lips brush your ear.

“I thought I lost you. And I never even told you--”

You feel her swallow the words. Bury them. But they’re there.

You whisper, “Say it.”

She doesn’t move.

Then “I love you.”

Simple. Unadorned. Like a gunshot in the silence.

“I love you and I didn’t say it because I thought it would make this harder. Because it would mean I couldn’t do the job.”

Her hand slides down your chest, rests over your heart.

“But watching you go down… nothing could have prepared me for that.”

You can’t smile, but you want to.

“You still owe me that date,” you rasp.

She laughs, watery. “You still want to be seen with me in public after this?”

You give her the faintest smirk. “Only if you carry me there.”

She exhales. Holds your hand tighter.

Then she checks the injector again. One dose gone. Timer running.

“Next dose in eleven minutes.”

You swallow. “And if I need a third?”

“We find it. We fight for it. Or I carry you through the compound kicking and screaming until I get you on that evac jet.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

Her hand brushes your cheek.

“Don’t go to sleep,” she says gently. “You stay with me, Y/n.”

Your heart rate steadies.

But her panic doesn’t fade.

Not even a little. You don’t know how much time has passed.

Minutes? A heartbeat? Years?

You’re not on the table anymore. You’re moving again--limbs flopping uselessly, your weight dead in her arms. The air is colder now. You feel it against the sweat clinging to your neck, the pulse of it in the hallway, the echo of your foot dragging on tile every time Natasha pulls you forward.

Her arms are around you, tight--one across your back, the other under your thighs. You know she shouldn’t be able to carry you this far, this fast, while still moving silent and deadly.

But she does.

Because you’re her mission now.

No comms. No backup. Just her rage and fear holding you together while your body threatens to come apart.

“Stay awake,” she whispers, voice tight. “Detka, you hear me? No checking out. No napping. You do not sleep until I get you out of this hellhole.”

You try to answer. Nothing comes out.

But your eyes flutter. Barely.

She keeps going.

She rounds a corner and nearly runs into two guards--armed. Alert.

You’re barely conscious, but you feel the shift in her muscles. The sudden drop to one knee, placing you behind her. Her hand finds her Glock like it’s always been there. Two shots. Muffled. Precision. One in the throat. One between the eyes.

You hear the thud of bodies falling.

You hear the silence that follows.

Then her hand is on your face again.

“Still with me?”

Your head lolls.

She adjusts her grip on you. Kisses your temple.

“Two more minutes,” she breathes, not sure if it’s a promise or a plea.

The symptoms are returning.

It starts in your fingertips this time--an itching, almost tingling burn that crawls upward. You can feel your blood slowing down, thickening. Your teeth chatter even though you’re sweating.

Natasha feels it too.

You’re seizing.

She drops to the ground with you in the shadow of a steel stairwell and props you against her chest. Her gloves come off fast. She grips your face with bare hands. They’re warm. Yours aren’t.

“Don’t do this,” she whispers.

She pulls out the injector with shaking fingers.

“Too soon,” she mutters. “Not long enough since the last--fuck.”

Your body convulses.

“I can’t wait,” she decides aloud.

She plunges the second dose into your neck.

This time, you black out entirely.

No screaming. No flailing. Just silence.

Too much of it.

For a second, she thinks she’s killed you.

She presses her forehead to your chest, listening--desperate.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

Faint. But there.

When your eyes snap open and you gasp like you’ve been pulled from underwater, her hand immediately slams over your mouth.

You don’t know why she’s crying until you realize you’re crying too.

The burn rips through you like napalm. The second dose hits faster, harder, crueler. Your body contorts, and she holds you like you’re both drowning.

“Shh. Shh. Shh, baby. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” she whispers, rocking you in her lap, curled around you like a shield. “Just breathe. Just breathe. I know it hurts.”

You claw at the front of her vest. She lets you.

Your teeth grit. You scream through her palm.

And then you collapse again, twitching. Weak. But breathing.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

She can’t carry you anymore.

Your weight, your heat, your body-it’s too much now. Not physically. Emotionally.

She can’t feel her arms.

She kneels beside you and presses her hand to your neck. Still alive.

Barely.

Then she grabs your vest collar, hauls you to your feet, and throws your arm over her shoulders.

You groan weakly.

“I know,” she says. “I know, detka. We’re almost there.”

Every step is pain. Your legs don’t work. You’re mostly dead weight, and she’s using every ounce of muscle and momentum she has to keep you both upright.

You round a corner.

You see it.

Light.

The corridor opens up into the hangar, your evac point. The chopper is already waiting, blades thudding.

“We made it,” she breathes, more to herself than to you.

But then, shouting. Footsteps.

Natasha grits her teeth. One more goddamn obstacle.

Five Hydra agents swarm the corridor behind you.

She throws you to cover, gently as she can. Her gun is up before your body hits the floor. Four rounds. Three bodies.

The fourth comes at her fast, knife out.

She parries, twists, drives her elbow into his throat. He drops like a stone.

She’s panting. Bleeding now, cut across the arm. Doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care.

She lifts you again.

Two more steps. Then your heart stops.

Literally.

You slump in her arms like a puppet with cut strings.

She doesn’t even scream.

Not at first.

She lowers you to the ground. Strips off her vest and places it under your head. Straddles your waist and starts compressions.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Come on, Y/n. Come on, baby. Breathe.”

Nothing.

She switches to mouth-to-mouth.

Breathes into you. Pushes her soul into your lungs.

“You’re not dying here.”

Another round of compressions.

She’s crying now. Shaking. Her voice climbs.

“Come on. Come on. Don’t do this. I didn’t say it just so you could leave me--!”

Still nothing.

She leans in again. Breathes again.

Then...finally.... You cough. Blood. Bile. But air.

She catches you before you turn your head.

You gasp again, mouth open, lungs on fire.

You look at her. She’s soaked. Bloody. Wild eyed.

You try to smile.

“Made it… to the date.”

She collapses into your chest.

“Shut up,” she says, sobbing, laughing. “Just--shut up.”

You feel her lips against your collarbone. Then your cheek. Then your mouth. Salt tears and blood between you. She kisses you like it’s oxygen. Like she needs it to live.

You let her.

Because you do too.

Perfect -- we’ll stay in the moment and slow it down. You're not fully safe yet. Part IV continues: Natasha dragging you the final stretch, body broken, her mind fracturing -- while the evac chopper blades are screaming overhead and help is just out of reach.

This is the last burst of desperation before you’re ripped from the mouth of death.

She kisses you once.

Quick. Messy. Salt and blood on your lips. Her hand cups your face like it’s all she has left in the world.

Then she’s moving again.

“Stay awake, detka,” she breathes, slinging your arm around her neck once more. “You got this far. Don’t quit now.”

You try to stand. You try to help.

You can’t.

Your body is a dead thing she has to drag. Your legs twitch but won’t lift. Your knees knock against the floor as she pulls you through the corridor, step by brutal step.

Outside, the wind shifts. The chop of helicopter blades roars louder. Almost there.

“I’ve got you,” she says again, though her voice is hoarse now. She’s repeating it more for herself than you.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

She stumbles. The weight of you pulling her sideways. She slams a hand into the wall for balance, nearly collapses.

Her arms are screaming. Her spine feels like it’s going to snap.

But she keeps going.

One hand on her pistol, the other dragging your body into the light of the hangar bay.

She sees them then.

SHIELD medics.

Two of them. Just past the open ramp of the chopper.

One lifts a radio.

“Agent Romanoff--status--do you need--?”

“Help!” she yells, staggering forward. “She’s dying!”

They sprint toward you.

“Poisoned--nerve agent--two doses of the antidote--cardiac arrest sixty seconds ago--she’s back, but she’s slipping--!”

They reach you just as your body spasms again.

Natasha doesn’t let go.

She’s still holding you even as they lower a stretcher. Still has one knee under your head as they start cutting away the armor, checking your vitals, calling for adrenaline.

“You need to let us--” one medic says.

“Don’t tell me what I need,” she snaps, and her voice is ice. Shaking. Shredded.

They work. She watches. Every time your chest rises, her grip tightens on your arm. Every pause makes her stop breathing.

When they finally lift you into the chopper, she’s beside you. No one tries to stop her.

Her hand never leaves yours.

Inside, it’s noise and heat and spinning pain.

You blink weakly. The overhead lights are harsh. Your ears are full of static. You're shaking violently now--reaction from the second dose--and your body won't calm.

You can’t stop whispering her name. Like you’re checking if she’s still real.

She is.

She leans over you, both hands cupping your face.

“I’m here,” she whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You look at her, really look.

There’s blood on her cheek. A split at her lip. A gash along her bicep still bleeding freely. But her eyes are locked on you like you're the only thing worth watching in the world.

“I love you,” you murmur, dazed.

She kisses your forehead, hard.

“You’d better,” she says.

Then your eyes roll back. The medics shout something.

And she starts to pray again.

You wake to the sound of beeping.

Soft. Steady. Mechanical.

It echoes in your skull like sonar, each pulse drawing you back toward consciousness. At first, it doesn’t feel like waking -- it feels like surfacing from deep water, lungs aching, gravity heavier than it should be.

Everything is white.

Too bright. Too still.

The sheets under you are stiff. The light above your head doesn’t flicker like the compound’s. It’s soft. Clean. Sterile. A filtered hum of recycled air replaces the chaos of gunfire and shouted orders.

You inhale -- and feel the weight of your own body for the first time in hours. Days? You don’t know. Every inch of you aches. Your chest is wrapped tight. There’s a catheter in your arm. Tubes in your nose.

But you’re alive.

You blink again, slowly.

And that’s when you feel it.

Her hand.

Wrapped around yours.

Warm. Steady. Holding like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

You turn your head with effort.

There she is.

Slumped in a chair beside your hospital bed, head tilted to rest on the mattress, asleep. Or trying to be. Her other hand is buried in her hair, half-pulled loose from its braid. She hasn’t changed clothes. There’s a bloodstain on her tactical pants and bruises down her forearm that weren’t there before.

She looks wrecked.

You want to speak, but your throat is raw -- so dry it feels like you’ve swallowed dust.

Still, something rasps out.

“…Tasha.”

She jolts awake so fast it’s like you’ve been shot again.

Her head lifts. Her eyes are wild, scanning you from head to toe, like she expects you to vanish right in front of her.

And then they fill with tears.

“Oh my god--” Her voice breaks. “Y/n”

You try to smile. It hurts. “Still… breathing.”

She’s already leaning forward, both hands on your face now, her thumbs brushing gently at your temples, your jaw, your lips like she needs to re-learn every part of you to believe it.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“Only returned the favor,” you croak.

She lets out a soft, broken laugh, then presses her forehead to yours.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispers.

You close your eyes, letting her words settle into your skin.

“You didn’t,” you say. “You never do.”

She sits back, wipes her eyes roughly, like she’s mad at herself for showing any of this. But her hands won’t stop shaking.

“How long?” you ask, voice hoarse.

She hesitates. “Thirty-two hours in a medically induced coma. Another eight unconscious. You coded twice. They had to re-administer part of the antidote. Your kidneys tried to fail.”

“Hot,” you whisper.

She shakes her head, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

You squeeze her hand, or try to. Your fingers barely move.

But she feels it.

Her expression softens.

“I thought about what I’d say when you woke up,” she murmurs. “Rehearsed it in my head. Over and over.”

You look up at her. “And?”

She leans close again. Her voice is barely audible.

“I love you,” she says. “I loved you before this. I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

You blink slowly. “Guess I had to almost die to get you to say it.”

She closes her eyes.

“You’re never doing that again,” she whispers. “I mean it. No more near-death confessions. Next time I want to say it, we’re going to be safe. Somewhere soft. Warm. You’ll be wearing pajamas. I’ll be making you pancakes. Badly.”

You smile, finally. Weak. But real.

“I want that.”

She kisses your knuckles.

“You’ll have it,” she whispers. “You’ll have all of it.”

Silence falls again. Not awkward. Just full of things that don’t need to be said out loud.

Her hand stays in yours.

And in the lull between beeping monitors and IV drips, you let yourself drift.

Not from pain. Not from poison.

But into rest.

Safe. Held. Loved.

3. I need time to fulfill requests. This is not my day job. This is a hobby, therefore, I will not, nor should you expect me to, make this my number one priority. Additionally, please do NOT ask me to update my old work. Some of these were made to be one shots for a reason and I have no desire to go back and add to work that’s been completed for 3 years now.

4. If I’m taking a long time to fulfill requests, please do not go into my ask box and ask me when I’ll update. Messages of that type will be deleted on sight. I’m rawdogging the American economy and politics just like everyone else who’s unfortunate enough to be here. I’m doing this for free, so respect that you’ll get it when you get it

5. I will write smut, angst, fluff, happy ending, no happy ending…whatever floats your boat

6. Kinks/ fetishes are hit and miss for me when trying to include any in writing. Some kinks/fetishes I WILL NOT write include:

Illegal age gaps, age play, or any pedo shit whatsoever. It’s fucking weird and disgusting. For legal age gaps, I’ll do it.

Nothing that is violent in nature. Please read that again. Nothing that is violent in nature. Consensual rough sex? Yes. Violent sex? That’s a hell no from me.

Related to the previous, I will not write dubcon/noncon. That includes rape and sexual assault (which is violent in nature, hello). It’s just not my thing anymore.

I will not write (G!P), intersex anyone, or A/B/O. I am a cis woman and I will not touch that with a ten foot pole. If any penis is involved in my writing, it will be store bought (or created with magic if it’s for Wanda Maximoff)

The characters you currently see on my master list are not the only characters that I write for. I can do other characters if you ask, but, I need to be knowledgeable about the character. That means I will not write for a character that I don’t know about. That’s a safety thing for me. If I don’t know the character, I’ll let you know and we can both move on.

I won’t write about knife play, gun play, etc. I can’t live life on the edge like that, and even trying to type it out won’t feel natural to me. I personally wouldn’t want anyone to shove a gun up my orifices or in my face. But that’s just me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I will not write human/animal hybrid fics.

I absolutely will not write step!cest or related. Even if they’re not related by blood, but they’re conically considered family to each other, I will not write it. It makes my skin crawl

7. If I really vibe with your request, I’ll more than likely make it into a small multi chapter fic. If I can’t see the plot going anywhere, it’ll be just a one shot.

8. If it’s anything relating to the Supergirl fandom, I will not write Baby!Danvers fics. I just refuse. There was this whole thing about it back in 2020-2022 in which writer’s were actively getting threats on anon because the fics weren’t done right or something else related. Fuck that I’m not going back.

9. Be as detailed as possible. If you want it done a certain way, or if you want it to include certain things, include it in your message. The less detailed you make it, the more I’ll use creative freedom to fulfill the request

10. I won’t write fics about real people. I think it’s weird, others think it’s okay. I’m not here to argue ethics. I just won’t do it, so don’t ask.

11. Though I am a queer woman and absolutely love writing for women, I will write for some select men as well. IT DOES DEPEND ON THE MAN. When in doubt, please ask. It’ll either be a yes or no. Same rules above apply to male characters as well. No violence or weird shit.

The moment Natasha’s eyes landed on you was the moment her heart had stopped beating. With her breath caught in her throat, she no longer felt the ability to move her legs, though the aching desire to reach you burned her bones. The people - annoyed by her presence - walked around her to get to their location, yet she paid them no mind as her eyes were frozen onto you. Your nose buried in a book, she silently begged you to look up to meet her gaze, but no dice.

“What’re you doing?” She was finally pulled out of her daze when a familiar voice reached her ears, turning her head to make eye contact with Wanda. The witch found the assassin’s hand, squeezing it tightly as she gestured behind her. “Steve and Bruce are waiting for us.” She suddenly remembered why she had walked into the small diner, the object of the meeting with the two men had left her. The only thing she was interested in now was you.

“Wanda, darling…” She trailed off as she turned to face her, her lips pursed together as she slipped her hand free to rest them both onto Wanda’s shoulders. “I need you to keep an open mind-”

“You saw her, didn’t you?” The smile on Wanda’s face was smug, the sparkle in her eyes was bright. It dawned on Natasha that the witch had chosen this place for the meeting for this specific reason. “She’s beautiful.” Wanda’s head turned to look at you, but your nose remained in your book as your hand wrapped around the lonely mug resting in front of you. “I wanted you to meet her, to see if she makes you feel the same way I do.”

The redhead’s eyes found you once more, her hands sliding off of Wanda’s shoulders. She ignored the witch’s attempt to stop her as her legs started working to reach your table, sliding into the booth smoothly. She cleared her throat, an effort to get your attention, but when your eyes remained glued to the book in your hands, Natasha could feel her confidence begin to waver. She’s been out of the game for nearly a year, was she already losing her touch?

She moved her foot, kicking one of the supports holding the table up and causing it to shake. You lifted your head at the feeling of the vibration against your arms, eyes wide in shock when you finally made eye contact with the redhead. Your cheeks blushed a light pink as you straightened your form, the book in front of you slowly closing shut as your hands flew away from the pages. “Hi,” Natasha greeted, and your sheepish smile caused her stomach to clench with excitement. “I couldn’t help but notice that you were sitting here by yourself and I was wondering if-” Natasha furrowed her eyebrows as seemingly karate chopped the palm of one hand, her head tilting to the side with confusion.

She watched as you pressed your index finger on your cheek near your ear before moving it to touch the area next to your mouth, and it was in that instance that Natasha understood. You sent her a gentle smile, your eyes shining bright despite her shoulder slumping in what felt like defeat. She returned your smile, tapping a soft hand against the table as she moved to leave, and you went back to your book despite the tightness in your chest. This wasn’t the first time someone attempted to befriend you, yet every person you informed of your deafness always ended in the same result: you’ve never seen them again.

So when the beautiful stranger you had met went on her merry way, you tried not to let it get to you…

Until the next day, she had came back. Only she wasn’t alone. Sliding into the booth just as quietly as the day before, tapping her hand against the table to gain your attention through the vibration. The smile on your face was even brighter than the one Natasha had seen yesterday, and her friend - just as beautiful as her - was smiling just as widely.

You watched carefully as Natasha moved her hands slowly, carefully, forming a sentence with her fingers in the sign language you were very familiar with. She was concentrated, worried about making a mistake, yet your soft laughter when she finally finished it made her puff her chest up with pride. She looked at Wanda, who was laughing along with you as she met the redhead’s gaze. “What’s so funny?”

“You just told her your name is Manaega.” Natasha huffed, looking towards you, but the happiness on your face at her attempt made the embarrassment she was starting to feel ultimately fade away. She rubbed the back of her neck as Wanda wrapped an arm around her, bringing her into her side reassuringly. 

They watched as your hands moved slowly, Wanda nodding in approval to what you were expressing with your fingers, yet Natasha was left in the dark afterwards.

“She said that if we’re interested in learning sign language, she’s willing to teach us,” Wanda elaborated, yet her eyes remained on you as she talked to Natasha, “but she said it’d take years to become fluent in it.” 

You furrowed your eyebrows as they turned to each other, their lips moving, but you have yet to become a master at lip reading. You were, such as Natasha was, left in the dark. And then, after a short moment, they turned back to you, the smiles on their faces lifting your shoulders as well as your hope. You watched as the redhead dug into her pocket to pull her phone out, casting your eyes towards Wanda with curiosity coloring your eyes. It wasn’t much longer until Natasha was flashing her phone screen to you, forcing you to tear your eyes away from Wanda to read what was typed.

Dinner. Here. 7pm?

The wide grin that lifted your features caused butterflies to swarm in the women’s stomachs, giving them an eager thumbs up. You brought your hands together, all of your fingertips touching except your index fingers, pulling them apart briefly before quickly pushing them back together. 

“Yes,” Wanda answered, nodding her head as she, too, performed the movement, confirming your thoughts. The two ladies watched as you rushed to gather your things before scurrying away, and the two women looked at each other once again. Wanda brought her hand up to brush away the stray strands of hair clouding Natasha’s cheeks.

“What’d she say?” The redhead was curious, she couldn’t help but ask, and Wanda laughed lightly as she positioned herself to rest her head against Natasha’s shoulder, the former assassin wrapping an arm around the witch.

You didn’t comment when Wanda repeatedly took fries out of your bag instead of her own, too enthralled in the story she was telling to notice what she was doing. At one point, she even took a sip from your milkshake and you weren’t sure if that was accidentally or on purpose because she had a habit of continuously trying your food whenever you had any. You would always offer to get her her own portion but she would frantically decline only to take several more sips or bites. You never minded. 

  “-and the moment we got back Vis already had dinner made for me,” she told you fondly, missing how your smile dropped as promptly as the anchor in your stomach. 

  “I suppose that was the least he could do,” you said lightly, struggling to hide your disdain for the robot. You would think that after a year of hearing your best friend tell you all about how amazing her boyfriend was that you would get the hang of pretending to like him, or better yet, stop being in love with her. It was never that easy. 

  “It’s not that simple for him,” Wanda defended with a soft chuckle that even the angels in heaven would have a hard time rivalling. “He has no taste buds,” she said simply. “Your cooking is far superior,” she told you, peering out at the car park and giving you the chance to admire her side profile. 

  The casual compliment gave you a surge of pride no matter how many times you had heard it before. It felt good to know you had something to offer the Sokovian that Vision couldn’t match, more so when it was something so important to her. You often replayed the memory of the night she was missing Pietro and dropped by your apartment unannounced to find you practising her favourite dish from her home country. It had been hard tracking down all of the ingredients you needed and it was your fourth time doing so when Wanda got to taste it, insisting you had perfected it. You hadn’t believed her until she started crying. 

  “I could have made something for you tonight,” you pointed out before taking a bite of your burger before Wanda decided to start on that too. 

  “I just needed grease,” she admitted, peering around the deserted McDonald’s car park. You were parked in the far corner and probably looked super dodgy to any strangers that spotted your car lurking in the blind spot, but Wanda liked to people-watch from the comfort of your car that she spent so much time in. She said that your car was comfier than hers. 

  “You need a holiday,” you corrected. 

  “We should take a roadtrip,” she said at once. You immediately loved the idea. 

  “Where do you want to go?” You asked, willing to take her to wherever came to mind. 

  “Anywhere,” she admitted, resting her head back to gaze at you with excitement. “I miss spending time with you,” she told you, not having a single clue how much of your days were taken up by you missing her. You didn’t see each other as much as you used to and even when you did get to hang out it wasn’t for as long as you wished. That was partly how you had developed the ritual of going to fast food car parks for your meals, it was convenient in case Wanda was suddenly pulled away. Her job required her to have one foot in her work life at all times. 

  “Me too,” you said. It was far safer to underplay your feelings.

  The Sokovian shifted to the edge of her seat and took her hand comfortably in yours as she often did. You watched as she twirled her fingers around yours, feeling the warmth of the astonishing magic that lay beneath the surface. Her strength was incredible, everyone knew that, but it was the gentleness she coated it with that you had always been in awe of. 

  “Will this roadtrip be just us?” You asked even though you both knew it wasn’t going to happen. 

  “Of course,” she muttered, letting her fingertips dance across your palm. “Just us and the road,” she laid on with a smile. That smile made you feel things no platonic best friend should. That smile made you love her. With the way it reached her eyes when it was directed at you, it was too tempting not to pretend like her heart didn’t carry that same devotion to you, that her eyes hadn’t glanced down to your lips as she became just as lost in that fantasy as you. The electricity that charged the small space only existed in your world, because for her, it was saved for him. 

  The chiming of her ringtone snapped you both out of your separate thoughts and disconnected your hands just as swiftly. You didn’t have to glance over at her phone to know who it was and you shouldn’t have felt a sting when she opted to answer instead of calling him back later. 

  “Hey, Vis,” she said, voice so tender and yet still striking a blow. 

  You hated that toaster so much.

*

The slight murmur of Wanda reciting the lines of the character’s held your attention far greater than the original could ever hope to. She knew every episode of the sitcom by heart and you were pretty sure you were coming close to being able to say the same. She had been quiet that night, caught up in her own head about the events of her latest mission, so hearing her voice at all was a relief. 

  She had her head resting comfortably on your shoulder so you felt a soft vibration with every mutter of words. You smiled, not daring to move which was easy when she stunned you with her next words. 

  “I want to quit my job.”

  “Oh?” You said casually to her statement you fully supported. You knew she had an incredible role in saving countless lives multiple times a week, but you also weren’t blind to the fact that your best friend didn’t enjoy her job. Unimaginable danger aside, no matter what she did, the public criticised her endlessly and did nothing to ease the gnawing feelings she had that she was a threat to her team and the people she helped. She had come so far in controlling her abilities, but she was only human. 

  “I won’t,” she said. “I just wish I could.”

  “Why don’t you?” You enquired after a pause. Wanda sighed, lifting herself off of your shoulder and bringing her knees up to her chest. 

  “This place keeps me in check,” she admitted. You hated how she talked about herself. 

  “You’re not an animal or a criminal, Wanda. And this team has no possession over you. They can’t keep you here, no one can.” Except someone did. Vision was the only reason Wanda really remained on the team. He had convinced her to. But really, as long as he was an Avenger, Wanda would be too. Yet another reason for your disdain for him. 

  “Yeah,” she sighed, clearly not believing you.

  “Wanda,” you prompted. She looked at you. “It’s your life. You can do whatever you want with it.” She still didn’t seem convinced. “If you want to run away, I can cause a distraction,” you told her, finally earning a smile from the brunette. 

  “I can count on you for anything,” Wanda said simply because it was the one thing she had never doubted. She had doubted her safety as a child. She had doubted Ultron’s intentions. She had doubted her team’s trust in her. She had doubted Vision’s loyalty. But she never doubted you. 

  “Always,” you assured without a beat. “I’ve got your back.” You wished that could have been enough for the brunette to decide that it was you she would run away with, but it was clear that if Wanda ever did opt to flee, she would take him with her and leave you behind. 

  “That might put you in danger one day,” she said sadly, letting her anxieties cloud her judgement. 

  “I don’t care.” You really didn’t. How could you? 

  She smiled at you softly and pulled your forwards slightly to kiss your forehead. She didn’t linger but her lips left a deeper imprint than she would ever know. You had always wondered what her lips would feel like against your skin and it was even better than you had dared dream. 

  When she pulled away and left a minute gap between you, there was a split second where you thought she was about to bring her lips to your own. But that moment passed when Vision casually faded through Wanda’s bedroom wall. She had told him countless times not to do that and you had to use all of your willpower not to scream at him to get out. 

  “My apologies, I didn’t know you had company,” he said but made no effort to turn around. “Good evening, y/n.”

  “Vision,” you replied without looking his way. 

  “You’ve got to knock, Vis,” Wanda chuckled as you subtly placed a couple more inches between you. 

  “Should I come back?” He enquired.

  No. Just keep floating off and never turn back.

  “Yeah,” Wanda smiled warmly at him past you.

  “That’s okay, I should probably head off anyway,” you excused. You had nothing planned and no work the following day so there was no legitimate reason for you to go. But if you stayed you would have just felt like they were both waiting for you to leave. 

  “Really?” You missed her surprise and touch of hurt at your sudden shift, watching on as you stood up from the bed to grab your jacket. 

  “I’ve got some errands to run tomorrow.” Lie. “And it’s getting late.” Not really. 

  “Okay, but I’ll still see you tomorrow, right?” The hopeful edge in her voice was going to stick with you for a while and you knew you were going to be replaying and over analysing it constantly that night. You had a way of hurting yourself with your optimism more than Wanda hurt you with reality. 

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you grinned back at her with sudden ease. You were only getting coffee, but there really was very little that would stop you going. 

 “See you then,” you called as left, purposefully ignoring her mechanical boyfriend. 

*

As far as maid of honours went, you probably weren’t the best. 

  You didn’t carry the enthusiasm that any of the guests at the wedding did and it proved difficult to maintain your fake smile the entire day. You really were happy for her, your best friend was finally getting married to the love of her life, cementing your role as something far less significant. You just didn’t get it, he wasn’t even human. 

  The ceremony was nothing short of gorgeous. It was a small reception, Wanda had been adamant that she wanted to keep it intimate despite Tony trying to throw more and more money at the event and add more guests. But it was Wanda’s day, it was her choice. 

  You had never seen the Sokovian look so happy in her life, or so beautiful. You supposed the two went hand in hand, her joy had always been so warming and infectious that it was impossible not to see the perfection in it. Everything was finally coming together for her, while your world fell apart. 

  You didn’t acknowledge Natasha when she sat down next to you. As much as it pained you to watch, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the tender slow dance the bride and groom swayed along to. She looked like a Disney Princess, her dress wrapped around her with an elegance you were in awe of. 

  “I wasn’t sure you were going to come,” Natasha told you. You still didn’t look away. 

  “I couldn’t miss my best friend’s wedding,” you muttered, barely audible over the gentle music around you.   

  “Still, it can't be easy when you’re in love with her,” the Russian stated. You noticeably stiffened but didn’t bother to deny the fact. Your heart raced at the confirmation that your feelings weren’t a total secret, but you still knew Natasha well enough to be sure she wouldn’t tell anyone else. “No one else knows,” she assured. “Including Wanda.”

  “Maybe this will be what finally makes me move on,” you wished aloud. Natasha didn’t respond, following your gaze to where the dance had come to an end. Most of the guests were beginning to disperse and you planned to do the same soon, you had already stayed longer than you had thought you could be able to. 

  “Carol’s into you.” You were aware of that, just as you were aware the usually confident Captain was working up the courage to ask you out. It would be good for you if you said yes. Carol was great…

  “One lesbian crushing on another that’s in love with her best friend, you guys are hopeless,” Natasha quipped and you gave her your first genuine smile of the evening. 

  “I know, I know,” you admitted, holding your hands up and chuckling with the redhead. “I should go, see you around, Romanoff.” Natasha waved you off and watched you go with an edge of pity that she knew you would hate. As you reached the door, the redhead noticed Wanda frown in your direction and started after you, swaying in her slightly intoxicated state. 

  “Y/n,” she called once you were outside and finally alone. You spun around, feeling a pang of guilt that you had been caught leaving her wedding without saying goodbye. 

  “Hey, sorry. You looked busy and I…” you hadn’t thought of an excuse and you didn’t have the energy to lie to her anyway. “You’re married,” you stated with a shaky exhale that Wanda wouldn’t have missed if she hadn’t had a bottle of champagne to herself. 

  “I am!” She beamed and suddenly threw her arms around you. You hugged her back with a hesitation you had never given her before, uncomfortable and pained by the feeling of her wedding dress beneath her fingertips. You had swallowed your tears all day, but actually feeling how real it all was threatened to be too much. You just wanted to run home and cry into your pillow. 

  “I just,” she sighed heavily with bubbling excitement. “I’m so fucking happy right now,” she giggled and finally pulled away. “I love him so much and…” she seemed at a loss for words. You were too. 

  “I’m really happy for you, Wands,” you told her, ignoring how your throat felt like it was swelling to the size of a balloon. She grinned and hugged you again, holding you flush against her. 

  “Thanks, y/n. I can't wait for it to be your wedding day.” Her words were as rough as a sucker punch to the gut. Would you even ever have one? Surely. Right? 

  She barely pulled away to kiss your cheek, letting the alcohol do as it pleased and numb the feeling of your hands twitching around her waist at the act. “I hope he treats you well,” you whispered. Wanda smiled and rubbed your cheek affectionately with her thumb, as though she was about to use it to pull you closer once more. You would never know if she would or not, because you stepped away. 

  “Goodnight, Wanda,” you smiled, catching one last glance at the ring around her finger that glimmered under the fairy lights strung above you. They were your final reminder that your best friend was getting her happy ever after, because everything had fallen into place. 

  The moment your back was turned, tears streamed freely down your broken features.

*

You reread the offer letter for perhaps the seventh time that hour, determined to find some fault with it that you had missed before. Regrettably, you found nothing. It was the perfect promotion. Better pay, better hours, better benefits. There was an apartment available just a short walk from the office and from what you had seen from the online viewing, you couldn’t get a better deal on such an ideal place to live. There wasn’t a single flaw that was reason enough for you to turn it down, except for the fact it was on the other side of the country. 

  It wasn't that big a deal. People moved away all the time, it was a natural part of advancing with your life. It just meant that you would have to leave your friends behind, that you would have to leave her behind. Again, that wasn’t really a bad thing. Maybe distance was the only thing that was finally going to put an end to your insistent feelings for Wanda, who had been happily married for nearly a year. It could finally cease your reluctant ‘what ifs’.

  “I knew you would be here,” she called a second before you heard the car door slam shut. You pocketed your phone and glanced behind you. 

  Wanda strolled up the cliff side towards you as the wind gently caressed her hair, though it didn’t seem to ease the concern written over her features. “You didn’t answer my texts,” she said as she joined you on the hood of your car and overlooked the vast ocean stretched out beyond the drop just metres ahead of you. 

  You knew what she was implying, you always answered her texts so she immediately suspected something was wrong. “Girl troubles?” She asked. You scoffed, Carol (sweet as she was) was the least of your concerns. You had only seen each other a handful of times and it felt more like you were hooking up than establishing something with a deeper potential. 

  “Not exactly,” you told her. 

  “Then what’s up?” She asked, nudging your shoulder lightly. 

  “I got a job offer,” you shrugged. Wanda’s eyes widened and she began to grin. Her excitement was infectious.

  “That’s what you’re moping about?”

  “It’s in California,” you said at once. Wanda’s smile wavered, but she refused to let it visibly disappear when it didn’t change the fact that you had a significant opportunity ahead of you. 

  “Wow,” was all she could say. “Have you talked to Carol about it?” She asked even though you both knew it didn’t make the least bit of difference to the Captain what part of the country you were in. You could be on the other side of the world and she would still visit you as frequently as she did. It was clear that the Sokovian couldn’t think of anything else to ask, but it still irked you that it was Carol’s opinion she enquired about. 

  “No, we don’t talk about that stuff,” you dismissed. 

  “Really? It’s a big deal.” You could see her frowning in your peripheral and it was no secret that Wanda had been trying to get you and the blonde to be something you couldn’t. 

  “It won’t make a difference to how we hook up,” you huffed, growing agitated at your best friend’s blindness to where your interests truly lied. 

  “I thought you two were getting closer,” she said slowly, noting your shift. 

 “Carol and I aren’t going to become anything more, Wanda,” you told her firmly, but she insisted on pushing you further.

  “Why?” It was as if she wanted to see you snap and finally admit-

  “Because she’s not you!” You exclaimed, feeling a sudden rush come over you as you let all of the lies you had been held back by all those years to finally dissipate. Wanda stared at you, stunned. 

 “How long?” The question was almost carried away by the breeze.

  “Years,” you admitted, no point down playing the truth. It wouldn’t make it any easier. 

  “Y/n-” she started but you recognised her voice and you knew what was coming. 

  “Don’t. Please don’t,” you begged, tears brewing in your eyes as you realised this could be your long awaited breaking point in your friendship. It was inevitable. It had been since the first day you met the brunette. 

  You took in each other’s drastically different emotions, confirming the alternate cross roads you were about to take. But if that was to be the case, you wanted to have at least one small victory to take away. You cupped Wanda’s cheek as she had done to you so many times before, never understanding the burn you had felt at her touch at the time. She understood it then though, because the softness of your hand protected her from the winds that were picking up and made it all the more tempting to follow your lead as you closed the gap between you. 

  Sometimes in romance novels, they say that the first kiss was better than either of the characters had dreamt of, but that wasn’t the case with your kiss with Wanda. Sure, her lips fit perfectly against your own and yes, the faint taste of strawberry could have made you light headed with a giddy glee. But your kiss was filled with remorse and regret. There was a striking pain to the way your lips moved together and an overwhelming sense of anguish that neither of you would be able to rid yourselves of for quite some time. 

  Worst of all, that kiss was your unspoken goodbye.

  “I’m sorry, I just wanted the chance to feel as lucky as he does,” you told her as you pulled away entirely. Wanda didn’t respond, you didn’t expect her to. She had already given you more than you ever thought possible. So you got off of the hood of your car and Wanda willed herself to do the same, standing back solemnly as you got in the vehicle she would never join you in again. She couldn’t bring herself to watch you drive, nor could you glance back at your best friend in your mirror.

“You look radiant,” she murmured, leaning in closer to press a chaste kiss to your lips. You blushed, loving the red that still tainted your cheeks after four years of marriage.

"You look like home," you replied quietly, just barely loud enough for her- and Steve (curse that super soldier's hearing)- to hear.

She really did look like home. Her dress was long sleeve and snug, ending just below her knees and made of the softest cashmere. It was cozy and warm and loving, just like her, just like home.

The smile she let show threatened to overtake her lips, so she ducked her head as she always did. Perhaps even more so, considering the amount of alcohol she'd ingested.

You were the only one not drinking, which probably had something to do with the fact that you were seven months pregnant... with twins. You felt like you could hardly move and you the thought of two more months made you simultaneously groan and smile. Not to mention, you hadn't used your powers in a few months; the pregnancy hormones had affected your abilities in a questionable way, and the last time you had tried to let the familiar cool water flow from your hands, nothing had happened. It simply seemed that they had.. petered out. And you were warned by Dr. Cho to avoid trying to use them too much anyway.

"I should probably go check on the intelligence report," you said, sighing. Given that you were the only completely sober being present, it was your task to check on the latest intelligence report currently running after some curious and daunting messages of late.

Natasha nearly pouted, before standing and gripping your forearms with the gentle strength that only your wife could perfect. You groaned, all of your muscles giving maximum effort to stand from a seated position, your large abdomen giving you little room to move.

"God, I have two more months of that," you muttered.

"And it's only going to get harder," Clint chimed in, chuckling sympathetically. You sent him a mock glare.

"I'll go with you," Nat stated, a hand falling to your back. She hardly let you go anywhere alone, not that you minded. Living in the Avengers compound was one of the safest places there was, but it also was a target.

"Sit, I'll go," Steve said, "I've got to check on Bucky anyway."

"Finally, Natasha, it is your turn to lose so one money," Tony grinned, shuffling the deck of cards. Your wife retook her seat, rolling her eyes.

Steve met you next to the couch, offering an arm, which you took gladly. The team had been nothing but supportive after finding out about the pregnancy. They were all in agreement regarding your safety and protection. It was automatic at this point for them to watch over you, something that warmed your heart daily.

"How is Bucky?" you questioned.

"He misses being able to walk," Steve chuckled. "That's what he gets for fighting on a torn knee."

"It's been a week since surgery, right?"

He nodded. "And another week before he'll be able to get up and walk on it."

You hummed sympathetically. It was what all of you hated the most- feeling useless, being unable to be an Avenger. You had grown quite accustomed to the feeling.

Your friend, reached out with his other hand to open the door for you, following you inside the intelligence room, curious what the report would say too.

You studied the screen and briefly leafed through some papers, stopping at another odd message printed. Your brow furrowed.

"What is it?" Steve asked.

"It's a date. Today," you answered, looking up to read his expression.

You'd seen the confusion and slight nervousness in his face before glass shattered in the not-so-far distance. Steve looked at you, panicked.

"We need to get you to the bunker."

"We don't even know what's-"

"It doesn't matter," he interrupted. Shouting then could be heard, growing closer in a split second. "Now."

You moved as quickly as you could, exiting only after Steve cleared the hallway. The two of you moved with expertise, albeit a bit slower than normal, towards the stairs. He helped you down the stairs, hurrying you along without rushing you. When you turned down the hallway that held the bunker, several beings masked in dark leather suits and glowing face shields awaited you.

"Stay back," Steve commanded, not even waiting for a response before running toward them at full speed. He pulled a knife from his pocket and set to work. You felt utterly useless, powerless, as you watched them swarm him. A few tried to sneak past to you, but he wouldn't let them come even close. You stood, anxious, barely breathing. Two swift hits to the stomach and knees had Steve knocked on the ground, stumbling for his footing. On instinct, you stepped forward, hands out in front of you.

You had no thoughts as you summoned the familiar tingle of your powers, forgetting completely that they may not even work for you. When coolness flowed through your fingertips, you only then realized you hadn't been able to do that for a while, and you probably shouldn't be doing it now.

But it didn't matter, there were enemies at hand, and you were an Avenger.

So you let a wave hit the men with everything you had. It was nowhere what you had attempted to do, but it worked nonetheless. It gave Steve the opportunity he needed to jump up and take them out quickly.

He took the remaining problems out with ease and then ran back to you.

"Are you hurt?"

"No, you?"

"You shouldn't have used your powers," he said aloud, more a fact and realization at what you had done rather than a scolding.

"I know."

"Bunker," he stated, gently pushing you towards the door. "Stay inside until you get the 'all clear."

You nodded, finding the hidden keypad and locking yourself inside.

++++++

When Steve returned back up to the party, he found several similar bodies strewn about and a few slightly out of breath Avengers.

"Y/N?" Natasha demanded.

"In the bunker, safe and unharmed."

She nodded, a thanks to her good friend.

"Anybody know what the hell is going on?" Clint asked, setting his bow and arrow down.

"Just today's date written down in a message, we just saw it in the report but couldn't piece anything together," Steve answered.

Natasha heard that and knew there was nothing to answer for now, so she started towards the hallway.

"Nat, she used her powers."

Your wife turned on her heel at that, whipping in the soldier's direction faster than lightning.

"Call Cho," was all she said.

++++++

"Natasha is entering," JARVIS announced, causing you to sit upright, eyes glued to the door.

"Oh, thank god," your wife muttered, seeing you sitting unscathed. "Are you alright?" She rushed over to you, kneeling in front of you, eyes scanning your form, hand coming to rest against your cheek after she found nothing.

"I'm fine. Are you?" You turned to plant a kiss to her palm.

"Fine. You used your powers."

"Well, somewhat. They didn't work exactly right," you responded, frowning.

"What happened?"

You told her how you had saved Steve, well only by giving him a slight edge.

"What's wrong?" Natasha asked gently, picking up on your rather displeased tone.

"I feel useless," you whispered, tears pooling in your eyes as you shifted your gaze downward. Gentle fingers tugged your chin upwards until you were forced to meet those familiar emerald eyes.

"You are growing two human beings. That is not useless. I know you aren't avenging right now, but you did just save Steve, even if your powers were limited. Just because you can't do what you normally used to doesn't mean you aren't doing other things that aren't just as amazing, baby."

The corners of your lips twitched upwards, your mood already lifting.

"That's my girl. Now let's go upstairs, Cho is going to check you out."

"Natasha, I'm-"

"I don't care if you're fine," she tutted. "I'm not taking any chances."

With that, she kissed you softly and helped you upright.

++++++

BONUS

"And you know what she said?" Steve asked, a hand placed over his heart as he sat next to Bucky in bed. "You look like home." He sighed softly, as he thought of his two friends who were so beyond perfect for one another.