#{!hc}

Natasha showers cold when she’s angry, warm when she’s happy, and scalding hot when she’s happy about being angry. When she showers with you she keeps it somewhere between just right and almost too hot because you’re not a fan of drastic temperatures, but as soon as you step out she cranks it one way or the other.

It doesn’t stop there — whatever it takes to keep you comfortable, she’ll do: if you set the AC she won’t touch it, same with the heat in the winter; she stops buying the laundry detergent she likes when you start buying the one you like because she doesn’t see the point in buying two different things that do the same thing just with different smells; when the microwave only she uses breaks she doesn’t let you buy her a new one because you never used the thing and besides, she says, “I can make ramen on the stove same as I could in the microwave,” and, “You could also just cook for me,” which you’ve been begging her to let you do since you moved in because she eats like a frat boy and you really do like feeding the people you love; when she runs out of shampoo she starts buying the brand you use so you can use it too because, like the laundry detergent, there’s no point in two different things that do the same thing just with a different scent, and she likes smelling like you, though her perfume overshadows the shampoo anyway; and when you get your dad’s hand-me-down electric car Natasha installs a car-charging dock in the parking space that comes with the condo and starts street-parking her BMW just to make things easier for you.

Eventually she explains that she does these things — things that impede on what she was already doing, for your benefit — because they aren’t important to her. Not because she doesn’t care (she does, very much, especially about you) but because she was trained to reject sentimentality, to avoid forming attachments, and to shed one skin for another the moment anything changes. It was drilled into her for years, she says, that adapting in a myriad of ways to any and every situation is the only way to survive. “Killing everyone who wants to kill me is the other thing I was taught,” she tells you, but she hung up her assassins’ tools years ago. “I don’t need to have every little thing that I like. I don’t care what I wash my clothes with, or how I cook my food, or where I park my car overnight. I just care that I have clean clothes, things to eat, and a car at all. It’s the function of the thing that matters.” You look at her with a curious sort of smile and ask, “So what’s my function?” “You don’t count,” she says. “You aren’t an object, and there’s only one of you. Your function is singular to who you were, who you are now, and who you intend to be in the future, which is subject to change by infinite variables and thus can’t fairly be called a function. Your purpose is just to live. To learn. And to love. And to let me take you to dinner on Friday.”

When she introduces you to her friends she does it like this: “He’s got an expensive metal suit, that one has a big hammer, she does magic, he gets big and green, the idiot over there got blown up and now her fists are canons, and the blondie in the corner is America’s grandpa.”

When she introduces you to her parents she says, “They aren’t my parents. They just — raised me until they let the Red Room take me. I’ll give you twenty bucks if you tell Alexei that Cap’s the strongest Avenger.”

When she introduces you to her sister you and Yelena end up piss drunk and asleep on top of each other in the back of Natasha’s car. At the condo she puts Yelena on the couch and tucks you into bed. The last thing you remember before falling asleep is Natasha stroking your cheek and saying, “My two favorite people in the world are idiots.”

The first time she takes you to a fancy Avengers party she tries not to parade you around and show you off. Instead Tony steals you from her arm and does that for her, all while Natasha watches from the bar with a drink in her hand and a proud smirk on her face. When Tony brings you back she’s got a drink waiting for you. She doesn’t leave your side for the rest of the night.

Natasha isn’t one for spooning — she can’t sleep on her side — but you don’t mind. When she sleeps on her back she gives you an arm to curl your hands around as you tuck into her side. When she sleeps on her belly she likes to fall asleep draped across your chest with her ear over your heart.

When you talk about important things Natasha likes to be face-to-face. And when you’re done talking about important things, if all ends well, she’ll duck forward, rest her forehead against yours, and let her eyes close for just a minute. It’s sweet, and it’s calming, and it is so very Natasha.

Sometimes when you’re cooking she likes to sneak up behind you and slip her arms around your waist and rest her chin on the back of your shoulder. And then she’ll just watch, silent and happy.

She tries to avoid you when she’s angry. Not because she worries about lashing out at you (she doesn’t because she won’t), but because she worries you won’t like what you see. “I don’t care about that,” you tell her, pleading with her not to go because it’s the middle of the night and she’s upset with Tony for something that happened at work that can’t be fixed until the next morning. “I see what I see,” you say, “and I just see you.” She looks at her hands, frowning, brows knitted, and shakes her head. “Negative emotion is what I used to use to kill people,” she says. “You didn’t know me when I did that, and I want to keep you safe from that part of my life.” “Unless you’re still killing people on the side and not telling me about it, you have nothing to worry about, Nat.” “But—” “No,” you tell her, firm. “Will leaving right now and driving aimlessly around until the sun comes up actually help?” She tells you it won’t. “Tell me what will. Be honest.” She thinks about it for a moment and then reaches for your hand, pulling you toward the living room. “Have you ever seen Moonraker?”

At some point she starts wearing your clothes to bed. You’re looking for one of your favorite old tees when Natasha strolls out of the bathroom wearing it. “That’s mine,” you say, smiling at the sight of her. “I wanted to wear it,” she tells you casually, climbing into bed. “Can I give you another one?” She grins, says, “No. I want this one.” “What happened to ‘it’s the function of the thing’?” You’re already slipping another tee over your head and heading towards her. She catches you at the edge of the bed, rising to her knees, and drapes her arms around your shoulders. “The function of this specific shirt is that it belongs to you and that makes me feel nice.” “Nice?” “And safe.” “Wow,” you say, “I make the big bad Black Widow feel safe?” “Shut up and kiss me.”

You say it first. You’re in the bath, she’s perched on the edge of the tub, working shampoo through your hair and humming softly. She’s dressed in a t-shirt that’s too big for her and a pair of boxer shorts. It’s the softest you’ve ever seen her. “Lean back,” she says. “Close your eyes.” You do, and she rinses the shampoo from your hair. Her thumb brushes your cheek, nice and slow so you know it’s intentional. You pop one of your eyes open and squint up at her, smiling. “What would you say if I told you that I love you?” She just chuckles. “I’d say you’re out of your mind.” “Then call me crazy.”

You don’t have a traditional pet name for Yelena. Sometimes babe slips out, sometimes my love, but neither of them are your favorite. Or hers. That one — the best one, the one you both like the most — slips out when she’s doing weird shit. In a cute way. There was one time you woke up in the middle of the night to find her sitting up beside you in bed with a blanket thrown over her head and a flashlight in hand while she paged through a magazine. You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked at her for a moment, blinking the sleep from your eyes. “Yelena?” She cursed softly in Russian and the flashlight winked out. You picked up the edge of the blanket and peered at her underneath it, a grin inching across your lips. “What’re you doin’?” She clicked the flashlight back on and said, “I’m being considerate of the fact that you’re asleep and I am not. I was doing a good job.” You laughed, tugged the blanket off of her, and leaned over to switch on the bedside lamp to give her better light to read by. “You don’t need to worry about that,” you told her. “Ultron could return and I’d sleep through it. I can handle a little light.” She huffed, reached for you, and gently pinched your cheek, saying, “And here I was thinking I was doing a nice thing.” You turned your head, chuckling, and kissed her palm, mumbling, “You could’ve gone to the living room to read.” Apparently she couldn’t have. “Could not,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t like leaving you.” Right. That. You liked hearing that.  “Gross,” you said, grinning, reaching for her. “C’mere, dummy.” 

Yelena can’t take pet names seriously. Sometimes she’ll scrunch up her face and call you baby boo, or honey face, or angel tits. Sometimes she’ll reach for your face, pinch your cheeks, and call you things in Russian that she refuses to translate and that you couldn’t transcribe to translate yourself even if you wanted to. Lately she’s taken to calling you “my little helpless American.” 

“What is this?” Yelena’s leaning over the back of the couch, warm fingers gently tugging at your ear. “Video game,” you tell her, reaching back to touch her cheek. “What’s the objective? Hunt the little animals who walk on two legs?” “No, Lena,” you say, “you just collect them, you know, give them a nice place to live and make sure they’re happy.” Yelena makes a sound. Then she’s climbing over the back of the couch and sinking down beside you with her hands out. “Lemme try.” You give her the controller. You show her where your tools are, tell her how to collect fruit, explain that you can buy things from the little raccoon dogs to decorate the island with. Twenty minutes later all she’s done is chop down half of your trees and get stung by a wasp. 

Yelena needs things to do with her hands. She isn’t used to stagnancy, to being still, to sitting back when there truly isn’t anything to be done. She spent so long at the beck and call of a man who rarely let her rest, who used her to execute wicked plan after wicked plan. She’s used to doing, to fighting, to always having someone ready to tell her what she’s expected to do next. Downtime is new to her. First it’s friendship bracelets. Then it’s braiding your hair fifteen different ways she learned on YouTube overnight. You take her to the hardware store with you one time and she comes home with a bag full of paracord in twelve different colors. “Friendship bracelets on steroids,” she calls them when she presents you with the first one she makes. It’s black and forest green and she ties it around your wrist with a proud smile on her face. “Is this the—” “Same colors as my vest,” she finishes for you. “Cool, huh?” Wearing it feels like carrying a little piece of Yelena with you everywhere you go. 

To meet her sister for the first time she takes you to an axe throwing range. “Natasha’s almost as fun as me, but she’s scary about it. Watch — I bet you a back massage that she doesn’t miss one single bullseye.” Natasha shakes your hand awkwardly when you meet her, expressionless until Yelena smacks her in the arm and hisses, “You said you’d be nice.” Yelena’s right — her sister doesn’t miss a single bullseye. And Natasha loosens up a little when you ask her to show you proper throwing form. She does, and you get better, and Yelena just looks happy that the two of you are getting along. “That was nice,” Yelena says later. Then she furrows her brow, reaches for you, and tugs on your belt loop. “Was that nice? I don’t know how things like that are supposed to go.” You tell her it was and when she beams you feel your heart flutter in your chest.

When you meet her parents it’s a little less intimidating. Alexei nearly cracks your ribs with a hug. Melina introduces you to the pigs she keeps on the land behind the house. You order pizza because Melina doesn’t care much for cooking, and Alexei introduces you to Ochakovo. Yelena looks happy to be around them, if a little sheepish. Eventually Alexei tells you Yelena’s just worried you’d think they were lame. You don’t, you think they’re fantastic, and you don’t hesitate to lean over and kiss the exasperated blush from Yelena’s cheeks, much to her chagrin.

Cuddling with Yelena is never predictable. She moves a lot in her sleep, so whether you fall asleep in her arms or across her chest there’s no telling how the two of you will wake up. Sometimes you wake up to a mouthful of her hair. Sometimes to her face smushed against your chest. Occasionally to her with an arm and a leg thrown over you. Other times with your shirt ridden up and her cheek pressed against your warm belly. But no matter how you fall asleep she’s always right there when you wake up and that’s the only thing you care about.

The only time Yelena looks happier than when she’s with you is when she gets the dog. She and Fanny love each other instantly.

Yelena says it first. Drops it casually in conversation over breakfast because she doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it and make you uncomfortable if you aren’t ready for it. But you’re ready. “Google says there’s an apple orchard forty minutes out of town,” she says as she tears the crust off of her toast. You brighten instantly, saying, “You’d go apple picking with me?” “You love apples,” she says, shrugging, “and I love you, so of course I will. It’s my turn to take you on a date, isn’t it?”

You’re the designated cook, but Wanda tries sometimes. Usually when you’re hungover because she never is — she doesn’t drink — and somehow she always forgets that her best skill in the kitchen is setting off the smoke alarm. Slightly burnt toast with two overdone eggs and a giant glass of apple juice is the only meal she’s perfected.

First time you celebrated a birthday with her, a month after you met, she introduced you to all of her friends. You told her you didn’t want a fancy party, or any gifts, you just wanted an evening at ease and to fall asleep in her arms. You told her, too, that you always worked on your birthday because you don’t like having too much time on your hands and the people you work with are the people you’d want to spend time with on your birthday anyway. After work you brought your two favorite coworkers home with you to share Chinese takeout and a goofy movie. Wanda arrived an hour later, gave you a kiss, and hugged each of your friends like she’d known them forever. Ten minutes after she arrived the doorbell rang again and you answered it to find two men and two women you’d never met before. They introduced themselves as Tony, Steve, Natasha, and Carol, and they’d brought board games. Tony took Monopoly very seriously, Steve played Scrabble much like your grandfather, Natasha beat everyone at Guess Who, and Carol brought an old Sega and a box of games from the nineties to hook up to the television. Although you’d said no gifts they each gave you something small: a tie-clip from Tony (“Maximoff says a tie is part of your uniform. That’ll class it up.”), a compass keychain from Steve (“Never know when you’ll need one of those. Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.”), a gift certificate to a gun range from Natasha that she offered to use to with you (“Every woman should know how to kill a man at twenty-five yards.”), and an Electronic Quarterback from Carol (“Those were all the rage once upon a time. Might be worth money someday — toss me a ten percent cut if it is.”). Later that night as you fell into bed, curled up on your side face-to-face with Wanda, she told you, “I know I said I wouldn’t get you anything for your birthday, but I had to bring you my friends.” You smiled, reached for her face, brushing your thumb across her lips. “Thank you for showing me a little more of your life. They were the perfect gift.”

Wanda’s a better driver than you are. You’re cautious, a little too law-abiding, and she’s wild: constantly twenty over the limit, California stops, drifting corners for the hell of it. Natasha taught her to drive so it does make sense but that doesn’t make your heart thunder any less. You haven’t been late to work since you met her.

She bought you a big fancy tablet once, completely unsolicited, and seemingly for no reason at all other than she’d gotten used to using one at work with Tony and began to think everyone’s life would be a bit better with some good tech at hand. Didn’t take her long to start video-calling you from the living room while you were still in the bedroom, just to say hi. (“I know you’re twenty feet down the hall and you don’t like distractions while you’re getting ready for the day, but I thought it might be nice to distract you anyway.” You rolled your eyes, hung up on her, and ran half-dressed down the hallway to throw yourself into her arms.)

You still think about the time you came home from drinks with Natasha and Carol absolutely plastered and refused to go to bed until Wanda dressed you down and made you a mug of hot chocolate. You didn’t ask for a bedtime story but she gave you one anyway. She coaxed you into bed and guided your head into her lap and read to you from a book of East African folktales that T’Challa lent her while she combed through your hair with gentle fingers. She kept her voice soft, though it sort of always was, and you still swear some of her old accent slipped out that night.

The shower in your apartment takes roughly seven minutes to warm up because the building is old and the pipes have minds of their own. Wanda’s always awake before you, even when your first alarm rings at five for a shift at six, and the first thing she does is start running the shower for you. It never takes you long to wake up after she does — even in your sleep your body knows when she’s no longer there at your side — and most mornings you wake up just as she’s strolling back into the bedroom with a warm smile and a heap of love in her eyes.

Sometimes you forget to bring lunch to work. Wanda knows this, she’s nothing if not attentive, but instead of making sure you leave the house with a packed lunch she cuts time out of the middle of her day to bring you lunch herself. She likes to see you on the clock, says you look cute in your company tie. She never brings you a home-cooked lunch, always a sandwich and a salad from the grill on the corner by your apartment that has the sourdough focaccia bread you like so much. She greets you with a kiss, leaves you with a lunch, and wiggles her fingers in a wave as she strolls off to head back to work.

Wanda knows your schedule perhaps better than you do. Especially when it comes to meds. She knows you take the one for anxiety in the mornings, the one for insomnia three hours before bed, and knows you need the as-needed one for panic attacks within five minutes of an attack beginning or you’ll start panicking about that on top of the attack itself. She’s either got a sixth sense about your panic attacks or she’s incredibly in-tune with your body language because every time you’ve turned to her and begun to mumble, “Wanda, I think I’m having a panic attack,” she’s already got your meds ready like she knew what was going to happen. Three weeks into dating her you asked if she’d mind carrying your meds and your wallet while you were out together — you’ve got a habit of losing important things when out of the house — and she’s never let you down.

Even though you’re taller than Wanda she likes being the big spoon. Usually with her forehead pressed between your shoulder blades because that’s as high up as she reaches. She likes to sneak her hand beneath your shirt and graze her knuckles up and down the warm skin of your belly as you drift off to sleep. Sometimes she’ll sing to you like that, mumbling the words against your back, but not often; she doesn’t like her singing voice, even though you really do, but sometimes something takes over her and the words just start spilling out, surprising her as much as you. 

The first time she told you she loved you it was four in the morning and the two of you were sitting in the bathtub beneath the warm water from the shower head. You were both still in your pajamas, soaked through, and the whole thing looked a little ridiculous. It was the first time you had a panic attack in front of her. You’d had a nightmare so real that you’d woken up straight into an attack. You tumbled out of bed and started digging madly through your bag with shaking hands in search of your meds as your breath stuttered in your chest. You weren’t paying attention but you must’ve made enough noise to wake her up because she was there with you moments later, a gentle hand on your back as she asked you what was wrong. You sent her for a glass of water and by the time she returned you’d found your meds. They would take fifteen minutes to kick in. It would take a bit for your heart to calm down and your breathing to return to normal and although you knew it would indeed eventually even out you hated the waiting part. You shakily asked her if she’d put you in the shower because water always helped you calm down. In the bathroom she asked if you needed help getting undressed, but you just waved her off. You didn’t bother waiting for the water to warm up either, just stepped in and sunk down into the tub. Without missing a beat Wanda stepped in too and slid down behind you, propping her knees up so you could lean back between her legs with your back against her chest. “I’ve got you,” she muttered, gently moving your wet hair out of your face. She pressed her lips against your shoulder and held you while you tried to breathe slowly. She held you until the water was warm, until your chest began to rise and fall evenly and you let your eyes flutter shut. She stroked your arms, your sides, and gave you a hand to hold when you reached for one. “Sorry,” you whispered eventually, holding her hand against your cheek. “Panic attack.” She told you it was nothing to apologize for. “I love you,” she said, “and if you want me to go through these things with you, I’m right here. Okay?” Yeah, you thought, okay.

It’s Tony’s fault, really, as most things involving technology are. “Killer time waster,” he told her when he dropped by with the giant television and the game system. “Maybe it’ll sharpen up your reflexes, too.” Wanda’s reflexes did not and do not need sharpening, they’re fine, more than fine, but Tony never misses an opportunity to poke fun at his people. It is his love language, after all. But she did need a distraction, and a good one at that, what with the Avengers on hiatus and Tony keeping her on the compound “for her own safety.” If gifting her with fancy technology and leaving her alone was his way of apologizing for the circumstances, well, fine.

Wanda doesn’t like shooters (okay—she does, but she doesn’t like that they’re called shooters, and she doesn’t like the idea of killing people in excess even when it’s a game) but hell if she isn’t good at them. She swears she doesn’t use her magic as an extra trigger finger but she’s gotten so good at little magic that doesn’t leave a trace of red in the air that nobody can be sure.

She talks—never yells—at the television while she plays. Mostly to reply to in-game dialogue that doesn't need a response at all.

“Why does the man on the phone keep asking me ’would you kindly?’” They’re technically in a meeting. Technically. Meetings never feel quite right to Wanda when the whole squad isn’t assembled. It’s just Tony, Nat, and Scott around the table with her. Tony’s trying to brief them on something that may or may not be happening a year from now, Nat’s listening, Scott isn’t, and Wanda’s talking to whoever will listen. “The same phrase was on the little note on the plane,” she says, “and I don't think it's a coincidence.” Tony stops, frowns, and, “What?” he asks. “On the gift box from mom and dad,” she adds, as if it helps. The, “What?” comes from Natasha next. “BioShock,” Scott offers, “which is a sweet game. Super twisty—great if you want to have your morals messed with while you’re stuck in an underwater city.” They don’t end up finishing the meeting. They end up arguing across the table about whether or not video games are still fun when they employ manipulative psychological tactics. Scott says yes, Wanda says only sometimes, Natasha just observes, and Tony swears they'd have all been dead years ago if this was the entire team.

She doesn’t like when people watch her play unless they’re playing with her. Or unless it’s Natasha. Nat’s unobtrusive and familiar enough that Wanda doesn’t mind if the redhead slumps onto the couch with her and watches in silence until one or both of them doze off hours later.

Wanda’s Animal Crossing island is mostly trees, mostly unorganized, and rich with flowers. No Lilly of the Valley yet, but she’ll get there. It took her a while to figure out she could time travel to progress faster and once she did? No turning back. She plays the stalk market when she remembers to, which isn’t often, but she plays it well enough. She likes the duck villagers the best, and the cubs—all of the teeny tiny ones have a special place in her heart, in fact, and she tends to call them friends instead of villagers.

When Scott tries to get her into GTA it backfires. She gets him hooked on Mario Kart instead. They sit criss-cross, side by side on the floor in front of the couch, slinging banana peels and shells at each other until long after the sun’s gone down. “You remind me of my daughter,” he says in the middle of a race, and, “Sorry, that was weird,” when she doesn’t say anything back. “Wasn’t it?” Wanda pauses the game and considers. “No,” she says after a moment, “it’s not weird. I don’t have as many memories of my father as I would like, so these ones will be nice to have.”