Top Posts Tagged with #paintitblackau

Paint It Black Chapter - Friends, right?

Teen Natasha Romanoff x Teen Reader

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff has never known love—or at least, that’s what she tells herself. During her time in the Red Room, she encountered a girl whose memory was forcibly erased from her mind. Now, as an Avenger, she faces a new enemy who turns out to be more than just a threat; they share a tangled history that challenges everything Natasha thought she knew about herself and love.

Chapter Summary: Natasha learns that she and R are more than friends?

W/c: 6.7k

Warnings: This is a dark story, so read at your own risk. Mentions/hints of SA, violence, guns, and abuse. We're exploring the Red Room and Natasha's origins, kind of.

Note: This is a long one. I had it ready a month ago and well life got shitty soo.. i like it. i hope you do too.

The apartment was unusually quiet when Natasha woke up. Her arm was outstretched toward the headboard, subconsciously anticipating the pull and pinch of handcuffs and the cold bite of steel around her wrist. For a split second, she tensed, bracing for the tug that would signal another training day, another lesson, another punishment.

But it never came.

Just sunlight filtered through expensive curtains, and the sounds of a city that didn’t know who she was. The scent of burnt toast lingered through the penthouse from Karen’s poor attempt at breakfast.

Her fingers curled in the space beside her.

This was freedom, supposedly. Soft beds and unlocked doors. But her body hadn’t gotten the message. It was still awake, ready to fight, obey, hurt, or break. She sat up and rubbed the back of her neck, trying to ease the knot, but her eyes kept darting back to the spot on the headboard, expecting… what?

She had spent three years in a bedroom like this one with a pretend mother, father, and little sister. Toys on the shelf. Drawings on the fridge. Warm meals and bedtime stories rehearsed to perfection. But even then, her instincts had never dulled. The illusion had never held, or so she convinced herself.

This was just another variation of the same game.

Different set. Same rules.

She peeled the blanket off and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet touched the carpet instead of concrete. The nightgown she'd been provided was a bit too big for her, but it was better than the itchy nightdresses given by her handlers. She headed to the bathroom first, needing to wash her face and brush her teeth to scrub away the last lingering traces of sleep and nightmare.

It was all very routine.

The face in the mirror was the same as always: a young girl. Red hair. Pretty. Green eyes. Small. She'd been told a lot about the girl in the mirror: her name, age, and story. None of it was anything she defined on her own. She splashed water on her face and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. She brushed her teeth quickly, ignoring the way her arm twitched.

There were no gunshots today.

No explosions.

Nothing.

Her stomach growled.

Breakfast.

She'd learned long ago to keep her mouth shut. To do her job. To take her orders. Still, she struggled. Being twelve had its rules, and she had to learn them all over again. She padded out into the hallway, bare feet quiet against the laminate floors. As she passed your door, she hesitated. The lights were off. No movement. Still in there.

Fine.

She moved on.

In the kitchen, the table was covered in paper and grainy photos. Karen stood leaning over a mug of coffee. Ken was already seated, pointing something out on the printout between toast bites.

Natasha lingered in the doorway. She didn’t know the protocol.

“Morning,” Karen said without looking up.

Natasha didn’t respond. Her eyes scanned the table. The woman in the photos was elegant, mid to late twenties, with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes. Classic Widow. The kind that made men underestimate her.

“She defected last year,” Ken said, tapping the page like Natasha had asked. “Dreykov’s old files say she went ghost in Berlin, but she’s surfaced here. Been leaking intel to someone. We’re trying to figure out who.”

Natasha nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak.

"You hungry?" Karen asked.

Natasha shrugged. She was, but it wasn’t her place to admit that.

Karen gestured toward the fridge. "Eggs are in the crisper. It's about all we have."

Natasha nodded. She eyed Ken, thinking about last night and how he'd been at your bedroom door when she caught him. For that very reason, she decided she didn't like him. Even as she watched him, he barely looked up from his notes, already moving on to something else. Karen sipped her coffee like this was all routine. To them, it probably was. Just another day. Another asset.

Natasha stood stiffly by the counter. She didn’t reach for the eggs. She didn’t move until Karen finally addressed her again.

“You and y/n will go to Central Park today,” she said, flipping to a different page in the file. “Around nine. Our girl usually shows up near the fountain. Light trail. No contact unless it’s necessary. She jogs.”

Natasha blinked. “Just us?”

Karen nodded like it was apparent. “She won’t think anything of kids. That’s the point.”

That’s the point.

She swallowed the bitterness on her tongue.

Karen didn’t ask if she was ready. Or if she felt safe. Or even if she understood. She just handed over the mission like passing off a grocery list.

Natasha gave a tight nod. She understood just fine.

Useful, not protected. Seen, but not seen. A tool. Not a person.

She reached into the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs. The yolks were fresh. Good protein. Healthy.

She was still hungry.

Karen went back to the photos. "You'll get a call at eight. That's when you head out. We'll be here. Trying to get into her apartment." Karen pulled something out of her pocket. "This is a cellular phone."

"I know what a cellular phone is," Natasha muttered.

"Right. Of course. Anyway, here." She slid the device across the counter. "You'll need it."

She stared down at the phone in her hands like it might bite.

It was heavier than it looked. Sleek. Black. Nothing like the clunky handsets they'd used in training simulations. This one wasn’t for practicing field comms or running a scripted op. This one was real.

“Just answer when it rings,” Karen added, returning to her coffee. “We’ll handle the rest.”

No more instructions. No concern. No check-in. Just the phone and the job.

Natasha’s fingers closed around the device. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t say anything.

She was already expected to know what to do.

She cracked an egg into the pan and watched it sizzle, the scent rising like something familiar, something oddly domestic. But the taste never made it past her throat. Not really.

Behind her, Karen and Ken talked in low voices. They discussed strategies, surveillance angles, and aliases. They didn’t glance her way again.

She wasn’t a child to them. She was a pair of eyes and legs that could move through a crowd unnoticed. A face no one would question. The perfect shadow.

She put the phone in her pocket.

And when the egg was done, she plated it carefully. One for her. One for you.

*****

She knocked at your door gently, wondering what she could say to make you get up.

"Y/n?"

No answer.

"Your eggs are getting cold."

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, expecting the worst. But instead, she saw you sitting atop your windowsill reading a book. She briefly read the title "Are you there, God? It's Me, Margaret." She wondered where you got that from. Books were usually vetted before being given to the widows. So she could guess you'd stolen it, but from where? You didn’t look up immediately, even though you heard the door creak open. You’d half-expected it to be Karen, maybe Ken, coming to give you another order, lecture, or something you didn’t ask for. But when you saw the flash of red hair in the window's reflection, your shoulders tensed for a different reason entirely.

Natasha.

You shifted your posture quickly, trying not to look like you’d been comfortable. Like you were enjoying the stupid book. You pressed the paperback flat against your thigh, face warming as you tried to hide the title beneath your palm. Too late. You knew she saw it.

She didn’t comment, though. She just moved toward the dresser and set down a plate with eggs and a single piece of toast so black it could’ve been used as charcoal.

“Didn’t know what you liked,” she said, voice low. Awkward, almost.

You risked a glance at her. She wasn’t looking at you and just standing there, unsure if she should stay or go. Her hands were shoved into the pockets of her sweatpants, shoulders hunched.

You cleared your throat and mumbled, “Thanks.”

It came out sharper than you meant. Not grateful, but not hostile either. Just… defensive.

Natasha didn’t flinch. Didn’t press.

"We're going to Central Park today," She said.

"What?"

"They want us to tail the mark. You and me."

You blinked.

"Karen thinks the target will be less suspicious of kids."

"Right." You glanced down at your lap. "Sure. I guess."

You weren't sure if she was telling you the truth. She could've easily been sent to ensure you weren't hiding in your room. Not that you think either of those adults out there would have cared.

"Thanks," You said, expecting her to leave the bedroom.

But she didn't.

She stayed, eyes wandering the room.

"Did you sleep well?" She asked after a few seconds of silence.

You glanced up. Her gaze was trained on the bed. On the headboard. On the indentation left by a handcuff. Then down to the pile of clothes you'd had tucked into a corner. Pajamas that you switched out for the ones you were currently wearing.

"It's fine," you said quickly.

Her eyebrows furrowed.

"No one bothered you, did they? You know, while you were asleep," She explained at the raise of your brow.

You shook your head. "No?"

You didn't tell her about the nightmare, how you'd woken up alone and scared. You had never truly slept in a place alone before. She nodded slowly, but her eyes didn’t leave the mark on the bed. You could tell she recognized it. Of course, she did.

“Okay,” she said quietly, though it sounded like she didn’t believe you. Or maybe she didn’t know what else to say.

You shifted uncomfortably, the book still warm on your side. You hated how exposed you felt. Like she could see right through you. Like somehow, she knew about the nightmare, about how long you sat frozen in bed before the sun came up, about the tears you wiped away before they could fall.

She took a step closer, then stopped again. You didn’t look at her, but you felt the tension in the air shift like she wanted to reach out but didn’t know how.

Instead, she asked, “What’s the book about?”

You blinked, thrown off by the question. You glanced at the cover again, embarrassed.

“It’s… weird. Some girl talking to God about periods and bras and stuff.”

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “That sounds… awful.”

That got the smallest laugh out of you. “It kind of is.”

She gave a half-smile. It didn’t reach her eyes, but it was real.

You looked down again, fingers brushing the pages. “Why’d you bring me breakfast?”

Her silence lingered a beat too long.

“Because you didn’t come out,” she finally said. “And I thought maybe you were… hungry.”

You nodded. That was fair.

You didn’t thank her again, and she didn’t ask you to. Instead, she leaned against the doorframe for a moment longer, then straightened up.

“We leave in 20,” she reminded you. “Be ready.”

You didn’t answer, but she didn’t wait. The door clicked softly shut behind her.

And for a while, you just sat there, staring at the dent in your headboard and wondering what it meant that she noticed.

*******

You were both in the park several hours later, waiting for the target. You sat beside Natasha on the bench, your knees pulled to your chest, and your arms wrapped around them. She was quiet. Focused.

Natasha was a people watcher. She didn’t do it purposefully; it was instinct by now. Her eyes went from couple to couple, stroller to jogger, pigeon to pretzel cart. She cataloged everything: the man's hand too deep in his coat pocket, the teen pretending not to watch a tourist’s purse, and the woman pacing near the fountain with a cell phone to her ear, glancing over her shoulder every three seconds.

“She’s not here yet,” she said, almost to herself.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure how she could tell.

“She’ll run past,” Natasha added. “They said she always does. Loop around the west side, head back toward 72nd.”

You stretched your legs and looked around. So many people. Dogs and laughter and honking taxis. It should have felt like freedom. Instead, it felt like noise. Overwhelming noise. You hated to admit it, but Natasha had the edge out here. She looked so natural in the disorder, almost like she belonged in the blur of noise and motion. Her sharp eyes, her steady breath, the way she didn't flinch when a bike zipped past too close to the curb. You, on the other hand, felt like a loose thread just waiting to be tugged.

You hadn’t lied back at the apartment. Dreykov had rarely let you out of his sight. When you were out, it wasn’t like this. It was rehearsed. Controlled. Monitored. The people around you weren’t strangers. They were extras. Props. Trained to play their part in the illusion. You had been on a handful of missions, clean, calculated jobs. Ones where the risk was low and the point was to prove your obedience, not your instincts. You never fumbled. Never failed. You were good. Better than most girls your age.

But you still felt like a baby sometimes. Out here, especially.

Not scared. No. That wasn’t the right word. You knew how to defend yourself. You knew how to kill if you had to. But sitting on this bench, surrounded by life that wasn’t manufactured or staged, made you feel like a shadow at the edge of something bigger. You didn’t know where to put your hands or how loud you were supposed to laugh.

There was no script here. No handler feeding lines into your earpiece. Just you. And Natasha. And the noise of a world that moved too fast and too freely. And even now, you weren’t sure if you were pretending to be a girl… or if you’d forgotten how to be one.

So yeah. This was different. But not impossible.

You glanced at Natasha again. She didn’t even seem tense. Just watchful. Ready.

You opened your book, but your eyes didn’t stay glued to the page. Every few lines, you looked up. Checked the path. Scanned the faces. It wasn’t just about being alert. It gave your hands something to do. A rhythm. Something normal.

Beside you, Natasha shifted. She crouched down momentarily, picking something up from the base of the bench. A stick. Then another. Before long, a small pile formed by her boots. She didn’t say anything; she just let her fingers work, arranging the sticks into a small square and lining them up flat. Careful. Precise.

You didn’t ask what she was doing, and she didn’t explain. But it was nice watching her build something instead of breaking it.

"Why’d you hide away in your bedroom last night?" she asked eventually, her voice quiet and not looking at you.

You froze a little, then turned a page in your book without reading it. "I didn’t want anyone coming in."

Natasha nodded, like she understood. And maybe she did.

"Ken bothers you," she said.

You shrugged, but she wasn’t really asking. Just stating facts the way she saw them. Observing. Cataloging.

“Everyone bothers me,” you said after a beat. You didn't want it to seem too serious.“I just… I didn’t want to talk.”

You felt her eyes on you, but you didn’t look up.

“He knocked,” you added. “I didn’t answer.”

“That’s good,” she said.

You blinked, surprised by the softness in her voice.

Natasha returned to her little stick house, adjusting one of the walls. “You don’t have to let anyone in. Not unless you want to.”

You didn't say anything, but that made you feel a bit better.

A minute passed. Then two.

Suddenly, Natasha nudged you and nodded toward the path. You followed her line of sight, spotting a woman jogging in a pair of black running shorts and a blue sports bra. The target. You recognized her from the files. She was exactly how Karen and Ken had described. As she whirled past you, you averted your gaze, making sure not to seem too obvious.

"Is it her?" you asked, though you were already pretty sure.

Natasha nodded.

"Where is she going?"

"West. Around the loop."

She picked up a stick and set it carefully on top of the pile.

"So we follow?"

"That's the job."

You closed the book. Your heart was racing, and you weren't sure why.

You stood up and took a deep breath, then stepped behind her.

You watched Natasha as you walked along the path, and the woman continued her jog. She slowed ahead like she’d reached the halfway point of her loop. You subtly tapped Natasha’s hand, and you adjusted your pace.

“I think I’m going to ask my mom to pierce my ears,” you said suddenly, your voice pitched loud enough to carry.

“What?” Natasha blinked at you, confused but going along. “Your parents would let you?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t they?”

Natasha didn’t miss a beat. “It’ll hurt.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, but that’s not the point. My friend Sarah had hers pierced, and her dad took her out for ice cream. Plus, it would make me look more grown-up.”

Natasha gave a faint smile, but her eyes scanned the path ahead. “Well, if you truly think so—”

"Excuse me," a voice cut in.

You turned. The jogger had slowed to a walk and was standing a little too close now, her breath only slightly labored, her tone casual, but her eyes too sharp.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” she said, smiling politely. “I think I’ve seen you both around. You're in my building, right?”

Natasha’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Could be."

The woman’s gaze flicked toward you next, assessing and not threatening, not precisely. Just… curious. Like she was trying to place you in a memory she didn’t fully trust.

You looked away, pretending to adjust your jacket zipper.

“The building near Columbus Circle,” she added, still smiling. Fourth floor. The one with the ugly doormat."

Something in your chest tightened. How she said it, light and teasing, made it feel like a real memory. Like she knew you.

Her voice was smooth and rich, with a faint lilt you couldn’t quite place. England, maybe. Or somewhere near it. Did she grow up there? Her skin was warm-toned and clear, even glowing a little beneath the muted city light. Her hair, long and straight, was pulled back in a neat ponytail. Too perfect for someone who’d just been jogging.

You didn’t recognize her. But something about her made your palms sweat.

There was a kindness in her gaze. Genuine, even. She looked at the two of you like she liked talking to strangers. It came easily to her.

You smiled back. Disinterested but polite. Just a kid on spring break, irritated to be stopped.

But inside, your mind ticked like a clock. You were cataloging every detail: the subtle shift of her weight onto her back foot. The curve of her smile. The faint scar just above her brow, healed but not hidden. Widow marks. Signs you’d been trained to spot since you were old enough to walk in a straight line.

And suddenly you weren’t sure what scared you more—the possibility that she was dangerous.

Or the possibility that she was familiar.

You nodded politely, your heartbeat suddenly louder in your ears. You must have been waiting too long to respond since Natasha stepped slightly in front of you.

“Nice to meet you,” she said coolly. “We’re still figuring out where everything is. Central Park’s as far as we’ve made it.”

"We're here on vacation with my parents." You joined in with much more confidence.

"Vacation." The woman smiled again, but her eyes narrowed a fraction. "Must be nice. Where are you guys originally from?"

"Ohio," Natasha answered.

"That's lovely. My mother is from Cleveland. Do you know it?"

Natasha shrugged. "I've been a couple of times. "

"Ah. I bet it's nice."

"Not bad," Natasha said, a smile playing on her lips. "Though the zoo could use a renovation. The monkeys smell awful."

You stared at her, amazed by how easily she could lie. She was completely casual, even laughing, like this was a conversation she'd had a hundred times.

"Anyway, we should be going," You said. "It was nice to meet a neighbor, though."

The woman's eyes didn't leave your face. "Right. So great to meet you. I have to run. Literally." She chuckled at her own joke before putting her headset back over her ears. You and Natasha started walking again, keeping your pace measured. You didn’t look back.

But a few steps later, something caught your eye on the ground. A small item, half-tucked into the edge of the path.

A leather cardholder. Deep brown, worn at the edges, and unmistakably expensive.

Natasha almost missed it, but you stopped, crouched, and picked it up before anyone else noticed. Your fingers ran over the monogram at the corner. G.R.

“She dropped it,” you murmured.

Natasha leaned over your shoulder. “Are you sure it’s hers?”

You opened it slowly, careful not to look too obvious. Inside: a few subway tokens, a twenty-dollar bill, a photo of a dog sitting in front of a fountain, and a business card.

Georgina Rousseau, Behavioral Specialist.

332B West Tower, Behavioral Health Center.

A phone number, an email address, a faint scent of something.

You stared at the name. Georgina. You quickly put the business card in your pocket before sliding the wallet to Natasha to inspect. If she saw you, she didn't indicate otherwise.

Your mind flickered, something shifting.

“She’s already gone,” Natasha said.

You nodded. She was. "Ken and Karen will want to know about this." Natasha nodded and pulled out the cellular phone she'd been given.

*********

Leaving an entire penthouse to two teenagers was bound to be bad news. Under normal circumstances, a party would be held. Maybe even sneaking into the liquor cabinet if the teens were daring enough.

For you, it meant another night to dive into your book.

You were stretched across the bed, fresh from the shower, hair damp and curling around your ears and shoulders. The night had gone oddly quiet without Karen’s heels clicking or Ken’s voice carrying through the study. It was unsettling how easily the silence crept in. You quite liked it.

The book wasn’t even good. Just distracting. You didn’t relate. Not really. But you liked the way it was written. Simple. Soft. The kind of soft you’d never been allowed to be.

A knock on the door made you tense for a second. But it was light. Casual.

You didn’t answer, but Natasha let herself in anyway.

She was already in pajamas. An oversized tee and shorts. Her hair was tied in two braids like she didn’t know what else to do with it. She padded in barefoot, clutching a pillow under one arm.

You blinked at her. “What are you doing?”

She shrugged and tossed the pillow onto the foot of your bed. “You said we were close enough for sleepovers.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That was for the mission.”

“Right.” She walked over to the window and peeked out at the skyline. “Well, the mission's not over. And I’m bored.”

You closed the book but didn’t mark the page. “We have our own rooms.”

“And?”

You gave her a long look. “What do you want to do? Paint our nails and talk about boys?”

Natasha grinned a little. “Isn’t that what sleepovers are for?”

You rolled your eyes and shifted to sit cross-legged. “You’re weird.”

She sat down next to the bed, back against it, legs stretched out in front of her. "Normal teenagers do these things."

You studied her a bit. The girl who had been so adamant about you not being friends was initiating a sleepover.

"Did you have sleepovers before?" You asked.

"No. Not like this," She said softly. "With Yelena sometimes." She shrugged, trailing off.

You thought about that. How different it was. How odd.

"Were you allowed to be close to each other?"

Natasha hesitated, looking down at her hands. "No, but we were anyway."

"How come you are allowed to ask questions about my life, but I can't ask about yours?" Natasha said suddenly.

"Well, there's nothing to know," You said. "Nothing worth telling."

Natasha shook her head. "I don't believe that."

You shrugged and pulled a loose thread on your pillowcase.

"You always say that," Natasha said, her voice quieter now. "That there's nothing worth knowing. But I see the way Dreykov looks at you. The way the others avoid you. You’re not nothing."

You stilled.

A beat passed between you. Then two.

“I didn’t say I was nothing,” You murmured. “I said there’s nothing I want to tell.”

Natasha frowned, and for once, she didn’t push. She leaned back against the side of the bed, the two of you sitting close, but not touching.

“I’m not trying to make you tell me everything,” she said after a moment. “I just think it's best if we know more about each other."

You swallowed, eyes still trained on the thread in your hand. Slowly, you tugged it free.

"Just a few weeks ago, you were telling me to stay away from you," You began. "You thought I'd lied to you to get a leg up with Dreykov."

"You didn't," she said quietly.

"Yeah. Because I know what it's like to be under his thumb so closely."

She was quiet for a second. "But I was right. You do lie. To protect yourself. And not just for missions."

You didn’t reply. You knew you had lied, and not always because it was necessary. It wasn't even a lie, technically. Dreykov needed her to be at her best. He was going to send her on a mission. This mission. But you didn't think the test had come yet. You didn't want to tell her that part.

“I think you lie so much, you don’t even know what’s true anymore,” Natasha added, not accusing—just observing.

You closed your eyes for a second, not out of anger but because it hit too close.

“That’s the point,” you murmured.

Natasha didn’t respond right away. She leaned her head back against the edge of the bedframe, exhaling.

“We’re not normal,” she said finally. “We’re not supposed to have sleepovers or tell secrets or trust each other.”

“And yet here we are,” you said, voice quieter than before.

Natasha gave a weak smile. “You’re not as scary as they say.”

You gave a soft laugh. “You are.”

Her head turned slightly, just enough to catch your eye. “Good.”

Silence settled again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. Just… still.

Eventually, she spoke again. “Do you want to, maybe, watch a movie?”

You blinked. “Right now?”

Natasha shrugged, her eyes darting away for a moment. “Yeah. If we’re having a sleepover... we’re supposed to watch a movie, right?”

You considered it for a beat. Then you nodded.

“Fine. But I’m picking.”

She rolled her eyes, pushing up from the floor with a grunt. “As long as it’s not that weird puberty book in movie form, I’m good.”

You tossed a pillow at her back and followed her into the living room.

*********

Clueless played low on the TV, its light casting long shadows across your faces. The two of you sat curled up, only a few inches away from each other, on the couch as you tried to make sense of the movie. Apparently, it had been all the rage last year. The movie kept playing in flickers of pink and plaid. Onscreen, Cher was giving another grand monologue about makeovers and high school politics. Her voice was sugary and confident, like she'd never once been afraid of her reflection.

You grabbed the remote and paused it.

Natasha looked over, brow raised. “Why’d you stop it?”

You didn’t answer right away. You were staring at the screen, eyes distant.

“Are girls in America really like this?” you asked finally.

Natasha blinked. “Like what?”

You turned toward her slightly, one knee curling beneath you on the couch. “I don’t know. Loud. Flirty. Ditzy?"

She shrugged. "Some. Why?"

You hesitated, a frown tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Natasha gave you a look. "Do they scare you?"

"Of course not," you scoffed, but your voice sounded unsure. "It's just different from what I thought."

"How?"

"I don't know." You paused, thinking. “I mean, technically, I’m American, right? But I was raised in Russia. In the Red Room. This kind of life?” You shook your head. “It’s like watching a cartoon.”

Natasha smirked. “A very well-dressed cartoon.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “They act like nothing can touch them. Like everything will work out just because it has to.”

Her smile faded a bit as she turned toward you. “Maybe that’s the point.”

You paused. “I think I hate Josh.”

Natasha blinked. “What?”

You pointed at the screen where Cher and Josh were mid-argument. “He’s smug. And annoying. And way too old.”

Natasha let out a small laugh. “I thought you said you liked this movie.”

“I like Cher,” you clarified. “I don’t like that she has to fall in love at the end.”

"Eh," Natasha shrugged.

"I mean, boys are stupid," You continued. "Love makes you soft."

“Soft isn’t bad,” Natasha said.

“It is where we come from,” you replied. Your voice was quieter now. “And anyway… boys are stupid.”

Natasha was quiet for a long beat. Then she said, “Not everyone wants a boy.”

You looked at her.

You didn’t blink.

Not for several seconds.

Natasha didn’t look away either.

The room got quieter. The movie still frozen on the screen behind you, bright colors casting soft light against her face.

Her voice was lower now. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”

You scoffed. “We were trained to. That’s different.”

“No,” she said. “I mean for real.”

You shook your head slowly. “You?"

Natasha didn’t answer.

She just leaned in—slow, hesitant, uncertain.

And so did you.

The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was barely anything. But it was real. Not rehearsed. Not for a mission. Not for leverage.

It was just you and her.

And when you both pulled back, neither of you said a word. When she opened her eyes, those green eyes. You did what only you could do. You panicked. You stood up, rushing to the guest bathroom, before slamming the door.

"Y/n?" Natasha called. "y/n are you okay?"

You didn't answer. You didn't want this to seem bigger than it was. This wasn't what you came for. Kissing her wasn't what you intended. Did you even like her in that way? All of the thoughts were too confusing, and you hated yourself for the tears clouding your vision. Inside the bathroom, you pressed your hands to the sink, gripping the porcelain until your knuckles went white.

Stupid. Stupid.

Why did you let that happen?

You weren’t supposed to want anything. Not connection. Not softness. Not her.

You were supposed to be composed. Cold. Controlled.

Instead, your skin still buzzed with the kiss. Your face felt warm. Your chest felt tight.

And worse, you didn’t even know what you were angry about.

Not the kiss itself. Not her.

You were angry with yourself. For reacting. For letting your guard down. For wanting something you didn’t fully understand.

You stared at your reflection and hated how young you looked.

Fourteen. Widow or not, you were still a kid.

And you had no idea what the hell to do with that.

****

On the other side of the door, Natasha was having similar feelings.

She stood still, hands shoved into her sweatshirt pocket, eyes locked on the bathroom door like it might open if she just waited long enough. But it didn’t.

She replayed it in her head—the kiss. Quick. Barely anything. But still too much.

She hadn’t meant to do it. Not really.

Or maybe she had.

But she didn’t expect it to feel like that. Not like the empty rehearsals with dolls and dummies, or the Red Room training clips on seduction and manipulation. This wasn’t strategy. It wasn’t performance.

It was curiosity.

Warmth.

It was real.

And now she’d ruined it.

You ran. Not just emotionally, but physically. Slammed the door like she’d said something cruel. Like she’d hurt you.

Natasha exhaled through her nose and leaned against the opposite wall, head thunking softly against the drywall. She didn’t like this feeling. It reminded her too much of the early days in training, when she didn’t know the rules yet. When every mistake meant punishment. Uncertainty felt like danger.

She was only twelve, for god’s sake. Just a kid. But she didn’t feel like one most of the time.

She’d killed people.

She could speak four languages.

She could disassemble a pistol blindfolded.

But now she was standing in a borrowed penthouse hallway like some stupid girl in a movie—after a kiss.

The silence dragged on, heavy and uncomfortable.

She wasn’t going to knock again. She wasn’t going to beg you to come out or apologize for doing something she hadn’t even known was wrong.

But she did feel bad.

Not because of the kiss.

But because you looked so scared afterward.

Because for once, she thought she’d found someone who understood what it was like to be pulled apart and put back together in someone else's shape.

Maybe she was wrong.

Maybe she wasn’t supposed to get that close.

Her thoughts began to get more self-deprecating by the minute when the door opened from the bathroom. Her head immediately shot up as she watched you slowly step out. You didn't say much, but the short sniffles she heard from you said a lot.

You weren't okay.

You slid down in front of her, sitting against the opposite wall, your hands balled into fists by your side.

"Did he tell you to do this?" You asked quietly.

She didn't have to ask who.

"No," She tilted her chin. She was observing you. Hoping that it alleviated some pressure.

"Okay," You nodded. "Okay."

Her answer hung in the air like steam off a wound.

You wiped at your eyes roughly, like you were angry they'd betrayed you in the first place. But you didn’t move away. You just sat there across from her, breathing through the quiet.

Natasha stayed still too. She didn’t want to scare you off again.

“I didn’t plan it,” she said finally, her voice a bit hoarse. “It just happened.”

You nodded again, but it was the kind of nod that said you weren’t okay with it. Not because it happened. But because of everything that came with it.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” you whispered. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to feel.”

Natasha shifted slightly, arms draped over her knees. “Me neither.”

You both sat there in the narrow hallway, the tile cool under your legs, and the city humming far below. It wasn’t the Red Room, but it wasn’t safety either. Not really.

“I just…” Your voice cracked. You hated it. “I’ve only ever been his. Dreykov’s. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve learned, it’s all been for him. "

Natasha simply listened.

"We're not supposed to do that. We're not supposed to be that for each other." You sighed. "It's...things like that come with consequences and pain. It's weird."

"Is that why you ran?" Natasha asked.

"Yeah." You looked at her, but it was like you didn't see her. "I don't know why I kissed you back." You admitted. "It shouldn't be a big deal, right? People do that for fun."

"Yeah," She nodded. "You probably know more than me."

You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know anything, actually.”

Natasha blinked, surprised.

You gave a hollow laugh, your eyes trained on the floor. “I’ve never done anything because I wanted to. Not once. Not really. Not without looking over my shoulder or wondering what it would cost me later."

The words tumbled out faster than you expected. You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t. If you did, you might stop. And you needed to say it before you talked yourself out of it.

“I thought I was smart. I thought I had power, being his favorite. I thought that made me different. Untouchable.” You swallowed. “But it didn’t. He still—he still took things. All the things I never got to choose.”

Natasha’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

“And then you showed up,” you said. “And I didn’t know what to do with that. You weren’t scared of me. You weren’t trying to impress him. You just… were. You asked questions, you pushed back. You saw me.”

You rubbed your hand over your mouth, ashamed of the tremble in your voice.

“So yeah,” you finished. “That’s why I ran. Because no one’s ever touched me without trying to own me or hurt me. And you did it without asking for anything.”

The silence stretched between you, taut and heavy. You finally looked at her.

“Don’t say you understand,” you whispered. “Please don’t say that unless you really do.”

Natasha didn’t. She didn’t say anything. She moved closer, slowly and quietly, until she sat beside you. Not touching. Just near enough that if you reached out, she’d be there.

After a long pause, she said softly, “I don’t think I understand everything. "

You turned your head toward her, eyes glassy.

“And I’m not going to take anything from you,” she added. “Not ever.”

It wasn't a vow. Not a promise. Just words. But they meant something.

You nodded slowly, like that truth had been waiting years to be said out loud.

“I don’t want to belong to anyone,” you murmured.

Natasha looked at you.

“Then don’t,” she said. “Not even to me. Friends don't hurt friends."

You didn't know what changed between that day in the bathroom back home and here, but you were thankful for her.

----> next part