#widowshock

Darcy stares at her over the top of her glasses, unimpressed, and Natasha doesn’t have the heart to tell her she doesn’t even know her birthday. That like so many things in her life, it was stolen from her. “Everyone gets a birthday, Nat. Even world-renowned spysassins who like to moonlight as superheroes.” She holds out her arms expectantly. “Now put your damn tea down, and come and give me a kiss. It’s been a long day.”

Natasha doesn’t bother holding back her smile as she obeys, putting her mug down on the speckled concrete counter. She takes her time walking around the kitchen, drinking in the sight of her partner. Darcy looks tired- grad school has been getting to her the last few weeks- and her hair is on the cusp of frizzing; the dark strands threatening to curl in the midsummer heat. Playfully, Natasha reaches out, tugging at the ends and Darcy pulls a face at her. “Yes,” she complains. “I’m a hot mess. You try herding scientists and playing student and see how you fair.”

She smirks, and shifts her grip in Darcy’s hair, fingers curling into the soft strands and gripping firmly. Darcy’s eyes widen and she watches as her pupils dilate ever so slightly. “That’s not what I was thinking,” she murmurs, and she drags Darcy towards her, fingers still entwined in her hair.

Darcy falls against her with a softness and an eagerness that Natasha is yet to get used to. Their lips move against each other languidly- lazily- and for a time she basks in the lack of purpose. Her whole life, everything Natasha’s done- every touch, every word and look and action- has needed meaning; a control she’s held onto with the grip of someone who’s only experience of its loss is bitter, savage failure. To find a connection that lacks such iron-fisted control is a novelty, but a welcome one.

She clutches at the back of Darcy’s neck like a lifeline, breathing in her familiar woodsy scent as she runs her tongue over Darcy’s bottom lip. The kiss deepens without hesitation and Darcy’s fingers curl into the fabric of Natasha’s shirt, the fabric bunching tightly at her waist. They kiss like it’s been months- not a day- since they’d last seen each other, and like so many of these unhurried moments, she takes the time to memorise the way Darcy shivers beneath her touch, fingernails scratching lightly at the nape of her neck.

When they finally break apart, Darcy’s lips are red, so close to being kiss-swollen Natasha is absurdly disappointed. Darcy grins at her ruefully. “In hindsight, maybe a kiss wasn’t such a great idea. I didn’t actually come here with the intent to fuck you tonight, believe it or not.”

Natasha smirks and tugs at Darcy’s hair again just to watch the other woman’s breath hitch. “That’s still on the table though, right?”

Darcy swallows, nodding mutely. Feeling merciful, Natasha lets go of her hair and the soft strands falls between her fingers like silk. She forces herself to take a step back, missing the warmth of Darcy’s body already. “So?” Natasha asks, raiding a brown expectantly.

Darcy blinks, and the dazed look disappears. “Uh- right,” she says, clearing her throat. She wanders over to the counter and gently pushes the box at the bottom of her pile over to her. It’s a cheap, polystyrene cooler; the kind they used to use for transporting vaccines at the pharmacy she’d worked undercover in for a few months, five years ago. The company had been selling its customers counterfeit drugs for a tidy profit and Natasha had taken a savage pleasure in dismantling the operation.

On the lid of the box, Darcy has scrawled a hasty ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY XOXOX –D’, the words surrounded by messy hearts and stars and Natasha smiles despite herself.

“I’d have wrapped it up, but I, uh… couldn’t actually find any at home,” Darcy explains. “I think Jane used it all for Thor’s nameday.” She scratches at her elbow; a nervous tic.

Natasha smiles at her, and runs a fingernail around the lid, the polystyrene squeaking lightly at the pressure. It pops off with little resistance, and she lifts up the lid to reveal-

She blinks, mind blank.

“The tank is back at my place,” Darcy says, and there’s a hesitant lilt to her voice, like she’s still unsure of her gift. “I didn’t want to drag it over and spoil the surprise.”

“Surprise,” Natasha says dumbly. Inside the cooler, swimming wanly in its plastic bag, is a goldfish.  “You got me a pet. I have no time for a pet.”

It’s not even a pretty fish; its scales are black and dun white, speckled and irregular, and its eyes bulge out of its head like there’s not enough space in its skull to fit them. She kind of loves it.

“It’s a goldfish, Nat, not a Siamese cat,” Darcy scoffs, unsurety quickly replaced by false bravado. “His name’s Kevin.” Natasha supresses a grin; sometimes she loves this woman so much that it hurts.

“And when I’m on a longer mission? Who’s going to feed it? Who’s going to clean his tank?”

The ‘you’ve-just-said-something-stupid’ look returns in full force, and Natasha bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing. “I will, obviously.”

She looks back down at the fish. Its fins propel it lazily around its bag, and she tamps down the rising worry. What if it’s almost out of air? Is it bored in there? Traumatised? ‘We should get the tank’, Natasha tries to say, but instead what comes out is, “You should move in.”

If Darcy was holding anything, she’s certain she would have dropped it. “What?”

She soldiers on. Fuck it. “You should move in. With me. If you wanted to. To- you know- take care of the fish.”

Darcy blinks rapidly at her, bewildered. “Take care of the fish.”

Natasha smirks. “Well. Among other things.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

She turns her smirk into something more genuine. “Aren’t I always?”

“Well, sure. When you’re not trying to out-troll Steve.”

She shrugs. “It’s fun confusing Stark.”

Darcy sighs, a dreamy look passing over her face. “God, isn’t it? That man is far too easy to rile.”

The laughter bubbles out of her chest almost against her will. “Best pastime.”

Natasha can tell that Darcy is trying very hard to be disapproving. “He tries his best.”

“We try better.”

Darcy snorts, and takes a step closer. “The answer’s yes, by the way.”

“Yes?”

She smiles at Natasha, and reaches out to gently cup her arms. “I’ll move in with you. If the offer’s not about to be reneged.”

“It’s not,” Natasha assures her. “I… want what we have to work.”

“So do I,” Darcy murmurs. Her hands wander up to toy with Natasha’s hair. “I fucking love you, you giant dork.”

“Yeah.” She smiles dreamily, gaze straying back to the woman on the other side of the courtyard. “Those were good times.” The warm lights of the little lanterns that hang from the trees and shrubs bounce off her impossibly neat hair. She wonders absently how long the woman spent on those curls, or if she somehow just woke up like that.

“Hey,” Jane says sharply, clicking her fingers rudely in Darcy’s line of sight. “Again with the heart eyes. You couldn’t be more transparent if you tried.”

“Good,” she gripes. “Jane, transparent is good. Do you know how hard it can be to find a fellow gay?”

“Very?”

“Oh my God, so hard! If it were socially acceptable to tattoo ‘I’m gay please love me’ on my forehead, I would.”

“Thank the world for small mercies then,” Jane says, pulling a face. “You really should go over and talk to her.”

Darcy stares at her friend as though she’s just grown a second head. “Jane. Jane. She’s the Black Widow, Jane. I can’t do that! What if she takes offence and wants to kill me?”

“What if she doesn’t?”

“That is. The biggest ‘If’. The hugest ‘If’.” She holds her arms out, gesturing to some unspecific space around her. “The most astromo- astronomin- astronomical of ‘If’s.”

Jane’s answer smile is wry and amused. “Well it certainly is if you’re this drunk.”

“See! The worst idea in the history of ever. Let me pine in peace, please and thank-you.”

“Request denied,” Jane says, voice prim as she picks up the remainder of Darcy’s drink and downs it in one gulp. It’s quickly followed by her own, and Darcy makes a soft sound of outrage. “Now, what you’re going to do is walk over there, introduce yourself to Romanoff, and ask her very politely if she would like a dance.”

Darcy wrinkles her nose. “That sounds complicated.”

“You’re stalling,” Jane says, utterly lacking in any form of sympathy. “She’s not some kind of divine being, she’s just a person.”

“Lies.”

“No they’re not. Now go over there before I go over there myself. Remember the last time, Darcy? You don’t want me to wingwoman.”

Her eyes widen. God, how could she forget.

With the enthusiasm of a man about to face the firing squad, Darcy stands. “You are,” she says slowly, taking care to enunciate her words, “the absolute worst.”

“I know.” Jane smirks at her, unrepentant. “Now woman up.”

“Alright, alright. Geez.”

Darcy takes a fortifying breath, and smooths her hands down the front of her dress. The skirt is floor-length- modest by her standards, but the cut of the top more than makes up for it- and the fabric feels cool and soft beneath her nervous fingers. “Right,” she says, and she pushes back her shoulders and stalks across the room. The sooner she can be rejected, the sooner she can allow herself to drown in another one of those neon-coloured atrocities Steve keeps mixing behind the bar.

Beneath the flickering fairy lights strung between the trees, Romanoff is shockingly- unfairly- beautiful. She talks quietly with Wanda, flicking through something on her phone; pictures of Clint’s brood, no doubt. According to Steve, it’s all the man ever likes to talk about now that he’s retired (ha ha ha). Both women look up when Darcy comes to a stop in front of them, and somehow she manages to summon the courage to speak.

She blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “Is there a mirror in your pocket? Because I look great- wait, I said that wrong.” Horrified, Darcy claps a hand over her mouth, but her idiot brain won’t let the word vomit stop. “Oh my God, I’m just going to. Go. I’m gonna go. Please forget everything I just said.”

She backs away, certain that somewhere behind her Jane is laughing hysterically, and almost has a heart attack when Natasha slips her phone back into the pocket of her jacket and smirks. “I wondered when you’d come over here.”

Darcy blinks, mind blank. “Um-”

“You’ve been staring for long enough.”

Forget the heart attack, Darcy is about to have a straight-up aneurysm. “What.”

Natasha tilts her head, and Darcy can feel every inch of her gaze as it runs up and down her figure; a heated caress of attention that leaves her feeling oddly light and jumpy. “In all fairness, Foster has been keeping me up to date with a running commentary for the last twenty minutes.”

Darcy’s mouth falls open, appalled. “What?”

“Mm,” Natasha carries on, unaffected. She pulls out her phone again. “The last thing she said was-” she scrolls up to read out the message- “‘D almost slopped drink down dress. Too distracted by your shiny shiny hair. Please end my suffering.”

“Oh God,” Darcy whimpers, covering her face with her hands. “This is so embarrassing, please just kill me now.”

“I’d really rather not,” Natasha says, and Darcy flinches with surprise when two cool hands grip lightly at her wrists to pull them away from her face.

“Jane is the worst wingwoman ever,” Darcy moans with despair.

“She’s pretty terrible,” Natasha agrees with a wry smile. “But I suppose the outcome makes up for it.”

“Outcome?”

“Well. You did end up over here, didn’t you?”

Darcy presses her lips together, cheeks heating as she realises Natasha is still holding onto her wrists. “I guess.”

“You look good, Darcy,” Natasha says warmly.

She swallows, glancing around her as though somehow the other woman is talking to someone else called Darcy. But they’re alone. Even Wanda has slipped away, no doubt somewhere in the time Darcy was performing a system reboot. “I. Um…. Thank-you?”

Natasha smirks, and the light and bubbly feeling inside her intensifies. “Did you want to dance, or shall we just cut to the chase?”

“The chase?” she asks, brain still lagging with the other woman’s proximity. She smells like jasmine, and the scent reminds her of summers spent at her Auntie’s house; of hot days hidden behind the creeping vines on the patio as she flicked through her cousin’s stolen playboy magazines.

“You know,” Natasha murmurs, and is it Darcy, but is she coming closer? Close enough that she can see the way her concealer is creasing beneath her eyes and a stray piece of hair curls over her ear; little pieces of evidence that pay credence to Jane’s theory. Only a person.  “This chase,” Natasha continues, and Darcy blinks out of her reverie with just enough time to not be taken off-guard by the kiss.

Her eyes flutter closed, mouth falling open easily at the insistent press of Natasha’s lips against her own. The fluttering feeling in her stomach seems to treble, and when Natasha runs her tongue over Darcy’s upper lip she’s met with no resistance. She tastes like crème de menthe and chocolate. The observation lasts barely a moment, quickly overpowered by the sensation of Natasha pulling herself flush against Darcy and she-

Natasha’s phone pings again, and they break apart reluctantly. She’s put-out by the end of the kiss, but at least Natasha doesn’t look like she plans to walk away any time soon. She glances down at the other woman’s phone and snorts at the name turns up on the screen. She can just imagine the kinds of ridiculous things she’s spouting to Natasha.

“The worst,” she says firmly, and Natasha snorts.

“I won’t argue with you there.”

“On the plus side, we can all get what we all wanted.” She grins wickedly. “I mean, a dance and the chase,” Darcy says with a smirk.  “Couldn’t we just have both?”

She sighs. “You should go to bed.”

Jane nods absently. “Yeah,” she says. She nods again. “Yeah.” Darcy watches her carefully, her movements disjointed and mechanic, trapped in her head.

“Jane,” she says. Jane pauses at the mouth of the hallway and look back at her vacantly. “He’ll be back before you know it.”

A little clarity returns to her gaze. “You said that last time, too.”

“I know.” Darcy’s smile is sharp and brittle-edged. “But this time, if he doesn’t come back, he knows I’ll fucking kill him. Prince of Asgard or not.”

Ah. The briefest hint of a smile. Darcy relaxes further into the sofa, relieved, and Jane disappears down the hallway.

“You look like shit, птичка.”

Darcy doesn’t even jump, though she does smile. “Natasha.”

Natasha rounds the sofa and Darcy rolls her head towards her. She doesn’t bother asking how she got here so fast. These days, Natasha likes to share. “I came as soon as I heard,” the woman murmurs, almost apologetically. She sits down beside Darcy, effortlessly graceful, even in her tattered jeans and sweater (Darcy thinks it might be hers, actually). “I wish I could have been here sooner.”

“Mm,” Darcy hums. The entire right side of her burns at the warmth of Natasha’s proximity. “But you can only travel so fast, right? Would have been nice if SHIELD had answered my calls though.”

Natasha grimaces. “Yeah; Fury’s not happy about that. I’m sorry you had to fight this alone. Again.”

“Eh.” Darcy shrugs. “We made it out okay. Things are fine now, even if we’re never allowed back to Britain again after this.”

Natasha’s lips curl into a faint smile, and her gaze runs over Darcy, assessing. “You are okay, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

The hard line of her shoulders relaxes, and she hangs her head. “Thank God,” Natasha breathes. When she looks back up, Darcy’s heart flutters in her chest at the rawness of her expression; a desperate yearning in her gaze that makes her mouth go dry. “The whole flight, I kept wondering if this would be the time that your luck would run out.”

She smiles shakily. “Not this time.”

Natasha nods emphatically, and Darcy aches for her. “I missed you.”

“So did I.”

Natasha opens her arms almost tentatively. She looks so clean and pristine beside Darcy, but neither of them care and when Darcy throws herself into her embrace, if feels a lot like coming home. Natasha wraps herself around her, pressing relieved kisses to Darcy’s hair, to her face, to wherever she can reach. She smiles at the treatment and reaches up to still her, tugging Natasha down so she can slot her mouth over hers.

The kiss is hot and desperate, and they clutch at each other like a lifeline. Darcy whimpers when Natasha bites down on her lower lip. Natasha moans when Darcy tugs at her hair, desperate to pulls her even closer. She tugs again and Natasha breaks the kiss, pushing Darcy backwards so she lies on the couch, and arrangers herself between Darcy’s legs like she belongs there. In a way, she does, Darcy thinks, for as long as she wants to be there.

The kiss, this time is slow, gentle. Natasha’s wandering hands caress her body like she’s relearning how to touch. She trails kisses down Darcy’s jaw and she trembles at the mix of sharp teeth and hot mouth.

“Jane’s- ah- just down the hall.”

“I don’t care,” Natasha growls, breath hot and close against Darcy’s neck. She shivers. “If she walks in, she walks in. I want you. Do you have any idea how cute you are when you’re tired like this?”

Darcy laughs breathlessly. “That’s a really weird kink, Nat.”

Natasha’s hand creeps up her sweater, palm flat against her ribs. The touch is grounding, and Darcy realises she scarcely even feels tired anymore, body set alight at the other woman’s touch. When she closes her eyes, all she sees is Natasha’s open, raw expression. “Shut up,” Natasha orders, voice low.