#wolfbluebird asks

It was nearing 2 a.m. when you gave up pretending to sleep.

The rain was still falling — slow and steady, like a lullaby from a world you weren’t invited into tonight. It should’ve been calming, but your flat felt empty in the kind of way that echoed. Quiet wasn’t peaceful. It was loud. Deafening. Crawling up the walls, under your skin. You hadn’t been able to settle since the sun went down.

Your phone screen glowed too bright as you stared down at the one contact you’d been hovering over all night: Nat.

No emojis. No last name. Just those three letters. You’d learned not to label things when it came to her.

You knew she’d just gotten back from a mission. You knew she was probably dead on her feet, bruised and sore and fading into sleep for the first time in god knows how long. You knew calling her — asking to come over — would be selfish.

But you also knew she’d answer.

And so, at 2:07 a.m., with your stomach in knots and your jumper still damp from the rain that clung to the air like ghosts, you hit call.

It rang twice.

“…Hey.”

Her voice was rough, like gravel and warmth all at once.

You swallowed, suddenly unsure. “Did I wake you?”

A pause.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Nat—”

“You okay?” she asked, sharp now. Alert. Still half in mission-mode.

You let out a shaky breath. “I… I couldn’t sleep. I know you’re exhausted, I just… I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then: “Where are you?”

“Home. Just—” You paused, gripping the hem of your sleeve. “Could I come over? Just for a bit?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Door’ll be open.”

You could’ve cried.

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By the time you got there, the building was quiet. Stark had bought it for the team — tucked away, low-key, far enough from the Compound to feel private but close enough for emergency calls. You’d only been here a handful of times, and never like this.

The door creaked open at your touch. She’d left it unlocked just like she said. Your heart gave a stupid little lurch at that — trust like that from a woman like her meant something.

Her place was dark, save for the low amber glow from the lamp in the corner of the living room. The TV was paused on some black-and-white classic you’d seen her watch before, probably something to help her pretend she wasn’t waiting for sleep.

She was sitting curled on the sofa in an old tee and grey joggers, hair damp from a post-mission shower, a bruised patch blooming faintly beneath her collarbone. You clocked the ice pack on her knee and the blanket tossed beside her.

And then she looked up at you — tired, sure, but her expression softened in that quiet way it always did just for you. The smallest of smiles pulled at her mouth.

“Hey,” she murmured.

“Hey,” you whispered back.

You stood awkwardly in the doorway for a second before she wordlessly held the blanket out. You crossed the room faster than you meant to, shedding your coat and dropping your bag to the floor as you climbed beside her.

The warmth of her body next to yours was grounding. She pulled the blanket over you both, tugging you into her side like it was second nature. You settled against her chest, feeling the soft thrum of her heartbeat under your cheek.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

You traced idle patterns over the hem of her shirt, your hand brushing the faint line of a healing cut on her ribs. She didn’t flinch. Just let you touch, let you feel that she was whole.

It was only when your breathing slowed that she broke the silence.

“Bad day?” she asked softly, voice like silk laced with concern.

You nodded against her shoulder. “Felt off. Like the walls were closing in or something. Just… everything was too loud and too quiet at the same time.”

She hummed low in her throat, the sound vibrating through your skin. “I get that.”

“Didn’t wanna burden you, though. I know you’ve been through hell this week.”

Her fingers found yours beneath the blanket, lacing together easily.

“You’re never a burden,” she said. No fluff, no drama. Just the truth.

You looked up at her then, searching her face.

“We don’t… really do this, do we?” you said. “The showing up in the middle of the night part.”

Natasha’s lips twitched. “No. We do the secret glances and short texts and pretending like you don’t know what’s in my bedside drawer.”

You gave a weak laugh. “I think the drawer is mutual at this point.”

Her hand came up, fingers brushing your hair back gently. “You could’ve called any of them. Wanda. Sam. Even Barton.”

“None of them would’ve picked up at 2 a.m.”

“I always will.”

You blinked hard at the sudden sting in your eyes. Natasha didn’t say things unless she meant them. She didn’t need to.

“Is this what it’s like?” you asked, voice hoarse.

“What?”

“Being with someone. Really being with them.”

Natasha was quiet for a moment. Her thumb stroked yours under the blanket.

“Maybe,” she murmured. “Or maybe it’s just you.”

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You must’ve dozed off like that. When you woke, the rain had stopped and the light was dim, sunrise not far off. Natasha was still holding you — both arms now, one around your waist, the other cradling your head. Her breathing was slow. Steady. Peaceful.

You shifted slightly to look at her.

God, she looked young when she slept. Not in the helpless way people romanticised, but in the free way. Like someone who hadn’t carried half the world’s blood on her back. Like someone who deserved this quiet, this stillness. You knew how rare it was for her. You knew how rare it was for you, too.

Still, as much as you wanted to stay like this forever, the world was waiting.

You reached for your phone to check the time, and—

“Leaving already?” came her groggy voice.

You froze, then relaxed a little as she blinked at you through heavy lashes.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” She yawned, rubbing her eyes. “I just missed the part where you were gonna sneak out on me.”

“I wasn’t— okay, maybe I was.”

She gave you a Look.

“I thought you’d want your space,” you mumbled. “After the mission. After me showing up like a stray cat.”

Natasha tilted her head.

“Maybe I like stray cats,” she said dryly. “Especially the ones who know where the tea is and don’t ask me to talk about body counts.”

You smiled faintly. “I know you’re not a morning person.”

“I’m barely a night person.”

“But still,” you whispered, leaning in slightly. “Thanks for picking up. For letting me in.”

Her hand cupped your jaw then, gentle, grounding.

“You’re not something I ‘let in,’ detka,” she said. “You’re already here.”

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You left around sunrise, slipping out quietly with a soft kiss to her temple and one of her hoodies that she very pointedly pretended not to notice was missing.

The team would never know.

Not today. Maybe not for a long time.

But in the quiet hours of the morning, when it was just you and her and the hum of a city that hadn’t started yet — you didn’t need anyone else to know.

Because she knew.

And that was enough.

You met her in the middle of a gunfight.

Typical, really. You’d been hired by the Wexler Initiative—one of those “private research groups” that wore lab coats but smelled like weapons dealers—to retrieve stolen dinosaur embryo data from a rogue bio-lab in the Andes. You were good. Fast. Quiet. You didn’t need backup. You didn’t trust backup.

Then she kicked down the same lab door from the other side.

Boots, blood-splattered vest, Glock in one hand, a combat knife in the other. Shoulder-length hair curled from the sweat, eyes sharp like they’d cut through steel.

Zora Bennet.

She took one look at you crouched behind the crate, nodded once, and opened fire.

“Thought this was a solo op,” you muttered as you joined her behind cover, bullets ricocheting around you.

“Tell that to the assholes shooting at me,” she growled back.

You smiled.

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The Lab Went Up in Flames.

You both got out alive—barely. The drive with the data was fried, the lab reduced to ash, and your arm was bleeding from a shrapnel wound. Zora wrapped it without asking, hands steady, breath even.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

“Don’t thank me yet. You still owe me half the payout.”

You blinked. “You took the job too?”

She smirked. “Same contract. Different handler. Looks like we were both expendable.”

You laughed, even though it hurt. “Great. Nothing like corporate betrayal to spark new friendships.”

She arched a brow. “You think we’re friends already?”

“Only if you buy the drinks.”

She did.

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The Next Job Was in Morocco.

An illegal hatchery run out of a sun-bleached oil rig off the coast. You weren’t even supposed to be there—but when your transport was delayed, the Initiative sent you on recon.

She was already on-site.

Same damn employer. Again.

“Either they think we work well together,” Zora muttered through your comms as you crawled along the rusted rafters, “or they’re trying to get us both killed.”

“I vote both.”

A Pteranodon dive-bombed the control room. Zora pulled you out by your vest and hit the creature square between the eyes with her pistol. You landed half on top of her, gasping, your heart racing from more than just near-death.

She didn’t push you off.

You didn’t move.

Her lips brushed yours later that night, when the rig was ash and the sea was quiet. Neither of you talked about it.

Not yet.

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You Were Friends. Then Allies. Then… Something Else.

It was a slow slide.

The kind of intimacy you only get from shared trauma. Nights in too-small safehouses. Whispered jokes over dying campfires. Zora cooking with whatever dried junk was in your packs. You waking up screaming from a dream of something with too many teeth, and her just holding you, not saying anything.

No pressure. No labels.

Until a mission in Laos.

A nest of black-market Velociraptors, chained underground like dogs. You’d been tracking the buyers, but the deal went sideways. You got cut off. Alone. No comms. No exit.

Until Zora came in through the roof.

Raining gunfire and fury.

She didn’t say anything until you were outside, bruised and breathing. Then she pressed her forehead to yours, her voice tight:

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“What—survive?”

“Leave me behind.”

You froze.

“…Zora?”

She kissed you hard enough to shake you.

And that was that.

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You Were a Team. A Unit. A ‘Thing.’

She never liked the word “girlfriend.” Not out loud. It sounded too soft. Too pink. But she’d press her nose against your shoulder when she thought you were asleep. She’d hold your hand in the dark. She’d kill for you without blinking.

And when she got her next job offer—the Rebirth contract from Martin?

She told you first.

“They’re asking for me,” she said one night, tracing your scarred knuckles. “Big payout. Island op. Dinosaurs.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s three red flags.”

“I said no the first time. Then Duncan called. Said he’d be going too.”

You sat up, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“You want me to come?”

Zora hesitated.

Then: “Only if you want to.”

You kissed her cheek.

“I go where you go.”

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Backpacks. Boots. Rain and Teeth.

That was how it began.

Before the D-Rex. Before Duncan’s flare. Before she screamed your name in the surf and thought you were dead.

You were hers. She was yours.

Not because you said it.

But because you’d proven it—through bullet wounds, bruised ribs, torn contracts, and everything the jungle could throw at you.

And even now, long after Isla Thalos, long after Martin’s betrayal and Duncan’s survival, you still hear her voice in the dark:

“You die, I kill you.”

You always smile when you remember.

Because the feeling’s mutual.