The Women Lover's Dopamine Dealer

You sat slouched on a sofa in the common room of SHIELD headquarter’s residential wing. You weren’t sure why the designers had felt the need to include this room. Spies weren’t well known for their extroverted nature. But the holidays had left the area quiet, rather the entire building seemed to have wound down with the slowing nature of the cold and snow outside. You found the space to be useful when you became sick of staring at the same four blank walls of your standard issue apartment. Having recently defected from Russian ranks you and Natalia weren’t allowed to leave campus without an escort, which left you exactly three places to spend downtime. Your room, Natalia’s room–which looked exactly like yours save for a book Barton had given her–or the common area. 

The two of you were working on the latest mission report. Well, you were supposed to be working on the write-up, but the end of year evaluations had been released and yours begged to be raked over. So Natalia worked on hers, fingers diligently tapping away at the keys. She was sitting sideways along the couch, legs lounged over your lap and back to the armrest. You didn’t know how she found the position comfortable. You narrowed your eyes at your computer screen and the unkind words it harbored. “Do you think I am uncooperative and have a tendency to disobey the orders of superiors?” You asked the redhead.

She looked up from her laptop, eyes searching your profile. “Where is this coming from?”

“The end of year assessments,” you frowned. “They are out.” 

“I thought we were working on the reports for the Minsk mission.” She raised a reprimanding eyebrow. 

“I was,” you said, dragging out the second word ever so slightly. “But they are just so tedious now. Why do they need to know the amount of bullets I used? I miss when all we had to do was take a photo of the dead guy for proof of accomplishment.” Natalia nudged your ribs with her foot. “Ow,” you complained.

“We do this because it’s the normal thing to do. Because what we do in the field is necessary, but the violence has to be justified so we can continue doing our jobs.” She tucked a strand of hair that had escaped from her braid behind her ear. “We’re with the good guys now,” she reminded gently. “The world may still be brutal, but we don’t have to be anymore.”

“So we count the bullets,” you concluded.

“So we count the bullets,” she stated. A moment of silence passed, only the sound of Natalia resuming her typing filling the air. That was something you were still getting used to. Silence always preceded something terrible, the inhale before you faced hell on earth. “You are uncooperative.”

“What?” You asked, turning to face her indifferent expression.

“Your question from earlier. I’m answering it.”

“You too?” You shook your head. “You are supposed to take my side, not Fury’s.”

“You are the person who let themselves get captured by the enemy after you heard they’d gotten to me. And,” she paused, “if you finished that report you’d get to the part where you chose not to listen to Agent Riley.”

“I had it handled,” you said, reaching for your coffee cup on the side table.”That man thinks he knows what is better just because he has fifteen years on me. I think he is too cautious. That is why the Americans are leagues behind us in intelligence. They do not have the guts to do what needs to be done.”

“We are Americans now,” she reminded. You wrinkled your nose. “I mean for all intents and purposes, you get that.” She put her laptop on the coffee table and sidled next to you. You could feel her warmth bleed into you where your bodies met. Her knees pressed into your legs, her shoulders turned into your chest. “You can do it, I know you can,” she whispered, taking your hand.

“Do what?” You asked dubiously. 

“Beat them. Unlearn what they taught us. You just have to make an effort.” She put a hand on your cheek, fingertips caressing the side of your face. You almost swore she wanted you to kiss her. You swallowed down nothing but a bubble of air and desire. Not today.

You looked at her, gaze narrowing. “I am here, am I not?” Two large windows allowed the morning light to stream in behind Natasha and wash her in a fresh aura. The blue sky shined bright as fat snowflakes whirled down to meet the pavement of the U.S. capital. Far below, pedestrians hustled from building to building, jackets pulled tight against the cold. Your heart began to pound when you thought about calling this place home. Everything was just so wrong. “I think fighting the urge to run is about all I can manage right now. I believed in the cause, at least I think I did. Turning my back on the Red Room, on him any faster and I think I might break.”

“I know, and I see you. But you have to show them that,” she said, tapping the now black computer screen.

“Like you do? Do not tell me you actually trust anyone here.”

“I don’t,” she said carefully, as if there might exist an exception. “But you have to cooperate, to let someone else take the reins for now.”

“I do not know if I can.” You bit your lip and traced the room with your eyes. The clean, modern furniture and the off-white walls. You knew you shouldn’t but you missed the familiarity of the old wooden mansion. “I am not like you Talia. I cannot see the good in people.”

“And I’m not asking you to. Do you trust me?” She asked, eyes that reminded you of the dawn of spring boring into yours.

“Always,” you breathed, not missing a beat. “You are the only thing in this world that makes sense to me.”

“Then follow my lead. I’m worried about you. I don’t want you digging a hole you can’t climb out of.”

“Okay, I will try.” You were not sure you meant it. Humanity given too much freedom would eat itself alive. A familiar mantra marched across the back of your mind like the incessant buzz of an insect. Correct and control. Correct and control. Correct and control. Correct–

A noise from down the hall caught your attention. Quick footsteps heading your way echoed into the room. You looked at Natalia. The two of you had thought everyone else had left the building for the holidays. 

A frazzled Clint Barton walked into the room, looking about to take off in a full sprint. He wore faded blue jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. A duffel bag hung over his shoulder, storing a fair amount of his belongings if you had to guess. He glanced in your direction, but refused to slow his stride. You watched him go, when suddenly he dug his heel into the ground and spun around.

“What are you guys doing here?” He asked as if just now processing your presence. 

“Working,” Natalia answered. You liked Barton well enough and there was no question that you owed him an unpayable debt for sparing Natalia’s life. He looked unassuming, quick to smile and kept a short crop of hair as blonde as a field of wheat. You weren’t quite on casual speaking terms though, not because he bothered you, no. It’s just you weren’t keen to talk to anyone except the girl still halfway sprawled across you. 

He furrowed his brow and adjusted the strap across his shoulder. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he stated plainly, as if that in itself was explanation enough. 

“It is,” Natalia agreed. 

“Well you can’t sit in here all day.” He made a sweeping gesture about the room and all of its bareness and almost surgical detachment. His gaze lingered on you for a moment, silent surprise weaving its way across his face. Feeling off put, you fixed your posture, spine straightening and causing Natasha to slide away. You had yet to encounter him outside of a professional setting, but here you sat wedged into the couch and rather at ease. You wore sweats, albeit SHIELD issue, but still something you’d normally not be caught around in.

“And why is that?” Natalia asked, tone laced with faux confusion. She blinked at Barton, eyes doe-wide.

He shifted his stance and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re really going to make me say it?” He waited, looking at Natalia indignantly. “It’s sad. You can’t stay at work during Christmas.”

“What would you suggest we do?” She asked, still playing her one-sided game. Bemusing to you, but not so much to the Hawkeye.

“I don’t know. Go home? That’s what I’m doing.” Home, you thought. If you ran back to the place you still called home, SHIELD would call for your head. Even still, the house beckoned out to you in your dreams; not warm, never safe, but structured and oh so familiar. Come home my child, a gruff voice compelled. Come and take your rightful place as my sword and shield. 

Something behind Natasha’s eyes flickered for a moment before disappearing behind a wall of apathy. “There’s not exactly a home for me to go back to.”

“Oh. That’s right. Erm,” Barton stammered. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget.”

“Forget that I’m an outsider?”

“That’s one way to put it I suppose. I mean, you’re one of us now, right? We all come from different places so in a way we’re all outsiders. Most of us have pasts we’d rather forget. You don’t do the kind of thing we do because you grew up with two loving parents,” he said.

Natalia tilted her head, hair brushing against your neck. “And where did you come from?”

He smiled, one side of his mouth pulled slightly higher than the other. “Nice try Romanoff. Put a couple of beers in me first and you might have better luck.”

“Oh that’s right, I forgot. Fury found you wandering around the sewers,” she teased. You didn’t know who she did it. How she joked and spoke so freely. How she saw a friend and ally where you saw a threat and a future enemy.

“Ha ha,” he said dryly, lips still curled in a smile. “You’re actually not too far off.” He waited before saying more, eyes flicking to you as they often did when the three of you gathered together. Patiently offering a chance for you to join the conversation, but never calling you out. You were running out of excuses to mistrust the man. “Even still, you guys ought to get out of here. Drive to New York or something. They put up a giant tree in Times Square. I’ve never seen it in person, but,” he raised an arm for emphasis. “Huge.”

This time Natalia’s expression fell for long enough even Barton picked up on it. She turned away from him and stared down at her hands. “I’d love to see that,” she murmured. “We can’t leave though. Not yet. Not without an escort from an authorized superior.” Technically there was nothing stopping you from leaving the building. You’d picked up the nasty habit of prowling the streets in the dead hours of the morning after a nightmare left your hands shaky and your heart clawing its panicked way up your throat. Natalia however had not made one move even remotely close to toeing SHIELD’s strict line. A fact made clear when she’d caught you sneaking back in as the sun rose one morning. You’d promised not to do it again with an overwrought frown on your face. You went out again the very next night and left a mugger to bleed out in an alleyway.

“Oh, that’s right.” It was Barton’s turn to look away. “You know what?” He asked, lifting his chin and pulling out a cell phone. He let the duffle bag down from his shoulder and onto the ground, putting the phone to his ear. Natalia looked at you and you shrugged. She knew him better than you anyway.

“Hey honey,” he said, not bothering to turn away or lower his voice. You didn’t know he had a girlfriend. Between the way you had only ever seen him consume pizza and his obsession with trying to make the most difficult shots possible on missions you had assumed he was single. “I’ve got a pair of stragglers here at the office.” He paused, sucking on his teeth for a moment. “I know, I know I was just about to get on the road I promise. I’ll still be home by five. No, I’ll be careful, I won’t get a speeding ticket this time.” He adjusted the phone and flicked his gaze in your direction. “Yeah, Laura, it’s them. You know me. They don’t have anywhere to go and I thought.” He paused. Slowly, a dopey grin curled onto his face. “Yeah, I do. You know I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t.” A final pause. “Okay. I’ll see you later. Love you.” He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and looked up with new excitement sparkling in his eyes. “Have you guys ever been to Iowa?”

Natalia shook her head. “No. I’ve got a soft spot for the Midwest though.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go pack for a few days. Laura’s going to kill me if I’m another minute late,” he said, hoisting the bag over his shoulder. 

Natalia’s eyes went wide and she opened her mouth, speechless. Even you were taken aback. Was Barton really inviting you to his home? Certainly he didn’t trust you yet. You hadn’t even been at SHIELD for a year, the first six months of which you spent firmly locked in a cell. Yet there he stood, hands in his pockets and waiting for you to move your ass and follow him out. “I didn’t,” Natalia started. “When I said we couldn’t leave I wasn’t asking for you–”

“Nope. Don’t do that. I want to. You guys are never going to be comfortable here if you’re not extended some freedom. Trust me, I know.” You watched the other man with suspicion, waiting for the trap to spring. The SHIELD agent who had spared Natalia’s life when he had explicit orders to put an arrow through her heart. The American who believed in the good in people and making the world a less gruesome place in the small way he could. The person who extended a hand to others in a time of crisis. “I used to spend Christmas alone and cold without a home. Then I got Laura and I couldn’t be happier. But it can get lonely just the two of us out there. If you really would rather stay here I won’t force you to come,” he said matter-of-factly. “But I would really appreciate the company, and I know Laura would love to meet the two of you.”

Natalia shifted, putting one foot on the floor. She looked at you and you knew she wanted to go, but wouldn’t if you said no. But oh, you would do anything for her. Subtly you nodded. You didn’t care how much you were struggling, you’d pull yourself together for the weekend. “We’re in.”

You pushed yourself off the couch and went back to your room to pack what little you had. All of your clothes were plain which you didn’t mind, but something about knowing they were SHIELD issue left you feeling claustrophobic. You gripped a black dress shirt in your hand a little tighter than you needed to. To you it screamed, you are not free. We own you now. You threw your toothbrush and toothpaste in alongside the clothes before stopping at the bedside table. Carefully you pulled open the drawer and snagged a little necklace from inside. Tucking it into a side pocket you jogged out to find Natalia and Barton waiting in the lobby.

Barton’s truck was nowhere near extravagant, but it held a sort of coziness that only came from years of ownership. Natasha sat in the passenger seat while you took the back, wincing when you found the lack of legroom. The interior smelled of old air freshener, dirt, and worn leather. “Strap in,” he said. “We’ve got a long ride ahead of us.”

Barton tuned the radio to play Christmas music and introduced you to his atrocious singing as he belted along to ‘Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town’. As you left the thick jungle of Washington D.C. and moved west across Virginia the city whipped away as the sun traveled across the sky. When you reached the interstate proper and were well away from the prying eyes of the urban center you finally allowed yourself to relax a little. Natalia began to hum along to a new song, a small smile on her face. Barton turned the volume up a notch and you leaned your head against the cool window pane, eyes tracking the snow covered countryside. 

At a gas station in Ohio Natalia asked to switch seats with you. She curled up in the back using a sweatshirt as a pillow and closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. You checked the rearview every few minutes and eventually she had fallen asleep for real, lips parted slightly and breathing slowing down. 

Barton had given up on his singing endeavor and had reduced himself to whistling and tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the radio. As you passed a sign welcoming you to Indiana he spoke up. “Okay, truth time,” he said, stealing a concerned glance at you before staring back at the two lane road before him. The truck's wheels ate up yards of the sun bleached asphalt. “Can I be honest with you?”

“Yes,” you said.

“Don’t take this the wrong way but you’re not gonna kill me in my sleep tonight, right?” He asked, trying his best to clear the nerves from his voice.

“No. I like you, Barton. And even if I did not I owe you a great debt,” you said. 

A crease formed on his brow. “A debt?”

You looked back at the woman sleeping soundly in the back of the truck. Her feet were tucked up on the seat, head laying on a sweatshirt stuffed in between the window and the headrest. You thought it might have been the most at peace you’ve ever seen her. “Yeah,” you breathed. “For giving her a better life.” One that I never could, you thought.

“I didn’t do it looking for any favors. Not from her, and certainly not from you or Fury,” he insisted. “Fury was pissed of course. He knew who I was when he hired me, but I still think he underestimated my loyalty to my gut. And you,” he said, nodding in your direction. “You were a wildcard no one saw coming.”

“Good or bad?” You asked, already sure of the answer.

“To be honest, I’m not sure yet. I think that’s still up to you,” he said.

You held a groan back. Moral dilemmas made your head ache. You’d wanted a straight answer. Tell me how to be good. “What do you mean?”

 He ran a hand through his hair, spiking it up in three different ways. “Well, you’re good out in the field. Like scary good, and I know you’ll watch my back. That’s the most important thing,” he said. “But then we get back and I see you pacing around the compound like you’re stuck in a cage. I guess I’m just not sure what’s going through your head.”

You clenched and unclenched your fist, overcome with the urge to tell the other man more than you’d told any of the SHIELD shrinks in a year. He felt safe and genuine, but you knew that was an impossibility; you knew people to be horrid pretenders. You opened your mouth anyway, Natalia’s urges for you to try ringing in your ears. “I can follow orders on a mission no problem. Shut off my brain and listen to authority. Protect your team, take the shot, retrieve the files. That is what I was built for,” you sighed, eyeing Barton warily. Waiting for him to snap at you. “But when the job is done, and I have time to sit and think on it…I feel like I have just ripped myself in half.” 

“That’s, well, that’s some intense shit,” he said, tipping his head. “What I can tell you though, with absolute certainty, is that General Dreykov is a bad man. For me, for SHIELD, for her…” Clint said. You knew very well who he was referring to. “There’s no gray area there, man. We’re going to shut him down.”

“I know," you said, short and quick. You knew that's what they all said, but Dreykov had protected you for a long time. He had raised you. He had loved you as his own. You didn't want to see him in a cell, or worse, in a grave. “I cannot get it straight in my head. Everyone has been telling me that working for SHIELD is a step toward being better, to making something of myself. If that is true, then how come the longer I am here the more I feel like I am betraying everything that makes me me?” You knew why. Something inside you was broken and twisted beyond repair. It made you see the world backward. Everyone around you could smell the festering rot of the mangled heart inside your chest. They just needed an excuse to put you down for good.

“Well, you are just about the most Russian person I’ve ever met,” he said. You tried your very best not to glare at him when he looked over. “Before about five minutes ago the only sentences I’d ever heard you speak were two word acknowledgements in the field. And the accent. You’re playing it up, right?”

“Maybe a little.” You were more than capable of fixing it and putting on an American one, but you felt entitled to keep this little part of yourself. To remind yourself and everyone else where you came from. The pressure to conform was a constant torrent but you refused to let them win, for better or for worse.

“As for actual advice…I would say don’t look at it from a good versus bad perspective. In this field, none of us are really good. Not even at SHIELD. I don’t care what some of those righteous assholes think. Forget what anyone told you before and what anyone tells you now,” he said, drumming his fingers along the steering wheel. “Take a step back and compare the before and the now. How did it make you feel?” He asked, stressing the you. “What cause do you believe in? Tough thing is there’s not a right and a wrong answer. Took me a hell of a long time to figure out what I thought about it all. I used to operate strictly outside of the law and now I’m a fed,” he said, shrugging. “Just know I’m rooting for you.”

“And if I come to a conclusion you do not agree with?”

“I’ll make sure to give you a headstart,” he said, winking and throwing you a playful smirk.

“Ah, I am grateful Barton,” you said, cracking a smile. It felt good, like feeling the sun on your face after being inside for a long time. You reveled in the feeling while it lasted.

“No. No more of that Barton stuff. It’s Clint.” He said, shaking his head. “Unless we’re on a mission. Then it’s Hawkeye.”

“The infamous Hawkeye. Tell me, Clint. Where do you get a name like that?” You could tell he was fond of the alias.

“Would you believe me if I told you it’s from the circus?”

A million questions crowded your mind. You looked over, mouth hanging open. You didn’t know much about circuses. They had shown you all a cartoon once about an elephant that had giant ears and could fly. It led the other circus animals in a rebellion against the human handlers. In the end the ringmaster cut its ears off and strung them up as a lesson against exceptionalism. “You were in the circus?” You asked.

“Even better,” he answered. “I was raised up in one.”

“Did you have elephants?”

“No,” he scoffed, chuckling. “We were classier than that. All acrobats and good old fashioned theatrics. I used to sharpshoot. Struck apples off of people’s heads. That sort of thing. Although when I wasn’t on stage I was running through the audience, taking wallets out of pockets.”

You squinted your eyes at him. “Baby Barton raising hell. I can see it. And it would explain the mess in here.” You scuffed your shoe on the floor, stirring up bits of dirt and dried mud. Items crowded the backseat next to Natalia. A winter coat, a pair of sneakers, a hunting knife, handle worn from use. The cupholders were stuffed with old receipts and loose change, and something rattled in the glove box everytime the truck took a left turn. 

“It’s messy in here?” He asked, glancing about the cabin. “I don’t think it’s too bad.”

“You are funny.”

“No, I'm being completely serious. Doesn’t everyone’s car kinda look like this?” His bewilderment would be slightly endearing if you weren’t such a neat freak.

“No, not really. I will help you clean over the holiday,” you said, leaving no room for protest. “I cannot stand the ride back like this.”

“If you insist. Just don’t throw anything out without running it by me. I promise everything in here is important.”

“Whatever you say,” you said, eyeing a stack of coffee cups wedged in the door.

“Can I ask something? I mean, I don’t want to overstep.” You were learning Clint did not do well with silence. 

“Go ahead.”

“What’s the deal with you and Natasha? Are you dating? It’s been killing me trying to figure the two of you out.”

“No, uh, we are not,” you stuttered. “We are friends.” Even that label seemed to hold too much weight. You weren’t supposed to have friends. And to befriend one of the Widows no less. You were above them, primed to not only serve the Red Room, but to be the embodiment of its crusade. Dreykov’s right hand. The Taskmaster. 

Clint had the nerve to scoff. “I’ve seen you just about butcher an entire compound of enemy combatants without batting an eye. And you can never ever tell Fury this but you intimidate the other agents more than he does.” He took one hand off the wheel and stretched it out, flexing his fingers. “And as far as I can tell the only person who can get you to listen to anyone but yourself…” He pointedly stared at the rearview mirror. “I didn’t even recognize you earlier back at SHIELD. You looked so, unagitated. Like you finally managed to dislodge that stick up your ass.”

“Ha, ha,” you laughed dryly. “You know, I am going to find something to shove up your ass.”

“You were letting her lay on you like a cat. You can’t tell me you guys haven’t slept together.”

You glared at his profile until he got the hint and faced you. “That is none of your business.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry I crossed a line,” he said. Your chest twisted with an unfamiliar sensation. One that made its way to your face in not quite a smile, but certainly an expression of gratitude. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. Apologies were new for you. 

“It is alright,” you said, vehemence leaving your voice. “It is just complicated. We had,” you hesitated and took a deep breath. “We had more than we should have in, um…before. They tried to keep us apart, make me think she was as heartless as the rest of the world.” You stared out the windshield, not willing to risk eye contact with Barton. A bug came flying at the truck and splattered green guts right in your eyeline. “And for a while I believed them. I hated her. But I was wrong. It is actually the opposite. Natalia is just, she is good. She stupidly stuck by me and dragged my head up from the sand when I was intent on suffocating myself.” 

“I’m no expert, just a guy with a wife and a couple of kids, but that sounds a damn lot like love to me,” he said. 

A choir of sardonic voices roused to action in the forefront of your mind. What do you know of love? You bite the hand that needs you, do you understand? You bite it clean off. A bitter laugh lunged from your throat before you could stop it. “You are wrong. Love is a fantasy to hold over the heads of the masses.”

“Wow.” Clint blinked dramatically, twice. “I didn’t think it was possible, but you just got even more Russian.”

“Fuck off, Hawkeye,” you said, grinning freely. 

 “Seriously though, I’ll never understand what you guys went through. Not in any way that counts, but the fact you made it out together tells me how fucking strong the both of you are.” He flicked his gaze to you. “There’s something there for you to think about too, but you gotta find it on your own.”

But you would rather take a knife to the chest than admit to harboring any sort of four letter words for Natalia. “Wait, you have a kid?” You asked, turning the conversation back on Barton.

“Yeah,” he said, smile reaching up to crinkle the corners of his eyes. “I have two now, if you can believe it. My oldest is Cooper. He’s a little over three. Lila is the baby. They’re why I was a little nervous about bringing you out. My number one priority, before SHIELD, before the mission, before myself are those kids.”

“And you were driving me all this way worried that I would turn on you? That I might hurt your kids?”

“Well, you know. Don’t trust anyone, especially other spies. Especially Russian spies if you’re American. I was fairly sure, but there was a voice in the back of my head asking ‘what if,’ and I had to ask,” he admitted.

You wanted to tell him you’d never hurt a little kid. That he shouldn’t have worried. Except you had, so so many times before. “How do you feel now?” You asked instead.

“A lot better. Glad to know you’re not a robot.” Silence grew as the radio paused in between songs. You laid back against the seat and watched the plains rush by outside. The speakers came back to life and a new sickeningly cheery jingle began to play. “I love this one,” Clint said, turning the volume back up. He hummed with contentment and drummed his fingers on the wheel, looking over at you. “I am going to teach you all about the joy of Christmas music, just you wait.”

“Oh, great,” you remarked wryly. The small grin on your face however betrayed your stark tone. Maybe this place wasn’t so bad after all.

—

The old Chevy fought its way up the snow covered path toward the farmhouse in the middle of the field. White and red lights hung from the roof and wrapped the pillars of the porch in heartwarming hues. A little plastic snowman stood ambassador to the front door, waving a mittened hand and welcoming the incoming entourage. Clint parked a couple dozen yards from the house, grumbling about how he’d have to dig the truck out before he left again. Natalia hopped out, eyes wide as she took in the home. Your breath puffed out in visible clouds, but you hardly felt the cold. You were raised in the deathly Russian winters. 

The front door cracked open, a woman standing silhouetted in the warm light behind her. “Clinton Francis Barton! You better get inside right now,” she said, a wide smile brightening her voice.

“Clinton?” Natalia asked, walking close behind Barton up to the porch.

“Yeah, yeah. Now you know my biggest secret.” He trudged up the stairs, snowflakes dusting his shoulders and hair. Laura met him in the doorway with a kiss. “Sorry we’re a little late,” he said.

“You’re excused this time, but only because you brought guests,” she said. Up close you could see she had big brown eyes and brown hair that fell to her shoulders. The inside of the house beckoned, the haze of meat and pine wafting outside. You dragged your feet along the stairs. You didn’t belong here. “Get inside now, you’re letting all the heat escape.” She patted Barton on the butt as he trod inside, fondness lacing her eyes as she looked after him. Natalia stood at the entryway, not yet stepping up into the house. “I mean you two as well,” Laura insisted, ushering you through the door.

“Daddy!” A little boy came barrelling around a corner, wrapping his arms around Clint’s leg and staring up at him with a toothy grin. The house immediately opened up into the living room, a worn brown couch facing a fireplace and an evergreen tree adorned with ornaments and twinkling lights. To your left a staircase spiraled upward and disappeared to a second floor. You stomped your shoes off on a welcome mat, watching the slush melt away. 

A drumbeat of footsteps pattered your way and suddenly the child was wrapped around your leg, his fingers digging into your calf. Your muscles tensed and you began to lift your leg to shake him off, heart in your throat.

“Coop!” Laura scolded. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s usually pretty shy around strangers.”

But Cooper didn’t listen and you didn’t kick him away. This kid was not a threat. He ogled up at you with wide eyes the same shade as his mother’s and hair somehow blonder than his father’s. “Hi. I’m Cooper,” he said with the grace of someone just learning to speak.

“Hi,” you said, heat rushing to your cheeks at being startled by a three year old. 

“Who are you?” He asked.

“I am a friend of your father’s,” you said, also telling him your name. 

“Looks like you’ve been replaced, Clint,” Laura teased. “Come on, buddy, let’s get up. Daddy’s got to show them upstairs.”

But he only sank down further, sitting firmly on your shoe and jutting his lip in a pout. “Walk with me.”

You looked at Natalia, a tender smile on her face. “It’s alright,” you told Laura. “I can take him upstairs.”

“Are you sure?” She asked. “I can make him get down.” 

“Yeah.” You couldn’t explain the tight feeling in your chest whenever the boy smiled up at you. “Are you ready?” He nodded eagerly and you took a step, following Clint up the stairs. Cooper giggled the entire time, clinging on with little hands.

“I hope you guys are okay with sharing a room. We’ve got Coop and Lila in their own rooms right now. Lila keeps you up at night, doesn’t she buddy?”

He nodded against your knee. “Lila cries a lot.”

“This is great,” Natalia said. “Thank you.” You and her still slept in separate rooms, but at this point you would have been willing to sleep out in the barn if he told you to. You hadn’t realized how crazy you’d been in that SHIELD compound. The wind whipping against your face outside had been like finally breathing deeply after having your head held underwater.

“The door on the end is the master bedroom,” Clint said, pointing left down the hall. “That’s Coop’s room, then there’s the nursery, the bathroom, and finally,” he stopped, opening a door to the right. “Here’s the guest room. I’ll let you guys get settled. Take your time. I’m going to help Laura get the table set.” He knelt down, scooping Cooper up under his arms and lifting him high in the air. The toddler shrieked as Clint settled him on his shoulders and stomped downstairs.

You set your bag down as Natalia moved around the room, running her hand over the nicely made bed. You cleared your throat, nerves and a foreign feeling clashing in your mind. “I can sleep on the floor.” 

She turned to you sharply. “You know I would never ask you to do that.”

“I know. But I am offering.” You walked over to the window, pushing the curtain open and peering outside. You couldn’t see much of anything, even with your enhanced eyesight. Even still, the countryside was a refreshing landscape after being firmly locked in the city. But the wilderness sheltered different threats. The red dot of a laser sight burned your retinas, and glowing yellow eyes stared blankly back at you. 

Natalia pulled your hand into hers, lacing your fingers together. “We’re okay here,” she mumbled into your shoulder as if reading your mind. 

“Do you really believe that?”

“I do,” she said, coming to stand in front of you. You wrapped your arms around her and rested your chin on top of her head, imagining you could shield her from all harm this way. “Listen.”

You strained your ears, searching for alarming sounds. The wind outside stirred quietly, enough to flurry the falling snow, but not so aggressive as to rap the window pane. Beyond that there was only quiet. No footsteps prowling around the back of the house. No click of a rifle’s safety being switched off. “I do not hear anything,” you said.

“You’re listening for the wrong things,” she said.

You frowned, glancing around the quiet room. Through the closed door the lazy tune of an American Christmas song made its way to your ears. You recognized the singer. Elvis Presley. The King of Rock and Roll. Laughter charged the music with a warm undercurrent. The infectious snicker that belonged to Barton mixed with the high-pitched giggle of his son to create a different kind of melody. You dropped your shoulders and let all of the air out of your lungs. Natalia pulled you closer until her spine pressed flush into your front. Her hands felt like ice, but you didn’t mind. You had always run hot. 

“Barton asked me if we were a couple on the ride up,” you said.

“Oh yeah? And what did you say?” She asked, watching the snow swirl in arcs outside. The wind rushed down, only for the next gust to excite the flakes into the navy sky again. 

“I told him it was complicated. And that we are friends.”

“And what if we made it less complicated?”

You pulled away to tug off your sweatshirt, feeling feverishly warm. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if we gave it a shot? We can call it what we want, we don’t have to call it anything at all. You could stay in my room some nights, or I could stay in yours. Maybe I’d let you kiss me,” she said, scrunching her nose and lifting one eyebrow. 

You laid the shirt on the bed, folding it into a tight little rectangle. The offer dangled in the vanilla scented air, taunting you. There must be a candle burning downstairs. You wanted so badly to say yes. To give yourself over to Natalia completely. Somewhere in between your heart and your throat the words got caught. A dark entity snagged what you wanted to say in its rows of jagged teeth and ripped it to shreds. “I think our friendship works,” you said. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” she sighed. “I was being selfish.”

“No, you were not. You could never be selfish. I am sorry,” you said, kneeling beside your bag and placing the sweatshirt inside. You would slit your own throat if Natalia Romonava asked you to. How cruel was it that you couldn’t tell her you cared? 

She crossed the softly lit bedroom, coming to rest by the door where you hung your head in defeat. “There’s nothing you need to be sorry for,” she said. Her voice washed over you and carried away some of the pain in your chest like the sea’s cool tide. Her fingers combed through the short hairs at the base of your neck. You leaned into her, resting your forehead on her leg. She smelled of the air after a storm and the beginnings of a fresh wound. “Come on. Let’s get downstairs before they put out a search warrant.”

You pushed yourself from the ground, an all too familiar action, and followed her into the greater expanse of the house. 

“There you are,” Clint greeted, pulling cups out of a cabinet. “Just in time.”

“Hi,” Laura smiled, crossing the kitchen and offering a hand. “I didn’t properly introduce myself before. I’m Laura.”

“Natasha,” Natalia said, shaking the woman’s hand.

“Cooper, come wash your hands!” Clint called. The boy ran in from the living room, making a beeline for the sink.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Barton,” you said, clasping her hand. Her palm held faded callouses. 

“Oh, please. It’s Laura. You come to my house, you call me Laura. Gosh, Mrs. Barton makes me feel old,” she said, smiling good-naturedly. “You two make me feel old. How old are you?”

“Twenty one,” Natalia answered. 

“Oh, wow,” she blinked widely. “Clint, you’ve got a run for your money. You might have to retire soon.”

“Tell me about it,” he said. “You should try sparring with Nat, hon. I’ve never been more sore in my life.” Clint scooped Cooper up and set him at the table. “Alright buddy hang tight, I’m gonna go grab your sister.”

“How are you guys doing at SHIELD? Fury not giving you too much grief I hope,” Laura said, grabbing a couple of plates and handing them over.

“You know Fury?” Natalia asked, recalculating the other woman.

“Oh, yeah. I knew Fury before he was such a hotshot. I knew him when he was still an ambitious agent gunning for the reins.” She scooped a bunch of mac and cheese into a bowl and carried it around to Cooper. “Feels like yesterday I was in the field though.”

“You were a SHIELD agent?” You asked, interest peaked. 

“Yep. Had a fancy codename too. People used to call me the Mockingbird.” The three of you settled at the table, plates filled with turkey and potatoes and sauteed green beans. “Don’t tell Clint I told you this but when he joined he chased after me for months before I’d even look in his direction. Don’t let him ever fool you, he’s always been a big dork.”

“Don’t tell Clint what now?” He asked, walking in with a baby in his arms. She couldn’t have been more than six months old. Natalia’s eyes went wide, her mouth parted open. She looked as if she were about to spring from her chair. You knew she had a soft spot for kids, but didn’t know it ran this deep. You looked from her to the baby and back again, head tilting. She’d never looked that excited to see you.

“Just sharing your most embarrassing moments,” Laura said. 

“Great.” He took a seat, cradling the baby in one hand and picking a fork up in the other. He pointed the utensil across the table at you and Natalia. “Just remember I’m still your superior,” he said. 

“The food is great, Laura,” you said in between bites. You forced yourself to slow down. You guessed you hadn’t realized how hungry you were until you sat down. SHIELD cafeteria food was certainly less than subpar. 

“Thank you. Clint, you better take notes from this one. The kid has better manners than you.”

“I’ll have you know that you chose to marry me,” he retorted.

“That I did,” she conceded, dipping her head. “And I’ve never had cause to regret it…so far.” 

“So far? Clint asked. “How could you ever say no to this face?” He jutted his bottom lip out and pouted.

Laura shook her head and grinned, almond eyes sparkling. “You are a child. I’m raising three children.” She turned away from her husband. “Anyway, I was asking you two about SHIELD. Clint told me you’ve taken the place by storm.” 

“It’s been good,” Natalia answered carefully. In the face of two senior agents, you had to choose your words carefully, even if one of them was retired from the organization. She donned a coy smile you recognized as one reserved for when she was chasing an objective and dipped her chin, peering up at the couple. “Everyone’s just been so great. We’ve been getting along perfectly, haven’t we?”

You took the signal and nodded in agreement. “I have found SHIELD to be an exceptional establishment.”

“I honestly think Fury would take that as an insult,” Clint said. “There’s no penalty for criticism. There’s a reason we’re spies and not soldiers.”

Natalia tilted her head, listening. You knew she gave the archer’s words considerable weight. “I think the director would agree that it’s considerably better than where we came from,” she said. “Which makes it near perfect in my eyes.”

Your leg bounced underneath the table, on the verge of taking off. To hear Natalia sing the song of American praise grated on your nerves. The worst thing was that she sounded genuine. She liked working under Fury. To you SHIELD was a pit stop on the way to a new life. For the woman who everyone underestimated and no one but you could decipher however, there was no escape plan, no next step. She’d convinced herself this was home.

“I’ll drink to that,” Clint said. “I’m where I am now because of SHIELD. And I wouldn’t trade this for the world.”

Laura practically beamed. “You sweet talker. I love you.” The feeling like you didn’t belong here roiled over you like a nauseating fever. You snapped to attention when you heard your name. “How are you adjusting?” Laura asked, eyes far too sympathetic.

“Fine,” you grimaced. You couldn’t help but think back on the lengths SHIELD had gone to glean information from you and remold you to a proper agent. In the end, they had been weaker than you. You were cast iron forged in the backwoods of Russia. You did not adjust. You did not yield. 

“What does Fury have you working on?” She asked. “I know I can’t have the details anymore. I don’t think I’d want them anyhow, but...He’s getting you guys back out there all right?” 

“Yeah. They call us Strike Team Alpha. We have been working with Agents Coulson and Hill to–,” you cut yourself off. You had been working to track down the Red Room and formulate a strategy to take out Dreykov. You complied enough to be deemed cooperative, but kept vital intelligence to yourself. Even still, time trickled away like sand in an hourglass. They’d have him before long, and you weren’t certain you could stick around to see it through. “We have been busy,” you pivoted. “We work with Clint a lot. Your husband is a good man.” 

“That he is,” she agreed. “But don’t discount yourself either.”

“Do not worry,” you said. “I know exactly what kind of person I am.”

“We all think we know who we are,” Laura said. “But most of the time it’s not as simple as we think. Lives are multi-faceted and it’s impossible to understand every part of ourselves as we should.”

“She’s right, you know,” Clint added. “I never thought I’d work for the government, much less ever be a father. But here I am.” He looked down on the sleeping baby tucked in his arm, running a thumb over her chubby cheek.

Under the table Natalia tugged on your pinky finger, intertwining her finger with yours. She squeezed softly and the action sent a current all the way to your heart. She had a smile on her face when you looked over, cat-green eyes glimmering with hope. “See?” She asked. “We can be whoever we want to be now.”

You nodded, even if it was just to reassure the woman beside you. Without order, without someone’s heels to follow you didn’t know who you were. And the prospect of discovering you weren’t worthy of all you’d been given...well that scared you more than the thought of a bullet carving a neat hole through your brain.

Clint cleared his throat and stood, walking to the counter and grabbing more food. You stared at your now empty plate, stealing a glance back at the countertop with the dishes of food. You stamped down on the flare of desire in your stomach, sitting silently and stacking your hands in your lap. “You can have more,” Laura said gently.

You shook your head quickly. “I am alright.” You were to never take more than what was allotted. 

“I’m serious, we’ll never eat all of this food. Please, take more,” she insisted.

You nodded, slowly getting up and slinking away from the wooden dining table. Natalia picked up the conversation. “So, you don’t work for SHIELD anymore then?”

“No,” Laura said. “I opted out of field work when I got pregnant with Cooper and when we decided to have Lila I took myself out of the game completely. Even being a deskbound spy has a way of taking over your life.” She picked up a napkin and wiped Cooper’s cheesy face off. “At that point I knew I had greater priorities than to SHIELD. Being a parent wouldn’t be everyone’s first choice but it was the right decision for me. We moved out here from the city a little over a year ago.”

“What do you do now?” Natalia asked.

“I’m a counselor for military personnel and veterans,” she said as you sat down again. Your foot caught on one of the legs and the table jumped a few inches.

“Sorry,” you cringed, gingerly pushing it back into place.

Cooper’s eyes went wide and he clapped his hands together with little coordination. “Again.”

“The table is pretty dense,” Laura explained. “We had trouble moving it in here and now Cooper’s made a game out of trying to push it around. Clint won’t touch it though, he’s worried he’ll hurt his back.”

“Ah,” you said, staring down at your lap. You didn’t like people knowing how strong you were. Nothing good had ever come from it. The serum was a fear tactic, a killer’s tool. The doctor’s at SHIELD had been practically drooling with questions when they found out, needles armed and ready behind their backs. “Must be lighter than you remember.”

“I’m done,” Cooper announced, slamming his spoon down. 

“Cooper Barton!” Laura chastised. “What do we say when we’re done?”

The toddler grumbled, pushing his empty bowl away. “May I be excused?”

“Yes you may,” his mother answered.

He jumped from his chair and ran around the table back to the living room. Clint ruffled his thick brown hair as he sped past. “Attaboy,” he saluted.

Laura carried the dishes over to the sink, running the water and filling the basin. You stood abruptly, snapping to attention. “I can take care of it.” You’d been sitting around for too long and letting people work for you. You needed to do something with your hands. She waved you off, not sparing a glance. “Please,” you said, ants crawling beneath your skin.

 She turned to you and something on your face must have given you away. “Okay. You’re not going to hear any argument from me.” 

You gathered up the rest of the plates from the table and scraped the food scraps into the trash. Chore rotations had been part of the routine growing up and the repetitive nature of scrubbing plate after plate calmed you some.

“Let me help,” Clint offered, handing the baby off to Laura and joining you in the kitchen. 

“Why don’t we go out to the den?” Laura offered to Natalia. “Let the boys clean up in here.” She whispered into the redhead’s ear as they left the room. You couldn’t make out the words.

You handed a clean plate to Clint for him to dry. “Thank you,” you said. The kitchen was cozy, all wooden floors and off-white countertops. The fridge stood across from the sink, decorated in crayon drawings and various magnets in the shape of dinosaurs.

“You’re welcome. Laura gets on me all the time for forgetting to clean up anyway. Figured I could earn some points while I’m home.”

“I meant for bringing us here,” you clarified. “It has been, nice.” Nice was a safe word. “You have a nice home. You were right. I think I was–hm, what is the term? Something crazy. Like when you are stuck inside for too long.”

“Stir crazy?”

“Ah yes. I was being stir crazy,” you said. “I am glad to be far away from the compound, from the job, all of it.”

“You were going stir crazy, not being stir crazy,” he said.

“Ah. I do not struggle with languages too much, but the figures of speech are always difficult to follow.”

“I’m glad you’re comfortable here. It’s nice to be able to share this with someone,” he admitted. “Fury is literally the only other person who knows about this part of my life. It’s kind of exhausting walking around pretending it doesn’t exist.”

LIttle footsteps came pounding around the corner and into the kitchen. Cooper crashed into Clint’s leg, tugging on his shirt to get his attention. “Mama said I have to help. Lila is sleeping,” he panted.

“Why don’t you dry this off for me, bud?” Clint handed him a rag and a plastic cup.

You watched the boy as he cleaned the cup, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth. “I will protect your secret, Clint. I know Nata-” You caught yourself before finishing the second half of her name. “Natasha will too.” The sound still felt awkward on your tongue.

“Thank you,” he said, laying a warm hand on your shoulder. The muscles in your back tensed, pinching your shoulder blades together. You inhaled and counted to five. You didn’t pull away. “I’ve made a lot of dumb decisions in my life, and I mean a lot. Taking a chance on the two of you though…that I don’t think I’ll ever regret.”

Part of you preened at the praise, no matter who’s lips it fell from. The other part reared at the fact you responded to someone other than your designated handlers. “You are welcome,” you said.

“Done!” Cooper announced, handing the dry cup back to his father. “Can I go play now?”

“Yeah, sure bud. We’ll be right out.”

You put the last plate away and drained the sink before joining Natalia and Laura in the living room. You froze when you rounded the corner and saw Natalia. She held Lila in her arms, the most tender smile on her face as she watched over the baby. Laura knelt by the fireplace, stoking the logs before shutting the grate. The mantle held little framed photographs of the Barton family and red and green stockings hung over the fire. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, yellow lights shining like halos. A star topped the tree, inches away from scraping the ceiling. Natalia sat on the couch cradling the baby as she played with one of her fingers.

Cooper slid onto the bench at an upright piano, mashing away at the keys. “Not right now, Coop,” Clint said. “You ought to be winding down for bed. We all have to be asleep for when Santa comes, remember?” You blinked at the instrument, starstruck. Longing filled your chest like air in a balloon. 

“Fine,” he whined, but listened and scooted from the bench.

Natalia swiveled her head, careful not to shift and disturb Lila. “Does one of you play?”

“I used to when I was little,” Laura said. “The piano belonged to my grandparents originally. I don’t think I could play much of anything anymore.”

“I can play.” Clint piped up.

“Twinkle Twinkle Little Star does not count, babe.”

“You know who can play?” Natalia spoke up. You imagined the expression on her face, one eyebrow raised and mouth poised in a smirk. 

“Who?” Cooper asked, rounding the couch and sitting on the coffee table. 

“I’ll give you a hint,” she said. “They’re in the room with us right now.”

“Is it me?” He pointed to himself, little eyebrows furrowed as deep as he could make them go.

“Nope,” Natalia answered, voice sing-song sweet.

“Is it you?” He twisted his head to the side and pointed at Natalia. She shook her head and Cooper looked around the room, eyes catching on his mother and father before landing on you. “Your friend,” he said. 

“Yep,” she said. You could hear the smile in her voice. 

“I knew it. I knew it,” he insisted. 

You tore your gaze away from the piano as attention fell onto you. “Oh.” You waved them off. “I would not say I could play. I posed as a pianist in a hotel lobby for a mission once a long time ago. Memorized some music that is all. I am not classically trained.” You crossed your arms to ward off the unease that accompanied so many eyes on you.

“Do you still know it?” Laura asked. 

“Yeah, I do.” Your peculiar memory would never allow you to forget. And you’d never tell a soul, but sitting there at a piano all night long had made you feel alive in a way nothing had before. But that couldn’t be. Musicians were jesters, and you were no fool. 

“We’d love to hear it,” Laura said, picking Cooper up and settling down with him on her lap. “If you’re comfortable. I hate the thought of the piano just turning into decor.”

“Okay,” you said. You were never one to shy away from a task. “I am afraid I do not know any Christmas songs.” 

“That’s all right. I’m sure whatever you know will be beautiful,” Laura encouraged.

Clint stood in the corner, eyes upturned to the ceiling. He perked up, springing into action. “I’ll be right back,” he said, jogging upstairs.

You took a seat on the polished wooden bench, stroking the keys and marveling at the instrument. You warmed up, playing a couple scales and conjuring the music in your mind’s eye. The patterns were as fresh as the day you had played them. The notes from the aged piano were by no means comparable to that of the expensive grand you’d used before, but somehow the music sounded sweeter here. As you struck the opening bars of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata you craned your neck to find Natalia’s gaze. She smiled at you and you couldn’t help but mirror the expression. Your heart picked up its beating and your head buzzed with a strange feeling. You felt as if you might explode with it. 

You took to the music like you took to fighting, or dancing. You didn’t struggle with movement like other people did. Ever since you could remember you could watch and replicate. Eventually you learned to mimic a fighter’s strategy so that you could predict their next moves. Flay their neck into a gushing fountain before they could touch you. 

Your foot pumped the pedal in time with your left hand and when you closed your eyes you could see the notes weaving into the dark. You liked how the music elicited harmony instead of chaos. Music didn’t scrape the skin from your knuckles or leave you lying on the floor with the world spinning around you. You changed the song, easing into Chopin’s Nocturne in E Flat. 

Clint came marching down the stairs, CD player in one hand and a disk in the other. He stayed quiet for a moment, busying himself with finding an outlet to plug the player into. Finding a natural way to end the song prematurely, you slowed your hands and lightened the force with which you struck the keys. Clint stood near the other end of the couch, doing his best to look patient. 

“Barton?” You asked.

“I told you earlier that I was going to teach you the joy of Christmas music,” he said. “Well, here you go. Now you can play along and really appreciate the music.” He knelt down and pressed the play button. 

An easy tune filled the living room, bathing all in attendance in a sense of peace. Time seemed to slow, and for a moment, you forgot about the world outside of the farmhouse. All that mattered was the family reaching out in embrace, two parents and a little boy. Their smiles shone brighter than the blazing fire in the hearth. You watched the woman settled on the couch, absorbed by the baby in her arms. She looked up at you as you traced the curve of her jaw with your eyes. Natalia’s pupils were wide when she met your gaze, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. You looked away first to stare at the piano instead, focusing on the music instead of the way your cheeks warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature.

You caught onto the song as it began to repeat, taking a shallow breath before following along. Just like with anything else music obeyed a pattern. Once you unlocked the way the parts fit together, the rest of the song revealed itself to you. All you had to do was continue the line of code. The next track played, prompting Cooper to sing along. Imperfection had never sounded so flawless. 

The CD turned out song after song and you let yourself get lost in the game. You didn’t recognize any of the pieces, but Christmas music had a distinctive charm to it. Some might call it magical. You sat back for the first thirty seconds of each song, picking out the tempo and key. The notes charged your hands with energy which you poured out into the latter half of the song. Each one was unique, a victorious smile forming on your face when you pulled together the entire arrangement in your head.

When the tracklist ended you took a breath, feeling lighter than you had in a long time. Laura took Lila from Natalia, holding her tight against her shoulder. Her hand, a mother’s hand, rested on the sleeping baby’s back. “I’m going to put her down,” she said, just loud enough to be heard.

“Hey bud.” Clint gently shook Cooper awake from where he’d fallen asleep on the couch against his leg. “It’s time to brush our teeth and go to bed.”

The boy only turned further into Clint’s body, refusing to be stirred. 

Clint stood and picked him up. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

Only after his footsteps had receded upstairs did either one of you move. Natalia pushed herself from the couch and stretched. Her arms extended toward the ceiling with a dancer’s grace. She took a seat next to you on the bench and laid her head on your shoulder. “That was amazing,” she said. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“That is all you,” you said. “I did not know you were so good with babies.”

“Me neither,” she admitted. “When Laura asked me to hold her I was so nervous at first. I thought I might drop her or pinch her or that I’d make her cry.” She lifted her head, her gaze soft as a lamb’s. You wanted to preserve it so that no one may ever taint it, including from yourself. “But she was okay.”

“That is because you are a good person. They say babies have a sixth sense for that sort of thing. Like dogs.”

“But, I’ve hurt so many people,” she said, voice fragile like a twig in a storm. “I’m afraid…I'm afraid I’ll never be able to redeem myself.”

“No. Do not say that, Natalia. You are the best person I know. The fact you care so much means you are already there.” You huffed a quick exhale. “I think you are the only person who cannot see how big your heart is.”

“They say the holidays are for spending time with the people you love the most,” she whispered, tracing the lines on your palm with her finger.

You stayed quiet.

“I’m glad that I’m here with you,” she said.

Another window, another chance to dive off the deep end. I think I’m in love with you, you thought. The laws of society had been drilled into your head by the Madames and reinforced by what little exposure of the world you’d received. Natalia stood in defiance to all of them. She was a sapling in a field of ash, and refused to be uprooted. She turned to grace like you turned to anger. She was infecting you, and you couldn’t push her away.

Footsteps sounded down the stairs and you shut your previously parted mouth. The words scattered into the recesses of your throat. “Hey guys,” Clint said. “The kids are down and Laura and I still have a lot of Santa’s work to do. You’re more than welcome to stay down here and watch TV or whatever. We’ll be around. Just holler if you need anything.”

“Okay,” Natalia said. “Thank you.” He turned to go. “And Clint. Merry Christmas.” She smiled.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, giving a sharp nod. 

You yawned. Between the food and the warmth and the music, tiredness had snuck up on you. “Let’s go upstairs,” Natalia said.

“Okay.” You left the piano behind and made your way upstairs. You brushed your teeth and splashed water on your face in the hall bathroom. The shower curtain was adorned with colorful flaming monster trucks and a little blue step stool gave height before the sink. Cooper must have primary use of this one. 

Natalia sat on the edge of the mattress in the bedroom, untangling her braid with deft fingers. You stole a pillow and dropped it on the floor on the other side near the door. “What are you doing?” She asked.

“I am going to sleep.” You didn’t meet her eyes.

“Why are you being weird? We’ve slept in the same bed before,” she said.

“That was different,” you insisted.

“How so?” She asked, infuriatingly patient.

You crossed your arms over your chest and rolled your shoulders back, shadows of old handlers and teachers flickering behind your eyes. “Because…because there were lines before. Ones we did not cross.” Emotional ones. “It was survival. You were a warm body.”

A smudge of hurt clouded over Natalia’s bright eyes. She blinked and it disappeared. “You don’t mean that.”

You paced the length of the room, wishing you could run farther. You meant it and you also didn’t. “Of course not. I am sorry,” you breathed. 

“Then come here. All we’re doing is sleeping. I’m not letting you stay on the floor like a dog.” She combed through her hair, waves of red cascading down past her shoulders. 

Except it wasn’t just sleeping. If you indulged in this vice once you’d never want to quit it. You’d paw desperately at her door every night. You shook your head and backed away like a spooked horse. “I have slept in worse places.”

“Is it me?” She asked, shoulders slumping with the words. “Do you not trust me?”

“No. No, it is not you.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

You shook your head as if to fling the question away. The problem was that you weren’t cut out for relationships of any kind. Didn’t she know how dangerous you were? Shouldn’t she know that you bit? “There is no problem.”

“I know you well enough to know when you’re not telling me something.” You started to get the feeling this wasn’t really about where you slept anymore.

“Can we talk about this in the morning?” You tried, rubbing furiously at the back of your head.

“No. I hate feeling like you’re not comfortable around me,” she said. “Is there something wrong with me?”

“No. I trust you with my life. You know that.” Your voice cracked at the end. It was never her fault, and you hated yourself for not being able to be what she needed. To reassure and support her. To be normal.

“Then please, tell me what’s going on.”

“I–”

“What are you so afraid of?” She asked the question at barely more than a whisper, but the words lit a spark in you like a gunshot. 

“Leave it Natalia,” you commanded in Russian, spinning on your heel. You fixed her with a cold stare, no longer seeing her as you should be. Perched on the bed sat the Black Widow, and she had broken rank.

“No,” she scolded, rising to meet the challenge. “You don’t get to talk to me like that. We are not in the Red Room. Do you understand?” Anyone else and you would have seized them and smacked them clean across the cheek. Anyone else and they’d have a dozen fresh bruises to remind them of their place. But this was Natalia. And you’d never hurt Natalia. You clenched your jaw and drew your lips back, fighting the urge to pound the wall in. 

“I hate you.” You felt as if you’d just barely outran an onslaught of attackers, and they were still watching. 

“No you don’t,” she said, face still as marble and expressive as a wall of stone.

“Why are you here? Why will you not leave? You are the reason I am like this,” you said, voice cracking as a growing child's did. If it wasn’t for her you’d be perfect, you knew it. Instead she tempted you down a path of distraction, convinced you to embrace weakness.

“I’m here because I will always stand beside you. Always,” she said as if it was all too simple.

“But you left. You were going to die and leave me alone.” Defecting to SHIELD had not been her original plan. Letting them kill her was. Lucky it had been Clint Barton behind the trigger that night. “And now I am stuck here because of you and I hate it.”

“You feel stuck?” For a second the wall slipped and a flash of hurt escaped Natalia’s gaze.

“Yes,” you said. “I do. You ruined my life.” Red hot anger ignited itself within you. And it was all aimed at the woman before you.

“I didn’t make you do anything. I never have,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re here because you know deep down that the Red Room is an awful place. A place that takes little children and beats them into weapons.”

“It made us strong.”

“It broke us.”

You grimaced and kicked aimlessly at the ground. “I still cannot stand it here.” The wrath began to dissipate. Shame swelled to take its place.

“We are safer now than we ever have been.”

“I cannot trust you. You are a Widow. You–You are lying to me. You always have been.” Paranoia twisted smiles into smirks, kind words into carefully crafted scalpels. She’d learn all of your weaknesses and leave you gutted on top of her rotting pile of victims.

“I am not a Widow. Not anymore. Do you understand?”

You grunted an acknowledgement.

“Markov.” She called your surname. “Yes or no.”

“Yes,” you ground out. “I understand.” Regret pooled in your belly like bile. She had asked what you were so afraid of and you’d gone and shown her. The closer Natalia became the less control you felt you had. Emotions twisted together in a whirlwind inside your head, mutating into a throbbing mass of anger. Natalia handled her emotions, always choosing the correct words and wearing the face she wanted people to see. Dreykov had taught you that pretty words were for the Widows and the women. Unchecked, the rage festered until your hands shook with it. “I do not want to hurt you,” you said, switching back to English with an accent hanging heavy over the words.

“I know,” she sighed. “But you do, you know. When you lash out at me it hurts.” 

A dozen excuses ran through your head. None of them even came close to making it up. You were just a bad person. “This is why you have to let me sleep on the floor.” You felt as though you’d finally been allowed to regain control of your body after some raging force had overtaken you. It left you dizzy with the shame of your words.

Natalia didn’t say anything. Her green gaze bore straight through you. Vulnerability raked at your spine as if she held your bleeding heart in her fist.

“Please,” you added. You did not beg.

“You can sleep on the floor,” she relented. The cool release of relief soothed your aching mind. “But you have to promise me something.”

“Okay.”

“Promise me that when we get back you’ll work on talking through whatever’s going on in your mind. If not with me that’s fine. But you have to talk to someone.”

The offer was steep. The urge to shut it all in was more than an instinct. Being guarded was the key to your survival. “Fine.” If tearing yourself apart meant Natalia could find peace, you would rip the flesh away yourself. “I can do that.”

She blinked as if she hadn’t expected you to agree. “Here.” She held out a blanket that had been folded at the end of the bed. 

“Thank you.” You shut off the light and laid on the floor. For a moment before your eyes adjusted you couldn’t see a thing besides pitch black. Your heart thundered in your chest as shapes began to fall back into focus. The rectangle dresser, the thick bed frame, the moonlight filtering in through the blinds on the window. Covered in the rather large blanket and supported by the carpeted floor you fell asleep. 

You dreamt most nights. Vivid atrocities doused in blood and the screams of pigs to the slaughter. The tip of a sword, plunged through the hearts of the guilty and innocent alike. A metal fist, knocking you sideways and ramming you in the face until your eyes swelled shut. Never stopping until its master called it off. Faceless bodies behind surgical masks, watching as you writhed under a spotlight like a bug under a magnifying glass. A burn beneath your skin so violent your jaw locked with the pain and you felt as if you couldn’t even draw the tiniest of breaths. 

None of them held a candle to the nightmare that cursed you tonight. It had visited since you were small, and it came often. Not just the feeling, but the memory of being suspended in limbo.

Your limbs froze, even your neck refused to lift your head as you stared at a single spot on the popcorn ceiling. The walls, the fear-soaked smell of your own sweat, the buzz of a lamp to your right all closed in on you. You couldn’t cry, you couldn’t speak, it took everything you had just to breathe.

Time stretched on and all you could do was lay there and stare at the ceiling. You tried to focus on the drone of the lamp instead of the heavy panting a foot away from you. But you never could completely. Your chest constricted with every breath but never reached the point of constriction. Your stomach crackled with repulsion, but bile never rose into your throat. You forever hung teetering on the edge, violation wrapped around your frail body. 

I’m trapped. I’m trapped. I’m trapped. I’m–

Your eyes flew open and you sat up, knocking skulls with someone else. A strangled noise leapt from your mouth into the silent air. No buzzing lamp. No heavy breathing besides your own. Your limbs had become tangled in a blanket and you thrashed to free yourself. 

Your head snapped up at the sound of your name. The word lassoed your mind and hauled you to the present. Concerned green eyes peered at you in the dark. You knew those eyes. For a second you imagined they belonged to a child no older than thirteen. She wasn’t supposed to be in your room. She wasn’t supposed to see you like this. “What are you doing in here?” You thrust your hand out to keep her away. “Get out.”

“Hey,” Natalia said, voice as gentle as the evening breeze. Her kindness would get her killed. She spoke your name again and the illusion dissolved some more. “You’re safe. You were dreaming. We’re at Clint Barton’s house in Iowa.” 

You got to your feet on shaky legs, looking through the woman in front of you. The room around you was not the one in the lingering dream and not the one you grew up sleeping in. 

A cool hand found your cheek and tilted your gaze down. “Come back,” Natalia said.

The shadows fled, no match for her. Not truly gone, but subdued for now. “I am sorry I woke you,” you said. 

“Don’t apologize.” She drew a breath. “I was awake anyways.”

“I guess sleep is not especially kind to either of us.”

“No. I guess not.” 

She pulled away, stepping into the splash of moonlight on the wall. You thought she looked like an angel, or maybe a ghost. Either way she looked ethereal, as if she might turn to smoke if you reached out to touch her.

“I thought you said you’d grown out of them,” she whispered, facing the light, and away from where you hunkered out of its reach.

Your jaw twitched. “I lied.”

She nodded to herself. Disappointed but not surprised. You thought she might berate you for it, present a list of the consequences until they were seared into your brain. Instead she just extended a hand and said, “Come here.”

You fell into her and let her pull you onto the edge of the bed. You sat there, feet planted on the floor. “I hope I did not wake anyone else,” you said.

“You didn’t,” she said, settling down beside you. “You were so quiet. I almost didn’t notice something was wrong.”

“What happened?”

“I just…had the feeling something was wrong. That I needed to check on you.” She turned your forearm up and traced her thumb over the pulse point on your wrist. “Your forehead was all sweaty and you were breathing super fast. You seemed so scared.”

“I am okay,” you said.

“It’s okay to not be sometimes. I think I’m starting to learn that.”

“I really am.” You wanted to say more. You chewed on your lip, staring at the door as if it could tell you what to do. Natalia, so small yet stronger than you in a million ways. She deserved to know how much she meant to you. “I am always more than okay when you are with me. You make me feel safe.”

“Do you mean it?” Her eyes met yours, pupils blown amidst the fern green iris. You wondered if it was because of you or the dark. 

“Yes,” you said. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I think…I would go through all of it again just to keep you.”

“I don’t know if I’m worth that much.” You wished she could see herself through your eyes so that she understood. 

“Natalia Romanova, you are worth the entire world.” Hesitantly you leaned over and kissed her temple, lips just grazing the soft skin. You pulled away, scanning her face for any sign of reproach. “Was that okay?”

“It was more than okay,” she said. She leaned her weight against you, shoulders pressing into each other. 

You sat like that for a while, listening to the sound of her gentle breathing and basking in the peaceful moment. Maybe if you could remember how you felt now you could summon the strength to serve SHIELD. You allowed your mind to wander to places you normally didn’t entertain. Someday you and Natalia would have your own place like this. A bubble no one else could touch where you could sit just like this every night. You would never have it though, only the filmy mirage of pretense.

Natalia moved to the other side of the bed, laying down on her side. “Come lay down with me,” she said.

You didn’t want to return to the floor, but you weren’t sure you could stay on the bed either. 

“Please.” Behind you the best dipped and a pair of arms slid around you. One of her hands came to rest right above your heart. She tucked her chin into the space between your neck and shoulder and involuntarily, you dropped your head against hers. “It is Christmas after all.”

Natalia tugged you down and you let her, lowering yourself until your back was flush against the mattress and your head lay in her lap. You refused to move your legs, leaving them draped over the side. “I am so sorry for the things I said earlier. I did not mean it.” Shame stabbed at your lungs and behind your eyes. Your jaw ached with it, and your tongue was sour with traces of your own bitterness. 

“It’s okay. I understand,” she said. You didn’t deserve her tenderness.

“You should not have to, Natalia. It is not fair for you to deal with.”

“Remember when we promised each other we’d never leave the other one alone?” 

You huffed a dry laugh. “We could not have been more than fourteen years old.”

“So more than old enough to know what we were saying,” she countered.

“It will happen again,” you said, tone darkening. 

“And I’ll be there when it does.”

“I cannot control it. Sometimes things happen and I feel everyone is out to get me.” You flicked your gaze away from her face. “Then the shouting and the hateful words and the rage comes. I do things I cannot take back.”

“That’s why you need people who know that that isn’t really you. Who know you’re kind and loyal to the bone. Who will help you heal.” 

“I am not sick,” you insisted. 

“I know. But we need to understand whatever this is,” she said. “Before it gets you into trouble with the wrong people.”

You took a deep breath, ribs shuddering like the bars of a rusted cage. “I am scared,” you whispered. 

Natalia ran a calloused hand across your cheek. “I know,” she said. “Just know you’re not alone. We’ll figure this out together.”

You nodded your head, afraid that speaking might reveal the lump in your throat.

“Come on, let’s get some rest,” she said, tugging on the collar of your shirt.

 “You are unbelievable,” you mumbled.

“What happened to me being the best person ever?”

“You can be both.”

She peered down at you, eyes alight with mischief. “I haven’t heard a ‘no’.”

Exhaustion had broken down your resolve, and you’d have a better chance of sleeping through the rest of the night in the bed. “Okay.” Your agreement had nothing to do with the way Natalia blinked slowly at you, nor the way she had taken to sifting her fingers through your hair.

“Finally,” she said, lips quirking up in a victorious smile. “You’re almost as stubborn as me. Not quite though.”

“Yeah, whatever,” you said, pushing yourself fully onto the bed. “Do not make me change my mind.”

You laid down and Natalia settled her head on your chest. “You’re so warm,” she said.

“Is that why you wanted me up here? Cause you were cold?” 

“No,” she said as she pressed her cheek further into your collarbone. “Go to sleep.”

“Goodnight Natalia.”

“Goodnight.”

You woke in the morning not to the terror of memory infiltrating your mind but to sunlight illuminating the space before your eyelids. You blinked rapidly, clearing away the morning bleariness. You couldn't recall the last time you had started your day after sunup. 

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” Natalia said, still buried into your side. Under the sheet her legs tangled up in yours. 

You yawned, stretching your arms above your head. “Have you been awake long?”

“No,” she said. “Just a few minutes maybe. I think we should get up though. I imagine Cooper will be awake soon. It would be cruel to keep him waiting. I remember how exciting Christmas morning was.” She said, sounding far away. “It wasn’t real, but…there is something really magical about this time of year.”

You rubbed gentle circles on her upper back in between her shoulder blades where you knew she held tension. “It is real now, no? For the Bartons and for us, Christmas means something?” 

“Yeah,” she breathed, crinkles around her eyes when she looked at you. “This is real.” You had a feeling she wasn’t referring to the holidays anymore.

“Before we go downstairs I have something for you,” you said. You palmed the thin silver necklace that had been stored in your bag. “Turn around and close your eyes.”

“Should I be nervous?” She asked as she faced away from you.

“No, no.” You clasped the chain around her neck. “Okay you can look now.”

Natalia examined the charm, cupping it in her hand. “I um—I didn’t get you anything.”

“And you do not need to,” you said. “You are all I could ever want.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Clint took me out. I was saving it for the right time. Now seemed perfect.” You looked at the little silver sword strung hilt to blade tip along the necklace. Your signature weapon. “Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful. Thank you,” she said, smiling up at you in a way that made your head go empty and quiet. You felt as if everything might be okay when she smiled at you.

“It is, uh…It is to remind you that I am always on your side. That I am always with you even when it may seem like I am not.” Your heart pounded with fear she may reject the gift. She would cast it aside, and you with it.

“It’s perfect,” she said instead. “You’re perfect.”

“Merry Christmas Natalia.”

“Merry Christmas.”

‘No.’ Natasha whispers, eyes wide. Her gun lowers, but her grip on it tightens. 

You fall to your knees. 

‘Natasha.’ You whisper again. Her name paints the air a different colour. It is no longer a reference to the past. 

You press your hand to your chest. You feel it rising and falling rapidly. You realise that you are in shock. 

‘Natasha.’ You say again, wanting to feel the thrill of truth. You can say it again. She is here. 

Natasha’s eyes still bore into you, filled with disbelief. 

‘I love you.’ You breathe out quickly. You hurry the words that you wish you'd said just one more time.

You stretch your hand out towards her, gently, carefully. Tears are rolling down your face. 

‘No.’ Natasha repeats, her voice cracking as she starts to cry too. She takes a step back from you. Her hands are shaking. 

‘Please.’ She whispers, and her eyes flicker up to the ceiling. ‘You’re meant to be dead.’

‘I’m not.’ You promise hurriedly, wiping the tears from your cheeks. ‘Natasha. I’m here. I’ll always be here.’

Natasha shakes her head back and forth erratically. The gesture is entirely unfamiliar. You've never seen her react like that. For a moment, you wonder if it is really her in front of you. 

Natasha grips the gun, but she doesn’t raise it. 

‘Go away.’ She begs, and you notice her free hand curling protectively around her stomach.  'Why aren't you dead?'

Confusion blurs your vision as much as the tears do. 

‘Natasha.’ You repeat pointlessly, trying to will this woman to be the one you love.

‘Why can’t you stay dead?’ Natasha whimpers, retreating suddenly until her back thuds against the wall. ‘Why can’t you leave us alone?’

The air leaves your body. You feel empty, unreal, as you look up at Natasha from the floor. 

You realise now that her eyes are filled with abject fear.

It is the worst thing you have ever seen. You are in a nightmare.

She flexes her grip on the gun, but she doesn’t aim it. 

You realise now that she is too scared to try. 

Natasha slides down the wall. Her body folds in on itself protectively. Her knees are drawn up in front of her.

You can’t speak. You are not here because this cannot be real.

Natasha stares purposefully down at the floor.

Discomfort prickles at the back of your neck. You realise she is trying to be submissive. 

You hate it. This is not your Natasha. 

You get to your feet. Natasha’s eyes screw shut in anticipation. You feel sick in your stomach.

You want to tell her over and over that you are her wife. You wonder if she’s forgotten. If she’s from some other reality where that isn’t the case. 

You don’t speak. There is no point.

This woman is too scared to hear you.

Shakes are running through her body. You can see her ragged breaths, though she’s fighting hard to keep them quiet.

You reach for your phone and Natasha flinches against the floor. Bile rises in your mouth. 

‘Can I call you sister?’ You ask carefully, hearing the strangled pain in your own voice. 

Natasha’s breath catches. She doesn’t respond. Still, she doesn’t look at you. Her eyes stay lowered to the floor. 

You are in hell. You want to leave.

You call Yelena. It can’t get worse than this. 

Yelena picks up, but she sounds out of breath. 

‘I am very busy.’ She informs you matter of factly. You ignore the dry tone to her voice. 

‘It’s an emergency.’ You tell her numbly, finding now that you can’t force Natasha’s name from your lips to explain. ‘I need you here now.’

Yelena pauses and you can feel her silent panic through the phone. ‘Okay.’ She mumbles, and you hear her start running. ‘Don’t worry. I’m coming.’

Yelena takes fifteen minutes to ring your doorbell. You spend the time watching Natasha. Grief coats your skin.

She doesn’t seem in her own body at all. Her eyes seem absent, tracking light beams across the floor.

You wonder if maybe this is your Natasha. If Vormir drove her crazy. 

Part of you already knows the answer. This woman would never have come back here. She must not have had a choice.

Natasha startles in alarm at the sound of the doorbell. Your chest feels hollow as you go to answer it. 

In the doorway, Yelena scans you for injury. Her head tilts quickly in confusion. Your throat is too tight to speak.

You take a step back from the doorway.

Yelena looks around the side of you. You watch her jaw drop. You watch disbelief stun her momentarily. 

Then, she drops the weapon in her hands. She runs forward. 

You shut the door like a zombie. 

When you turn around, Natasha is hugging Yelena desperately. Yelena kisses her forehead over and over again. Wonderingly, she cards her fingers through Natasha’s shorter hair.  

‘Sestra.’ She mumbles, somewhere between contentment and shock. 

Bitter jealousy rises like a tidal wave inside you when Natasha holds onto her tightly. 

‘I thought you died.’ You hear Natasha whisper, her face against Yelena’s shoulder. Yelena gives a low laugh. ‘I thought the same for you.’ She whispers back, pressing her cheek against Natasha’s hair.

Yelena glances back up at you. Her lips stretch into the widest smile. 

‘You brought her home.’ She says, awestruck. 

You can’t speak past the lump in your throat. You shake your head. 

‘Not her.’ You choke out at last, barely coherent.

Yelena’s eyes widen in renewed confusion. She turns back to her sister.

She catches Natasha’s fearful look up at you.

You watch as Natasha repositions herself. Making sure she is between you and her sister.

She cannot hide her her fear. She grips Yelena’s hand like it’s her life support. 

‘Please.’ Natasha addresses you suddenly, voice almost soothing. You know immediately that she is trying to calm you. ‘Maybe Yelena and I can go out for a little bit. I’ll come back later.’

You take a seat at your kitchen counter. Your legs feel too heavy to stay standing. 

The soothing voice your wife had used to comfort you is ruined now. Natasha is terrified. She is trying to protect Yelena from you.

‘You can go wherever you want, whenever you want.’ You tell her quietly. You stare at your own hands, hating whatever version of you this woman has met before. ‘I just want you to be okay.’ 

You glance back up to catch the flicker of disbelief in Natasha’s expression. It feels like a deep, ragged cut to your gut.

She stands up and Yelena follows suit. You hate the betrayed look Yelena is giving you.

She thinks that you were hurting your wife. Protests lodge in your throat. You can't think straight under Natasha's wary stare.

As they walk across the room, Yelena breaks rank immediately, placing herself in the space between you and Natasha. 

For once, you watch Natasha put up no resistance. She stares down at the floorboards, as if she’s counting the steps to the door. You notice her white knuckled grip of Yelena’s hand. 

‘We will talk.’ Yelena mutters to you, full of icy threat as she passes. You stare at the far away wall. You are ready to fall apart.

When the door shuts, you lower your head to the kitchen counter, pressing the cool countertop hard against your forehead. 

You begin to sob, shoulders convulsing. Your nails dig into your bare skin.

This is the worst day of your life. Somehow. 

You never thought that could be true again. 

You miss your wife. Beyond words, beyond coherent thought. You want to tear out your own heart. You’re sure that your fingernails are drawing blood but you don’t care. 

You hate this identical woman. You have been confronted by a ghost. A nightmare. 

Your wife is back and she does not want you. 

You have never seen someone so scared before. Not of you. 

Images keep flashing in front of your eyes. You press your knuckles against them, wishing you could unsee it. 

------------------------

Later, Yelena sends you three short texts in rapid succession.

‘Another you.’

‘In a different universe.’

‘She doesn’t want to see you.’

You stare at the last text for a long time. You delete it when you can’t look any longer. 

—-----------------------------

There are three long weeks. 

Several things happen. They are nothing to do with you.

Clint calls you. Yelena has tracked him down on Natasha’s behalf. He sounds elated, his voice is scratchy from crying. He asks about her. Why she is staying with Yelena instead of you.

You cut him off. Flatly, you tell him that Natasha doesn’t want to see you. He falters. 

‘Because of the baby?’ He asks in confusion. 

You hang up the phone.

You remember her hand curled around her stomach. You had known then. 

You cry on the bathroom floor. 

It is unbearable. This woman is not Natasha, not really, not exactly.

But, you can feel the same tugging pull in your chest. You are falling in love with her. 

You pray in your empty apartment that Natasha does not feel this alone. 

Sometimes, you feel an itch on your skin. That Natasha’s terrified reaction might be justified.

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror. You try to see the darkness in your own eyes. You wonder what you are capable of. 

You cannot imagine hurting her. The thought is abhorrent.

Apparently, it is not impossible.

Not in every universe. 

—--------------------------------

Yelena calls you at last. 

It is early morning, barely 6am. It doesn’t matter. You don’t remember how to sleep anymore. 

‘The things you did.’ Yelena says hollowly. She sounds exhausted.  ‘The other you.’ She corrects herself.

‘Bad?’ You ask, heart beating rapidly in your chest.

‘I’m glad you’re dead.’ She admits easily. ‘The other you.’ She corrects again. 

‘Fuck. I wish I’d done it.’ Yelena means it. You don't blame her.

She changes the subject and you forget her words.

Natasha is willing to see you. 

Your heart squeezes at the thought. 

There are conditions. 

‘Anything.’ You promise, holding the phone too tight.

‘No weapons. No drinking. Come alone.’

After the phone call, Yelena sends you an address and tells you to be there in an hour.

Your phone rings again as you are walking to the apartment. 

It is Clint. He knows where you are going before you have the chance to tell him. He sounds exhausted. 

Your fingers are shaking as you try not to drop the phone. You ask about Natasha.

‘She’s not the same.’ He tells you bluntly, trying to prepare you. 

‘Natasha died.’ You agree nervously. Your heart stamps suddenly at the mention of your wife. Your grief is stronger than ever.

‘But.’

‘But.’ Clint echoes.

You let a tiny stupid piece of hope flare.

You hang up when you arrive at the building.

—----------------------------------

Yelena lets you inside. You take in the tiny apartment as you follow her through it.

Despite two people living here, the place seem sparse.

You notice the gaudy Statue of Liberty magnet on the fridge. 

Yelena shrugs as she walks.

‘I was only renting this place for a job.’ She tells you offhandedly. 

Natasha is sitting on the sofa. When you see her, your breath catches. 

Her hair is longer already, pulled back into a braid. She looks nervous. There are still dark circles under her eyes, but her face is less gaunt. 

Her top is loose. It covers any bump.

You wouldn’t know, not if you didn’t already.

‘Hi.’ Natasha murmurs. You catch a glimpse of how scared she is. She is covering it as much as she can. Her eyes track your movement warily.

You sit on the dining chair that has been haphazardly placed opposite the sofa. You are sure the distance set between you is intentional. 

Yelena is behind you, pretending to be busy in the kitchen. You can feel her eyes on you. 

‘Hi.’ You answer hoarsely. There is a long pause. You rub your wedding ring absentmindedly, stopping when Natasha’s focus shifts to it.

‘You look familiar.’ Natasha comments dryly. 

You give a surprised huff of laughter.

‘So do you.’ You retort.

Tears well in your eyes suddenly and you stare down at your lap in embarrassment. Your wife is dead. The truth replays in your head.

Natasha is silent as she waits for you to collect yourself. 

You play with your fingers as you try to calm your breaths. You miss your wife unbearably. She lingers around the edges of your mind. 

When you finally look up again, Natasha’s expression is full of surprise. She looks thrown by you, almost unnerved. 

You hate how low her expectations of you must be. You hate that they’re justified. 

You take a deep breath.

‘Are you okay?’ You feel the words fall out of your mouth. 

Natasha blinks once. You recognise the tell. She is taken aback by your first question.

‘Yes.’ She says after a moment. ‘Are you?’

You nod, not speaking aloud because it is a lie. 

Natasha’s face glimmers with recognition. She knows it is a lie too. 

‘Congratulations.’ You force out then, hoping it sounds genuine. 

You shouldn't have worried. It is the truth and Natasha can tell that too.

‘Thank you.’ She murmurs, taking the moment to rest her hand at her stomach. With her touch against it, you can see how rounded her belly is. 

The reality sets in further.

You stare too long and Natasha shifts uncomfortably. You straighten up in embarrassment.

Longing and grief feel confused inside you. Your wife is not pregnant. Your wife is dead.

Yelena walks over with two glasses of water.

Natasha accepts one gratefully. You catch a brief glimpse at Yelena’s protectiveness when they lock eyes. 

Again, a strange jealousy rises up inside you. Natasha once trusted you entirely. It feels childishly unfair to be on the outside now.

Their gazes grow more guarded as they both look back at you, Yelena sits at Natasha’s side. 

You stretch forward for the second glass of water on the coffee table.

Natasha rears back instinctively, scrambling away from you. Yelena moves forward, knife in hand. 

You put your hands in the air and stay still. 

Yelena pockets the knife and gives you an apologetic look. You don't need it. You are glad that she is so ready to defend Natasha. 

Natasha’s chin is pressed against her chest as she stares firmly downward at the floor. The renewed act of submission makes you feel unwell. There are goosebumps on her skin and you can see her body trembling. 

A minute goes by. You watch her flit in and out of presentness. Yelena rubs the back of her hand slowly, trying to draw her back.

This woman has been abused.

You accept reality for the first time.

You feel the familiar tug at your heart. You love your wife. You will always love your wife.

You wonder if you really do love this Natasha too.

.

‘When we got married. You told me you had a crush on James Bond.’ You say randomly. 

Natasha’s eyes snap up to yours. Yelena snorts to herself. 

‘You can quote all the movies.’ You keep speaking as Natasha watches you unsurely. ‘And sometimes you copycat his actions too.’

You make a finger gun and fire it in your lap to demonstrate. You fight a sudden sob.

‘At the wedding reception.’ You continue. ‘You went up to the bartender and asked for a martini, shaken not stirred.’

Your words trail off into an awkward silence. 

‘I’ve never told anyone about those movies.’ Natasha tells you quietly ‘You are not who I married.’ 

‘I think that you are who I married.’ You whisper in hoarse confession. ‘I think you have the same heart.’ 

Your throat is dry, but you don’t dare reach for the water again. 

‘Have you spoken to Dr. Strange?’ You ask instead. ‘Is there a way back for you?’ 

Natasha shakes her head. 

‘The weak points between universes are gone now.’ She explains.

‘I’m sorry.’ You murmur. 

Natasha shrugs. ‘I met my sister again.’ She says simply.

You watch the smallest smile build on her face. It stings with familiarity. 

Loving her is inevitable. You watch brightness sparkle in her eyes.

‘Have you seen Melina and Alexei yet?’ You wonder.

Natasha nods. Her expression becomes more guarded immediately. She doesn't elaborate.

‘It was complicated.’ Yelena supplies carefully on her sister's behalf. ‘They remember a different Natasha.’ 

You watch Yelena for a moment.

There is a tautness to her muscles, as if she is on edge.

It takes you a moment to realise. 

‘There’s something you want to ask me.’ You guess carefully, looking between the two of them. 

Natasha stiffens at your prompt. Her expression clouds with renewed wariness. 

Her hand tightens around her swollen belly. With a sinking feeling, you predict the topic of conversation. 

‘The father.’ She begins hesitantly. ‘In my world, there was a man called the White Wolf.’

You feel like you are falling in slow motion. Natasha stays steady, but nothing else does. You try not to let it show. 

‘The Winter Soldier.’ You reply, watching the name register to her as familiar. 

‘Yes.’ Natasha tells you with unexpected eagerness. 

You nod numbly. 

‘Bucky lives a block away.’ Your voice sounds strangled. ‘Sam knows the address too.’

Natasha grips Yelena’s hand wordlessly. 

You feel your heart breaking. 

You realise now that you are just a stepping stone. There will be no reconciliation.

You were only invited to answer that question.

------------

Natasha’s eyes refocus on you. You are sure she can read the anguish in your expression.

‘Bucky killed you.’ She tells you. Her words are low, level and you know they’re a threat. 

A coldness enters your veins.

‘Good.’ You mutter tiredly, covering your face with your hands. You feel filthy in your bones  ‘Maybe he’ll do it twice.’

-----------------------

Next up is @alwaysmarveling for Part 4!

--------------------------

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“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” She asks innocently enough through the wicked, upwards slanting of her lips.

Those lips.

“Like you’re trying to figure me out.”

“There is no try,” she quips, a perfect impression of Yoda that makes your own lips twitch up into a smile despite yourself. She slips back into her normal voice easily, low octaves that whisper things to make you blush in your dreams, and says, “You’re pretty easy to figure out.”

“Oh? You’re just that good, huh?”

“Have you ever considered that you’re an open book, printsessa?”

She beams, a white smile that splits across pink lips, as you scowl at her chosen endearment. “You wear your heart on your sleeve,” Natasha teases, but there’s a subtle softness to her gaze. “It’s not a bad thing.”

“Yeah,” you huff out in annoyance, rubbing at the sleep-carved lines in your cheek, “because it makes it easier for you to read my every thought, right?”

Green eyes, always framed by those long, dark lashes, flit to the warm spot on your cheek that had been pressed into the throw pillow just moments before. “Something like that,” she smiles. “You rest well?”

If only she knew.

“Yeah.” Shrugging the blanket from around your shoulders, you stretch away the remnants of sleep—remnants of tousled, auburn hair pushed aside to reveal the column of her neck, a sweet perfume at her pulse point, her heartbeat skipping beneath your lips— “Until you came in here and woke me up.”

“Sorry,” she apologizes sweetly, leaning against the doorframe. You suppose there were far worse things to wake to than Natasha Romanoff flickering on the dramatic, overhead lights of the compound’s living area. “Man in charge needs us upstairs.”

“So he sends the woman in charge to wake me?”

She smiles in a different way at that, eyes studying the rug at her feet. It’s sweet to see her like this—a bit flustered, just the most subtle dusting of pink at the apples of her cheek. There’s no espresso in the world that could fuel you like the thought that you’ve been the one to make her feel this way.

“I was the right woman for the job,” she shrugs, the smile never diminishing in its wattage on her face as you rise to meet her. “Steve knows I’m the only one equipped to deal with you first thing in the morning.”

You feign offense, catching sight of your ruffled appearance in the reflection from the windows that line the long, sterile white hallway of the compound. “I’m not that grouchy.”

“You are definitely that grouchy.”

The elevator dings as the steel doors slide open, Natasha stepping inside and you following at her heels. “What does he want, anyway?” You rub at your eyes with a larger frown than you’d intended, feeling Natasha’s smirk in your direction.

“See? Grouchy,” she teases, knocking her shoulder against yours playfully. “Think he’s got an assignment for us.”

You perk up at that. “Assignment?  He tell you anything else?”

“Not much,” she admits, though there’s a gleam of something bright in her eyes, “but I might have overheard him mention something about Havana.”

“Havana…?” You repeat, a slow-growing smile at your lips. “You sure you heard ‘assignment’ and not ‘vacation’?”

“Pretty sure,” Natasha answers just as the doors slide open on the upper level to reveal a towering figure on the other side.

“Definitely not a vacation.” He unfolds his arms from across his broad chest to hand you a manila folder. “The two of you are bringing in Ikanov.”

Ikanov. You feel Natasha’s eyes sweeping across your side profile suddenly, studying your reaction. Schooling your face, you force out a laugh, following Steve’s retreat to the conference room. “And we think he’s in Havana? Doing what, smoking cigars and learning to salsa?”

“Don’t think Ikanov’s much for dancing,” Steve deadpans, pressing several keys on his laptop to pull up three-dimensional, holographic images and figures at the center of the conference table.

The familiar, lasered image of the man’s face, made transparent in light green, dances in Natasha’s pupils. “Torture, psychological warfare, selling state secrets… those are much more his thing.”

“And opium,” you add, narrowing your eyes at the man’s likeness. “Ikanov got his start on his father’s poppy fields.

“Really makes you wonder,” Steve begins, a hand at his hip, “how a guy like Grigoriy Ikanov manages to be spotted by two junior S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives on vacation.”

“At least someone’s going on vacation,” you grumble under your breath.

Steve ignores you, looking at Natasha pointedly. She hardly blinks as she says, “He doesn’t.”

You know what they’re implying because you’d already suspected as much yourself.

“He’s hoping we come for him.” The green, translucent angle of his jaw almost seems to sharpen menacingly from the conference table. You square your own mandible, correcting yourself. “Hoping I come for him.”

Steve’s eyes fix on you, bright blue in their confirmation. It’s a subtle gesture, but you don’t miss it. Neither does Natasha.

“She’s not bait on a hook, Steve.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “she’s a member of this team—only member of this team that Ikanov will negotiate with—and it’s her choice whether or not she wants to be on that jet to Havana.”

“Thought we didn’t negotiate.”

“We don’t. But we have to draw him out. Get him to show his face.”

She runs a hand through the auburn strands of hair that fall around her temple. “I don’t like this.”

By all accounts, you’re not a fan of this plan either, but instead of voicing that trepidation, you find yourself saying, “I can bring him in.”

Steve nods almost imperceptibly, and Natasha’s head swivels on her neck so quickly in your direction that you wonder if she might have whiplash.

“You don’t have to do this,” she tells you, a serious glint in her eyes. It matches the intonation of her voice.

“I do. I want to do this. It’s been… a long time coming. I need to see this through.”

There’s a flash—just a flash, a millisecond of measured surprise—across her face, and then she reigns in her features and nods.

“Okay,” is all she says. It’s all she needs to say. The emerald green revere in her eyes tells you the rest.

Steve seems to study the look shared between the two of you before rising to his feet. “We all good here?”

You tear your eyes away from Natasha’s before answering. “We’re good.”

“Good.” He types something into his phone before tucking it away into his pocket. Natasha’s phone buzzes on the table. Coordinates. “Wheels up in forty.”

“Doesn’t leave much time to pack.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he admits, the hint of a smile subduing the serious set of his jaw. “Pack light. Tony wants everyone back by Tuesday night.”

Another shared look. “What’s Tuesday night?”

“Secretary of State’s coming to tour the facilities.” He gestures to the modern, spacious building surrounding you. “Along with several members of the press.”

“Want to see where the Avenger’s lay their heads?”

Steve’s mouth twitches.

“Something like that.”

Just enough light filters in through the holes in the ceiling to reveal dust-covered furniture, faded audacious patterns of orange and green from an era long-gone. Relics of a time when the hotel lobby had been bustling with tourists and travelers, a revolving door of people and their luggage and chatter in tow.

The rusted metallic bell at the desk looks like it hasn’t been rung in decades. At your side, your finger itches to push it down and hear it ring.

You long for a noise, any noise, that isn’t your heart beating wildly in your chest.

Natasha’s voice crackles over the device in your ear, the answer to the unspoken request. “Anything in the lobby?”

“No,” you shake your head. Force of habit. “Just a lot of dust. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a while.”

Doesn’t look like Ikanov’s been here, you correct yourself.

“Stairwell was pretty spooky. Got a few more rooms to clear here. Want to meet me on the third floor?”

A faded, framed map of the building catches your eye on the wall opposite the front desk. Your finger traces a path just down the hall and to the left.

“Want to check out the spa first.”

“Oh, a spa.” There’s no doubt that she’s wearing a playful smile on plump, pursed lips somewhere above you. “Fancy.”

“Maybe fifty years ago.”

The carpet cushions the tread of your boots as you trek down the hallway. You try to smooth down the goosebumps that have risen on your forearms as you focus on Natasha’s voice in your ear. “Think we could convince Tony to put a spa in the compound?”

The laugh that rolls off your tongue is easy, if not strained by the eerie scene ahead. Wallpaper peels off the wall in places, like a mask that’s been pulled off a face. Formerly golden picture frames tilt off-balance. Smiling faces peer behind glass in the darkness. How many ghosts of them are watching you march through their tomb?

“I don’t know about we,” you tell her, “but I think you could convince him.”

There’s a genuine curiosity in her voice when she asks, “Why’s that?”

The hallway opens up to your left, a wooden door just ahead. There’s signage, in Spanish, letting you know that you’ve reached the abandoned spa.

“I don’t know.” You fight the urge to shrug, squaring your shoulders instead. The knob is cold against your fingertips. “You’re good at getting what you want.”

She’s silent as you push your way into the room.

To your surprise, you’re met with foliage-veiled natural light. The ceiling is glass—broken and shattered in a few places, but preserved remarkably well over all—and reminiscent of a greenhouse. Vines cover parts of the wall, snaking across the floor. Chaises are covered in fallen leaves along what used to be the poolside. The pool, dark and murky, sits half-filled in the center of the room.

The humidity is thick.

Condensation covers the floor-to-ceiling windows, reducing the overgrowth outside to nothing more than dark green shapes. The sense of eeriness dissipates the longer you take in the sight of the abandoned bathhouse, its softly lit corners an unthreatening contrast to the hallway just beyond the door.

“Nat,” you call almost in awe into your ear device. “You’ve gotta see this spa. It’s like something straight out of Jurassic Park… like Jurassic Park after it’s been abandoned for fifty years.”

You’re relieved to hear the familiar twinge of teasing in her voice when she answers. “And you’ve checked for any dinosaurs?”

“Lucky for us, the last two dinosaurs known to roam the earth are back at the compound.”

She laughs into the receiver, and you’re glad she can’t see the wide smile that breaks across your face at the sound. It’s rare noise, Natasha Romanoff’s real laugh, and it’s among one you’d draw from her lips every day if you could.

“That was a good one. Should tell it to Sam when we get back.”

A subtle yellow blinking catches your attention from across the room—fireflies. “Think it’s one of those ‘had to be there’ things.” Careful to avoid puddles of brown stagnant water that’ve filled holes in broken tiles, you dance along the edges of the pool. “Might not land the same.”

“Mhm,” she responds, and you can hear the kicking in of a door somewhere upstairs. “Guess it works better staying between the two of us.”

The fireflies flicker again, just feet away from you. Between the two of us. Natasha had told you once, when it had been just the two of you, about how she’d catch fireflies just to release them as a child. She had smiled, her eyes looking somewhere beyond your head.

She rarely smiled when she talked about the past.

Cupping your hands, you reach out slowly as not to spook it and capture the blinking bug. A soft glow emits from the cracks between your fingers.

“Nat, you won’t believe—”

A pair of hands around your throat suffocate the words in your mouth.

Your own hands fly to your neck, fingernails clawing for a release. Their painted edges are futile against leather gloves. The firefly flutters past your face, higher and higher towards the glass ceiling. Towards where Nat searches the floors somewhere above you.

Between thrashing and the kicking of your feet, you hear her calling your name.

With every blow you deliver to your attacker’s head, with every crack of your boot against their knees, with every unanswered call, her voice grows more panicked. When was the last time you heard Nat panic?

In the darkness that begins to cloud your vision, the tail of the firefly winks at you, bidding you goodnight.

The throbbing between your eyes wakes you, a groan falling from your lips as you blink against the light of day.

It’s not until you attempt to shut out the light with a hand against your eyes that you fully come to wake. Your wrists, heavy with the weight of metal chains, are pinned behind your back. The bed you lie atop is not your own.

A throat clears from the corner of the room, and when you lift your head towards the source, your heart comes to an abrupt stop in your chest.

“Ah,” he says, closing the open book in his lap. “You are awake. Good morning, daughter.”

If your heart resumes its work inside your ribcage, it’s because it’s been shocked into motion by rage. Decades of pent-up rage. Sharp, whittled rage that had not had a target until now.

“I’m not your daughter,” you spit.

His face reveals nothing. “Forgive me. Even after so many years, I forget you are now the child of Nicholas Fury.”

A disgusted laugh escapes you. “I’m no one’s child. You made sure of that.”

“You forget who has raised you.”

“No.” The chains rattle with the violent shaking of your head. “No, never. How could I forget who raised me? What you raised me to be?”

He crosses the room in seconds. The decades have not made him any less deadly.

When his fist connects with your cheek, you bite back a yelp. The taste of blood on your tongue does little to remind you that you are no longer a child in your father’s—in Ikanov’s—home.

His hands are cold as they squeeze your neck.

“I raised you,” he relaxes his fingers, “to run the Ferma beside me. To be an equal. My equal. And you threw it away, ran away from home like a scared little child, and for what? That eyesore Tony Stark builds in New York?”

“The farm is no home,” you croak, skin burning with indignation. Home is auburn. It’s strawberry fields and shared looks and a soft touch.  “It will never be home again.”

“Yes.” The only sign of his anger is the violence; nothing has changed. “You made sure of that, didn’t you, daughter? Now, I will make sure you have no place to call home.”

Not even his brows furrow with the effort of choking the consciousness from you.

The light above your head blinks.

It reminds you of the firefly, of Natasha and the way she would seem to lose herself in recalling how it felt to have the power to trap the luminescent little bugs between her fingers and then make the decision to let them go.

“You need a new bulb.”

Your first language feels foreign on your tongue. Decades of disuse had dulled the sharp edges of the syllables, made clumsy your consonants. Years of only the best private schools and tutors, and you hardly spoke the language anymore.

Years ago, Natasha had hidden a smile behind her scarf in Belarus when first hearing you speak your mother tongue.

“What?” you had snipped at her, embarrassed to use the language in front of another native speaker.

“Nothing,” she had said, neutralizing her face in an instant. It bothered you, then, that you could still read a repressed amusement in her eyes. Later, at the safe house, she had sat next to you on the sofa after watching you read with some interest.

“You talk like a diplomat.”

Looking up from your book, you had fixed her with an incredulous stare. Did she truly not know who you were?

“Or the daughter of an Ikanov?”

She was impossible to read. Or at least, she had been then. Maybe she still was. It seemed you were only ever able to decipher the story in her features when Natasha was being a willing narrator.

“A daughter of a king,” she had said in Russian, all quick vowels on a rushed tongue.

“A kingpin is not a king,” you had replied, the harshness of your tone still not hastening the more refined, drawn out syllables of the accent.

She had smirked. The lipstick from the day had long been wiped away, but the color still stained her lips. The red had remained in the creases of the skin. The way her lips had drawn up into her smile, the way it had set your skin aflame, had infuriated you.

“But still,” she’d gestured to you, perfectly postured against the high back of the couch, “a printsessa.”

And even after the contempt for Natasha’s lips had faded into something more like longing, the epithet had remained.

It followed you as your upbringing had, as unshakable as the hand you held your gun in, aiming the way Grigoriy had taught you. Back straight, both eyes open. Steady on inhale, finger the trigger on exhale.

“I am sorry for the disappointment,” he said from the lone chair in the corner of the room. “The business is not so prosperous. Not much money to be made when there is no land to grow the product, yes? This estate is the best father can manage.”

“It’s cozy.”

“Quaint.”

“Would be cozier if you’d remove my restraints.”

“Do not be so petulant,” he chides. “I did not raise you to complain. This is the American way of life rubbing off on you.”

“I’ve been chained to a bed for three days.”

He ignores you. “I should have never let you study there. That is when you turned against me.”

“Columbia had nothing to do with me running away. That was all you.”

“I save you from the orphanage. You want for nothing—the best schools, the best clothes, the best trainings. You had a pony, devochka.”

“You put me in the orphanage,” you spit. “Forgive me for being ungrateful that you saved me from it.”

“You are not angry with me, girl. You are angry with them—a mother and a father who valued the drug more than their child.”

The thin band of patience—the one you had always been taught to stretch from ear-to-ear around your father, to save face and tie down your pain—snaps at the mention of your parents.

“I am nothing but angry with you,” you seethe. “You have imprisoned me my entire life. I am not your daughter—I am your prisoner, and you have taken me from the only family—”

“You are my daughter!” He yells, and you still. Never have you heard Grigoriy Ikanov raise his voice. He did not react, not even when taking a life, and certainly not when speaking to you. Every inch of your body chills as if your blood has been replaced with the ice in his eyes. “And you will return home with me!”

There is a threat in his promise that sends your head swimming.

Not another word falls from your lips. You are the obedient daughter, the quiet child who speaks Russian in drawn out syllables and low vowels, once more. A born-diplomat.

When you fall asleep, your wrists sore at your back, you dream of hair as red as the poppy fields that you burn.

When you wake, it’s not to the sound of pages of a novel turning.

For the first time in days, Ikanov’s face is not the first thing you see when lifting your head. Instead, you are greeted by an empty armchair and the sound of helicopter blades overhead.

The curtains at the window are drawn, blocking your view of whatever is happening outside. You’re not even certain of what exists outside of these four walls and the sole exit-free bathroom you’ve been confined to over the last four days.

Perhaps he was moving you, somewhere far away from Havana. Somewhere they’d never find you. Home, he’d said. You will return home.

Truthfully, for all you know, Havana could already be hundreds of miles away. Natasha and the others could be hundreds of miles away.

With the threat that’d been leveled, maybe that was for the better.

The helicopter seems to fly closer. Somewhere in the distance, maybe twenty or thirty feet to the west, there’s the squealing of tires. Heavy—armored?—doors slam shut. Subdued shouting, like orders being given, cut through the air.

Something was happening just beyond those curtains, and whatever it was, you were chained to endure it. A prisoner to a fate you’d spent the better half of your life trying to escape.

A door beyond your four-walled cell creaks open. The open sores at your wrists scream in response.

“Hello?”

Your heart stutters in your chest.

“Do you think she’s here?”

“Rostova wasn’t lying.”

Your voice—once all carefully drawn out, proper sounds—is rough and clumsy when you call out for her. “Natasha?”

Silent footsteps give way into a hurried pace, the door swinging open on its hinges to reveal two familiar faces at the threshold. They both wear new worry lines just above their brows. The newest wrinkle on Sam’s forehead matches the placement of an open cut on your face.

Natasha kneels at your bedside, and you’re nearly intoxicated by the smell of her shampoo. Strawberries.

“Sam,” she calls out, voice even despite the urgency that rounds out her eyes. “Chains.”

When the metal clamps around your wrists are freed, falling to the ground with a heavy clink, you don’t move. “Natasha?” you call again, uncertain if this is yet another dream.

She helps you up, mindful of the stiffness in your arms. You notice how she lingers on the bleeding, raw skin of your wrists before meeting your eyes again.

“Hey,” she greets you, voice soft. Soft like when she talks about Ohio.

She doesn’t look past your head.

“How did you—?” You blink, looking from concerned green eyes to concerned brown eyes. “Where’s Ikanov?”

“In custody. At the embassy with Steve,” she says, ghost of a smile on her lips. You’ve never wished so badly to be haunted. “Whose Russian actually sounds a lot like yours.”

You might laugh if your mind wasn’t racing.

“Rostova?” you ask suddenly, remembering the name she’d spoken earlier. “Oksana Rostova?”

Sam nods, looking between the two of you. “You know her?”

“My father—Ikanov,” you correct, “did dealings with her. Years ago. Before she was elected to the Assembly.”

“Not a member of the Assembly anymore,” Sam explains. “Got a cushy gig at the State Department.”

In response to your eyes widening, Sam adds, “401k, pension, and access to the Avengers’ compound.”

I will make sure you have no place to call home.

Your breath catches in your throat. “What happened?”

Natasha’s hand is reassuring atop your own, her thumb careful to avoid the tender skin below your palm.

“Not much. Rostova folded last night. Told Ross everything.” When you raise a surprised brow, she explains, “Guess Ikanov doesn’t have the capital to purchase loyalty these days.”

You nod slowly, taking the information in. “He said he wanted me to come home.”

Green eyes roam your face for a moment. You can’t read them.

“I know,” she says finally. Gently, she pulls your arm over her shoulder, helping you to your feet. Sam comes to support your other side. “Let’s get you home, okay?”

Home. New York. The room down the hall from Natasha’s.

“Okay.”

You allow them to lead you out of the room, the ceiling light winking all the while.

“Go on,” you tell her, catching her eye from the other end of the couch as you set your book aside.

Natasha had been watching you scan each worn page, an amused gleam alighting her eyes.

She hadn’t left you alone in the week that you’d been home. The first two nights after you’d been cleared by medical, she’d stood in your doorway, watching with that guarded look on her face as you’d struggled to apply fresh gauze to the wound across your cheek

Finally, she’d dropped the veil. “Here, let me,” she had said, a softness muting the emerald of her eyes to a jade green. She was silent as she tore a strip, placing it gently over the angry, swollen skin.

“Thank you. I couldn’t get it to stick.”

She’d smiled, smoothing over the material with the flat of her thumb. “Well, you’re used to having servants to do that sort of thing. It’s the least I could do.”

She was so close that you could see every healed-over scar that dimpled and dotted her face. It took all you had to resist from leaning forward, closing the gap, and kissing all that teasing straight from her tongue.

“Shut up,” you’d said instead.

Natasha had shown up at your door every night after that to apply fresh gauze and bandages.

Every day, she’d find you in the common area curled up with a book. She rarely asked questions, and she always had reading material of her own with her—an ever-changing rotation of manila files.

She was subtle. Her eyes would wander in your direction infrequently, an unspoken spark of pleasure in them as they’d pass you over. But you knew her well enough to know that if Natasha Romanoff didn’t want you to know she was watching you, you’d never feel her gaze upon you.

Subtle was her intention.

“Go ahead.” You let your blanket fall loosely around your shoulders, turning to face her. “I know you’ve been dying to say it.”

She blinks almost innocently at you. “Say what?”

“Something about the way I’m sitting.”

Her face changes in an instant. Truthfully, it’s a fascinating thing to watch. Natasha wore expressions like masks, picking and choosing what to display at a moment’s notice. It was rare that she decided to wear no face covering at all.

Your heart jumpstarts at the sight of her, features relaxed. Unguarded. Vulnerable, a subtle shade of pink tinting her cheeks.

She’s beautiful. She’s always beautiful, but like this, she’s beautiful in the way that makes your heart ache.

“I’m just amazed,” she says, and you don’t miss the note of sincerity in her tone. “You spent a week lying down chained to a bed and come home to sit on the couch like the Queen of England. Really, it’s amazing.”

“It’s not my fault that you slouch.”

She sits up a bit straighter. “I don’t slouch.”

“You do,” you grin. “But I don’t fault you for it.”

“Thanks for that.” She relaxes again, moving in a bit closer. “Really kind of you, considering I didn’t exactly have a posture tutor growing up.”

“An etiquette tutor,” you correct her.

A soft smile graces her lips as she examines the throw pillow that divides you. The silence is comfortable.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she begins slowly, studying you beneath dark lashes, “if you wanted me to quit with the whole ‘printsessa’ thing. Is it too much?”

It surprises you how quickly you answer. “No–no, it’s not too much.”

“Are you sure?”

You nod, fingers fiddling with the frayed ends of the blanket. “You know, I used to hate it when you called me that.”

“I know.”

The green of her eyes gleam as you laugh. “But now, I kind of like it.”

“What changed?”

I fell in love with you, you want to say. “It started to feel less like an insult,” you explain instead.

“It never was.”

You arch an eyebrow in her direction.

“I knew you were Ikanov’s daughter,” she admits, “in Belarus. I’ve known since Fury signed the papers on your orders.”

“Oh.”

“And I knew what that meant. Who you could be. Being raised by a man like that, no one would’ve been surprised if you’d turned out to be a monster. I wanted to see for myself.”

“And what did you see?”

“That you’re everything and nothing like I thought you’d be. Proper and poised. Your Russian is perfect if not formal—a sign of good tutors and an expensive education. Capable, raised to operate a multi-billion dollar drug enterprise before you’d learned to ride a bike. Surprisingly unguarded and easy to read. A sense of humor. Deeply loyal.”

“You got all of that from three days in Belarus?”

The corner of her mouth slides upwards. “Like I said: easy to read.”

When you return the smile, her eyes flicker to your lips for a moment. There’s something in them, when they finally meet your gaze again, that you can’t quite place. There’s a new shade of green in her irises.

“I can never tell what you’re thinking.”

“I could tell you, if it helps.”

She leans forward, and it’s so subtle you almost don’t notice it. But nothing is truly subtle with Natasha.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” she begins, her voice an octave deeper. Somehow, it’s even sweeter than the voice she whispers in your dreams. “That I’ve wanted to kiss you since Belarus, and it’d be a real shame to not follow through now.”

“That would be a shame.”

They’re a catalyst, those words.

Natasha leans forward, and you meet her in the middle. Her lips are soft and warm against yours, her hands gentle in cupping the sides of your face. The pad of her thumb runs a line along the gauze she placed across your cheek last night.

Soft, auburn hair weaves between your fingers.

When she pulls away and your eyes flutter open, you realize that in your dreams, you’d never imagined the aftermath of this moment.

Natasha Romanoff has never looked so beautiful. Green eyes are half-lidded, irises brimming with unadulterated affection. Her lips, slightly swollen and red, are drawn back to reveal a smile—her smile. She wears no mask.

It is as if she’s cupped her hands around your face and, in capturing you between her fingers, has set herself free.

"Come on sweetheart, Morgans waiting for you."

You were too wasted to fight back against a tug of your collar before you were dragged from the barstool you occupied and thrown in the back of a car.

Of course, on the ride to wherever this stranger was taking you, you fell asleep, drooling all over the leather seat you were tossed onto.

->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->

"Is she going to be okay, Mama?" A little voice raises you the slightest bit from sleep.

"She'll be fine honey. Please go wake her up for breakfast, she'll be hungry." You tried your best to ignore the voices disturbing your slumber.

Suddenly a soft, warm, hand touched your face. The hand was gently caressing your cheek. 

'Nat?' She was the first thing your mind could think of. The only thing your mind ever thought of.

Suddenly opening your eyes, trying to get up and see the beautiful redhead for yourself had caused you to fall off the couch you were snoozing on before.

Groaning at the pain of the hard floor you looked up to see who it was who touched your face.

A small girl with brown hair, brown eyes and an uneven smile. . . Just like her father.

It was little Morgan Stark, of course.

Your face hit the floor once again with a loud groan. You could now feel the pounding of your head.

"Come on! Mom said breakfast is ready!" The little girl ran off to join her mother while you stayed on the floor for a couple of minutes, adjusting your mind to the new present world once again.

'Of course it wasn't her. Why would it be? Fucking idiot.' You thought as you got up off the floor with a sigh.

Walking into the dining room, you eventually sat at the head of the table resting your head on your hand, trying your best to block out any light that might make your hangover worse.

The blonde you knew as Pepper Potts. . . Stark. Pepper Stark, walked over with the containers full of her hot and ready breakfast.

Morgan, of course, placed most of the food her mother placed on the table on her plate. The girl was already shoving pancakes into her mouth while her mother laughed and sat down.

"He used to always choose that seat." Pepper interrupted the silence upon the three of you.

You looked down. 

Shit.

This was Tony's old chair.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't realize-"

"No, no. It's nice to see someone finally sit in it after all this time." Pepper smiled with a bitter sweet look.

Silence took over once again. The only sound being of Morgan and Peppers cutlery and your occasional groan.

"Are you going to eat, sweetheart?" The sweet blonde asked as she motioned to your empty plate.

"Oh- I'm not much of a breakfast person-" 

"Nonsense, at least eat some bacon. Everyone likes bacon."

You'd humor her. She was a mourning widow after all, not to mention she had most likely been the one to pick your drunken state up from the bar last night.

Placing the last pieces of bacon on your plate, you slowly nibbled on them. Letting Pepper send you a grateful smile.

"We haven't had a lot of guests since. . . Ahem. Morgan's been pretty lonely so I'm sure she's glad you're here, aren't you honey?" Pepper turned towards Morgan just as the girl swallowed.

"Yeah! I could show you my Avengers figures! I even have you and Auntie Nat!"

Your breath hitched at her name. 

"That's great honey, but I don't think I should stay. Your mom's already done enough for me. I wouldn't wanna cause more trouble." You tried to let Morgan down easily, you couldn't stay. You didn't want to cry in front of either of them but if you saw the figure you sure as hell would.

"Y/n, please stay. We could use the company." Peppers' eyes almost looked as if they were pleading you to stay.

Once again, you decided to humor her.

"Fine, fine. But only the night." But as soon as you agreed Morgan was dragging you up to her room.

->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->

"That's you, and this is my Black Widow figure!" Morgan picked up the figure that was in a black bodysuit and had red hair and handed it to you.

"It's a spitting image of her." You replied trying to will the tears away. You refused to cry in front of this child.

"You can have it." Morgan said while smiling happily.

"What? Morgan, I could never-" She interrupted you.

"I know how much you miss her, Auntie Y/n. You miss her like I miss daddy." You couldn't stop the tears from flowing as you kneeled down next to the four year old.

"I'm sorry about your dad Morgan."

"It's not your fault, Auntie Y/n. It was his choice. Mommy says he can finally rest now." Morgan smiles a bit. 

You could tell she wasn't old enough to fully understand death but you knew she knew he wasn't coming back.

"You're too smart for your own good, little one."

"Morgan! The bus is here!"

"Coming Mom!"

Morgan ran down stairs to greet her mother while you followed her. Black Widow figure in hand.

"Goodbye Auntie Y/n! See ya after school!!"

"See ya, squirt."

->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->->

It had been about an hour after Morgan left for school. You and Pepper were sat watching TV while you were still holding the Black Widow figure.

"What did she give you?" Pepper asked with a knowing smile.

You uncovered the figure showing it to her. Although, you wouldn't let the blonde take it from you as it was the only thing connecting you to your missing love right now.

"You miss her more than people think you do." Pepper stated while you just nodded.

"The whole world has just seemed to move on. Now that everyones back it feels like no one cares for their sacrifice. Like everyone gets to live their lives, but me." 

"I know the feeling." Pepper hummed. "It's the worst at night. In the morning I have work and Morgan to distract me but at night, everythings quiet. Almost as if the silence is taunting me."

"I've never heard truer words." you spoke.

"Why don't you stay with us for awhile?" 

"What?" You were confused.

"I mean you don't have to, but we would enjoy it if you stayed with us. We could use the company and I could use the help with Morgan.

"You sure? I don't want to intrude." 

"Would I be asking you if you would be intruding?"

Of course you felt unsure, but maybe you could use the time away. Plus you're pretty sure if you need to visit the apartment, Pepper wouldn't mind.

"I don't want to leave our apartment behind." You stated, tears making their way back to your eyes.

Pepper seemed to understand what you really meant.

You didn't want to leave Natasha behind.

"You're not leaving her behind if you leave the apartment for a few weeks. You can even bring some of her belongings here if you'd like." Pepper put her hand on top of your shoulder, attempting to comfort you.

You looked down at the figure in your hand. You felt like the damn toy was staring right into your soul, just like she always did.

"Yeah, it might be good to get away for a while." You nodded.