lupita

“Hey… Can I have a friend over tonight please?”

Bucky fixes you with a hard look “Which one? ‘cos I’m not falling for that again.”

You roll your eyes and sigh “You’re so dramatic. It’s not Harvey again, okay? It’s Cassie.”

Ah, Cassie Lang. Scott’s daughter. “Okay, fine. She coming round for a movie or something?”

“I was hoping she could maybe sleepover?”

“Yeah, if she wants. Just make sure you actually do some sleeping this time please.”

Bucky’s relieved to find that since you’ve moved to Brooklyn from Washington you haven’t struggled to make friends. You were his daughter, born in a Hydra facility and Bucky had managed to get the two of you out after the events in Washington all those years ago. After a couple of years on the run the government had eventually caught up. You’d lived peacefully in Wakanda until the Thanos snap. Bucky had blipped and you hadn’t – he still feels guilty for missing those five years with you. Bucky knows that Steve took good care of you while he was gone but he’d already missed so much. Now he’s determined not to miss anything else.

Because of that he’s pretty protective of you.  When you’d first asked to bring a friend over, he’d readily agreed, pleased you weren’t a social pariah like he often felt he was. His happiness had been short lived when you’d brought around a boy named Harvey. He’d embarrassed you greatly, insisting you kept your bedroom door open the entire time, and constantly popping into your room with snacks or to ‘check on things’. Harvey had left early, intimidated by your Dad.

“We weren’t even doing anything!” You’d snapped. “We were just playing ‘The Last of Us’, why did you have to be so weird about it?”

“You should’ve said you were bringing a boy.”

“What difference does it make? I said a friend and you said yes. Harvey is my friend.”

“Oh really? You’re sure he’s not something more?”

“For God’s sake Dad, it’s not the 1940’s anymore. Boys and girls can just be friends.” You’d folded your arms. “You know, I have some friends who are non-binary.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means they don’t identify as a girl or a boy and use they/them pronouns. Am I allowed to invite them round?”

Bucky had huffed “Bring who you like but not that boy again. I can’t cope with this.”

When you’d invited Cassie around Bucky had been relieved. Cassie was clearly a good friend of yours, and she came around most weeks. Bucky liked her, she always made an effort to say hello to him, and she seemed like a nice enough girl even if she could be very political at times. He was pleased that you were inviting her around and that you seemed less fussed about having this Harvey around anymore. Now the only thing Bucky has to worry about is getting some sleep – not that he sleeps great anyway but you and Cassie had kept him up with your constant giggling last time.

“How’s Cassie doing? How’s her Dad?”

“They’re fine. She got into trouble for going to another protest and was grounded for a week, but they seem to have made up.”

Bucky nods, absentmindedly taking another bite of his cereal “You’re close to her, huh?”

You glance at him “What do you mean?”

“I just mean you seem like you’re pretty good friends. You guys meet up a lot.”

You nod, grabbing your schoolbag “Yeah. Yeah, we’re pretty good friends. I gotta go Dad. Cassie’s gonna come home with me from school.”

“I might be back late, I’ll leave money for you both to order a pizza. Have a good day kid.”

Bucky ruffles your hair on your way past, smirking when you glare at him for ‘messing it up’. He loves winding you up like that. It’s just as well you’re having a friend round tonight given Bucky will be out late with Sam, who’s only in town briefly before he’s shipped off somewhere else on his Captain America duties. He won’t have to feel guilty about leaving you to your own devices.  At least you’ll have Cassie for some company. Someone that he can trust.

It’s even later than Bucky predicted by the time he gets home. That Sam Wilson… Always managing to convince him to have a few more drinks. Sam never remembers that Bucky can’t actually get drunk due to the super soldier serum, but he takes great pleasure in watching Sam get drunker and drunker. He even told Bucky he loved him at one point.

Aware that you and Cassie might already be asleep, he carefully opens the front door and shuts it quietly behind him. There’s a giggle from your room and he smiles to himself, rolling his eyes. Should’ve figured that neither of you would be asleep. He remembers his own teenage sleepovers with Steve, the laughing after the lights were out, his Dad coming in to tell them off when they got a bit too rowdy, his sister complaining they’d kept her up all night the next morning. It was an important rite of passage, a teen sleepover.

Still, it’s very late, and Bucky knows it’s his job as your Dad to try and be the responsible one. Tell you and Cassie to at least try and get some sleep, and probably make sure the two of you aren’t indulging in too many sugary snacks. His footsteps are light as he makes his way down the hallway, just instinctively after all these years of having to sneak around on missions.

With one quick swoop Bucky pushes open the door, hoping to make you both jump. He gets the desired effect, but he stands frozen in the doorway, his mind trying to catch up to what he’s just seen.

You and Cassie, arms around each other, faces close together. Kissing. In your bed.

Cassie springs back onto her own sleeping bag which has been spread out on the floor, and you run a hand through your hair, unable to meet Bucky’s gaze. You’d both moved apart with such speed that for a moment Bucky begins to doubt what he’d seen, if only it weren’t for how awkward you two look. His mouth opens and closes a few times, at a loss of what to say. The room is silent for a long time, yours and Cassie’s cheeks flushed as you glance at each other. Eventually Bucky stammers “Probably- Time to get some sleep. You uh… Yeah.”

He backs away from your room, running a stressed hand through his hair. In your bedroom, Cassie looks over at you “Do you think he…?”

You nod, nervously chewing your bottom lip “Yep. He did.”

Slowly she moves to sit next to you on your bed again, her shoulder nudging against yours “Does he know? That you’re…?”

You shake your head “Couldn’t get past the idea of me potentially having something with Harvey. I figured if I told him, he’d just freak out whenever I had anybody round. Like I’m just getting it on with absolutely everybody.”

Cassie nudges your arm again “Well at least he knows now he doesn’t have to worry about an accidental pregnancy.” That earns her a half-hearted snort from you and she kisses your cheek. “Your Dad loves you. He’ll be fine.”

Bucky is not fine. He sits down heavily on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen. It’s not that Bucky is so sheltered he’s unaware of lesbians. They’d existed in the 1940’s and they still exist today. Are you even a lesbian though? You could bi-sexual. How long has this thing with Cassie been going on? How far have the two of you gone?

His thoughts are a mess when you suddenly appear in the doorway, fiddling with the hem of your pyjama top “Hey.”

Bucky glances over, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible “Hey kid.”

Neither of you says anything for a long moment. Bucky looks at the way you stand there, fiddling with your pyjamas and his heart aches at how young you look. You’re not so young anymore though. His little girl became a teenager in the blink of an eye. It comes fast for any parent but for someone like Bucky, who’d already missed so much, he felt like he was constantly playing catch up.

“You uh… You like girls then.”

Bucky figures best to just come out with it. No point beating around the bush. You shift your weight awkwardly across both feet, your voice quiet “Yeah. Yeah, I uh… Yeah.”

Bucky sighs, leaning his head back against the couch “That made me… Pretty uncomfortable kiddo.” You’re not sure if he means the fact you were kissing a girl or whether it was just because he caught you kissing anyone. You stay silent and wait for him to continue. “Cassie, huh? How uh… How long?”

“She asked me to be her girlfriend about a month ago.”

“And how… How much have you guys…”

“Nothing really. That was our first kiss, I swear.” You don’t tell him technically your first kiss with Cassie happened three hours ago. She’d leaned over to wipe pizza sauce off your chin, both of you practically helpless with laughter over something you can’t even remember now and then suddenly her lips had been on yours. It was the best feeling in the world. The rest of the evening had been pretty tame, both of you cuddled up together on the couch watching a movie. Cassie had just been messing around at bedtime, and you’d ended up kissing again. That had felt even nicer… Until your Dad had burst in.

Bucky runs a hand over his face “I don’t… I don’t really know where to go now kid, if I’m being honest.”

“Does it… Bother you? That I’m dating a girl?”

Bucky looks back at the blank TV screen, not wanting to answer you. Because it does bother him. He can’t even put his finger on why, but it bothers him immensely. “Do you think this could just be a phase?”

You look away, blinking hard “I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t think so.” You swallow hard. “You hated Harvey coming around but I never… I never felt anything for Harvey. Or for any boy really. Any crush I’ve had, anyone I’ve thought about… Well they’ve always been a girl.”

Bucky sighs, rubbing his hand over his forehead, not sure what to say now.

Cassie appears behind you, looking nervously at Bucky “Hey Mr Barnes. If you’re feeling a bit awkward, I could head home?”

Bucky immediately shakes his head “No, no, it’s… It’s really late. I won’t have you heading home in the middle of the night. You can stay.” He takes a deep breath. “I mean, what do I do now? Forbid you two from sharing a room together? Stop the sleepovers?”

“Why would you do that?” You ask.

“Because I thought you were just friends! And now I have to worry that-”

“Worry that what?”

Bucky’s cheeks flush red and he groans “God. Why couldn’t you just like boys?”

Your eyes sting with tears and Cassie reaches out for your hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. Bucky catches the movement and it stops his train of thought. He thinks of all the times Cassie came over in recent months. How polite she was, how sweet she was… And above all, how much she cared about you. This isn’t some random boy that you’re dating, who Bucky has to worry is putting pressure on you or taking advantage of you. This is your best friend. A nice, if not slightly opinionated, girl.

“I’m really sorry you had to walk in on us like that Mr Barnes, it must’ve been… Weird for you,” Cassie says. “I promise though that all we did was kiss. And if you let me sleepover I won’t… We’ll keep the door open, do whatever rules you’d put in place if I were a boy.”

Bucky nods slowly, absorbing her words. Deep down, he realises this sense of displeasure isn’t about Cassie. Or your sexuality. What Bucky is really worried about… Is you not needing him anymore.

His time with you in Hydra had always been limited. Half-an-hour here and there if he was lucky. Being on the run with you had been difficult but he finally got you all to himself. All hours of the day he could just be your Dad and he loved every second of it. Bucky was biased but you were the sweetest kid, constantly asking him questions and finding reasons to keep smiling no matter how dire your circumstances were. Then Bucky had missed five years. Five whole years where you were raised by somebody else. You’d grown so much and Bucky had missed it.

“I appreciate that, Cassie. You can stay, it… It’s fine. Do you mind if I just have a minute alone with Y/N?”

Cassie nods, giving you a small smile and squeezing your hand again before leaving you alone with your Dad. You step further into the room, fiddling with the hem of your shirt again “Dad-”

“Did Steve ever take you to a baseball game?”

You hesitate, thrown off by his question. Slowly, you shake your head “No, he… No. We never went to one. I've never been to one in my life.”

“Well then. I’d like to take you to your first. If that’s okay. Used to be a big fan back before the war. Been a long time since I went to a game. I thought maybe…” Bucky swallows hard. “Maybe baseball could be our thing. If you like it, that is.”

You nod “Yeah. Yeah, I’d love to go to a game with you.” You glance back towards your bedroom then back at Bucky. “Dad, I didn’t mean to keep it a secret.”

“It’s okay kid,” Bucky says, holding out one arm for you. You cross the room and sit next to him, leaning your head on his shoulder as he pulls you close to his side. “I like her. Cassie. If you’re gonna date anyone… I’m glad that it’s her.”

You smile “Yeah, she… She’s really nice.”

Bucky nods, pressing a kiss to the top of your head “You’re growing up so fast. I guess I just… Don’t wanna get left behind.”

“I’ll always need you. You’re my Dad.”

 He lets out a huff of a laugh “You didn’t need me while I was blipped.”

“Of course I did. I managed as best I could, but I talked to you in my head every single day.” You look at him, meeting his gaze. “And in the morning… I’d like to talk to you about Cassie. Properly. If that’s okay?”

Bucky smiles, nodding “Yeah. I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.” He wraps his arms around you, pulling you in for a proper hug and kissing your forehead. “Right kid, it’s late. Go and get some sleep. And I mean sleep. No giggling until stupid o’clock. It’ll really set me on edge now. And-” He calls out as you stand up. “Keep the door open.”

“Dad!”

He smirks as you give him a ‘you’re embarrassing me’ look then sinks back onto the couch as you head towards your bedroom. You dating someone is going to take him a while to wrap his head around, but he realises now he is relieved that it’s Cassie. Someone he knows well and someone whose Dad he knows well too.

　 ゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓂃𓈒𓏸 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ᥫ᭡ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ༝ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 🍼 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ୨♡୧ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ᡣ𐭩 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ꩜　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ✧ 　　 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚　　 ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ୨୧ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ 　　 　˳ 　 　⸝⸝⸝♡　　⁺　　୨୧　　　₊　 　 ˚₊

Natasha had never been the type to hope for softness.

Not for herself, at least.

She’d made her peace with that years ago—on the rooftops of Budapest, in the sterile hallways of S.H.I.E.L.D., in the long silences between missions where guilt and memory left no room for sentiment. And then came Ana. Not by accident. Not by surprise. By choice. Hers. A deliberate, defiant, I want this, spoken with all the clarity of a life finally claimed.

She never regretted a moment of it. Not the injections. Not the procedures. Not the days spent alone, watching her body change, knowing no one was coming but not needing anyone to. Ana was the best thing she’d ever done. Her softness, her quiet, her stubborn spark—that was Natasha’s legacy now. Not blood. Not missions. Her. Anasthasia Irina Romanoff. She’d chosen Irina long before Ana was even born. It wasn’t a family name, or a tribute to anyone in her past—it was a hope. Irina meant peace, and that’s what Ana was. Her stillness after decades of running. Her soft beginning after a life of sharp edges. Natasha had spent so many years living on instinct, choosing danger over safety, solitude over softness. But Ana was different. Ana meant slow mornings. Shared breakfasts. Laughter in the middle of the day for no reason at all. She gave her the name Irina because, for the first time, Natasha wasn’t surviving anymore. She was living. And Ana was the reason why.And maybe that’s why she was so protective of it—why she kept the world at arm’s length and Ana even closer. This calm, this rhythm she’d built, it was fragile in the way that mattered most. So when new variables appeared—new people, new energies—Natasha never let them close enough to shift the balance.

So she didn’t expect anything to come from your arrival.

Not in the way that mattered.

You were Tony’s daughter, and Natasha had always paid attention to the way people spoke about you—with a mixture of respect and restraint, like they weren’t quite sure what to do with someone who carried the Stark name but none of his chaos. She knew you joined S.H.I.E.L.D. when you were barely old enough to be called an adult, that you’d carved your space without leaning on legacy, and that you’d been stationed in England for the last few years—low profile, high results.

She also knew something more personal. Something quieter.

You didn’t like children.

Not in a cold, heartless way. You weren’t cruel. You were respectful—always. Natasha remembered the way you helped Lila Barton when she scraped her knee during a holiday visit, how you’d stayed still and calm while the girl sobbed against your shoulder. But the moment she calmed, you’d set her down gently and disappeared from the room like your presence had been an accident. You didn’t mock them, or treat them like they were less-than. You just… didn’t want them near. Didn’t invite them close. Natasha understood that. Some people didn’t crave the chaos, the unpredictability, the weight of something small depending on you.

That was fine.

That was expected.

Which is why she didn’t even flinch when she brought Ana to the morning briefing.

The meeting was scheduled in one of the larger lounge rooms—bright windows, low coffee tables, plenty of space for Ana to exist without needing constant wrangling. Natasha had done this dozens of times. Her daughter came with her everywhere now. She didn’t leave Ana behind unless she absolutely had to. The team had long since adapted.

You, however, were new.

She entered the room with Ana tucked against her side, one arm looped around the child’s waist with practiced ease. You were already seated—coffee in hand, face unreadable, posture casual but distant. Natasha didn’t expect more than a polite nod, maybe a glance. And that’s what she got. You didn’t tense. You didn’t retreat. You simply acknowledged her presence and turned your eyes back to the screen.

But Ana didn’t.

Ana saw you. And for the first time since Natasha could remember, her daughter paused.

Not in fear. Not in confusion. In recognition.

It started as a slow shift—her little body repositioning against Natasha’s ribs, eyes locked in your direction, curious and alert. Then the squirming began. Not impatient, not fussy—focused. Ana leaned out of her arms, little hand pointing downward.

Natasha frowned. “What’s going on, kotyonok?” she murmured, brushing her lips lightly across Ana’s hair.

“Down,” Ana whispered.

Natasha blinked.

Ana rarely asked to leave her arms during meetings. And never in unfamiliar rooms. She’d been clingy the last few days—teething, off her sleep schedule, adjusting to so many new faces around the compound again. But now, her little legs were kicking softly, hands gripping at Natasha’s shirt in earnest.

“Down,” she repeated.

Natasha hesitated—glanced at you.

You weren’t watching Ana anymore. You were watching her. Confused. Curious. But not annoyed. Not disapproving.

Natasha could read people down to the smallest twitch of a muscle, and in that moment, she read one thing clearly: you didn’t know what was happening either.

So she shifted forward and lowered Ana gently to the carpeted floor.

Ana’s sneakers touched down. She took one look back—brief, instinctive—then turned toward you like she already knew the path.

Natasha’s chest tightened.

One step. Then another.

You looked up.

There was a breath, the room shrinking around it.

Ana stopped at your knees. Her curls were mussed from her mother’s shoulder, her little fox plush dangling from one hand. She tilted her head to look at you properly. She didn’t blink.

And then she lifted both arms toward you.

“Lap.”

You froze.

Not in fear. Not rejection. Natasha saw it—something break quietly across your expression, the way your eyebrows lifted just slightly, like your own body didn’t understand how it was reacting before your brain caught up. There was no mask now. No calm Stark logic, no precise detachment. Just you—and the shock of being chosen by someone so small, so unrelenting, and so certain.

Natasha didn’t move.

She stood where she was, heart pounding quietly behind her ribs, not from fear or worry—but something more intimate. Something that reached the parts of her still holding every shattered version of family she’d ever known. She watched as you stared down at the child who had never, not once, walked into a stranger’s arms. And she waited. Because whatever happened next… would matter.

You didn’t reach for Ana immediately.

Natasha noticed the exact moment your eyes lifted—not to the child now reaching for you with unwavering certainty, but to her. And it wasn’t a question. Not quite. There was no panic in your expression, no discomfort. Just a pause. A stillness that asked without words: Is this alright?

And Natasha, who rarely let anyone past the perimeter of her trust, gave you the smallest, most intentional nod.

You moved like someone reaching into deep water—carefully, gently, aware of the weight of what you were about to hold. Your hands met Ana’s sides, small and secure, and you lifted her with practiced ease, as though this wasn’t the first time, as though her body already knew how to fold against yours. She settled into your lap like it belonged to her.

Like she had always meant to end up there.

Natasha’s breath caught in her throat.

Ana laid her head lightly against your chest, little cheek pressing into the dark fabric of your jacket. One of her hands tucked the fox between your arm and her belly; the other—small, dimpled fingers—reached up to your collarbone and found your hand.

And then she started to play.

Not with toys, not with distractions. Just your hand. Your fingers. One by one she explored them, pressing her thumb into your palm, curling your pinky against her own, dragging the tips along her forehead in idle motion. Her eyes drifted half-closed, calm and curious, while you stayed perfectly still—watching her with that same look Natasha couldn’t read.

It was almost unbearable, the quiet of the moment.

The meeting had technically begun, but Natasha hadn’t registered a single word Steve said. She hadn’t even sat down. She just stood near the door, arms crossed, eyes on the impossible softness blooming in front of her.

Because that’s what it was. Impossible.

You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated. You hadn’t done what most people did—smile politely, hand Ana back, or distract her with something shiny so they could pass her off. You were just… there. Entirely present. Letting her settle. Letting her explore. Letting her choose.

And she had chosen you.

The worst part—if she could call it that—was that Natasha wasn’t angry. She wasn’t suspicious. She wasn’t even surprised anymore.

Because looking at you now—back straight, eyes lowered, completely surrendered to the tiny storm nestled in your lap—something made sense in her chest that hadn’t before.

Ana had found something.

Or maybe, someone.

And Natasha wasn’t sure what that meant yet, or how far she would allow it to grow—but for the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn’t feel the need to pull away. She walked slowly to her seat across from you, quiet as a shadow, never breaking the spell. And when she sat down, she didn’t take her eyes off you. The briefing wrapped without fanfare.

Steve’s voice faded into background noise, Bruce gathered his notes, and the others filtered out one by one with practiced efficiency. No one commented on Ana—no one dared. Maybe because they saw the weight of the moment. Maybe because it wasn’t theirs to touch.

The room was almost too quiet now.

Ana had slipped fully into sleep, her tiny hand still curled lazily around your finger, her head rising and falling against your chest like she’d found the safest place in the universe. You hadn’t moved. Not really. Just shifted to make her more comfortable—let her sink deeper into you without hesitation, like her weight belonged there.

Natasha couldn’t look away.

You hadn’t noticed—at least, she thought you hadn’t. You never were one to fidget under attention. But there was something different about you now. Something unguarded beneath all that calm.

“I have to admit,” she said, voice low, “this wasn’t how I pictured our first real conversation going.”

You glanced at her, brow arching just a little. “And how did you picture it?”

Natasha’s lips twitched. “Not with my daughter wrapped around you like a vine.”

You leaned back slightly, careful not to disturb Ana, and gave her that expression—dry, sharp, quietly amused. “You sound jealous.”

Her eyebrow lifted. “Should I be?”

You made a show of glancing down at Ana, then shrugged one shoulder—so subtle it barely moved her. “She’s got good taste.”

The laugh caught in Natasha’s throat before she could stop it. Soft, surprised. God, you were so damn composed, and yet there was something underneath that surface—a spark of something warmer, something playful. She hadn’t expected that. And she was rarely caught off guard.

“I should warn you,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table. “If you let her get used to that lap, you’re going to regret it.”

“I don’t regret much.”

“She’s one and a half. You’ll regret it the next time you try to drink a coffee without someone demanding half of it.”

You smiled—not a smirk, not your usual reserved grin. An actual smile. And Natasha had to look away, just for a moment, because something in her chest pulled taut at the sight.

“And here I thought you brought her to meetings as a distraction tactic,” you said.

She looked back at you with narrowed eyes, playful. “You think I’d use my daughter to throw someone off their game?”

“I think,” you said, gaze darkening just a little, “that if anyone could weaponize a toddler, it’d be you.”

Natasha laughed, this time all the way—low and warm in her chest, real in a way she didn’t usually allow to slip out. She shook her head, leaning back in her chair.

“You’re dangerous,” she muttered.

You tilted your head. “Me? You’re the trained assassin.”

“Exactly.” Her eyes dropped to the sleeping girl between you. “And you’re the one she asked for.”

The silence curled again. Not cold. Not awkward. Just thick with something unnamed.

You looked down at Ana once more, brushing a thumb lightly over her curls where they stuck up against your collar. “Don’t get used to this,” you said, not looking at Natasha. “I’m still not a fan of kids.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” she replied, watching the way you softened around the edges without realizing it.Natasha didn’t argue—she didn’t have to. The proof was already wrapped around your side in cookie-stained pajamas. She just watched you go, a quiet smile tugging at her mouth, the kind that stayed long after you’d left the room.

She knew this wouldn't be a one- time thing. 

A few days later, the morning unfolded differently, slower. Late morning sunlight filtered lazily into the kitchen, warm and indifferent. It fell across the countertops, gleamed off metal handles, and lit the soft chaos that was breakfast—or rather, the battle of breakfast.

Ana was seated in her high chair like a tiny queen in revolt, arms crossed firmly, lips pursed in open rebellion. The oatmeal had gone cold fifteen minutes ago. Natasha had tried coaxing, bribing, even threatening to call Bruce if she didn’t eat. Nothing worked. The spoon sat abandoned in the bowl like a white flag.

“You are so lucky you’re cute,” Natasha muttered, scrubbing a hand down her face. “Other people’s kids don’t get away with this.”

Ana remained unimpressed. She glared past Natasha’s shoulder as if expecting reinforcements.

The door creaked open behind them.

Natasha didn’t turn around right away—she was too focused on pretending she wasn’t about to lose a diplomatic war with a toddler. But she didn’t need to look. She could hear it: the shuffle of slow, dragging footsteps, the soft grunt of someone whose soul was not yet awake. Then came the familiar hiss of the espresso machine, followed by the rustling of a bakery bag.

You’d arrived.

She turned.

You looked… awful.

Delightfully awful.

Hair wild from sleep, hoodie half-zipped, mismatched socks peeking out under flannel pants. You were cradling your coffee mug like a lifeline, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth in a petulant line that said you’d only been conscious for five minutes and deeply regretted that fact.

In your other hand: a cheese croissant, still warm, still flaking. You tore off a corner and bit into it like someone performing life-saving triage.

Ana stared, Hard. So damn hard.

Not at Natasha. Not at the bowl of oatmeal she’d rejected like poison. But at you.

You took another bite, chewed, then finally glanced up—and blinked, slow and heavy.

Your gaze drifted to the high chair. To Ana’s unrelenting eyes. Then to Natasha.

“I take it we’re in the starvation phase of child rearing?”

“She’s being dramatic,” Natasha said.

Ana made a noise like a whimper and kicked her feet, You squinted at her. Then reached forward, broke off a soft piece of croissant, and held it out between your fingers.

Ana took it like it was sacred.

“Traitor,” Natasha muttered under her breath.

You made a sound between a hum and a sigh and dropped into a chair with all the weight of someone being punished by existence itself. “I’ve been up for six minutes,” you mumbled. “I haven’t even looked at another human being yet.”

Ana reached again, You fed her another bite.

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “You know that’s not helping, right?”

“She was clearly starving.”

“I told you—she’s not.”

“She’s got the same face I do when I haven’t eaten,” you said, deadpan. “We understand each other.”

Natasha studied you, the way you slouched, bleary-eyed and nonverbal, croissant in one hand, coffee in the other. She looked at Ana—mirroring your expression almost perfectly, down to the pout and the silent demand for carbs.

She huffed a laugh.

“My God. You’re the same person.”

You gave her a tired glare. “Keep talking. See if I share.”

“You’re both insufferable when hungry.”

“Sounds like someone’s jealous.”

Natasha crossed her arms. “Of what? Your shared standoffish breakfast cult?”

You sipped your coffee slowly, eyes flicking to Ana and back.

“She chose me,” you said, tone flat but triumphant. “I don’t make the rules.”

Ana squeaked with joy, flailing her hands toward the croissant again.

“She betrayed me,” Natasha replied, pointing to the untouched oatmeal. “I gave her life. You gave her cheese.”

You shrugged, already handing Ana another piece. “She’s got good taste.”

Natasha shook her head, lips twitching as she turned away to clean up the bowl of oatmeal. “You’re both ridiculous.”

You yawned, eyes half-lidded as Ana leaned her head dramatically on the edge of the tray, already chewing the last bite like it was a reward for surviving the morning. You were still half-asleep, leaning into your chair like gravity was trying to reclaim you, clinging to that coffee as if it were the only thing standing between you and the grave. You were cranky, antisocial before noon, and notoriously stubborn about food—especially when it was yours.

Which is why Natasha watched with mild astonishment as you rolled your eyes in a perfectly theatrical arc, sighed like a martyr, and wordlessly handed the rest of your croissant to Ana.

She squeaked with joy and took it like treasure, immediately stuffing the larger half into her mouth with both hands.

“Unbelievable,” Natasha muttered, not even bothering to hide her smile.

You ignored her, sipping your coffee in silence like you regretted every decision that had led to this exact moment. Your eyes were dark and tired, but there was no real irritation behind them. Just that quiet resignation you always wore when you knew you were losing a battle you never meant to fight in the first place.

You took another sip, then looked at her across the kitchen—eyes still half-lidded, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Give me the oatmeal.”

Natasha blinked. “What?”

You gestured vaguely toward the abandoned bowl. “She doesn’t want it. And I’m starving.”

A beat of silence stretched between you.

Then, without a word, Natasha reached for the bowl and walked it over, setting it in front of you with a raised eyebrow. You didn’t meet her gaze. You just set your coffee aside and picked up the spoon like someone about to make peace with their fate.

Ana was already chewing noisily beside you, bits of pastry stuck to her cheek.

Natasha crossed her arms, leaning against the counter again. “So let me get this straight,” she said, lips twitching. “You won’t share food with me, but she gets the last of your croissant and your breakfast?”

“She didn’t ask for it,” you said without looking up. “She demanded it with her eyes.”

“Right. So toddler mind control. That’s the explanation we’re going with.”

“She’s persuasive.”

“She’s one and a half.”

You glanced up then, finally, spoon midair. Your expression was blank, deadpan, and yet something in your eyes sparked with mischief.

“So am I,” you said.

And Natasha felt it—that little flicker again. The warmth that was growing far too easily in the quiet spaces between these moments. It settled somewhere under her ribs, soft and persistent.

You looked back down and took a bite of the oatmeal without flinching.

Ana, satisfied and full of croissant, leaned against the side of your arm and let out a sigh so deep it could only have come from the depths of her soul.

Natasha didn’t say anything else.

She just stood there, watching the two of you—both stubborn, both sleepy, both impossible—and thought, this isn’t going to stay simple, is it?

But she didn’t say that either.

She just smiled.And watched you keep pretending like you weren’t already halfway hers.Days passed like that—quiet, unspoken things folding themselves into the rhythm of the compound. You didn’t come looking for Ana, but she kept finding you anyway. And Natasha… well, she kept watching. Kept noticing the way your edges softened more each time.

Then came the briefing.

It had started as a simple mission briefing. Nothing classified, nothing urgent—just a routine strategy session with the new intel team that Natasha absolutely couldn’t reschedule. One hour, tops. Ana would barely notice she was gone.

She was so wrong.

Clint had been her first call. Obvious choice. He knew how to juggle five kids and a mission report without blinking. But the moment Natasha handed Ana over, the girl went stiff in his arms like a statue, then started wailing as if he’d personally betrayed her.

Wanda tried next. Ana let her hold her for a full five seconds before twisting away like a feral cat and screeching “NO!” in a tone that made two agents duck for cover.

Steve, bless him, had approached with his most diplomatic smile and a stuffed bear in hand, only to be met with the full force of toddler disdain. Ana didn’t scream that time—just buried her face in Natasha’s neck and growled.

And Natasha… Natasha was five minutes late to her briefing and dangerously close to losing her mind.

Which is why, when you happened to pass by—coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, clearly heading for the lab and not remotely interested in babysitting—Natasha didn’t think.

She acted.

“Ana, sweetheart?” she whispered, shifting the toddler to her hip. “Do you want to go see her?”

Ana lifted her head.

Wide green eyes blinked once. Then a slow, devilish smile curled across her face.

That was all Natasha needed.

“Catch,” she said dryly.

You turned just in time to fumble and catch the small human now squirming gleefully into your arms like she belonged there.

“Wait—what the—”

“Thanks!” Natasha called over her shoulder, already halfway down the corridor before you could protest.

Ana squealed in delight.

Natasha didn’t look back.

She made it to the meeting just in time. And to her own surprise, she didn’t spend the whole thing worried. Something about knowing Ana was with you—despite the fact you hated children (or said you did)—had her oddly at ease.

By the time she wrapped up and returned to the common floor, it had been almost ninety minutes. The hallway smelled faintly of coffee and cleaning supplies. Bruce’s voice echoed from the open lab door, calm and methodical, talking through some kind of energy recalibration.

And there you were.

One hip leaned against the table, the other supporting Ana, who looked perfectly at home in the crook of your arm.

Your hair was pulled into a haphazard bun, your shirt was half-untucked and absolutely covered in cookie crumbs. Ana’s fingers were dusted with sugar. You were talking to Bruce about vibrational decay patterns in multi-core reactors, as if the weight of a toddler on your hip was completely natural. Your other hand gestured midair, precise, animated, still clutching a small whiteboard marker.

Ana watched your mouth move as if following every word.

Then she gagged—loudly and dramatically.

Not because of anything serious. Just… toddler flair.

You paused mid-sentence, looked down, and sighed. “Rude.”

Bruce snorted. “She takes after you.”

“She has better fashion sense.”

Ana giggled, then burrowed her face into your shoulder.

Natasha stood in the doorway, unnoticed for a second longer, just… watching. The way your body shifted automatically to balance Ana’s weight. The way you wiped her mouth with the edge of your sleeve without looking. The way you didn’t rush to give her back, or seem particularly bothered by the crumbs now stuck to your pants.

She cleared her throat.

You looked up, brows raised. “Hey.”

Natasha raised one eyebrow. “So… is this your new lab assistant?”

You looked at Ana, who blinked at her mother and clung just a little tighter.

“She works for cookies,” you said. “And occasionally heckles my equations.”

Natasha bit back a smile, folding her arms. “Well, she’s my daughter.”

“She’s very opinionated,” you said dryly, adjusting her on your hip. “She gagged at my thesis. I’m considering it a peer review.”

Ana giggled again, tucking her head against your collarbone.

Natasha stared at the two of you for another second, then finally stepped forward, brushing a few crumbs off your shoulder. Her fingers lingered a little longer than they needed to.

“You’re a mess,” she murmured.

You smirked. “I could be Your mess.”

She looked at you. And the words stuck somewhere behind her teeth, She didn’t say them.

Not yet.

Instead, she stepped forward, reaching her arms out gently. “Alright, peanut,” she said softly. “Come here.”

Ana blinked up at her mother, expression unreadable for a split second… then, without protest, reached out. You transferred her easily, and the little girl immediately curled into Natasha’s hold like she’d been waiting for it all along—her thumb going straight to her mouth, her head resting against the curve of her mother’s neck.

Warm.

Quiet.

Home.

Natasha’s hand rubbed small circles against her daughter’s back, and for a second, she just breathed her in. The scent of cookies, and your cologne, and a hint of vanilla shampoo clinging to soft hair.

“She’s full of sugar and attitude,” you said, brushing a crumb off your shirt.

Natasha glanced at you over Ana’s curls. “She’s exactly where she gets it from.”

You tilted your head, already sipping the coffee you’d left to cool. “You sure about that?”

Her smile curved lazily. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Then she walked away—Ana heavy and content in her arms, safe, sleepy, and smiling like someone who had everything she wanted in one place. Natasha had gone to her apartment at the Tower —just late enough for the city to fall into a quieter rhythm, just early enough that Natasha hadn’t had time to put up her usual walls.

Ana was half-asleep on her shoulder, cheek pressed against her collarbone, and Natasha held her like she was made of something finer than glass. There was oatmeal in her hair. Cookie crumbs on her onesie. A smudge of ink on her tiny palm, and no one knew how it got there.

But Natasha had seen it.

She had seen it.

She’d walked into that lab expecting chaos—Bruce hunched over a console, a loose wire sparking somewhere, maybe you arguing with JARVIS about protocols. But instead she found you standing still in the middle of it all, with Ana on your hip and your shirt covered in evidence of breakfast bribery.

You didn’t even pause the conversation with Bruce. You just kept talking about cellular decay patterns, as if you hadn’t realized Ana was happily gnawing on a pencil and gagging every time you used the word “neurotransmitter.”

And that sound you made—that little laugh when she fake-gagged for the third time?

It rewired something in Natasha.

Now she sat at the edge of Ana’s bed, staring down at the little culprit like she’d committed an unforgivable act of treason.

“You traitor,” she whispered.

Ana, half-asleep and blissfully unaware of her crimes, blinked lazily at her mother, thumb already in her mouth.

Natasha sighed, brushing a loose curl from her daughter’s cheek.

“You did this on purpose.”

Ana made a content hum and reached for her blanket.

“Don’t play innocent now,” Natasha murmured, tucking the soft fabric under her chin. “I was fine. You hear me? I had balance. I had boundaries. I had one thing—one tiny, simple rule that I lived by.”

Ana blinked again. Unbothered.

“Don’t fall for anyone.”

Natasha exhaled through her nose, quiet and helpless.

“You were supposed to be the only love of my life, peanut. You. I planned for you. I fought for you. You were the only thing I ever let myself want.”

She leaned down, pressing a kiss to Ana’s hair.

“I walked into that room today and you were hers. Just—completely and shamelessly hers. You were giving her orders like a little general and she was just taking it. And smiling. She never smiles like that.”

Ana giggled softly, maybe in her sleep. Natasha narrowed her eyes.

“Is this part of your long con? Huh? Were you trying to get yourself a stepmama? Because listen—if that’s your endgame, we need to have a serious strategy talk.”

Ana rolled a little, settling deeper into the mattress. Her small hand rested against her chest, and Natasha just… stared.

“She doesn’t even like kids, you know,” she continued, as if trying to justify this to someone who hadn’t been there. “She’s the one who leaves birthday parties early. She practically hisses when Clint brings his brood around. You sneeze near her with a juice box and she’s gone.”

She paused.

“But not with you.”

A slow breath pushed from Natasha’s lungs.

“She picks you up like you weigh nothing. She lets you shove half your breakfast into her mouth and doesn’t even blink. And I saw her yesterday—reading with one hand while you chewed on the other. I don’t even think she noticed.”

Ana’s breathing started to slow again, thumb slipping lazily from her mouth.

“And the worst part?” Natasha whispered. “She makes it look easy. Like maybe… maybe this whole thing isn’t a fluke. Like maybe she could actually stay.”

The confession hung in the dark like a sigh caught midair.

Natasha leaned down, resting her forehead against Ana’s tiny one.

“I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t want to see it coming. But you… You threw her right into the center of our orbit like it was nothing.”

She kissed her daughter again, voice teasing even as her chest ached.

“You couldn’t have picked someone older? Someone predictable? Someone who’s not Tony Stark’s daughter, for god’s sake?”

Ana didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Natasha ran a slow hand down her back, feeling the weight of love settle over her like a soft storm.

“You’re trouble,” she murmured. “But the best kind.”

Then she stood, brushing her fingers one last time across Ana’s cheek.

“You really couldn’t wait for me to fall first, huh?”

She flicked off the light.

Behind her, Ana slept soundly.

And Natasha stayed frozen in the doorway for just a moment longer… shaking her head to herself.

Life settled after the fire.

Natasha was still Natasha, the rink was still the rink, girls still cried in locker rooms and landed jumps with shaking knees and learned quickly that Romanoff’s silence was often scarier than her voice. But the sharpness of everything had eased.

The mornings no longer felt like battle from the moment their eyes opened. The apartment had become theirs in a way that still occasionally made you stop in a doorway and smile for no reason. Your clothes were folded into Natasha’s wardrobe now, half of the bathroom was yours and Liho had long ago accepted that there were now two women in the house worth manipulating.

At the rink, you had become part of the structure. When Natasha was on the ice with the older girls, drilling them into exhaustion, correcting shoulders and timing and edge depth with that impossible, severe precision that had made half the sport fear her and the other half worship her, you would drift toward the younger ones. You were good with them and that still surprised you sometimes.

A little girl with weak posture and too much anxiety? You would bend down, tuck hair behind her ear, and show her the movement three times slower than necessary until the girl’s whole face lit with understanding. A young skater terrified of a turn sequence? Natasha would say, from halfway across the rink, “Again” and you would soften the blow by gliding over and saying, “Okay, watch my shoulder here.” and somehow that would make the child breathe again.

Natasha noticed every second of it. Sometimes she’d be standing at the boards with a senior skater and catch herself looking away just for a second, just long enough to watch you take a little girl’s hands and guide her through a dance hold for balance, or laugh when one of them finally landed something clean. Those moments did something quiet and dangerous to Natasha’s chest.

She never said much about them. Only once, late at night, with you half asleep against her shoulder, had she murmured, “You are very good at that.”

You had blinked slowly and said, “At what?”

Natasha had looked down at you and answered, “Being loved by children and cats.” You had laughed into her shirt.

A few evenings later, after dinner, you both were in the living room. The apartment was warm and Liho stretched long and black across the arm of the couch like a smug decorative object. Natasha had a book in her lap and you had your phone, which meant, inevitably, that Natasha was not actually reading.

You had fallen into one of your loops. Natasha could tell the difference between “chronic scrolling” (Author: Hi to my lovely girlfriend ;)) and “the internet has claimed my girlfriend and may not return her tonight.” This was very much the second one.

Every few seconds you made a tiny sound. A gasp, a soft “oh my God...” One of those breaths that was almost a laugh and almost heartbreak and Natasha finally lowered her book, “What.”

You didn’t answer and Natasha waited, but still nothing. Then, with no warning, you scooted closer, practically climbed halfway into her space, and shoved the phone in front of her face. “Look.”

On the screen was a video of a pairs team on the ice. Not the modern kind that leaned heavily into technical terror and impossible speed. No, it was a dance sequence with held positions, a lift that looked less like stunt and more like trust made visible. The man turned the woman under his arm and she folded against him so beautifully it made the whole thing look unreal.

“It’s so beautiful..” you said softly and Natasha looked at the screen. Then, because she was a fool in love, she looked at you looking at the screen and that was much worse.

You had that expression you got when something on the ice hit you in the deepest place. Your eyes had gone bright from inside by pure skating joy. You flipped to another video and another. Another pair, another sequence, another lift, another step pattern where two people moved so seamlessly together they stopped looking like individuals and started looking like music itself had given up and become bodies.

“I know it’s different.” you said almost embarrassed by how much you clearly cared. “From singles, I mean. It’s not the same kind of thrill. But God, there’s something about it…”

You trailed off and sat up straighter, then got off the couch and started trying one of the opening positions in the middle of the living room, using a cushion like it might substitute for a human being. Natasha watched, book forgotten entirely now.

You held one hand out as though someone should be taking it and turned your own body into the remembered line of the choreography just enough to show you had watched the thing a dozen times already and were halfway into imagining it on yourself.

“It’s so romantic!” you said, then immediately made a face. “No, that’s not even the right word. It’s-” You tried a turn and nearly tripped over Liho. Natasha caught you by the waist automatically and you laughed all breathless embarrassment and delight. “Rude.”

“You are doing pair skating with a cat in the middle of the living room.”

“Liho was not cooperating.”

“Understandably.”

You looked down at the phone again and then back up at Natasha, smiling now in that way you did when you had become fully, helplessly obsessed with something. “I just love it..” you said.

Natasha didn’t answer, not because she didn’t have one, but because the answer was suddenly too full. Because she knew that choreography. Knew the exact step pattern and the timing of the lift. Knew it not from TikTok or some modern archive clip.

Knew it in her body.

She said nothing then. Only watched you keep scrolling until sleepiness softened the edges of your excitement and the night eventually pulled them both toward bed. But after you were asleep, Natasha lay awake a little longer and stared into the dark.

A few days later, you came into the rink later than Natasha. That wasn’t unusual anymore, you both had grown into a rhythm that worked. Natasha still preferred the early hours, the severe stillness of dawn ice, the private cruelty of first sessions, the clarity of beginning a day before the world had fully stood up. You came later when you could. Sometimes because Natasha let you sleep. Sometimes because the younger girls didn’t arrive until after Natasha had already exhausted the older ones into some version of discipline.

That morning, though, something felt wrong the second you stepped into the main hall. No girls at the boards, no music from warm up speakers, no assistant coach calling out times or edge drills. No little cluster of nervous twelve year olds pretending not to stare at you.

Just silence and one person on the ice. Natasha was at center rink, skating slow, clean circles like she’d been there long enough for the ice to remember her properly. She was dressed all in black, as usual, but there was something different in the way she moved.

You frowned and walked closer to the gate. “Where is everyone?”

Natasha turned toward you and there was no surprise in her face. “I canceled the first session.”

You blinked. “You did what?”

“Get on the ice.” That did not answer the question. You stood there, deeply suspicious now. “Natasha.”

“Y/n.”

“What are you doing.”

Natasha skated closer until she was right there at the boards, close enough that you could see the faintest trace of nerves beneath her calm, that alone made your heart beat faster. Natasha held out her hand. You looked at it and then at her face. And because you had spent enough time loving Natasha Romanoff to know that sometimes the most important moments arrived looking deceptively simple..you took it.

Natasha guided you onto the ice and your blades settled. The cold came up through them and the rink still felt impossibly empty, too large for only the two of you. “What is happening?” you asked softly.

Natasha didn’t answer, instead she kept hold of one of your hands, shifted your bodies closer and moved you into a starting position so familiar that your breath left you in one sharp little sound.

You knew this.

Your eyes flew to Natasha’s face, no. Natasha’s expression gave you nothing but the tiniest private gleam. It was the pair dance. The one from the videos, the one you had watched over and over until you could have cried from how beautiful it was. The one you had tried to mimic badly in the living room while Liho judged you from the rug.

You stared at her. “How do you know this?”

Natasha’s mouth curved and because apparently she enjoyed detonating realities before breakfast, she said, “Because I used to skate it.”

You just looked at her and then laughed once in outright disbelief. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, you’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You did pairs?”

“When I was younger.”

Your whole body went still with surprise. You searched Natasha’s face for the joke, but found none. “You never told me that.”

Natasha lifted one shoulder slightly. “You never asked.”

You kept staring because you could not reconcile the image in your head, the younger Natasha you had constructed from old skating stories, all fury and singles obsession and impossible ambition with the woman in front of you saying, so casually, that she had once moved like this with another body. You didn’t like that thought and Natasha saw the flicker of it instantly.

“It was a long time ago.” she said quieter now and you looked at her again. Something in Natasha’s face had softened. “And it was never what this is.” Natasha added. Before you could answer, music spilled softly from the rink speakers.

The same music played and your eyes widened. Natasha’s hand tightened lightly around yours. “Do you know every line?” she asked.

You looked from her to the speakers and back again, still stunned stupid by all of it. “Yes.”

Natasha stepped closer. “Good.”

And then you moved. At first you forgot everything. Not the choreography, but everything else. Because the second Natasha led you into the first turn, instinct took over in a way that startled you. Natasha’s hand at yours, Natasha’s other hand settling at your waist, the clean pull of shared momentum, the whole thing felt less like learning and more like remembering something you had somehow never done.

Natasha skated pairs like she did everything else that mattered: without hesitation, with terrifying certainty, and with just enough control to make everyone else believe they were safe.

You followed and that, more than anything, should have shocked you. You did not follow easily in life. You weren’t built that way, but on the ice, in Natasha’s hands, it felt natural in the most dangerous possible sense. Natasha did not drag you or force. She just guided and your body trusted the guidance so completely it almost made you dizzy.

The first sequence carried you in a long edge across the rink, side by side and then not, because Natasha turned you in so close you could feel the heat of her body through layers and cold air. The second opened you out again and you breathed a laugh. “You’ve been hiding this!”

Natasha didn’t look away from the next setup. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because this works better as a surprise.”

That was so unfairly Romanoff that you nearly ruined the next step by smiling too hard. Natasha turned you under one arm and caught you against the line of her own body so securely that you felt the impact of trust before you even felt the beauty of the movement and then the first lift came.

You knew it was coming. Still, when Natasha’s hands shifted and her center dropped and the world tilted, your heart jumped, “Natasha-”

“Trust me.”

And because it was Natasha, because trust had been built in blood and skates and medals and quiet mornings and every impossible thing between them..you did and Natasha lifted you.

It was not like the videos, the videos had been beautiful from the outside, thus? This was beautiful from the inside. The strength of Natasha’s body under yours, the steadiness and the complete absence of doubt in the way she held you. The knowledge that Natasha would not let you fall. You laughed out loud, not because anything was funny, but because joy had nowhere else to go.

Natasha spun and the rink blurred and you came down again in perfect control, skates finding the ice like you had always belonged in this choreography, like Natasha had always known exactly where to put you.

You stopped thinking entirely after a while. There was only the music, Natasha’s hands, the ice under you, and the unbearable realization that this wasn’t just pretty..It was intimate. More intimate, somehow, than some of the kisses you had had. Because pair skating asked for a kind of trust that couldn’t be faked. It asked for surrender without loss of self and asked for both people to know exactly where the other was and still move without fear.

By the time the music swelled toward the end, your throat was tight for reasons that had nothing to do with exertion. Natasha drew you in one last time and the final position came. You folded partly into her, one arm curved, Natasha’s hand firm at your waist, your bodies held in one long elegant line that looked less like performance and more like confession given shape. The last note faded and neither of you moved.

You looked up first and Natasha was already looking at you. There was something in her face that you had spent your whole story learning how to survive..“That.” you said, barely above a whisper, “was mean.”

One of Natasha’s brows lifted. “Mean.”

“Yes.”

“Why.”

“Because now I’m never going to shut up about this.”

That finally made Natasha smile properly. The sight of it was so soft and rare and full that you nearly cried on the spot from sheer emotional weakness. Instead you laughed and leaned the rest of the way into her, forehead against Natasha’s shoulder and she held you there without comment. You stayed like that for a long moment, then “You did all of this because I looked at pair skating videos for, what, three days?”

Natasha’s arms tightened around you just enough to count. “You looked at them like your heart was trying to climb out through your eyes.”

You smiled against her. “That’s romantic.”

“I know.”

“And you canceled the whole morning.”

“Yes.”

“So everyone at the rink thinks what? That you finally snapped?”

Natasha’s mouth brushed the top of your hair in what might have been a kiss and might have been a refusal to answer directly. “Let them.”

You laughed softly and you pulled back enough to look at her again and the truth of the moment settled in all over. And because that was somehow too much and not enough all at once, you kissed her. Right there at center ice, in the enormous empty rink, under the same lights that had once watched you fight and fall and win and build each other into impossible people.

Natasha kissed you back with one hand still warm at your waist. When you finally parted, you stayed close and whispered, almost shy for the first time in forever, “Do it again.” Natasha’s eyes dropped to your mouth and then back up.

“From the beginning?”

“Yes.”

A tiny pause, and then Natasha said, “Good.”

A few weeks passed after the pair dancing morning, and life settled back into its usual shape. Cold mornings and coffee, shared glances across the ice., long evenings at home with Liho taking up too much space for a creature this size and the quiet, ordinary intimacy of building a life while the world still insisted on acting like you had become myth instead of woman. Which was why Natasha noticed immediately when something in you went wrong.

It had started at home, a few days earlier. You falling asleep too early on the couch with your head in Natasha’s lap and saying you were “just tired.” You turning away to sneeze and insisting it was dust. You dragging yourself slower out of bed and blaming the weather.

Natasha had noticed all of it. But you, being you, had insisted you were fine in the particular stubborn tone that meant you wanted Natasha to stop asking before concern became a lecture. So Natasha had watched and waited.

At practice that morning, though, the wrongness was no longer small. You came in on time, skates laced, hair tied back, acting as though you intended to go through the day like always. You even started well enough, warm up edges, a few younger girls hovering around you for help, one of the little ones laughing when you showed her a turn sequence dramatically badly on purpose to make a point. But half an hour in, Natasha was already done pretending not to see it.

Your movements were slower, your usual sharpness at the boards had dulled and yo kept rubbing at the side of your nose and blinking too long between instructions The color in your face wasn’t right either, too flushed in some places, too pale in others. Then you coughed twice, turned halfway away, hand braced against your own thigh like it had taken more out of you than you wanted anyone to notice.

Natasha went still, because that was a bad cold dragging itself around inside a body that should have been in bed and had no business being on the ice. „Everyone stop.”

The word cut across the rink cleanly and every girl looked up. You, midway through demonstrating a basic edge pattern to one of the younger skaters, turned with a small frown already forming. “What?”

Natasha was off the boards and crossing toward you before the question had fully landed. You saw her coming and, being smart enough to know what face Natasha had when she was seconds from saying something unpleasantly correct, straightened instinctively.

“What’s wrong.”

You blinked once. “Nothing.”

Natasha just looked at you and your mouth flattened. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” A few of the younger girls quietly began skating farther away with survival instinct and you sighed. “It’s just a cold..”

The sentence should have ended the matter. Instead, the second you looked up properly and Natasha got a full look at your eyes, glassy, tired, slightly unfocused around the edges, something hot and immediate went straight through Natasha’s chest. Her hand came up before she thought about it and pressed lightly to your forehead.

“Why did you not say anything.”

You, traitorously, leaned into the touch for half a second before catching yourself. “Because it was supposed to go away.”

“With what.”

“Medicine.”

Natasha stared and you lifted one shoulder, a little pathetic now under the weight of being correctly read. “I thought if I just pushed through-”

“No.”

The force of it shut the sentence down entirely. Natasha turned sharply toward the rest of the rink. “Session ends early. Everyone off in ten.”

There was a beat of startled silence and the girls moved, not one of them questioned Romanoff when she had that tone. You did, though, because of course you did. “Natasha, we only have-”

“No.”

You looked at her and saw no room at all and because you were clearly more exhausted than you had been willing to admit, let the argument die before it really started. That alone worried Natasha more.

By the time you left, you were visibly fading. The kind of tired that moved from the body into the eyes and stayed there. You leaned against the window for part of it, then against the headrest, eyes half closed. Natasha kept one hand steady on the wheel and the other occasionally reaching toward the controls to adjust the heat or lower the fan or make the car warmer in a way she knew you would not ask for yourself.

“You should have stayed home.” she said finally.

You made a small noise that might have been agreement and might have just been the sound of a person too tired to defend her own stupidity properly. Natasha glanced over at a red light and softened almost against her own will. “You feel awful.”

Your eyes stayed closed. “That is a very comforting way to say that.”

“It is accurate.”

“I hate your accuracy.”

“Yes.” But the word came gentler now.

When you got home, Natasha was out of the car and around to your side before you had fully gotten the door open yourself. “I can walk..” you muttered.

Natasha ignored that completely and guided you inside with one hand at your back, steering you past Liho who immediately appeared in the hallway, offended and curious and toward the bedroom. “Sit.”

You sat because the bed was suddenly much too inviting and holding yourself upright had become suspiciously optional. Natasha disappeared into the bathroom, then the kitchen, then somewhere else in the apartment, moving quickly and efficiently while you sat there in a kind of dazed, feverish fog. By the time Natasha came back the first time, she had water, medicine, tissues and a blanket.

You looked at the medicine in her hand and, in another sign that you were truly not yourself, took it without argument. Natasha watched you swallow, handed you the water, then drew the blanket up around your shoulders with a level of seriousness more suited to surgery than a cold. You looked up at her through red-rimmed eyes and said weakly, “You’re being intense.”

Natasha tucked the blanket in anyway. “You came to the rink sick.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“It should be.” You managed the smallest smile at that, which made something in Natasha unclench even as the worry stayed.

“Stay there.” Natasha said and went again. You honestly meant to stay awake because you wanted to know what Natasha was doing, wanted to keep at least some control over the indignity of being cared for like this. But the warmth of the blanket and the medicine and the bone deep exhaustion of fighting off a cold while being too stubborn to rest hit all at once. By the time Natasha returned, you were half asleep against the pillows.

You opened your eyes to find Natasha standing there looking at you with the kind of private, helpless affection that always made you feel softer than you knew what to do with. Then Natasha bent and, without warning, lifted you. You let out a tiny sound of protest entirely out of habit. “Natasha..!”

“You’re not walking.”

“I can-“

“No.” You, wrapped in blanket and fatigue and no longer capable of constructing a meaningful rebellion, let yourself be carried.

Natasha brought you to the bathroom and you blinked slowly in confusion. Candles, not too many, just enough to make the room soft had been lit on the counter. The bath was already full, steam curling up into the warm air. There were bubbles and the room smelled faintly of lavender and something sweeter underneath it. You looked from the tub to Natasha and back again. “What is this.”

“A bath.”

“I can see that.”

Natasha set you down carefully on your feet. “Common, undress.”

You stared at her. “Absolutely not.”

Natasha folded her arms. “I’m sick!” you said, as if that explained everything.

“Yes.”

“I don’t like baths..” Natasha’s brow lifted slightly. “You liked them last winter.”

“That was different.”

“How.”

“I was not…this.” Natasha understood exactly what you meant. Feverish, miserable, limp with exhaustion and not interested in being looked at while you felt like a Victorian invalid. For one second she just looked at you and then, without any comment at all, Natasha reached for the hem of her own shirt and pulled it over her head. You stopped talking completely and Natasha stepped out of the rest with the same calm practicality she brought to everything, as if this solved the problem and that was the end of the matter.

Which, infuriatingly, it did. You stared at her. “That’s manipulative.”

“Yes.” Natasha said. “Undress.”

You laughed despite feeling awful, and the laugh turned into a weak little cough halfway through. Natasha’s whole face changed at once, worry back, immediate and sharp. That made you stop resisting. Slowly, still shivering faintly in the cool air outside the steam, you undressed and let Natasha help when your fingers felt too clumsy to bother with.

Then you got in and the heat hit first. You made a soft, involuntary sound as you settled in and Natasha sat behind you, one leg on either side of you under the water, and guided you back until you were leaning fully against her chest. The bubbles smelled soft and clean and the steam loosened the pressure in your head a little. Natasha’s skin was warm at your back, her arms around you loose but present, one hand resting lightly on your stomach just under the water as if anchoring you there.

For a while neither of you spoke, you just let yourself sink and let the heat work into you. You tipped your head back against Natasha’s shoulder and breathed in the scent of the bath, the steam, the woman behind you.

“This is nice..” you admitted at last, voice gone small and sleepy.

Natasha pressed one quiet kiss to your temple. “I know.”

You closed your eyes again and one of Natasha’s hands lifted and smoothed damp hair back from your forehead, then stayed there a moment too long in the old instinctive check for fever. You leaned into the touch automatically, “You’re really worried..” you murmured.

“Yes.”

“It’s just a cold.”

“You looked half dead on my ice., Y/n.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s romantic.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“A little.”

Natasha huffed the smallest laugh and tightened her arms around you by half an inch. The room stayed warm and quiet around you and for the first time all day, with the steam softening everything sharp inside you and Natasha holding you as if the whole world could wait, you felt yourself begin to truly rest.

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