Chapter Text
“Nat, we need a lullaby!”
Clint’s voice rings as a dull echo through the comms, as Natasha’s mind is sinking, drowning, in a sea of rejection and confusion. Her eyes remain fixed on the disconnected telecoms screen where she had seen Bruce, only moments before from the Quinjet, staring blankly as she tried to make sense of what just happened.
He disconnected the call.
The Quinjet is on stealth mode.
She treaded through her thoughts, piecing together the information she had as her breath becomes short and ragged at the realisation, pulling her in deeper.
He doesn’t want to be found. He doesn’t want to come back. He doesn’t want to run away after all, not with me, anyway.
Not being wanted was formerly an idea, a theoretical concept so foreign to Natasha it felt almost similar to stories of fairy-tales Melina read to her as a child – so unbelievable, a fabricated fiction. But this felt real, almost too real, and the realisation was overwhelming.
Skilfully trained as an expert of seduction, the Black Widow always consumed her mark. But Bruce wasn’t a mark, she had let the real Natasha slip through the webs of her training, of her façade, and she had let him in, too.
There were few people Natasha truly trusted in this world; Fury, Hill, Pepper, Steve, even Tony, and despite only seeing Thor scarcely when he made his visits from Asgard, she knew she could trust him with her life. Bruce was different, like nobody she had ever met in this world. He expected nothing from her, he was content with what she offered, and in turn is what compelled her to offer more. They shared similarities - both burdened by the objective views on themselves, both wanting an escape from that weight. How foolish she had been to think it was as simple as fleeing.
The widow had spun a web and trapped herself, bitten by Banner.
She bowed her head and swallowed thickly in an attempt to recompose, clinging to the raft of Clint’s voice as he calls her name like a wailing beacon.
“Tasha!”
She blinked a few times as she disconnects from her feelings with practiced familiarity, clarity replacing the waves of unease.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“It’s about time, we need a lullaby up on deck, now!”
Her brows furrow in confusion as her fingertips reach up to hold her comms device in place, unsure if she had misheard him due to a technical fault. “But Banner’s AWOL”. She uncomfortably fought the anguish clawing away at her as she admitted the rejection aloud.
There’s muffled screaming and crying seeping in through the comms, and Natasha can’t quite make out where or who it’s coming from. It’s piercing, and violently visceral.
“It’s not Banner, but somethin’ tells me it might be worse than Code Green. We gotta’ Code Red!”
Natasha leaves behind her situational baggage with Banner on the control deck, weaving through crowds of people before leaping up the steps two at a time in a race to reach the main deck. Injured Sokovian’s were splayed out on the rafts, pooling out in groups seeking urgent medical care as former S.H.E.I.L.D agents hurried to tend to their wounds. The air thick with blood, sweat, and rubble; the chaos of a falling city below a distant echo against the sobs and shrieks sounding from the crowds on the Helicarrier. She reached up onto the tips of her toes and craned her neck to get a better vantage point in the hopes to navigate her partner, to no avail – it was too crowded, too alive with the brink of death.
A blur of red, blue, and gold suddenly blocked her line of sight, a cape flapping valiantly in the wind.
“Miss Romanoff, we are in dire need of your assistance.” Vision greeted, his voice calm and composed. “Please follow me.”
Natasha jogged behind the floating synthezoid, thankful for his ability of flight and dexterous navigation.
“I found her below as the city fell, but it seems as though she is experiencing an emotional outburst, a breakdown, perhaps?” Vision questions, twisting slightly mid-flight to question Natasha, his hands held up and out, halting her jogging.
Before she had time to fully process Vision’s question, her confusion was soon met with a bright glowing orb of red energy visible through the crowds of people, accompanied by the visceral and violent cries she heard over the comms with Clint.
She followed Vision’s now slowed form until she saw Clint – visibly injured, hunched over in pain, a look of panic and terror etched onto his fatigued features. She took half a step towards him, the innate need to help her best friend driving her forward but halted as he shook his head and dipped his chin towards the scene before her.
Wanda Maximoff, the enhanced witch mourning her dead brother Pietro – his body pierced with grimacing bullet-holes, seeping, lifeless.
It was a harrowing scene, too forlorn for Natasha to bear.
“If she doesn’t cool it, she’s gonna’ hurt everyone on the Helicarrier” Clint declared in gesture to the red orbs of energy emanating in waves from Wanda as her body shook with painful sobs. His voice tapering off as he grimaced in pain.
“Vision, get him to Maria Hill on the control deck, she has field-medic training, and get her to organise help with this. Now.” She gestured to Pietro’s body.
Vision scooped up Clint in one smooth motion before floating away, above the crowds of people and into the distance.
“Well, this is a different kind of lullaby, but sure, I’ll give it a shot” Natasha mumbled to herself as she knelt in front of the mourning Maximoff.
She knew little to nothing about the extent of Wanda’s powers, only from what she had read from Maria’s intel. It was new territory, a territory she had fell prey within once before during this mission. It had immobilised her with paralysing fear, a disorienting distress which had zapped her consciousness to her memories of the Red Room, Dreykov, and Madame B. Her thoughts were gushing red, and as her widened emerald-green eyes canvased the scene before her, she found herself encased in a different type of red. Maybe this was her fate, to be entrapped and cycled through various iterations of Red and their life-altering interpretations.
With a clenched jaw and pursed lips, Natasha reached forward, her eyes tracing her own fingertips as they apprehensively made contact with the younger woman’s shoulder.
At the delicate touch, Wanda’s eyes snapped to Natasha’s. They were red, the whites of her eyes strained with the discomfort of crying, her iris’ aflame with red energy, as tears streamed freely, weeping in contempt.
The sight was a mesmerising divergence. Glowing red eyes, a sight so captivating, yet so painful. A single tear glistened under the gleam of red, rolling gently across the expanse of her cheekbone, before dripping with a silent splash as a sob shook her frame. Natasha looked over at Pietro and only then did she notice Wanda’s fingers bunched and gripping onto his blood-stained top – her nails, fingers, and hands now tinted in a hue of red, not only from her powers.
She could hear and practically feel the fear of the Sokovian people behind her, watching on in terror at the sight before them. She needed to act, fast.
“You helped save these people, your people.” Natasha firmly states, tracing her eyes back up to connect with Wanda’s, who nods in response as her eyes flutter closed to clear her vision of tears. “Then get up, let’s keep them safe.” It’s a simple command, yet seemingly effective as Wanda follows her movements to a standing position.
Natasha raises a brow, her lips curving into a pout as she cocks her head to a side, impressed that it worked. She notices Vision floating toward them, his feet never touching the ground as he gently lifts Pietro into his arms before floating away before Wanda can process or protest.
She places both hands on either one of Wanda’s shoulders from behind and gently squeezes, guiding her trembling form through the crowds of people until they’re inside and secluded in an empty cabin.
The room is small, equipped with a small en-suite, and a single bunk which she ushers Wanda to sit on. With the tumultuous disorder of outside now a distant murmur, Wanda’s erratic breathing, and wracking sobs saturate the room in the heavy suffocation of loss and mourning. Natasha heads into the en-suite and dampens a washcloth she finds, meeting her own reflection in the mirror as she feels the cool water spill from the faucet onto her hot skin. She could feel her skin burning and clammy beneath her tactical suit as the impacted areas began to inflame and bruise – like a canvas of abrasions. She silently coaxes herself into gear, readying herself for the situation at hand, compartmentalising her own self-care.
Wanda had fought with them in the end, saved hundreds of people, and lost her person in return. However, the situation was unstable, she was unstable, and she had proven strong enough to incapacitate Natasha with crippling fear before, and undoubtedly could do it again if she so much as pleased.
Natasha blinked, refocusing her thoughts as she turned off the faucet and ringed out the washcloth. There was no time for fear. Wanda had chosen a side now, just as Natasha had many years ago after defecting to S.H.I.E.L.D. She decided to take solace in the similarity they both shared, leaving the bathroom with that finality.
She knelt in front of the weeping woman, delicately taking a hand to begin gently wiping off the blood of her fallen brother, thankful she faced no opposition to the act. Wanda’s hands felt delicate, and fragile – a stark contradiction compared to the sheer amount of power they exuded.
“W-why are you helping me?” her Sokovian accent melancholic and hesitant.
Natasha looked up to meet her teary eyes, her own soft and comforting, hands unfaltering in their movements. “It’s what we do.” She explained matter-of-factly, her voice smooth, and hopefully calming.
Wanda wipes at her tears with the back of her free hand, trembling. “But what I did… to you, to the others…”
“You were doing what you were trained to do. What you thought you needed to, to survive.” Natasha places the now clean hand on Wanda’s thigh before reaching up for the other, guiding her to look at her. “I can understand that, but you already know that.” She speaks in reference to Wanda’s mental manipulation and witnessing her time in the Red Room through a sequence of memories.
This elicits a look of confusion from Wanda, her brows furrowing slightly. “Those were memories?” Her voice is broken, tender from the sobs. “I am sorry.” She admits, coming to the realisation that the terror she forced Natasha to live through was a real-life, pre-existing memory, not an exaggerated fabrication of her fears.
“Sure is one party trick you got there.” Natasha jokes, making light of the situation to enshroud her vulnerability, her eyes now focused on clearing Wanda’s nails and rings of the last remains of blood and dirt.
Wanda doesn’t laugh, but instead respires a shaky breath, with the faintest whisper of “Pietro...”
Natasha looks up at the sound and notices the red energy has dissipated from her eyes revealing a hue of light green. Before her sat Wanda Maximoff, visibly unarmed and vulnerable.
“He died a hero, and he saved my best friend, and so many other people today.” She gently places Wanda’s clean hand atop her other, trying to busy her mind from dwelling on nearly losing Clint, again, as she feels her own pulse quicken at the thought. “He died an Avenger.”
“An Avenger.” Wanda mimics, testing how the word tastes on her tongue without malice for the first time, her eyes now locked onto Natasha’s.
“You’d be a great asset to the team, but I need you to focus. Can you do that for me?” Her brow is arched, and her perfectly plump lips curved into a soft smile as she watches tentatively for a response.
The younger woman swallows thickly as she wipes away at unfallen tears pooling in her eyes, nodding in answer.
-----------------------------------------
“Thank you.” Steve says appreciatively, his lips curved into a tight smile.
“For what?” Natasha feigns innocence.
His smile only grows at Natasha’s playful naivety. “For handling the situation with Wanda, setting up a room, she’s just a kid, we should keep an eye on her.”
“Not everyone below the state pension age is a kid, you know.” Natasha jests, smirking as she leans against the kitchen door frame in the Stark Tower.
“Very funny, Romanoff.” A blonde brow raises in response as he laughs softly. “But seriously, she’s been through a lot, she’s in a new country, with new people.”
Natasha nods, understanding the Cap’s unspoken commands, but wanting to tease him a little more. “You want me to spy on her? Keep tabs? Find out what she’s eating for breakfast tomorrow?”
Steve shakes his head, his lips curving into that trademark boy scout smile. “Be a friend. We’re all friends here, and if we want this to work, we need her on board too.”
“Aw, getting sentimental on me, Rogers?”
“We need to make her feel settled—”
“Well, that’s gonna’ be a problem.” Tony interjects, making his way over to the bar.
Steve takes a soothing breath and folds his arms across his chest, a stance Natasha has observed is mainly reserved for Tony during their minor disagreements. At least she’s here to buffer if things go south.
“Tony, come on,” He pleaded. “She fought with us; without her we would have lost. Without her brother, Clint wouldn’t have made it.” His voice was light, yet stern.
Natasha inwardly flinched at the mention of Clint. She pushed up off the doorframe and repositioned herself to lean against the bar, physically situating herself between Tony and Steve.
Tony has busied himself with making a scotch, swirling the brown liquid in his glass, the ice clinking at the edges. “Did I say anything to provoke this?” He questions, vaguely gesturing his glass towards Steve and his demeanour, glancing over at Natasha for backup.
She decides to remain silent on the situation, and instead steals Tony’s glass and begins sipping the cool liquid, deliberate and languid, feeling the satisfying burn as it hits her tongue and travels down her throat. A welcomed refuge following the events of the day.
“Her stay here will be temporary.” Tony announces, but quickly holds up both hands to halt any protest from either of them. “But so will ours.”
Natasha glances at Steve over the rim of the glass, watching his lips open and close in confusion. He wasn’t mad, or upset, just perplexed, as was she. She scrunched her brow slightly before downing the rest of the scotch and placing the glass back onto the bar.
“Well, yours actually, this is my building after all.” He grabs another glass and fills it with ice, before filling it with two fingers of scotch, smiling contently at his new, untouched, un-stolen drink. “Not yours.” He reprimands, pointing to Natasha, before sliding the bottle over to her instead. “As I was saying, now with the big guy gone— how are you feeling about that by the way?” He interrupts himself mid-sentence, twisting in a smooth ninety-degree motion to face Natasha fully. “If you need to go zucchini shopping, let me know, I’ll be your wingman.”
“Maybe I’ll ask Pepper” Natasha deflects, cocking her head to the side challengingly.
The look of bemusement is soon removed from Tony’s features as he sips his drink, blinking. “Well played, but no.”
Steve chuckles at them both, all previous tension erasing from his muscular form.
“We need new recruits,” Tony states, now seemingly back on topic. “Got anyone in mind? Rogers, how about the bird guy?”
“Sam?” He contemplates it for a moment. “I’ll ask him.”
Tony tips his glass towards him. “Good, he’s in. Rhodey’s in, of course. And then we have Baby Carrie and The Vision. I think that makes a full team, any objections from the jury?”
“None from me” Steve admits.
Natasha shakes her head, tapping her fingers against the side of her empty glass.
“See? I can play nice. I even put down a mortgage on a new place so we can all play ‘house’ with Mom and Dad.”
“What?” Steve asks clearly perplexed, and not liking where this is headed.
Natasha pours herself another scotch, waiting for Tony’s punchline, yet knowing Steve’s reaction will be the main event.
“Hill and Fury. Mom and Dad.” He answers, with a dead straight face, as he takes a calculated sip from his glass, watching in amusement as Steve’s face contorts at the realisation.
“Don’t.” He scoffs, a grimace evident.
Tony lifts his hands up in defence, playing innocent. “Don’t what? I haven’t done anything. Except made plans to convert an abandoned Stark Industries warehouse into an entire compound so we can set up shop there for our bigger, new and improved team, where you’ll all have your own rooms, a high-tech training facility, a team of scientists, a med-bay, free food, clothes, anything you could ever want or need, oh and did I mention former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents?”
“Wow, I gotta’ say, Stark, I’m impressed.”
“So you want to play house now that you get a bigger room, is that it? So shallow, Cap, really. I expected more from you.” He quips, sipping from his glass. “But seriously, we deserve a win, and I’m glad I can be the one to make it happen.”
“Anything I could ever want or need?” Natasha questions in a suggestive tone, a brow arched.
Tony refills his glass before beginning his exit, stepping backwards out of the kitchen. “Almost anything, I can’t get you another Hulk— too soon?” He grimaces slightly at his own ill-timed joke before disappearing, shouting out, “I’ll keep you posted on the moving date!”.
“Nat…” Steve tries, taking a step towards her, leaning against the bar. He knows from experience to approach with caution in the event of emotional vulnerability.
Her jaw clenches in response. If there was one person she could let her guard down for, it was Steve. He radiated warmth, strength, positivity, and a sense of safety she had never experienced before meeting him. He was also extremely professional and lived life by a strict code of conduct on and off the field – she knew that whatever she confided in him would stay between the two of them. They shared a bond; one she was quite fond of.
“I was actually angling for a better suit, mine could use an upgrade.”
“He could come back; we don’t know where he went.” He consoles, ignoring her deflection.
Natasha shrugs, eyeing the bottle of scotch for a third drink, the deep amber liquid a tempting siren, calling her to the depths of insobriety. She blinks and averts her gaze back to Steve. “He won’t. He wanted to disappear.”
Steve’s face softens as realisation dawns. “With you?”
“Does it matter?” There’s an inflection in her voice, it’s in challenge, but not to Steve. To herself.
“I need to know if you’re thinking about disappearing too.” His face is solemn now, serious. He needs to know how much of a toll this will take on his leading lady. He deeply cared for Natasha, but it was hard being there for her when the barriers she used as blockades were stronger than vibranium most of the time.
“Don’t worry, Rogers. I’m exactly where I need to be. This is my home; I’m not going anywhere.” She admits firmly.
He nods, content with the little pieces of her she’s sharing with him but knows too well not to pry too deep. “Goodnight, Nat.” He dips his head in all his chivalrous glory before making his ascent to his room for the night.
“Goodnight, Steve.”
She remained at the bar for a short period after, soothed by the tranquillity of silence, and solace. Natasha adored her alone time, as infrequent as it was living in the Stark Tower with her teammates, being away on missions, or spending her off days running drills or training. Despite this, she couldn’t quite imagine life without them, any of them. Bruce had been ready and willing to evacuate the fight in Sokovia, to leave the team and the civilians without their help – they clearly had starkly opposing views on many things.
This is for the best, she conceded.
--------------------------------------
“Wanda, are you ready for a good, old fashioned, hearty, American breakfast?” Steve enthuses as he flips an egg as Wanda enters the kitchen.
Natasha had arrived in the kitchen a little after Steve, she found comfort in watching him cook. There was something soothing about watching a super soldier fry bacon and flip pancakes – an enhanced master of war, domesticated. She began languidly sipping at her hot coffee, the heady scent invigorating, as it gently awakened her senses from the hazy depths of sleep.
“What is a hearty American breakfast?” Wanda asked as she took a seat at the kitchen island opposite Natasha. The delicate skin under her eyes were dusted shades of purple, and puffy - it was evident she hadn’t slept, and had spent most of the night crying.
Steve placed the eggs onto a growing pile beside the pancakes he had made earlier, before carefully placing two slices of bacon into the same pan. The oil sizzled and popped. “The best breakfast in the world, obviously. Bacon, eggs, pancakes, coffee.” He turned down the heat as the oil began spluttering up towards him.
Natasha placed down her steaming cup before grabbing an empty one from the island centre and heading to the coffee machine on the counter beside Steve. She watched the molten brown liquid pool to the top of the cup, feeling the porcelain heat like a furnace against her fingers. She grasped the handle, and turned towards the island, leaning over Wanda to place the mug in front of her, her free hand resting on her shoulder.
“Thank you.” She murmured, glancing back at Natasha.
“No problem, but careful, it’s hot.” Natasha comfortingly squeezed her shoulder before resuming her position on her chair. It was strange – how dangerous and threatening Wanda had appeared as she clawed Natasha to shreds from the depths of her memories with a flick of her fingers back at the shipyard. Yet now, watching her from across the island, she bore witness to the harmlessness in the green of her eyes, and the frailty of her shaking hands as she contentedly accepted the coffee.
Steve stacked three plates with far too much food, leaving copious amounts on the counter for whoever so happened to stumble into the kitchen that morning. “So, what’s a typical European breakfast?” He directed at Wanda, genuinely intrigued.
“Coffee and cigarettes.” She drawled in her thick accent, as she brought her coffee cup to her lips and sipped, her weary eyes fluttering closed at the warm, molten, comfort.
He placed a plate for each of them on the island, accompanied by cutlery. His movements faltering as his eyes shot disbelievingly towards Natasha at this newfound revelation.
Natasha shrugged, a laugh tugging at her lips. “She’s not wrong.”
“Sometimes maybe vodka, it depends where in Europe.” Wanda added, looking over at Natasha. There was a ghost of amusement painted across her pained features. It was pleasing to Natasha to see a glimmer of hope left in the younger woman, that the darkness hadn’t yet swallowed her whole, hadn’t yet consumed her.
The three of them made comfortable small talk throughout breakfast, about everything yet nothing at all. It was conversational, yet nothing of real, true substance. Natasha was thankful, as her thoughts had pulled her away from the present and pushed her into the dark corner of her mind where the Red Room resided. She couldn’t help but draw similarities between herself and Wanda – she had lost Yelena, not in the same, harrowing way that Wanda had lost Pietro, but she had lost her sister to the Black Widow programme – not knowing where or who she was now, and she had grieved at such a young age, with nobody there to provide comfort. With nobody there to help.
She took a deliberate sip of her coffee, her eyes now zoning in on Wanda - the object of her thoughts – talking with Steve about an old timey American sitcom they both enjoyed watching.
“I didn’t know kids your age still watched that show!” Steve proclaimed in amusement, genuinely happy to have found a shared interest.
“I am 26 years old; I am not a kid.” Wanda rebuffed, cocking her head to one side.
Steve held his hands out in defence, laughing as he dips his head to hide the blush forming at his own mistaken use of words.
“Don’t listen to him, unless you’re retired, you’re practically an infant. Right, Grandpa?” Natasha teases, nudging his shoulder playfully as she watches the blush on Steve’s cheeks tinge a deeper shade of pink.
Wanda laughs, but its distant, almost detached as she watches the exchange between her new mentors. “You joke like siblings.” She begins nervously twisting the rings on her right forefinger, the movements intentionally slow, and shaky, her eyes downcast and avoiding direct eye contact. “Thank you for breakfast, but I’m going back to my room now.” Her voice began to crack.
Steve stands on instinct, his chair scrapping against the tiled flooring – always ready and willing to help, his protectiveness on a permanent stand-by. His aims were soon quashed as the kitchen door slammed shut in a blaze of red energy at the hand of their newest recruit.
“I think she wants some alone time.” Natasha said as she leaned back in her chair, elegantly placing her legs up onto the kitchen island besides Steve’s plate.
He frowned at her posture, expelling a breath of feigned annoyance. “Table manners.”
“We’re not at a table.” She countered, crossing her arms and leaning back further, a smirk etching its way across her lips.
Steve began clearing the table and piling everything into the dishwasher, waving Natasha off as she began to help. “I don’t think alone time is what she needs right now.”
“How do you know what she needs? Everybody has their own way of coping.” Despite this, she knew Steve was right. Isolation during a time like this was an imperilment – with wounds left open and unable to heal at the hands of the harmed.
The jets within the dishwasher begin spluttering, soon evening out into a calming thrum of mechanical waves behind Steve as he leaned atop the kitchen island, innocently nudging Natasha’s foot out of the way. “That’s my concern. We don’t know what she needs, or how she copes, or if she can control her powers in this state of mind.” He sighs, a hand coming up to scratch at his chin in thought.
“Steve, she just lost the only person she had to a robot. I think she’s doing a pretty great job at holding it together for now, don’t you?” She asks, crossing one ankle atop the other.
“Well, when you put it that way.” He concurs, his blue eyes brightening as the cogs in his mind click into gear. “When’s Barton back?”
“In about a month, he wanted some time with Lara and the kids. Miss him already, Rogers?” She toys, her voice low. She took substantial enjoyment in teasing the solder.
He laughs, rolling his eyes in amusement. “We should put together a training schedule for the new recruits, it’d be good to have the whole team here to run through preliminaries. For now, I think its best if she observes, and we’ll take it from there when we have everyone in.”
“You got it, Boss.”
-----------------------------------
One week later, Sam arrives at Stark Tower, unfortunately for Steve with no new leads on Bucky. However, he’s more than ecstatic to approach Sam regarding becoming an Avenger, with which he was met with a booming, over-excited reaction.
“It’s about damn time! You know I was only playin’ it cool when I said Avenging was your world. I want in on this too, man. Wow. When do I start? Do I get to move in? My apartments pretty small, and this place is…” He trails off looking around at his surroundings in awe at Tony’s lounge area where they currently were, and the Avengers current living arrangements.
Steve laughs, his smile bright and kind – his happiness visibly emanating, as he firmly pats Sam on the back twice. “Well, how’s your day looking?”
“As of two minutes ago, I’m all yours!”
“Then you’ll start today. How do you feel about running some combat drills with Nat?” Steve questions, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.
Sam nods enthusiastically, his likening towards Natasha not having gone unnoticed during their first encounter. “If she can handle it.” He quips, his confidence unwavering.
“Oh, I’m sure I can handle it.” Natasha counters, sauntering up behind Sam at that precise moment, dressed in her hand-to-hand combat training gear – barefoot, black gym leggings and a sports bra. “Can you?” She asks, cocking her head slightly.
“Yeah… I can handle it.” His voice wavers slightly at her sudden appearance, his former cockiness fizzling.
She takes a step closer, challenging, tempting. “Are you sure about that, Sam?”
“Play nice.” Steve muses, enjoying this momentary entertainment.
“I can play, but I can’t promise I’ll be nice.” Natasha teasingly counters, her green eyes flittering to Steve and then back to Sam as he squirms. “See you on the mats.”
“Let’s get you settled in first, I’ll show you to your room.” Steve begins as Natasha turns to make her exit.
Sam watches Natasha walk away, waiting for her to be far enough out of earshot before turning back to Steve. “She’s gonna’ kick my ass.”
“Yes I am!” She calls back before rounding the corner, eliciting a laugh from Steve.
Natasha decides to use this window of opportunity before training to check on Wanda. After the slight episode at breakfast days ago, things had settled down and resumed as normal – as normal as could be given the circumstances. Wanda continued joining them at mealtimes, and would often approach reserved, silent, and somewhat reluctant to be in their company. But as time passed, she relaxed slightly, the faintest of a smile ghosting her lips; until something happened – a trigger, usually. Which would send her back to her room in a blaze of red. Natasha had been diligently trying to monitor these occurrences to distinguish what was triggering the young witch so that she could attempt to alleviate some of the pain.
She had followed Wanda to her room after some of the more troubling instances in which tears were sure to follow but was met with a door slammed in her wake, or a very insistent “I want to be alone!” yelled through the walls. After experiencing first-hand, the wrath of the witch, Natasha knew not to pry nor push against the walls she had built, in fear of being flayed once more.
She padded barefoot against the plush carpet of the top residential floor of Stark Tower and across the hall towards Wanda’s room. It was quiet, with its only two residents being the only two women on the team. She liked it this way – the boys were loud, obnoxious, and messy. Before Wanda’s arrival, Natasha enjoyed basking in the tranquillity of it all – of the space, the freedom, the peace. As of one week ago however, the tranquillity had been smothered in a deep, consuming sadness. It asphyxiated the air, muffled the silence with heart-breaking cries as the walls trembled with convulsing sobs.
It was disquieting, as for the past week Natasha had lay awake in bed at night, listening to the sounds of Wanda’s wailing over the downpour of rain against her bedroom window, unable to help.
She braced herself as she gently rapped against the door twice, awaiting an answer from the room’s occupant.
“Come in.” The voice weakly greeted.
Natasha’s brows rose at the welcome invitation – this was new, and a drastic improvement. She opened the door, closing it gently behind her, not wanting to startle Wanda in her fragile state.
She was perched upon her unmade bed, cross legged among a sea of blankets, wearing a loose-fitting hoodie with her hair tied back, a few strands of loose hairs delicately framing her face, her hands anxiously toying with her rings.
“You let me in.” Natasha announces, her voice low and soft as she takes a seat on the side of the bed facing the younger woman. She notices the whites of her eyes are clear with no visible signs of recent weeping. Another drastic improvement.
“Sometimes it’s better not to be alone.” Wanda mutters, taking in a slow breath, expelling through her mouth as her lips part slightly.
Natasha’s eyes flitter down to Wanda’s hands, which have stalled their anxious, fidgeting movements as they lay placid atop one another in her lap. “If you ever don’t want to be alone, just let me know, okay?”
Wanda nods as her eyes flicker over to meet Natasha’s. “At least you knock. Vision just floats through the walls.” She brings up a hand to vaguely gesture at the far wall connected to the hall.
“He is a week old; he hasn’t been house trained yet. He’s like a rescue puppy in a new home.” Natasha jokes, feeling the atmosphere of the room mellow and lighten as Wanda dips her head and laughs. It’s faint, but it’s there, and its pleasing, and its unmistakably beautiful.
“You’re funny.” Wanda registers, her lips still curved into a soft smile.
“I can be if it means you’ll smile more.” She raises a brow, her plump pink lips now mirroring the sight before her.
Wanda’s cheeks tinge a subtle pink as she dips her head once more, her smile blooming.
“I’m about to run combat drills with Sam.” Natasha changes the topic of conversation now that she’s content with Wanda’s new and flourishing mood.
The witch’s brows furrow slightly as she tries to place the name. “Sam?”
“He’s a friend, a good one. He’s been there for me and Steve, and now he’s an Avenger, just like you.” She watches Wanda’s reaction carefully, monitoring each minute change in body language, any differences in breathing pattern, the dilation of her pupils – unsure of how she would react to change in her current disposition.
“You trust him.” It isn’t a question, but an observation.
Natasha nods once in affirmation, her tone low and serious. “We only let people in who we can trust.”
Wanda’s blue eyes flicker to Natasha’s, solemn yet curious. “Do you trust me?” The question is heavy, open, and laden with an understanding of the unspoken words.
“You haven’t given me a reason not to. Not since you defected.” Her tone is even and steady as she eludes the question whilst satisfying Wanda’s anxious curiosity, her eyes never breaking contact. Natasha did not trust easily, and for the most part, she didn’t trust at all. However, Wanda had lost more than any of them had on any of their missions so far. A sacrifice as raw, and palpable as that warranted the key to her vault of trust.
The woman before her nodded in understanding, a shadow of culpability evident in her eyes at the hidden meaning of Natasha’s words, of what she did in the shipyard.
“Just don’t go floating through any more walls.” Natasha gently tapped at Wanda’s right temple with her left index finger, mimicking her abilities, her manner light and toying as she referenced their former joke.
At that, her smile returned, yet her eyes remained sincere. “I promise, I won’t.”
----------------------------------------------
True to her word, she did kick Sam’s ass. More than once.
Sam’s back hit the black training mats with a dulled thud, sending a low echo through the training room; but before he had a chance to even register the pain, Natasha flipped him over so that he was faced down, with a forearm expertly locked around his neck, and a hand placed on the back of his head, holding him in a gripped headlock.
He squirmed slightly, the muscles in his neck tensing under the pressure, unable to worm his way out of the Widow’s web. “You really weren’t joking when you said you weren’t gonna’ play nice.” He managed to choke out, his voice strained and an octave higher than its usual state.
Natasha smirked. “This is me playing nice.” At that she launched a knee off the ground and landed it flat against his middle back whilst using her arms to angle his upper torso up further towards her body, eliciting a lengthy groan, followed by the repetitive smack of his hand against the mat, signalling a tap-out.
She slowly released all three grips that she held him in, careful not to release too quickly and cause any real harm – they were only training after all. She had victoriously caused Sam to tap out five times within a forty-five-minute time span, despite this, he deemed a worthy training partner: he was fast on his feet, well trained (as expected with his military background) and analysed her moves as well as she did his.
“This was a lot of fun; we should do it again sometime.” She said, offering him a hand to help him to his feet, her voice sincere. Sam was now lying flat on the mat, his grey training top soaked with sweat, his limbs splayed out resembling a star, as his chest heaved, and lungs sought refuge.
“I need a minute.” He smacked her palm with his before letting his arm drop back down to the mat.
She laughed and walked over to an empty space where she had placed her towel and water bottle, relishing in the icy condensation which coated the bottle against the sweaty, flaming palm of her hand as she picked it up. As she pulled open the sports cap with her teeth and began devouring the cool, hydrating liquid, she could sense she was being watched. There were only four people in the training room right now including herself. Steve had been sat with Wanda – debriefing her about Sam and his wingsuit. But he was now sat with Sam on the mat, running through improvements to be made to his training. This left one person. Wanda.
With the sports cap still tucked between her lips, and the water flowing deliciously through her, she flicked her eyes over to where Wanda was sat perched on a bench against the back wall just left of the combat-training mats. Their eyes met, and the younger woman smiled over at Natasha. It was warm yet refreshing. It was a new smile she hadn’t yet seen on her, and she could count on her fingers the number of times she’d seen Wanda smile since moving in. She pulled the bottle from her lips and whacked it closed with her free hand, as she strode over to the smiling woman. Her feet felt sticky against the linoleum floor, as she suddenly became overtly aware of how warm she had become as a result of her training.
“Enjoy the show?” She asked as she tousled her hair back into place, as a few strands had escaped and were now sticking to her clammy forehead.
“I don’t think that was a fair fight.” Wanda mused, looking over at a still very dishevelled Sam, who had now taken his water and poured it over his head, flicking some at an innocent and shocked Steve who flinched. “But it was fun to watch.”
A witty remark about joining her on the mats next time flirted at the tip of her lips, but it felt… off, misplaced, and empty. So instead, she swallowed the comment and kept the conversation pure. “We’ll have you combat ready and prepped for the field in no time.”
“You do know I could just move you with my mind, right?” Wanda challenged, her iris’ now aflame in red as she raised a hand, expertly weaving a small orb of energy through her slender fingers.
Natasha watched for a moment, intrigued to see it up close without fear of endangerment. “No powers allowed in combat training.” She kept her eyes trained on the orb, watching it dissipate at Wanda’s will.
“That is hardly fair.” She dropped her hand as the blue of her eyes washed out the flames of red. “Combat training is your powers.”
“Among other things… It’s what I was trained to do, how I was trained to operate. But I’ve learned a lot since my first day with S.H.I.E.L.D, and even more since training with these guys.” She said tilted her head in the direction of Steve, but in reference to the Avengers in general.
Wanda remained silent for a short moment; her eyes contemplative as she studied Natasha standing before her. “Can I do it with you?”
“Combat training?” She knew what Wanda was referring to, but she wanted clarification and hoped her own question would prompt elaboration.
“Training with Strucker was… difficult.” Natasha notices the soft green of Wanda’s eyes glaze over as they become lost in a distant memory. “It wasn’t really training at all.” Her pink lips contort into a tight pout as her jaw clenches, her eyes jerk closed as the muscles in her neck twitch in reflex of reliving the events, if only through memory.
Natasha carefully observed the scene unfolding before her, a scene she had witnessed played by many girls, orchestrated at the hands of Dreykov and Madam B. during the Widow Programme. A scene she had starred in many times before herself. She was painfully aware of the inhumane, torturous, experiments conducted on Wanda and her brother at the Hydra base in Sokovia by Strucker. The trauma, terror, and pain afflicted by such harrowing experiences never truly diminishes. It remains within you, residing in the darkest corners of your entity, gnawing, and clawing until it pierces through with such a guttural ache, you’re left debilitated and yearning for a way to forget and a reason to move on, any reason at all.
She takes a seat beside Wanda on the bench, a hand tentatively resting on the younger woman’s knee in an act of comfort. It seems to ground her and bring her back to the present moment, away from memories of experimentation, mourning, of Hydra.
Wanda’s eyes flutter open and focus on Natasha’s beside her. “I trust you.”
There’s a delicate tilt to her accent, her eyes searching and evocative. Having suffered so greatly and lost so much, Natasha understood that trust must not be an easy belief for her to hold, or to have away from the safety of her brother. The weight of the admission roots them in the moment as the vulnerability swirls between them like a delicate flurry of wind – almost tangible.
“I won’t give you a reason not to.” She promises, soft but firm, her voice barely penetrating the gentle gust of vulnerability shrouding them.
Wanda nods, the tense muscles in her neck visibly relaxing and her jaw unclenching.
Chapter 2
Summary:
affectionately touch-starved Natasha? I think yes.
Chapter Text
The charming sounds of children playing resonated like a melody through her phone as she watched Clint’s face appear on-screen as he connected the video-call. Natasha found herself smiling warmly as her friend’s face appeared with the backdrop of his family home – a family who had accepted her as their own; a home which she could call her own when, and if she wanted, or needed. That fact alone provided her with more comfort than she could ever vocalise, maybe even more than she could ever admit to herself; but Clint and Laura knew how much it meant to her, and how much they both meant to her, and Natasha was content with that acknowledgement.
“Is that auntie Nat?” She heard Lila’s endearing voice before Clint had even registered that the call had connected. She watched as he angled the phone towards his daughter.
“Hey honey,” Natasha warmly greeted as an excited waving Lila appeared on the screen. “I miss you more than I miss your dad, just don’t tell him, okay?” She faux whispered, feeling her heart swell as Lila beamed before disappearing out of view, seemingly satisfied having seen Natasha if only for a few seconds.
“Why does she like you more than me?” Clint jokes as he flips the camera back to front view so that he is now at the centre of attention.
Natasha smirks, stifling a laugh. “Maybe I’m just cooler than you.”
“Yeah whatever, I’ve still got Cooper.” Clint feigns jealousy, clearly amused.
Natasha sat cross-legged atop her bed, clothed in simple training gear – a black tank top and khaki leggings, her running shoes neatly discarded by her bedroom door. It was mid-morning, with soft hues of amber streaming in through the blinds, lighting her room in a warm ember.
Sam had wanted to go over some grappling techniques with her after breakfast, before team training later that afternoon. It had become somewhat of a new routine for them since his initial defeat on the mat’s weeks ago, two to be exact. Natasha appreciated having Sam as a new training partner – Steve would always hold back, afraid of hurting her with his super soldier strength, and Tony would rarely attend team training when it was combat drills. Natasha also didn’t want to succumb to her untimely demise whilst practicing Brazilian Jiu Jitsu with Bruce nor Thor.
“How’s Laura doing?”
Clint smiles, his eyes twinkling at the mention of his wife. Natasha notices but decides to admire this adoration as opposed to teasing him about it. “She’s still super pregnant.”
“How many days now until the little traitor is born?” She jokes, in reference to the would-be baby Natasha.
“Anytime this month.” Clint laughs, as he looks off to the side as Cooper runs through the house wielding a toy Captain America shield. “Maybe I’ll be Nathaniel’s favourite, ‘cause I’m surrounded by traitors!” He calls out playfully as his son disappears into another room. “Speakin’ of traitors, any news on Banner?”
Natasha blinked and averted Clint’s attentive gaze – which she so happened found to be much more difficult virtually – where else is there to look except at the person connected to the call? “No sign of him yet.”
Clint shakes his head disapprovingly as he brings his phone closer to his face, his voice a little quieter. “Listen, Nat. The man’s got issues, and I’m not sayin’ that’s a bad thing, ‘cause you and I, and pretty much everyone else does too, it’s just—”
“You deserve better, is what he’s trying to say.” Laura interjects as she leans over the sofa behind clint, pressing a loving kiss to the top of his head, her arms draping down his torso. Her smile is warm and gentle, and Natasha was certain her demeanour would assuage any turmoil she felt at the topic of conversation – if there was any.
Natasha had accepted Bruce’s actions. Betrayal is something she knew well; it was something she grew accustomed to. It didn’t get any easier with frequented familiarity, but she knew how to compartmentalise – in the depths of her mind lay a thousand boxes to be left unopened. So, she had caged the Hulk, and boxed him into her brain amid the rest of them.
Laura chastised Clint for leaving the dining room in a mess before waving goodbye and disappearing into another room.
“Dining room? So, you actually knocked out the east wall?” Natasha questioned, surprised, yet simultaneously not at all. Although thankful for the conversational shift.
“Well yeah, I gotta’ keep busy somehow.”
“Having a family and being an Avenger doesn’t keep you busy enough?” She questioned; a brow raised.
Clint nonchalantly shrugged, although his features were graced with an air of superiority. “I’m a man of many talents."
“Then start utilising those talents, please!” Laura called, Natasha suspects from their now disarrayed dining room.
“Okay before I go, I have a favour to ask.” Clint utters, looking over his shoulder in the direction of his wife. “Laura and I want to name the baby Nathaniel Pietro Barton. But we wanna’ make sure it’s okay with Wanda before we do it officially. If it’s not, we won’t do it. But after what he did for me, we think it’s the right thing to do…”
“I’ll ask her for you.” Natasha states, already pre-emptively knowing what Clint was about to ask. It’s a lovely gesture, and she finds her lips curving into a soft smile at the thought.
“Thanks Nat. See you soon, stay out of trouble.”
“Don’t ask me to do things I can’t promise.” She jests before disconnecting the call.
Natasha inhaled a deep breath before standing and leaving her room, making her way downstairs to the kitchen. Wanda had settled into somewhat of a routine the past few weeks since moving into Stark Tower, and mid-mornings is where she could be found drinking coffee and reading - comfortably perched on a stall at the kitchen island, completely immersed within a world of her own, drifting between the present and the metaphorical imagery of the stories she adored.
As she rounded the corner and breached the doorway, she was met with a disorderly baritone humming of what she recognised as a classic rock song.
“Miss Rushman, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Tony greets as he turns in her direction, sensing someone entering.
Natasha cocks a brow in his direction before he turns his back to her and begins pouring fresh coffee into an empty mug before him on the counter.
“I’m not here for you.” She admits, walking over to Wanda who is sat at the kitchen island opposite Tony, her book laid flat against the grey marble, accompanied by a coffee mug which she soon notices is empty - the bottom a muddy pool of dredged caffeine.
“How unfortunate.” Tony responds, his voice airy and distant – otherwise preoccupied with now rummaging through the cupboards on a quest for snacks – packets rustling and doors clicking closed in his wake.
Sensing a distracted Tony, Natasha swiftly swaps his full mug of coffee with Wanda’s empty one. She flashes a playful wink at a confused Wanda who smiles in amusement and goes back to innocently reading her book as if nothing has happened.
Tony turns around, a satisfied smile now painting his lips at his victorious quest for adequate sustenance. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I have some tinkering to do on the helipad—” He reaches out to grab his cup of coffee, his smile retreating as he notices what has happened. “Romanoff…”
“Yes?” Natasha questions innocently as she gracefully glides up onto the kitchen island, now with her feet positioned on the stall beside Wanda.
His eyes trail towards the lone mug on the island, the swirls of steam flittering up into the air, enshrouding Wanda in a faint cloud of warmth. “You know what, never mind. But I’m banning you from any and all suit upgrades. How do you feel about that? You take my coffee; I take your toys.” He questions rhetorically, his tone clipped but teasing, as he makes his departure with his snacks in tow sans coffee. “And feet off the furniture!”
“Can he do that?” Wanda asks, looking up from her book and taking a sip of her stolen beverage now that they’re in the clear.
Natasha shrugs, her lips pressed into a downturned pout, resting her arms on her knees. “He could if he wanted to, but he won’t.”
Wanda smiles in amusement; her features soft, and her eyes gentle as she emanates a sense of stillness. It’s something Natasha has experienced whenever Wanda is reading – it’s calming, and invitingly warm, and causes Natasha to smile impulsively. “What are you reading?” She asks, genuinely intrigued, and pleased by the younger woman’s current frame of mind. Natasha found Wanda’s re-telling of whichever novel she was reading to be quite enjoyable. She found the intricate differences between readers perceptions fascinating. She counts this as the fifth novel the younger woman has finished reading since arriving.
Wanda divulges the events of the novel so far. It is not a book which Natasha has read, but she knows enough about it to engage in conversation if the need arose, for the purpose of a mission, for example. Despite this, she listens intently at Wanda’s exposition, resting her chin in the palm of her hand as her elbow balances on her knee.
“—but something tells me you’re not here to talk about the book.” Wanda figures amidst the re-telling of her story.
Natasha smiles, masking the sensation of nerves prickling at her skin, like a faint buzzing of electricity, as she realises this could go one of two ways – one of which could very well end in tears and anguish or a blaze of red. “No, I wanted to talk to you about something—”
She trails off as she hears footsteps approaching, not wanting to be interrupted during such a delicate topic of discussion, and watches Wanda turn slightly towards the door in anticipation. Nobody enters the kitchen, and the sounds of footsteps retreat in the distance.
“It’s a question, actually.” Natasha begins again, regaining Wanda’s attention as she turns to face her fully, her green eyes looking up at Natasha perched on the kitchen island.
“What question do you have for me?” Wanda questions herself as Natasha almost tangibly feels the sense of stillness begin to waver as the faint buzzing penetrates deeper.
“Clint and Laura are having another baby soon, and they want to know how you feel about the name Nathaniel Piertro Barton. I thought it might help comfort you knowing in some way he’s still—”
“Comfort me?” Wanda interrupts, her question rhetorical and her voice dampened with sudden emotion.
The buzzing begins zapping at her.
Natasha remains silent, not wanting to further upset the woman before her as she watches the soft green hues of her eyes gloss over, and her throat move as she swallows thickly to contain the unshed tears.
“The only thing that would bring me comfort is seeing him again.” Wanda speaks, her nostrils flaring as she takes a noticeably deep breath, but its unsteady and doesn’t seem calming at all. “I feel completely alone without him.” She admits aloud, the words escaping in a choked sob.
Natasha tentatively reaches up to place a hand on Wanda’s shoulder - to provide comfort regardless of her statement - but misses as the younger woman moves before she can, brushing her off.
“Don’t.”
“Wanda…” Natasha tries, her voice barely above a whisper as she senses she is about to breach the realm of inconsolable if the situation isn’t mediated soon.
Wanda doesn’t respond, and instead stands up and out of the stool. Her breathing becomes heavier and distressed as her shoulders undulate with each painful breath as she tries not to sob. She holds up a shaking hand in a silent plea for Natasha to stop, her fingertips glowing faintly with red orbs of energy. She means no harm – it’s not a threat. It’s an uncontrolled response to her emotional outburst which Natasha can see she’s struggling with.
“Alright, okay.” She concedes, holding up both of her hands in surrender not knowing what else to do as she felt her own pulse quicken – her fight or flight response activated at the sight of red. She watches Wanda carefully, her emerald eyes alight with concern for the younger woman.
Wanda averts eye contact and heads towards the door in search for solace to continue grieving in peace, and Natasha’s stomach swoops nauseatingly with the knowledge that she caused this. She was the reason for Wanda’s pain, the reason she almost lost control, the reason the stillness had been naïvely unsettled.
How naïve she had been - to think she could mention her fallen sibling so soon, and not expect her world to slip once more.
Tactfulness was a skill Natasha had honed during her formative years in her Widow training. She knew exactly how to act in any given situation, she knew exactly what to say when the need arose, and she knew exactly who, and what, and where to avoid, when apparent.
She was an expert at this, in all of it. When emotions weren’t perceptible – whether it be her own, or those of another she cared for. Feelings were intricate, and lawless and did not follow a systematic approach – like webs, haphazardly woven.
If Natasha had been tasked with emotional manipulation, seduction, or subterfuge (to name a few), she could mask herself with an alias and without forethought complete her task seamlessly, despite the emotional baggage of her mark. As it bore no weight on her own intricate web of sentiments – without an emotional connection she felt nothing. Work is work – a mark is a mark – a mission is a mission.
Wanda wasn’t a mark and helping her heal wasn’t a mission, however. Natasha felt her body pervade with a deep, visceral sense of empathy as it suffocated the buzzing, leaving her skin feeling bleak and consumed with regret.
She had failed to proactively consider the discernible effect of the mention of Pietro on Wanda’s healing, fragile state. After weeks of attempting, and sometimes successfully being there to provide comfort in Wanda’s darker moments, she had become the cause of the pain she consoled.
Natasha padded across the cool linoleum flooring of the training room, feeling the muscles in the arches of her feet flex and extend with each step, the muscles tense and aching from running drills earlier that morning.
It smelled musky, like weathered heavy bags and sour jockstraps – it was clear the boys had been training for a while without her. She crinkled her nose at the churning stench as she neared the mats; muffled thuds rang out into the space, echoing distantly as gloves hit pads from within the ring to the right of the training room.
She closed her eyes and focused on the rhythmic pad-work combination resonating from the training ring, as she elegantly sat and folded forward to reach for her toes - stretching her hamstring muscles. The sound was soothing despite its brutal purpose, it grounded her in the moment as she found solace in the company of Sam and Steve.
“Hey Nat, nice of you to join us.” Steve called out, his voice steady and even as he held pads for Sam, showing no signs of exertion at all.
“Yeah! It’s about time. I need some level competition!” Sam called out between exasperated breathing as he continued his work, the gloves hitting the pads as the rhythmic pattern becomes arduous and sloppy.
Natasha smirked knowingly to herself before standing up and climbing to the edge of the ring, wrapping an arm around the top rope for comfort, directing her words towards Sam.
“I don’t know if you know, but the first time I stepped in this ring, I floored Happy.” Her lips curve into a sly smile, watching as Sam halts his assault on the pads to listen. “In 10 seconds, maybe even less.” She adds for dramatic effect, watching the beads of sweat drip from Sam’s angular features.
Sam dramatically turns back to Steve, his head cocked to the side and his lips agape in revelation. “Is there anything I’m better at than she is? I mean, she can’t fly… right?” He questions aloud, knowing Natasha is mere feet from him.
Steve chuckles as he begins removing the pads from his hands, ceasing the drill. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Get me a wingsuit and let’s find out.” Natasha counters playfully, her smirk only brightening.
Sam vehemently shakes his head, tiny beads of sweat splashing in a 90-degree motion as he does. “Nuh-uh.”
“Why? You afraid of a little competition?” Natasha challenges, her voice lowering an octave as she asks, “Scared you’ll lose at your own game?”
Sam chews on his tongue for a moment, watching her in contemplation before swiftly turning to Steve. “Let’s get her a wingsuit.”
“No, absolutely not.” Steve chastises, although clearly amused at their antics. “Besides, we have some training to do”. He turns to the left, his eyes searching the bench to the far wall in search of the other recruit but comes up short. “Have you seen Wanda?” He directs toward Natasha.
Her eyes meet Steve’s, communicating in a way her words cannot in the presence of Sam, with a slight shake of her head.
Steve smiles, its tight lipped - his worry clear. “Alright then, let’s get to it.”
“Bring it, Hilary Swank” Sam goads towards Natasha, punching his own gloves together tauntingly.
Steve cocks his head to one side, his lips forming a pout as his brows scrunch together slightly – clearly perplexed. “I don’t understand that reference.” He admits.
“Million Dollar Baby.” Both Natasha and Sam explain the movie reference in unison.
Steve just shakes his head, the perplexed pout still playing on his lips. “I still don’t get it.”
“Because you haven’t seen the movie, you fossil.” Natasha jests, smirking.
Sam laughs into his right glove as he uses his teeth to tear apart the wrist strap, using his now free hand to grab his water bottle placed on the corner stool, sighing contentedly as the cool liquid hydrates him.
“Should I? Is it a good movie?”
Sam chugs the last of his water hastily, eager to use the moment to taunt Steve a little more. “Yeah, but there’s this cool new thing in movies and tv now called colour, oh and there’s words too. Movies aren’t silent anymore”
“Ha-ha, very funny.” Steve counters sarcastically through a smile, handing the pads to Natasha so that they can begin their training drills.
“We need a movie night; you have homework to do.” Sam states, pointing at Steve with a gloved hand.
Steve shrugs in contemplation. “I wouldn’t really call pop-culture homework. But sure, a movie night sounds great, let’s set a date”
“You’re so formal.” Natasha notes as she slips her hands into each pad respectively, using the flat end to push down the tops so that they’re comfortably on.
“What?” Steve asks, holding out his hands. “This is how people make plans.”
Natasha takes a languorous, steamy shower. The deliciously warm water sprays down onto her skin as it washes away the physical and mental exertion of the day, cleansing her wholly – rejuvenating her anew.
She closes her eyes in gratification as she feels the water spray onto the top of her head as it begins its descent down the short length of her red hair, before hitting the taught muscles in her shoulders. She rolls them a few times – up, back, and down, then repeat. Easing the tension away as it dissipates into the steam and flitters away into the warm atmosphere of the bathroom.
Once dressed and ready to join her team for dinner, Natasha feels the post-shower serenity begin to fade as her mind subconsciously drifts to thoughts of Wanda.
There have been a few instances in which Wanda had skipped dinner due to her delicate disposition at the time, and Natasha was certain tonight would be one of those nights. Nobody had seen nor heard her since their conversation in the kitchen earlier that morning: she hadn’t joined them for lunch, or attended training, and the book she was happily immersed within had been abandoned on the kitchen island where she had left it – forgotten, and lonely.
Natasha found herself heading to the kitchen to retrieve the book before her mind finalised its contemplation. She’s met with the sweet, tangy aroma of what she assumes is pasta sauce as she crosses the threshold into the kitchen, her mouth watering slightly at the prospect of food. The energy in the room is bright, and somewhat chaotic in the most wholesome way as Steve and Vision were both chatting animatedly over pots on the stove, with all counter-tops overflowing with cooking clutter.
“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Sam questions as he weaves his way around the kitchen island to whisper conspiratorially to her, using his half empty beer bottle to gesture towards Vision at the stove.
Natasha takes a moment to contemplate as she watches the synthezoid stir the thick, red, sauce. Before she has a chance to offer her opinion, Sam continues, “I mean what if it tastes like battery acid?”
She turns her head to the side to eye him questioningly, her brows furrowing. “Why would it taste like battery acid?”
“Because he doesn’t eat.” He answers, his tone and features deadpan, as if stating the obvious.
“It’ll be fine, Steve’s there to supervise.” She offers, her eyes leaving his to scan the room for the book she sought.
Sam shrugs as he takes a languid swig of beer, seemingly content with Natasha’s consolation as he heads towards the fridge.
Natasha finds the book exactly where Wanda abandoned it earlier that morning – at the far end of the kitchen island, now hidden within a clutter of pots, recipe books, and an array of discarded chopped vegetables. After retrieving the book, she walks around the island to playfully bump Steve with her hip. “Hey, soldier.”
“Hey.” He turns and smiles in that boyish lopsided way that he does, exuberating chivalry and charm. He notices the book, knowing who it belongs to. “How’s she doing?”
Natasha inhales, her shoulders rising in a subtle shrug with the intake of breath. “I’m not so sure, I’m about to check on her.”
Steve nods before angling his head towards the stove. “Vision’s cooking.” He states, raising a brow, clearly impressed.
“We can see that.” Sam unenthusiastically responds over the bottleneck of his beer, earning him an admonishing glare from Steve.
Vision stirs his concoction one more time before lifting the large wooden spoon, using his other hand below to catch any spillages, as he offers the spoon to Natasha to taste. She tentatively leans forward and around Steve to accept his offer.
“What do you think?” He questions, his eyes genuine and curious.
“It’s actually pretty good.” Natasha admits as she turns to look at Sam, who begins making his way over to provide his much-needed taste-testing assistance. “For someone who can’t actually taste the food.”
Vision dips the wooden spoon into the pot once more and repeats his actions for Sam to taste as he continues addressing Natasha. “Will Miss Maximoff be joining us for dinner?” There’s a hopeful nervousness to his voice, something Natasha had never thought possible. She was, however, unbeknownst to the intricacies of his emotional intelligence and capacity. “She was quite upset earlier, crying, in fact.”
“Maybe next time keep that one to yourself, buddy.” Steve pats him on the shoulder twice, his lopsided smile now contorted into a subtle grimace.
“Have I said something wrong?” Vision innocently questions.
“Sometimes when someone’s upset they might not want people to know about it,” Steve explains. “It can be personal.” His voice is light as he imparts wisdom, fully understanding the synthezoid has yet to grasp social cues and its semantics.
Vision parts his lips slightly, a red finger coming up to rest on his chin lightly in thought. “Ah, I see. I understand now why Miss Maximoff was surprised to see me.”
It takes Natasha a short moment to piece together his revelation to a conversation she had had with Wanda herself weeks ago regarding Vision and his unwarranted wall transpiercing. “Maybe use the door next time and she might not be so surprised.” She raises a brow in his direction before heading back out of the kitchen.
On the short journey from the kitchen to the top residential floor of the tower, she opens the book and begins curiously flicking through the pages: on each page lay small annotations in cursive Sokovian. She absentmindedly traces over the handwriting with the pad of her right index finger, unable to decipher the words as Sokovian was a language she had yet to master, unfortunately. Because mastering Latin has been so useful, she thought.
She knocked on the door to Wanda’s room twice upon reaching it, half expecting to not get an answer at all. There was a long pause after her knuckles rapped against the wood, the light thumps echoing slightly across the scarcely resided floor breaching its otherwise silent ambience.
“Wanda, it’s Natasha.” She tried hopefully, leaning against the outer frame.
A moment later light footsteps are heard padding across the carpeted floor towards the door, followed by the dull clinking of the door being unlocked, then opened, revealing a weary looking Wanda. Her eyes are strained, and her face a little puffy from crying. She’s nonverbal as she greets Natasha, only meeting her eyes briefly before turning and walking back to her unmade bed and climbing back beneath the covers, with her back and head resting against the headboard. Natasha closes the door behind her and follows silently, not wanting to disturb the quiet of the room as she slips off her shoes at the foot of the bed before climbing atop and sitting cross-legged, level with Wanda’s knees, facing her. She patiently waits, counting her own breaths, and then zoning in on Wanda’s and counting hers. Her breathing operates in a steady pattern, and Natasha finds it quite soothing. She counts fifteen steady breaths, in and out, as the pads of her fingers gently trace the cursive annotations in the book, before Wanda’s voice ripples the silence.
“You know how it feels, for your worst fear to be something that you’ve lived,” She inhales deeply, disturbing the steady rhythm. “So, tell me, how did you do it?” Wanda turns her head slightly against the headboard, her weary eyes searching for Natasha’s. “How did you become this version of you, how did you move on?”
Natasha swallows thickly at the poignant questions and the memories they evoke - of the red room, of her graduation ceremony, of Dreykov; of all the things between then and now she had done to survive, to become Natasha – the Avenger. Her skin alights once more with the electrical buzz as it sears through her nerve endings, crackling from her fingertips, seeping to her shoulders and then through the taught muscles of her neck, until it zaps through her vision causing her eyes to blink once, then twice. She blinks a third time and resettles her line of sight towards Wanda, the viridescent hues of her eyes washing out the electrical fire within her until it becomes a faint, distant hum.
“It takes time,” She begins, noticing the crackling in her voice. “but you never really let go, it’s always part of you, but it becomes smaller and smaller. And there are days where things get so dark you wonder how you even managed to get this far, but it’s easier when you’re around people who care about you, you know?” Natasha admonishes herself at her own inability to speak eloquently in times of need. She notices that Wanda is still watching her expectantly, waiting for something, although Natasha isn’t sure what. This was new territory for them both. She felt raw and exposed sitting there on the younger woman’s bed. Although she felt unsure, she did not feel unsafe.
“Barton was actually sent to kill me, but he saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. He showed me that I wasn’t alone and that the mistakes I made don’t define who I am as a person.”
“He is a good man.” Wanda declares, dragging her eyes away from Natasha to focus on nothing in particular on the ceiling above.
“Yeah, he is.” Natasha agrees as her lips tilt up to one side into a knowing smile.
Wanda expels a shaky breath, her eyes still trained on the ceiling. “Pietro liked him. He said that he is smart, and funny.” She smiles and idly drags her eyes away from the ceiling to find Natasha’s, who is still smiling gently in return. “I think that he would like the name. The baby’s name.” She clarifies.
“But how do you feel about it?” Natasha questions, searching for more not wanting Wanda to make a decision that she’ll regret.
“It would make Pietro happy, and knowing that makes me happy.” Wanda’s voice quietens towards the end of her admission, weighed down by the sentimental divergence.
Natasha thinks of Clint, and of how different her life would be if he had not been tasked to kill her, of how truly alone she would be without her family. For three years she had a family, albeit a manufactured one formed on the guise of a mission; but she remembers how she felt at such a tender age to have that stripped from her. She often finds her memories flitting to Melina reading bedtime stories to her and Yelena, or of playing hide-and-seek with Alexei in the garden during warm Ohio summers. It wasn’t real, she knew it wasn’t, but to her it was. For a short time she was able to experience life in a place where she felt she belonged, and it wasn’t until she met Clint, and then formed the Avengers that she was able to rekindle that feeling again - until she felt she belonged to a family once more. She wanted Wanda to know that she has a family here, too.
“You’re not alone, not completely.” Natasha offers, still half succumbed to her spiralling train of thoughts and not fully present, remembering Wanda’s admission from earlier that morning. “It’s not the same, but you have us.” A moment passes, Natasha counts one deep inhalation from Wanda, gently soothing her back to the present. “You have me.”
Wanda reaches out and places a gentle hand atop Natasha’s knee – a gesture Natasha frequently used with Wanda to guide her back to the present when she notices that she is untethered and floating away with her thoughts, and she wonders if Wanda had noticed that she had become untethered, too. “I know, thank you.” Wanda’s voice is still a little scratchy and raw from crying, but it’s soft, and her smile is delicately warm.
Natasha and Sam resume their newly additional early-morning training ritual on a silent mutual agreement for the following month. Neither one of them suggests that they meet in the training room the next day ready to run through combat drills, but they both arrive without fail each morning.
They had both decided upon something a little more exciting for their training that morning as opposed to pad-work drills and Jiu-Jitsu submission holds, and opted for Muay Thai sparring instead. Something Steve would never sanction during team training. But what he can’t see, he can’t disagree with. Natasha has a far superior advantage over Sam due to being an expert in mixed martial arts. Her smaller stature also plays a prominent role in her dominance over speed and agility, enabling her to expertly avoid and block almost all blows, kicks or elbows to her midsection by weaving around Sam’s longer limbs.
Sam’s kicks his left leg off the ground and aims his shin towards the right side of Natasha’s face, but feels the shallow thud as his shin bone connects with her braced forearms as she artfully blocks his attack.
“Come on, you can do better than that!” She provokes as she uses her forearms to push his shin away, watching him twist on one foot to reassert his stance, his bare toes flexing against the canvas of the training ring.
He almost immediately kicks his opposing foot off the ground with a bend at the leg, driving his knee up towards her midsection at a near super-speed. Natasha successfully avoids the blow with a quick side-step to the left, using her bare hands to push his knee away, eliciting a frustrated “Ahhh!” from her opponent.
“Again! Come get me.” She’s smiling deviously as she continues to goad Sam. Her skin is glistening with a sheen of perspiration, with droplets tricking from the base of her neck and pooling into the angular jut of her collarbone.
It’s hot in the training room, the culmination of two bodies emanating mass amounts of heat has created a humid atmosphere. Sam’s skin glistens under the dim lighting as his feet leave behind slippery imprints on the canvas – a moistened memory of his artful footwork and determination to succeed.
Sam darts forward and Natasha utilises this opportunity to engage in a clinch, with the sweaty palms of her hands coming up to grasp onto the back of his neck, pulling his head into the crook of her own neck and shoulder. She taunts him further by kicking her right foot off the ground and driving her knee into his side just below his ribs once, and then twice in quick concession. Sam grips onto her forearms and manages to victoriously break the lock before throwing his left elbow up to the side of her face – the bone connecting forcefully with the soft cartilage of her nose in a wet fiery blow as her sinuses crackle in a blaze.
Sam releases the reverse clinch he has her in as he feels the thick, warm liquid begin to pool onto his forearm, before placing his hands on either side of her head to angle her face up and towards him to assess the damage.
“Are you good? I didn’t mean to do that. I meant to get you, but not actually get you.” He rambles on, his dark eyes searching for any bone breaks or skin tears as he continues to angle her head in numerous directions trying to find the best angle, squishing her face in the process.
“Can I have my head back now?” She requests, tasting the metallic liquid surpass her lips and coat her tongue in a warm, tangy film. A dull ache had begun to resonate from the centre of her face, emanating towards her gums, and ghosting behind her eyes. She forcefully blinks a few times in the hopes of quelling the pain, alas, it was to no avail.
Sam releases the reckless grip to the sides of her face, watching as she tentatively wiggled her nose to assess the damage. It was hard to tell without seeing for herself. “You want some help?” He offers in reference to tending to her wounds.
She shakes her head, her blood-stained lips quirking up into a faint smirk, “I can take care of myself.”
Her response elicits a knowing laugh from Sam, “Okay Miss Independent Woman, see you later for round two. Maybe next time I’ll go easy on you.” He flashes a mischievous wink at her as he walks tauntingly backwards out of the training room as she follows in tow.
“Don’t make me break you.” She threatens playfully, pushing his shoulder slightly so that he turns around and walks correctly.
Natasha makes her ascent to the top residential floor of the Tower with a specific aim to retrieve the first-aid supplies she has stored in her personal bathroom. The air-con is faintly humming as the cool air uncomfortably prickles her wet skin, still sticky with a sheen of training-induced sweat. She can feel her body begin to cool, and as such her muscles begin to ache slightly with the immediate effects of such arduous physical exertion. As she reaches the floor, she closes her eyes and allows her body to guide her on practiced autopilot towards her room as she begins rolling her neck to ease the tension created by Sam’s blow. The muscles in her neck feel taught and strained, with each gentle roll of her neck sending jolts of stabbing pain through her temples.
“What happened?”
She opens her eyes at the voice and is met with a confused and worried looking Wanda, evidently zoning in at her bloodied face. Natasha figures it must be mid-morning now, as Wanda has a book clasped in one hand and had been seemingly on her way downstairs to resume her usual ritual.
“Training with Sam.” Natasha offers, feeling the pain in her face throb with each word that escapes her lips. During missions out on the field, Natasha is blissfully, despite only somewhat, numbed from pain due to the inexplicable amount of adrenaline continuously being pumped and coursing through her veins like her own personal morphine on command. She wishes she had a way to trigger the sweet release of hormones then and there to alleviate the discomfort.
“Are you okay?” Wanda asks as she notices Natasha’s features contort slightly in pain.
Natasha nods, which is evidently a bad idea as the motion triggers a bass-like throb, radiating from the point of impact. “This is nothing. I’ve been shot more than once.”
“You sound proud.” Wanda states, seemingly less impressed than Natasha had been at her own admission.
“I mean, wouldn’t you be if you’d been shot twice and survived both times?” Natasha asks as she walks the few short steps to her bedroom, sensing Wanda trailing close behind. She could feel an almost magnetic pull towards the painkillers hidden within the first-aid kit, urging her feet to move faster.
“In this life I would be more impressed to not be shot at, at all.”
Natasha contemplates Wanda’s admission as she unlocks her door and steps in, already feeling a little relieved now being in the sanctum of her own living space. Being shot at was a regular occurrence in her line of work, growing up she had been familiarised with advanced weaponry as a child would have been with dolls. So maybe Wanda was correct, maybe not being shot at would be a far more impressive feat than being shot at multiple times and living to tell the tale.
“Are you going to let me help you?” Wanda asks as she closes the bedroom door behind her, hearing it click into place.
“I can take care of myself, Wanda.” Natasha reassures, smirking at the assertiveness in the younger woman’s question whether it was intentional or not, as she steps into the bathroom and pulls open the blinds in search for light. The soft rays of light trickle in through the window, creating a kaleidoscopic pattern across the grey tiled flooring.
Wanda trails after Natasha into the bathroom, placing her book onto the countertop as Natasha begins looking through cabinets for the first-aid supplies. “I can take care of myself too, but you still help sometimes.”
Natasha retrieves the first-aid kit from below the sink and holds it out for Wanda to take, non-verbally accepting her offer to help. Wanda had never explicitly asked for help from Natasha, or suggested that she needed it, but Natasha had always been there in her times of need to provide comfort. Whether that comfort be a friendly presence in the silence of her room, someone to listen to stories of Pietro and their life in Sokovia, or a willing listener to the adventures of her current novel. She didn’t need Wanda’s help, but she wanted Wanda to feel like she did.
Wanda smiles and thankfully takes the first-aid kit before placing it on the counter beside the sink and unzipping the material and rummaging through its items. She notices Natasha still standing there idly from her peripheral vision. “Sit.” She commands lightly, gesturing towards the edge of the bathtub.
Natasha quirks a brow at the younger woman’s assertiveness once again in surprise, as she tentatively takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub, placing her hands on either side of the white marble. She watches as Wanda takes a plastic cup from the shelf above the sink and fill it with cold water before turning and handing it to her along with two Aspirin.
“Does it always get this… messy?” Wanda enquires, watching as Natasha enthusiastically swallows both Aspirin and every drop of water.
Natasha returns the now empty cup to Wanda as she gently shakes her head in response. “Not always, but it’s fun when it happens.”
Wanda furrows her brows at Natasha’s response, watching her bloodied lips lift into a smirk. “This is fun to you?” She questions, as she lifts a hand and delicately places her fingers along the underside of Natasha’s jaw and angles her face up and to the side for a better view to assess the damage.
Her fingers are warm against Natasha’s cooling clammy skin – she can feel the heat from the pad of her thumb against her chin as her head is turned. “It can be. There’s fun in knowing you’re safe. That the person you’re training with doesn’t really want to hurt you.”
“I understand.” Wanda removes her hold on Natasha to take sterile gauze from the first-aid kit before plugging the sink and filling it with warm water. She dips the gauze into the small pool of water before gently squeezing the excess amount away.
Natasha intuitively widens her legs from her seated position as Wanda steps forward, allowing her a closer access point to begin tending to her wounds. The younger woman once again places her fingers delicately along the underside of Natasha’s jaw, with the pad of her thumb resting against her chin as she angles her head back. “Your nose is not broken.”
“Good, I was worried.” Natasha lies, feeling her lower lip move against the tip of Wanda’s thumb before lifting into a charming one-sided smirk, watching as Wanda’s lips quirk into a smile of their own.
“You were not worried.” Wanda opposes, her voice light with humour as she uses her other hand to gently press the gauze against the blood smeared across Natasha’s left cheek bone.
Natasha’s smirk remains as she shakes her head in agreement with the younger woman, her eyes following the white gauze as it gravitates closer.
“Stop moving.” Wanda scolds, her eyes meeting Natasha’s.
“Am I distracting you?” Natasha questions playfully, her voice lowering an octave as her emerald eyes remain connected to Wanda’s.
Wanda evades the question momentarily by stepping back slightly and reaching to the side to rinse the gauze in the sink before resuming her stance, taking two steps forward – the sides of her legs now snugly cocooned between Natasha’s thighs. “You’re being difficult.” She states as she lifts Natasha’s face once more, noticing she had managed to move out of position in the few seconds Wanda had been preoccupied.
“I’ll behave.” Natasha promises, truthfully. She remains still, moving only when and where Wanda instructs her or guides her to, and occupies herself with studying the younger woman while she works. Natasha notices the light green of her eyes are encased in a ring of darker green, her cheeks are dusted lightly with scarce freckles she hadn’t noticed before, and that her lashes were long and thick enough to cascade shadows onto the angular shape of her cheekbones.
A few moments pass before Wanda’s Sokovian accent ripples the silence. “You’re staring.” She states, not meeting Natasha’s eyes as she gently swipes the warm, dampened gauze across the underside of Natasha’s nose.
“Sorry.” Natasha faintly utters as she flutters her eyes closed, and instead focuses on the warmth of the water, of how it cleanses her skin, and attempts to ignore the aching throbbing radiating from her impeded nose. She can’t help but quirk her lips into a smirk at the revelation that her observing Wanda’s features was distracting to her. However, she soon feels her smirk being wiped away, quite literally, as Wanda uses her thumb to part her lips to delicately swipe across with the gauze, removing the blood.
She feels the warmth of the gauze disappear, as does the delicate touch of Wanda’s fingertips, and then the comforting warmth of her body between her thighs where she had been stood. Natasha’s eyes remain closed, and she focuses on the sounds of Wanda attending to her tasks at an arms-length away. She hears the water gurgle as it empties from the sink and swirls down the drain, the sound of a wrapper being torn open, and the familiar soothing rhythm of Wanda’s breathing. A moment passes before Wanda is once again nestled between Natasha’s thighs, the warm pads of her fingertips delicately grazing the side of her neck this time as her thumb pushes against the underside of her chin as she angles her head up further.
And then a sharp, acidic tingling through her right nostril. It’s almost visceral and burns like a chemical spill through her sinuses causing her face to contort in comfort.
“I thought you were a deadly assassin.” Wanda teases as she gently circles the antibacterial medical cotton swap through her nostril.
“Unfortunately my pain receptors are still intact.” Natasha deadpans, recomposing herself.
Wanda swipes twice more before moving onto the other nostril with a fresh, sterile cotton swab. “Your nose is split from the inside on the right side.” She states as she slowly finishes cleansing the left nostril before placing the swab on the counter with the rest of the used medical supplies.
Natasha nods in understanding, but keeps her eyes closed and braced, expecting another oppressive medicinal burn to overwhelm her senses either externally or internally. Instead, the next sensation she experiences is the tenderness of Wanda’s fingertips tracing across her temples at either side as they disappear into the vibrant auburn of her hair, tucking away loose strands from her face. If Natasha’s eyes were not already closed, they would have fluttered closed at the compassionate act.
It was a new sensation; one she hadn’t experienced in her adult life before. To be on the receiving end of such caring tenderness, without an expectation of something in return and without sensual undertones bridging the moment to another.
Natasha couldn’t place even Clint ever being this gentle with her. Steve was kind, and warm in her presence, but always from a physical distance being the true gentleman that he was born to be. She had only ever made purposeful physical contact with Bruce once - at Clint’s home, and it had left her wanting to unzip her skin to free her soul, feeling rejected.
Her spiralling thoughts were gratefully interrupted as Wanda’s soothing voice guided her back to the present. “Natasha?”.
Natasha’s eyes fluttered open at the melodic sound of her accent as they zoned in on Wanda’s viridescent green.
“Are you still with me?” The younger woman gently probed, noticing the dazed appearance of Natasha’s eyes as they fluttered open to meet hers, her fingertips still buried beneath her hair.
Natasha intuitively clears her throat in the hopes the involuntary action would clear her mind, too. “How do I look?” She deflects, coaxing her voice to portray a playful nonchalance, with a raise of a brow - a stark contrast to her former introspection.
Chapter 3
Notes:
Wanda's love language being physical touch? Big yes.
Sorry for the looong wait - life has been lifeing, you know? Please take this very Wandanat-centric chapter as an apology <3
Also, please please please go check out @Jaylerdoodles on Instagram. She drew this beautiful artwork inspired by this story (see link below). She’s also the sweetest person ever, go share some love.
https://www.instagram.com/p/CVSud1dgfMR/?utm_medium=copy_link
Chapter Text
It had taken just over four weeks for Natasha’s face to heal, although not yet completely, with the mosaic of purple, green, and yellow slowly dissipating day by day from her porcelain skin. A faint dusting of paling purple and yellow remained painted just beneath her eyes, as the split skin within her nose had left a faint scar as the tissue continued to rebuild itself.
Three weeks is all it took to form a physical scar – a faint mark to announce the healing process. The wound had finished seeping, the infliction of pain had ceased, and it had surrendered to the healing powers of the human body.
Her mind, however, had failed to conform to such an abiding process; as some nights the scars of her past were flayed by her harrowing memories - seeping red, and inflicting fresh pain. Night terrors were a frequent occurrence for Natasha. She had learned to endure them over time and become inured to what they did to her. She knew her breathing would slowly regulate into a steady rhythm again, and that her flushed and sweltering skin would eventually cool, she knew that her heartbeat, as it palpitated convulsively, would even out if she ignored the wet thumping within her ears – like a drum, beaten underwater.
The wet thumping continued as she lay there in the inky darkness of her room, submerged by her bed as the sheets bunched and clung uncomfortably to her clammy skin, with strands of loose hair sticking to her forehead. A few moments passed as the remnants of her unconscious memories began to saturate her conscious mind. Shew threw off her covers, the cool air of her room prickling favourably at her heated skin, reminding her that everything felt a little better in the present.
Natasha is unsure of how much time has passed, or what the time was at present as she lay in her bed struggling to peacefully sleep. The only telling sign was the harsh pale light now seeping in through the closed blinds. She knew it was morning, and maybe a little after breakfast as she faintly remembers rolling over to silence the piercing alarm wailing from her phone not too long ago.
Three knocks resonate from the outside of her bedroom door, the sounds trickling into the duskiness of her room and pulling her mind from its half-slumber. She squeezes her eyes shut tighter in contemplation on what to do, not particularly wanting to engage in social interaction whilst deprived of sleep and the images of her dreams floating freely and fresh at the forefront of her mind. She could ignore it – if it was an emergency, Steve or Tony would have already alerted everyone.
“Natasha?” A voice calls out following the three knocks. It was Wanda.
Despite her own prevailing situation, Natasha didn’t want to ignore or to turn away the younger woman – on many occasions she had implied or simply told Wanda to find her if she needed her in any capacity. This could be one of those times. In the past two months or so, Natasha’s care for Wanda had surpassed the realm of professional. They had progressed from mentor and mentee – their bond of friendship formed and continuously developed. As such, Natasha wanted to be there for Wanda if she needed someone, she wanted to be the person to provide comfort in her darker moments, and she couldn’t quite imagine not being there for her.
“It’s unlocked, you can come in.” She called out as she sat upright in bed and ran her fingers through her bed-tousled hair, remaining under the covers.
Wanda entered the room silently, gently closing the door behind her and banishing the offending bright light before walking over and taking a seat beside Natasha on the bed, tucking her feet beneath her in a cross-legged position as her fingers clutched onto a book in her lap.
“You weren’t at breakfast.” She simply states, her eyes vaguely searching Natasha’s features as her sight adjusts to the dimly lit room.
Natasha blinks a few times, noticing how dry her eyes feel now that she’s required to focus her vision. It feels as though tiny granules of sand have been flicked at her and parched her sockets.
“Steve said that you were probably out running, I wanted to check.” Wanda continues, her brows furrowing in concern now that her sight has adjusted and can see Natasha somewhat clearly. “This is not you out running.”
Natasha blinks a few times in an attempt to moisten her eyes and dispel their dry burning. Her lips pull into a soft smile as her vision settles on Wanda, noticing the slight worry etched across her features. “I didn’t sleep well, I’m just a little tired.”
“I can see that.” Wanda declares, bringing a hand up to delicately cradle Natasha’s face, with her palm pressed onto the underside of her jaw, and her fingertips on her neck, as the pad of her thumb tentatively presses down onto the bruised skin under her eyes. “You have darkness here from not sleeping.”
Natasha’s eyes drift closed at the touch of Wanda’s skin against her own, as she doesn’t quite have the energy to act as though such a simple touch does not have such an effect on her. This isn’t the first time she had felt the warm tenderness of Wanda’s touch; after helping tend to her wounds four weeks ago in her bathroom, Wanda had also taken it upon herself to check on her recovery almost every day. If it had been Steve, or Sam, or anyone else for that matter, Natasha would have grown increasingly annoyed by the day and brushed them off. With Wanda, it’s almost as though she longed for those fleeting, brief moments in which she was taken care of. She could take care of herself, and she had done for most of her life, but part of her yearned for such attentive affection.
Natasha had never been fine-tuned to the language of touch, and to some extent, it had remained undecipherable to her. She had no qualms with initiating touch by means of seduction, in that she was skilled, quite highly. She had seduced and caressed many men and women, both professionally and personally, but it had never been anything more than physical attraction and hypnotic lust – she was able to act on primal impulse.
Affection, however, was a language which remained foreign to her, despite her multilingual skillset, both verbally and physically. Had it not been for Melina and Alexei, albeit only for a few short months throughout her childhood; Natasha would never have experienced an embrace from a caregiver, would never have experienced a family dinner, would never have played tag or hide-and-seek with another child. The love, care, and affection she received from her faux family was something, at least, but it wasn’t enough to account for the years in which her basic needs were neglected.
Natasha had initiated contact with Bruce, and she remembers it so uncomfortably clearly. She remembers the wanting of closeness resonating shakily from deep within her, the uncertainty of the moment as she placed a hand to the side of his neck as his musky scent overwhelmed her senses, and the vulnerability as she stood there in a bathrobe in Clint and Laura’s guestroom, speaking with him about their fears of the future, and burdens of the past.
She then thinks of the clumsy, ponderous way in which Clint embraces her, with his arms wrapping around her smaller stature in a vice-tight grip. It’s always a little too tight, with her head nuzzled awkwardly against his clavicle, and his chest pressed into hers so tight she feels slight pressure against her sternum, but it’s always in the right moment. It’s always gratefully accepted, and she always walks away feeling lighter and content.
The wanting of closeness and the act of physical touch with Wanda feels different than her past experiences. She feels calm and comforted by the warmth radiating from the palm of her hand which fits so perfectly against the curve of her jawline, and the deliciously inviting scent of her coconut shampoo. She feels content, but unsatiated – its paradoxical, but Natasha is too deeply tired to decipher why. She knows that she is aching for comfort and that Wanda is here providing what she wants, and for the time being its more than enough.
Natasha takes a breath, it’s slow and intentionally controlled as she feels her thoughts spiralling. It’s a little deeper than usual as it travels through her before flittering up to her mind, creating a sense of weightlessness in her sleep deprived state. She feels Wanda’s touch retreat from its cradling position which has a wakening effect on her mind’s slumber. “I can stay awake if you need me, or if you want to stay in here or do something.” Her eyes slowly open again, refocussing on the woman before her, her words slow and raspy.
“You do realise that neither one of us believes that, right? Your eyes were just closed, Natasha.” Wanda jests, her voice softening as she realises how truly exhausted she is. Her lips are curved into a smile at Natasha’s selflessness. “The only thing I need from you right now is for you to sleep.”
Wanda pauses momentarily, as her eyes search Natasha’s face in deliberation of her next choice of words. “Do you want me to stay?”
Yes.
Natasha did want Wanda to stay. Since entering her room moments ago Natasha had been calmed by a sense of stillness, one which she had become familiar with since they met – it’s the most at ease Natasha has felt since trying to sleep the night prior. However, Natasha knew how intemperate her night terrors could become, how verbal she sometimes was, and how restless her body could grow. Clint had witnessed such events before, and she had woken to him coaxing her to the conscious world, with her pupils dilated, pulse racing, and skin sweating. She couldn’t guarantee that her sleeping this time would be any different to how it had been throughout the night.
She dips her head to one side slightly with a brow arched, “Wake me up if I start talking, okay?” She muses, deflecting from the weight of the situation – from the subconscious stream she may drown in, from the vulnerability of wanting Wanda there if she does, and then of the possibility of Wanda witnessing it happen.
Wanda laughs softly, seeming pleased by Natasha’s decision to let her stay in her company whilst she sleeps. “I promise.”
Natasha nods as she watches Wanda reposition herself atop the covers so that her back and head are now comfortably supported by the headboard, as she draws her knees up and closer to her body before opening her book, resting it against her thighs.
“Go to sleep.” She gently commands, her eyes not leaving the weathered page she was beginning to read as she notices Natasha has yet to get into a sleeping position.
The now-familiar assertiveness elicits a smirk from Natasha as she slinks down further beneath the covers before facing away from Wanda, her cheek now nestled against the soft cotton of the pillowcase. She takes comfort in the slight dip in the mattress beside her from the weight of Wanda on the bed, the heat of her body warms Natasha’s – chilled from hours of sweating induced by unsavoury dreams. Natasha counts twelve steady breaths from the woman beside her, the familiar gentle thrum eventually lulling her to sleep.
Natasha manages to sleep for a few hours at least, although it’s not peaceful, not entirely. She can tell by the way her pulse flutters unevenly beneath her skin. Her mind feels rested, however, and she has no recollection of the memories which may have unravelled in her slumber as she gradually wades through the stream of unconsciousness and back to the present.
As she reaches the shore of consciousness, she registers a soothing sensation radiating from her head, sending a stream of tingles throughout her body in calming waves. It takes her a moment to realise it’s Wanda – with her fingers gliding through her hair and nails gently scratching against her scalp.
“You stayed?” Natasha questions, a little surprised, with her eyes still closed, and her voice deep and raspy, still thick with sleep.
Wanda’s soothing ministrations halter, but her fingers remain buried within Natasha’s auburn locks for a moment or two before removing them. “You were restless, I didn’t want to leave you.”
Natasha opens her eyes and slowly sits up, blinking a few times to dispel the haziness of sleep. The room feels lighter, fresher, even. The window on the far-right wall has been opened, with the blinds parted slightly to allow a cool autumn breeze to flitter in with the midday light.
“The dreams happen to me too,” Wanda begins, diverting Natasha’s attention away from the window. “Pietro would stroke my hair… it helped calm me.”
Natasha swallows, her throat feels a little dry, and she can’t quite tell whether it’s from dehydration, or the fact that Wanda had borne witness to her night terrors. “Did it help me?”
Wanda nods, silently, a gentle, calming smile gracing her features.
Thoughts of Pietro consoling Wanda through painful nights flood the forefront of her mind in a momentary distraction. Two months or so had passed since Wanda had lost her brother, and she had undoubtedly suffered many painful nights since then. Many painful nights Natasha had not witnessed, many nights in which Wanda was without Pietro to comfort her the way in which Wanda had comforted Natasha moments ago. Her heart swells at the unbridled compassion yet feels heavy and weighted in her chest at the woeful realisation.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Wanda tentatively questions, her book now closed with her attention undivided upon Natasha.
“What did you hear?” Natasha deflects the question; she feels her heart palpitate once.
Wanda shakes her head slightly, with a soft shrug of her shoulders. “You were speaking in Russian, I couldn’t understand.”
Natasha nods as a wave of relief settles her palpitating rhythm. “Talking isn’t really my thing.” She admits, thinking of the many times she had tried to console Wanda with streams of unarticulated speeches.
“If you talk about things, you don’t think about them as much.”
“I never really let myself be alone long enough to think about them.” Her lips curve into an uncertain one-sided smile as she breaks eye contact momentarily. The only person Natasha had ever openly discussed her past with is Clint, and originally, only because he had been there as a refuge to her and played a part in one of her most harrowing memories in Budapest.
The chilly mid-autumn breeze lightly pinches her skin as she jogs her usual trail through Central Park; with the amber, brown, and yellow leaves crunching satisfyingly beneath her feet. The sun is nestled high in the mid-morning sky, veiled beneath a blanket of thick grey clouds, the dreary colour a certain promise of a heavy downpour.
Sam had been benched by Steve from all types of training which may induce physical exertion, as he had caught the seasonal flu and needed to recover as soon as possible. Natasha smirks at this thought as she jogs over the bridge overlooking the pond – how entertaining, for an Avenger to be wiped out by something as mundane as the common cold or the flu. Sam had been shot at more times than he could count, received multiple blows to his head and body, and even fell thousands of feet from the sky. Yet it was a sniffly nose, and a persistent dry cough to almost obliterate him.
Without Sam to run their usual combat drills with this morning, Natasha had opted for a run through the park. It was a calming and familiar sense of normalcy. Before the new recruits had joined them in the tower, Natasha would usually spend her mornings out running, as would Steve – it’s how he met Sam, after all. He had invited her running on a few occasions, and she vividly remembers the one instance in which she agreed. Natasha liked to win, she liked to be the best, and for the most part, she always succeeded in being victorious. During her time at S.H.I.E.L.D, Maria Hill had graded her the highest marks possible in the history of the S.H.I.E.L.D Academy training programme - she was accustomed to setting a certain standard.
She could not outrun Steve, however. No matter how hard she tried. She’s not a sore loser but running with Steve just wasn’t enjoyable. Running allowed her a therapeutic freedom to create a sense of clarity within her headspace. Whereas running with Steve was painful.
As she’s nearing the exit to the park, her wireless earphones automatically play an incoming voice message:
“Message from Clint Barton: Hey Tasha’ sorry for the radio silence, I know I said I’d be back in a month… well, more than a month ago, but three kids is a hell of a lotta’ work. I’m startin’ to think a second Chitari invasion would have been easier…”
Natasha’s lips curve into a smile at the familiar sound of her friend’s voice, laughing at his sense of humour as her breath escapes in visible gusts of misty condensed clouds in the cold air.
“…Laura’s folks are comin’ down to help out with the kids for a bit, so you’ll be seein’ me sooner than you think. I’ll keep you posted.”
The short distance from Central Park to Stark Tower felt shorter than usual with the news of Clint’s return, despite it not having a set date she felt the excitement swell within her.
Stark Tower was cradled with a peaceful quiet upon her arrival. On mornings like today, when there were no imminent emergencies taking precedent, the team were given the freedom to do what they pleased, to visit who they wished and to travel freely. All within reason, however. Her first few years at S.H.I.E.L.D were starkly different – she rarely saw the world from outside of a training facility, Helicarier, or corporate offices. She understood the reasoning behind her confinement, she was unchartered territory, the unknown, the untrusted. It took her a while to build that trust, first with Clint, then with Hill and Fury.
As she enters the kitchen, she finds Wanda in her usual mid-morning place – perched on a stall at the kitchen island, reading. Her book is splayed out flat on the counter-top beside a plate of apple slices, with her hands wrapped comfortingly around a mug of warm tea as her mind ventures through the world within the pages of her book.
Natasha walks up behind her and places her icy cold hands onto the back of Wanda’s exposed neck before squeezing her shoulders lightly, causing the younger woman to gasp and shrug her shoulders up in shock.
“You’re so cold!” Wanda shivers, as Natasha steals an apple slice from her plate before heading to the opposite side of the island.
“That might be because its cold outside, Wands.” She quips with a smirk, flashing Wanda a playful wink before biting onto the fruit as she watches Wanda’s lips curve into a warm smile at the abbreviation of her name.
“Give me your hands.” Wanda gently commands as she removes her own from her warm mug.
Natasha raises a brow in intrigue as she leans forward onto the grey marble of the counter and tentatively holds out her hands for the younger woman, but halts her movements and retracts her hands, watching Wanda expectantly.
Wanda looks a little confused at first, until an amused and slightly bashful expression takes its place as she realises. “Please.”
The younger woman could be assertive in her linguistic dominance - it’s something Natasha admired about her. She would say as she pleased without forethought, not having experienced anybody require a little sentence restructuring or a dash of ‘please’ in certain places. The first few times Natasha had been on the receiving end of such assertiveness had caught her off-guard, so in an attempt to realign herself, she had simply waited for Wanda to refamiliarize herself with courteous adverbs.
Natasha smirks in amusement at the slight blush blotting its way across Wanda’s features as she offers both her hands to her.
Wanda places the palms of her hands against the tops of Natasha’s. “Hm, your hands are warm.” Natasha hums appreciatively.
“The mug is warmer.” Wanda then guides Natasha’s hands over to the mug situated between them before placing her hands on either side, letting her own linger.
Natasha feels the heat from the mug and from Wanda’s hands begin to thaw at the icy layer which had accumulated on her run.
“Is that better?”
Natasha nods, basking as the warmth gradually enshrouds her, like ink blotted onto paper, slowly canvasing her skin with colour once again. As she warms, her sense of smell gradually remerges and greets her with the sweet scent of the tea between them. She leans forward a little so that she’s positioned above the mug as the steam flitters up and tickles at her cheeks.
“You’re drinking chai, it smells good.”
Wanda smiles, watching as the steam from the tea dusts Natasha’s skin in a rosy tint of pink as she hovers above the mug. “I can make you some.” She kindly offers, removing her hands from their gentle clasp over Natasha’s.
Before she manages to stand up from her stool to begin her tea-making quest, Natasha raises the mug to her lips and begins to sip.
“Or we can share mine instead.” Wanda jests, laughing softly with her nose scrunching slightly
“That’s a much better plan.” Natasha agrees, placing the mug back onto the counter with her lips curving into a soft smile at the endearing sight of Wanda’s nose scrunch.
She sees Wanda’s fingers twitch unsurely against the countertop, inches from her own, and Natasha wonders if Wanda also experiences the paradoxical unsatiated contentment from their close proximity.
Wanda has gracefully pierced their physical touch barrier on multiple occasions, for whatever reason it may be. As time progressed, as did their connection, those touches became more frequented. It’s something Natasha has grown to expect – she can’t quite remember spending time with the younger woman having not experienced some form of physical affection.
With her palm resting comfortably against the mug, Natasha flexes her right fingers just enough to touch her fingertips against the smooth black polish of Wanda’s nails on her left hand. “You know, my hands could be warmer.” Her words are light, playful, and characteristically flirty. Fortuitously, her words slip from her lips dripping in amorous charm.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have finished the tea.” Wanda counters, her lips ghosted with an amused smirk as she clasps either one of her hands over Natasha’s once again.
“We have a date!” Tony excitedly bellows as he enters the kitchen, chewing on the end rim of his glasses with his device held in his hand.
Natasha diverts her attention up towards Tony as he enters the room, only somewhat present as he continues swiping on his holographic screen, the lighting creating a fractal glimmer. She feels Wanda’s fingers retract from her own and then hover apprehensively at Tony’s entrance. Natasha glances towards Wanda and offers her a soft, reassuring smile which is returned as her fingers relax once again atop hers. Hesitance is often exuded from Wanda whilst in the presence of Tony, which is wholly understandable – all major trauma in Wanda’s life had been caused inadvertently by a Stark: the loss of her parents, her brother.
“A date for?” Natasha questions, comfortable with Tony’s full attention now Wanda’s unease has been somewhat settled.
“Dinner? You and I? Maybe a groupe de trois with Miss Maximoff here?” He jests, with his eyes still fixated on the glow of his screen.
Natasha rolls her eyes as Wanda furrows her brows in disgust at his humour. “F.R.I.D.A.Y call Pepper.”
“Calling Ms Potts.” F.R.I.D.A.Y’s android-like voice resounds.
Tony gapes dramatically as his glasses fall with a low clink onto the marble of the countertop, his eyes wide. “No, F.R.I.D.A.Y, don’t do that.” He swipes once more across his screen in finality as the glow disappears completely. “and make a note to begin ignoring all requests from Miss Romanoff unless they’re intelligible.”
“I think that was more than intelligible.” Natasha challenges.
Tony pouts in defeat as he glances between Natasha and Wanda. “Okay fine, no groupe de trois. How about a celebratory dinner? A groupe de…” He trails off in thought as he collects his glasses from the counter and places the edge of the rim between his teeth once again. “How many people will there be?” He glances at Wanda as he questions rhetorically.
Wanda raises a brow as she glances at Natasha for guidance, clearly perplexed. “For somebody so smart, you do not make much sense most of the time.”
A laugh escapes from Natasha’s lips before she manages to contain her amusement at Wanda’s nonchalant observation.
Tony furrows his brows and raises his index finger to halt the scene unfolding before him. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that… Enough people for a party…” He nods, his lips pouted and pursed as the cogs in his mind continue to turn and click into their rightful places as he formulates a plan.
A few moments pass as Tony begins swiping and pinching at his holographic screen again before he swipes across with a flat palm replacing the glow with nothingness. “Sorry ladies, where was I? Right, moving date, party.” He rambles, his hurried stream of words almost overlapping in his usual hyperverbal state. “The migration to the Avengers Compound is almost complete…are you excited?” He gestures towards Natasha, and answers before she has a chance to process the question. “I’m excited. The official move-in date is set for December 10th—I’m assuming Barton will once again be gracing us with his presence by then?”
Natasha shrugs. “I hope so, but I can’t say for sure.”
Tony rolls his eyes at such a vague response. “Not good enough. He’s getting the smallest room.” He then swipes on his screen once more and begins filtering through floorplans and preliminaries for the compound. “I’ve also made plans for Banner for when he returns from his game of ‘Hulk smash and run’, but it looks like you’ve preoccupied yourself with this groupe de duex.” He uses his left hand to vaguely gesture at Wanda and Natasha’s hands clasped around the now cold mug of tea. “Big fan by the way, super excited to see where it goes, please keep me posted.”
She feels Wanda’s fingers twitch unsurely against hers again, but before she has a chance to gauge her expression, she’s interrupted by Tony’s over-excited, booming voice a final time.
“So, party to celebrate! I’ll take care of the plans, the booze, and the catering. Just be there and look pretty when I have the date set.” He grins smugly at them both as he places his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose before sauntering back out of the kitchen.
“Okay pair up!” Steve calls out into the training room, his deep voice resonating sternly. “Today we’re running combat drills. Nat, Sam, you know the drills, stick to the plan.” He pointedly glares at Natasha and then Sam, who are both sat on the mats leisurely stretching and mobilising for the strenuous activities ahead. “We don’t want a repeat of last time. It’s the first time we’ve all been back in here without illness or injury for about a month, let’s try to keep it that way please.”
Wanda is perched beside Vision on the bench placed against the far wall, engaged in light discussion as Sam and Natasha naturally gravitate toward each other to run the assigned drills.
Tony and Rhodey are absent for the day’s team training preoccupied attending meetings with Hill and Fury regarding the implementation of the Avengers Compound and the redeployment of agents who formerly aligned to S.H.I.E.L.D. The vetting and re-vetting process had been redesigned to detect H.Y.D.R.A infiltration to ensure a repeat of previous events were to not occur under any circumstance. It was a pedantic, lengthy process, but it was imperative to guarantee the safety of everyone redeploying to the compound in two months.
“Sam, Vision.” Steve calls out. “Pair up.”
Sam glances at Natasha, then over to Vision who begins floating over to the mats where he’s sat, and then up to Steve. “Um, what?”
“You’ll be grappling with Vision today.” Steve clarifies as he crosses his arms across his chest, jutting his chin up as he angles his head towards the floating synthezoid.
“So, you want me to die? Is that it?” Sam questions dramatically as he stands.
Steve laughs as he shakes his head. “What? No. Come on, it’ll be good for you.”
“And how exactly am I supposed to get him to tap out? Can he even feel pain?” He dramatically gestures towards a contemplative Vision now floating beside him. “Do you even breathe?” He questions, turning to face him.
“I am made of organic tissue, so yes, I breathe.” Vision imparts as he gravitates down to the floor so that he is at eye level with Sam, bringing a red hand to land gently atop his shoulder. “I promise to be---”
“Don’t say nice.” He deadpans as he diverts his gaze over to Natasha who begins standing, remembering his first training session with her, who had also promised to be nice.
Natasha laughs as she walks over to Steve and away from Sam and Vision who begin discussing various tactics and drills to run through.
“You think she’s ready?” Steve questions, dipping his head towards the benches where Wanda is sat idly twirling a ball of red energy between her fingers, occupying herself after being left unaccompanied by Vision.
“Were we?” She counters.
Steve laughs as he cocks his head to one side, his lips curving into a one-sided smile. “We had to be, and so does she. The only difference is that she has us. She’s been here… say four, maybe five months now? I think it’s time, we can’t wait for a full team training forever.” He places his right hand on her left shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. “Shout if you need me.”
Natasha watches Steve saunter over to Wanda and direct her to meet Natasha on the mats.
“I promise I’ll be gentle.” Natasha muses half-jokingly – her voice low, although there is a sincerity to her words.
“Don’t trust her!” Sam shouts from the other set of mats placed on the opposing side of the ring.
Natasha feigns ignorance to Sam’s antics and refocuses her attention to the task at hand. She understands the severity of the situation – for Wanda to allow herself to be vulnerable in a situation as such following her experience with Strucker, and for Steve to understand the way in which she operates to guide her in the right direction to clear her for field duty.
“Still trust me?” She questions, seeking reconfirmation.
Wanda nods, her expression focused, yet light. “I trust you. I just…” She trails off, wrapping an arm around her waist and lifting the other in a gesture towards Natasha. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” Natasha affirms, a little overconfident.
“What was that?” Wanda probes.
“Hm?”
“That tone, what was that for?” She crosses both arms across her chest.
Natasha takes a moment to think. Wanda was clearly a little distressed at the prospect of causing Natasha harm during hand-to-hand-combat training. Training which she had practiced in, studied, lived, eat, breathed, and slept for her entire existence thus far. It takes her a moment longer to realise Wanda is nervous about her ability to control her powers, despite whether or not she should be using them.
Wanda cocks her head to the side challengingly. “Do you not think I’m strong enough?” She questions, pulling Natasha from her thoughts.
“I think you’re the strongest person here, by far.”
“No powers allowed in combat training.” Wanda reiterates what Natasha had told her during her first week as an Avenger. “But what if I can’t control it?” She questions, her voice lowering so that only Natasha could decipher her words.
“I trust you, Wanda. I’ve seen you control your emotions when you’ve been upset. Remember you’re safe here, there’s no real threat, it’s just you and me.” She searches Wanda’s face for any telling signs of uncertainty and continues when she doesn’t find any. “Learning not to resort to your powers during combat training is the first step in learning to control them.”
Wanda unwraps her arms from around her waist – her body language adjusting to mirror her newfound confidence after Natasha’s pep talk. “Okay, teach me.”
Natasha firmly nods once. “Today we’re running through basic things: fight stances, footwork, balance, rhythm, beginner’s pad-work. No contact.” She chews on her gum and waits for Wanda to nod her understanding before continuing. “Training is every day—”
“Team training is mandatory!” Steve shouts over to them from his place on the bench.
“Unless you’re seriously injured, or contagious.” Natasha adds. “Working as one unit together is how we avoid casualties.”
“I understand.”
Natasha glances over to Steve and tips her head in his direction. At her signalling, he rifles through a box placed beside the bench containing various equipment, pulling out a pair of women’s open-palm gloves, and a set of pads.
As he reaches the two women, he firstly hands the pads to Natasha, who places them between her thighs to free her hands to then take the pair of gloves. She senses Steve still hovering and glances up at him, noticing that he has his right hand held out, palm facing up. She playfully rolls her eyes, pointedly chewing on her gum a few more times, stretching the material across the tip of her tongue before pressing it through her lips and blowing a bubble, which bursts with an obnoxious popping sound.
Steve purses his lips into a tight smile, but his amusement does not go unnoticed as he had planned as Natasha leans forward and lets the gum casually roll out of her mouth and into the palm of his waiting hand.
“We wouldn’t want you to choke now, would we?” He asks rhetorically, but with sincerity.
“Is choking not your thing, Steve?” She counters, her voice lowering at her suggestive use of words.
The joke falls flat with Steve, as he furrows his brows slightly in thought, with Wanda stifling a laugh as a light blush sweeps across her cheeks. “I’m not sure what that means, but I’m almost certain it’s not appropriate.” He notes after registering Wanda’s reaction.
“That’s okay Soldier, all things truly wicked start from innocence.” She artfully quotes.
Steve looks over to Sam for refuge, as he usually does when Natasha begins speaking in quotes, or over to her when Sam does.
“Sorry man, I don’t know that one!” Sam calls out between working his way out of a grappling hold with Vision.
“A Moveable Feast.” Wanda declares, looking a little in awe at Natasha’s literary reference.
Steve deeply inhales as he nods, looking to the younger woman for clarification. “So, a movie?”
Wanda shakes her head, languidly dragging her gaze from Natasha and over to Steve. “It’s a book. Ernest Hemmingway.”
“A Moveable Feast.” Steve repeats as he turns around and begins walking back towards the bench at the far wall. “I’ll add it to the list.”
Natasha refocuses her attention back to the task at hand and flitters her line of sight from Steve’s retreating form and back to an awe-struck Wanda stood before her. “What? I read.” She raises a brow, her expression teasing yet poised, as she lefts the pads held between her thighs drop to the cushioned training mats with a soft, empty thud.
“I have never seen you read.” Wanda states challengingly.
Natasha laughs softly as she takes a step towards the younger woman before placing one training glove between her thighs. “I haven’t needed to.” She reaches forward and takes hold of Wanda’s right hand and holds it out between them both, palm facing down, as she then manually extends and parts her fingers to allow the glove to slip on fluidly. “I have you to tell me about whichever book you’re reading.” Once the first glove is on and tightened, she repeats the motions for the left. “I like hearing about your stories.”
Wanda begins by watching Natasha’s expert hands move languorously with fastening the gloves, her lips forming a smile as she listens to her mentor’s admission. Eventually, her gaze, now warmed with a fondness, travels up to Natasha’s emerald green eyes still focused on adjusting the gloves.
After an hour or so, they had successfully run through basic stances and footwork. Wanda was an efficient learner and managed to grasp instructions after the first or second try, until Natasha suggested they progress and move onto pad-work combinations.
“Again.” Natasha orders, coaching Wanda through an unsuccessful jab-hook-cross-left hook combination. She uses her pads to push at Wanda’s gloves, signalling to start from the top. “Keep your fists up.”
Wanda inhales as she nods, raising her hands a little so they’re at eye-level in a protective stance to shield her face. She runs through the combination again, this time successfully hitting the pads in the correct order.
Natasha uses her pads to push at Wanda’s gloves again, signalling to start from the top. “Again. Harder this time.”
Wanda repeats her previous movements with additional force, feeling Natasha mimic her movements and push against her gloves slightly with each blow echoing.
“Again. Faster.” She orders.
As Wanda increases her speed with the additional focus of more force, she misses a step. She clamps her eyes closed and takes a deep breath to ease her evident frustration as she touches her gloved hands against her forehead, shielding her face.
Natasha pulls off her pads and lets them drop to the floor before gently taking hold of the younger woman’s wrists and guiding her hands away from her face. At this gesture, Wanda opens her eyes to reveal her green irises encased in orbs of red energy.
“I know you’re frustrated, but it’s going to take time. It won’t be perfect at first, sometimes I’m not perfect, sometimes Steve makes mistakes. It happens.” She begins unfastening the straps on Wanda’s gloves and removing them completely, letting her arms drop gently to her sides. “But you did great.” Natasha offers a reassuring smile.
“I did great.” Wanda repeats, mostly to herself, as the green of her eyes saturate the flames of red.
Natasha nods affirmingly, wondering when the last time may have been since Wanda had received recognition for anything she had done. She can’t quite imagine words of encouragement being uttered whilst training beneath Strucker’s provoking, authoritarian extremities.
Later that week, Sam is practically beaming as Steve finally agreed to hosting a movie night. There has been complete radio silence with leads on Bucky and their assistance was not required to complete the migration to the compound, thus, persuading him was simpler than anticipated with little to no work to accomplish.
“What are we watching anyway?” Steve questions as he gracefully collapses onto an armchair in the lounge, his arms occupied with a rather large bowl of popcorn.
“Yeah, what are we watching, Sam?” Natasha urges as she makes her way into the lounge, expertly grasping multiple bottles of beer. She places them onto the regal oak coffee table situated between the two sofas on either side, with the armchair Steve is occupying at the head of the table, the plasma screen at the other. The bottles are icy cool, with the condensation creating small pools beneath them, trickling out in tiny streams across the smooth expanse of the furniture.
“Nat… coasters?” Steve urges, his eyes following the small beads of cool liquid as they continue streaming.
She waves him off as she takes another look at the bottles upon the table. “It’ll be fine, don’t stress about it.”
As Natasha and Steve engage in light debate over whether or not they should be using coasters, Sam begins rapturously singing the opening theme song to a 1979 James Bond movie in the hopes someone will notice, as the room has side-stepped into slight disarray.
Wanda is sat at one end of a sofa close to Steve, with her legs tucked beneath her and a blanket cosily sheathed around her, watching Sam in amusement on the sofa opposite as he begins singing louder and louder with each new word.
“Moonraker.” Natasha confidently states as she turns around to discern where the familiar lyrics are resonating from, her brow raised as she cocks her head in approval. “Great choice, Sam.”
“Bond? I know this one. I haven’t seen it, but I know of it.” Steve announces in delight as he begins chewing on his popcorn.
Vision gracefully glides into the lounge area carrying two large bowls of popcorn, as they balance perfectly on each of his flattened palms. “Moonraker, 1979. Starring Roger Moore and Lois Chiles. In which Mr Bond is taken to Venice—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Sam enthuses, holding up his hands in a parlous plea for Vision to cease his verbal onslaught of spoilers.
The synthezoid comes to a sudden stop, both physically and verbally as he looks curiously to Wanda for an inclination for social cues.
“Vis, you can’t ruin the movie for people who haven’t seen it.” She politely offers, an amused but solemn expression painting her features. The two had formed a friendship during their time with the Avengers – bonding initially through their shared experience of being new recruits.
“Right, yes. My apologies.” He places the popcorn onto the coffee table beside the beers before dimming the lights and taking a seat on the sofa beside Sam, offering her a benevolent and appreciative smile for her elaboration.
Natasha takes two bottles of beer from the table before turning around to hand one to Wanda who gratefully accepts. “Is this seat taken?”
Wanda shakes her head and unsheathes herself from the blanket, lifting it slightly in a silent invitation for Natasha to join her in the warmth beneath the cashmere comforter. Natasha takes a seat beside Wanda and pulls on the blanket so that it comfortably enshrouds them both. She wriggles around for a moment to get in a comfortable position, and settles with one knee drawn towards her chest, with the other leg crossed beneath it.
A few moments later, the opening music begins playing – a far melodic rendition of Sam’s prior attempt at the musical arts. Natasha takes a sip of her beer, it’s cool liquid a refreshing contrast to the warmth building beneath the blanket as their bodies accumulate heat.
They’re positioned close enough that Natasha can tangibly feel the heat emanating from Wanda beside her, as the tropical scent of her coconut shampoo swirls between them. It’s soothing, to exist within the cashmere wrapped bubble they’ve created for the purpose of the movie.
Moonraker is a movie Natasha has seen many, many times. Countless times, in fact. Alexei had played this movie almost every week without fail back in Ohio – it was his favourite movie. He liked to think of himself as many things – the Russian Captain America, the Russian James Bond. Maybe the root of his debasement was his projection unto others.
Alexei’s obsession with this movie in particular meant that Natasha could cite the entire script word for word from memory. At some point during the movie, Natasha had begun silently mouthing along to the dialogue, only stopping to sip at her beer or chew some popcorn. A little while later as she leaned forward to place her now empty beer bottle onto the table ahead, she could feel inquisitive eyes watching her movements. She could see Steve through her peripheral vision still immersed with the movie and shovelling copious amounts of popcorn into his mouth, and opposite on the sofa she could clearly see Vision and Sam – completely enthralled by the fight scene taking place.
Natasha leaned back on the sofa and twisted her head so that she was facing Wanda, who, as she expected, was watching her. It was dark enough in the room that Natasha could faintly see the reflection of the plasma screen in Wanda’s bright viridescent eyes.
“You really like this movie.” Wanda states, her voice barely above a whisper after having witnessed Natasha recite every line of dialogue so far, a soft smile ghosting her lips.
She smirks softly. “I really know this movie.” Her head is resting against the back of the sofa as she studies Wanda’s features. The light from the movie is glimmering against the sharp curve of her cheekbones, and illuminating her jaw in glowing contour, with her long, thick eyelashes cascading shadows above.
When Natasha first defected to shield, she often found herself searching for Clint in a crowded room. It was unfamiliar territory for her then, and with her gaze focused on him it brought her a sense of comfort and helped her feel at ease – his familiar face was a raft in a sea of the unknown. Natasha was aware that she and Wanda were now in a similar situation: Wanda had defected to the Avengers, and Natasha knew that she had become a comfort to the younger woman during her time here. She had also come to realise that Wanda had become somewhat of a comfort to her, too. She often found Wanda searching for her in crowded rooms, just as she had done with Clint years before.
Yet, as she sits here with her eyes audaciously roaming the intricacies of Wanda’s features, she finds nothing similar between this and the way she remembers her experience with Clint. She remembers looking to him for cues, for signals, for reassurance, and she remembers finding everything she sought.
The warmth emanating from Wanda’s close proximity beneath the comforter bestows contentment, yet the endearing demeanour of which her eyes regard Natasha leave her feeling unsatiated, an almost yearning.
Chapter 4
Notes:
I have had the most awful writer’s block; it was physically painful. But I really like this chapter, so I hope that you do too.
Also, I live in the UK, so if my Geography is wrong, please let me know and I’ll fix it.
Merry Christmas <3
(there is a Christmas themed chapter coming soon)
Chapter Text
“Do you want me to come?”
“Nat, I always want you on missions.” Steve offers, his smile warm and amiable. “But we’re just gathering intel from a deserted Hydra base Sam discovered out patrolling last night. It shouldn’t take too long.” He gently grasps the tops of her arms, his thumbs pressing comfortingly into her shoulders. The weight of his muscular stature never ceased to provide a familial sort of comfort. “Stay here, keep an eye on Wanda. We’ll be back soon.”
She looks over Steve’s shoulder to where Sam is stood by the elevator, equipped and ready in his wingsuit, goggles firmly in place. He flashes her a smirk and a faux salute before stepping into the opening doors as a light ding resounds through the floor at its arrival, with Steve following in tow.
Gathering intel missions were never her favourite; they were always too slow, with little to no action and with far too much time spent rummaging through objects and picking locks – if she was lucky, maybe a little hacking. Natasha was content with sitting this one out, as successful intel gathering usually led to reconnaissance missions, and those she highly enjoyed.
Natasha had been spending copious amounts of her time enduring physical exhaustion as of late – team training, running in the early morning, and additional combat training with Sam. Her body ached. The muscles in her neck felt taught and rigid, and the tenderness seeped its way up to the base of her spine and trickled out across the expanse of her skull. Her limbs felt laden, weighed down by the accumulation of lactic acid in her fatigued muscles. A hot bath would serve as the perfect antidote.
As she made her way through the top floor towards her room on her quest for the much-desired bath, her steps slowed as she neared Wanda’s room with the intention of informing her about the Hydra intel. She lifted her arm to begin knocking on the wooden door, but before her knuckles made contact with the surface, it began to open, with the handle engulfed in red energy.
“How did you know it was me?” She enquires as she steps into the room, hearing the door close softly behind her.
Wanda is sat atop her bed, with her back resting against the headboard, and her knees drawn in towards her chest. “I know your footsteps.” She states. Her words escape slightly muffled as she’s absentmindedly chewing on the tip of her left thumbnail.
Natasha walks over to bed, gracefully gliding up onto the plush comforter and positions herself in a cross-legged position in front of Wanda. Her demeanour is a little jittery with a slight bounce in her knees even in her stationary state as she continues chewing on her thumbnail, with her body language closed and apprehensive. As Natasha settles, Wanda lowers her knees and mirrors her position so that her knees are no longer a physical barrier between them, but her eyes remain distant, as her mind is seemingly elsewhere.
“Wands…” Natasha gently urges as she reaches up to take hold of Wanda’s hand which is hidden within the wool of her cardigan sleeve, to cease the anxious nail biting and guides her hand down to rest in her lap with Natasha’s hand still clasping hers. The movement seems to have a wakening effect on Wanda as she refocuses and meets Natasha’s eyes.
“Sam found a Hydra research base—” Natasha begins now that she has the younger woman’s attention but is interrupted before she can finish.
“Are you leaving?” Wanda probes looking a little distressed, her anxious eyes search Natasha’s face as she intertwines their fingers together and subconsciously squeezes.
Natasha shakes her head and reaches forward with her free hand to hold Wanda’s other to provide additional comfort. She was visibly unsettled, and the prospect of Natasha disappearing for an undetermined length of time on a mission had only deemed to startle her further. “I’m not going anywhere, not this time.”
She studies the younger woman for a moment – her breathing was short and unsteady, the muscles in her jaw were tensed and caused taught striations which mapped a path from her neck to her clavicle, and her right leg continued to bounce which shook the bed with its continuous movements.
Wanda had days which were so good, where she would surprise Natasha with lingering smiles and stolen glances from across the dining table at dinner, days in which her room swelled with the melodic sounds of her laughter and danced with gentle tactility. Those days had become more frequented in the five months Wanda acclimated to life as an Avenger. However, as expected, Wanda also endured days which were woefully badas she continued to process her grief and habituate to a life without her twin, without a part of her.
As Natasha studies the woman before her, she understands that today isn’t an awful day, but it’s an off day. In the past five months, Natasha had discerned that Wanda responded particularly well to physical touch. She had first noticed this on the Helicarrier in Sokovia, when she guided Wanda through the crowds of people by her shoulders, then she had calmed her saturating sobbing in the cabin with her delicate disposition whilst she cleaned her hands, or the many times in which she had tethered her mind as it began to float further and further away from the conscious present by placing a gentle hand upon her thighs.
With that knowledge, she inches a little closer so that their knees are now touching and flips their hands so that Wanda’s are laying palms facing up on her own knees, as Natasha touches the pads of her fingertips against Wanda’s and delicately glides them up to the bottom of her wrists and back down in a soothing, repetitive motion. The resemblance isn’t too uncanny to how she assuaged the many ‘code green’ incidents with Banner. Her eyes flicker down to watch her own hands – so steady and sure in their soothing ministrations and begins comparing it to the way her hands shook in fear and uncertainty whenever her fingertips sung their lullaby against the rough, green expanse of Bruce’s enlarged palm.
Wanda’s breathing began evening out into the familiar rhythmic pattern Natasha had grown accustomed to hearing whenever they were alone, and as her fingertips delicately glided their descent from her wrists, she felt Wanda curve her fingers, interlocking them with her own and glide her right thumb across Natasha’s left knuckles.
Affectionate physical touch was a language Natasha had yet to master, but it no longer remained entirely undecipherable to her. Each day she interpreted the translation of a simple touch and decoded the cues as to when to initiate and how to respond - as if her skin were a canvas, ready and willing to absorb the tactile intricacies of this ardent language.
“Are you doing okay?” She gently probes as her eyes flicker up from watching their interlinked hands to meet Wanda’s eyes. She looks present now, once again tethered to their current reality.
Wanda nods. “Sometimes it gets… difficult.” She pauses in introspection, her brows furrowing slightly. Wanda abandons their delicate handhold to grasp Natasha’s right hand with her left, as she draws patterns on her palm with her right fingertips.
Natasha waits patiently, her eyes following Wanda’s to resettle on their joined hands, feeling the gentle tingling against her palm each time the blunt tips of Wanda’s nails brushed against her skin. Natasha had noticed that Wanda fidgets, a lot, specifically with her hands, and specifically when she’s feeling vulnerable or emotional. Whether it be clutching a book, twisting the rings she wore on her fingers, or covering her hands with her sleeves.
“For a moment I’ll forget that he is gone, and I want to share things with him. But then I’ll remember.” Wanda further elaborates. Her voice is even, but it’s heavy, laden with emotion.
“What do you want to share with him?” Natasha gently probes as she shifts on the bed so that she is now sat beside Wanda, with her back resting against the headboard. Her hand never leaving its place as Wanda continues to trace patterns against her palm.
“I would read to him. He said it reminded him of bedtime stories as children. He liked stories, but he didn’t like reading. He could never sit still long enough to concentrate, even when he was a child.” A gentle laugh escapes her lips which have bloomed into a bittersweet smile at the fond memory before her lower lip quakes, only slightly – it’s barely noticeable, but Natasha notices.
She twists slightly, and uses both her hands to grasp Wanda’s, trying to distract her from her melancholic trail of thoughts. “How can I help?”
“You are already helping by just being here.”
Natasha nods as she watches Wanda’s blue eyes flitter down to focus on the patterns which she continued tracing against the palm of Natasha’s hand. It was soothing to Wanda, it seemed, but it was also soothing to her, too. After a short while Natasha feels her own eyes begin to flutter closed as her body reminds her of the deep fatigue weighing her down – anchoring her laden limbs to the soft warmth of the comforter beneath her as the gentle ministrations of Wanda’s fingertips lull her to sleep in their own silent lullaby.
“Nat?” A soft voice breaks the veil of her slumber.
“Hm?” She responds, although her eyes remain closed.
She feels her head begin to drop, anticipating the sharp upward jerk to follow as her mind begins drifting in and out of streams consciousness. She waits, swaying between both, but the jerk doesn’t arrive – instead she feels weightless.
“Do you want to sleep?” Wanda’s familiar gentle voice questions.
Natasha takes a slow breath to sober her thoughts and provide her mind with enough fresh air to awaken a little more. She did want to sleep, the hot bath would no longer suffice, she needed to hit the metaphorical ‘hard reset’. Despite this, she shook her head in disagreement.
Vision was working with Tony and Rhodey at the new compound, and Steve and Sam were out scouting the Hydra base. This left her alone with Wanda in the Avengers Tower, and Natasha didn’t want to leave Wanda alone with her thoughts just yet.
As she shook her head, it became apparent as to why she felt weightless – her head had fallen to rest upon Wanda’s shoulder beside her, feeling the soft wool of her cardigan against her cheek.
“Let’s go eat.” Natasha suggests, her voice already thick and raspy at the prospect of sleep.
“But you need to sleep.” Wanda protests after a short pause.
“You weren’t at breakfast; you need to eat.”
No protests shortly follow, but instead Natasha feels Wanda gently rest her head atop her own. Her senses are delicately invaded with what she can only describe as something unequivocally Wanda; coconut shampoo, a hint of vanilla, and something else – something she can’t quite place. Natasha finds herself wanting to nuzzle in closer to distinguish what it could be – forever swayed by the unsatiated contentment and the yearning for more.
“Nat?” Wanda’s gentle voice ripples through her thoughts.
“Hm?”
“I want—can we stay like this… for a little longer?”
With their proximity, Natasha is able to hear the precise moment Wanda’s pulse quickens at her question. It is almost imperceptible, and it would have been had it not been for Natasha’s artful skillset in Kinesics.
“We can stay here for as long as you want.” She responds, hoping to assuage any nerves the younger woman experienced to spike her pulse.
This is the closest contact they’ve initiated so far, and it’s also the first time either one of them has verbally acknowledged it. It feels different. The first stream of thought to trickle into Natasha’s mind is that the yearning, the static longing she often feels for the younger woman is reciprocated – Wanda wants to be physically closer to her, she even explicitly asked for it.
Her thoughts are quelled by the low rumbling of Wanda’s stomach in its feeble cry for food.
“Is this an American thing?”
Natasha smirks in amusement as she continues hand-mixing the pancake batter in the large bowl on the counter-top. It looks rather lumpy, and not at all resembling the silky-smooth perfection Steve accomplishes when he tries. “Pancakes?”
Wanda shakes her head from where she’s perched upon a stool at the other end of the kitchen island. “Breakfast for dinner. But now that you mention it, pancakes too.”
“I guess so.” Natasha admits, she certainly didn’t have the luxury of breakfast for dinner during her formative years in Russia. In fact, she remembers quite clearly the first time she had ever tried pancakes. Melina had spent far too long in the kitchen trying to make them for her and Yelena during one of their first mornings together. Hers were lumpy, too – having had no prior experience cooking breakfast for children. They were delicious, however, albeit a little too sweet. But after years of eating military-grade food, the experience was euphoric. “They remind me of home.” She inwardly thinks, as her mind swims fondly in memories, her lips curving into a smile.
Natasha swirls the batter a few more times before turning to check the heat below the pan, sensing the heat rise as she tentatively hovers a hand above the metal. She begins slowly pouring in the mixture, watching it pool into an uneven circular shape against the hot surface as the scent of sweetness intoxicates the atmosphere.
As she looks up from her task-at-hand, she notices Wanda watching her, smiling. It’s bright and affectionate, with the blue hues of her eyes glistening under the warm luminescent kitchen lighting. It’s distracting, yet also illuminating in a way the lights can’t attain.
“What?” Natasha asks as she cocks her head to the side slightly, her smile turning bashful.
“You are smiling.” Wanda admits, her own smile never faltering.
Natasha raises a brow questioningly towards the younger woman, with her lips quirking into an amused smirk. Her eyes still scanning Wanda’s features, still distracted.
It’s not the first instance in which Natasha has taken the time to appreciate the beauty of the woman before her, but it is the first time that she’s felt so disarmed by it. Wanda is beautiful – her aesthetic beauty is strikingly apparent, but it’s during moments like the present in which Natasha truly admires her beauty. During moments between the two of them as they laugh amidst a private joke or share a moment they both know will not surpass the familiarity of the bubble which secludes them. It’s during moments Natasha knows are reserved for her; certain smiles which lead to stolen glances in crowded rooms, or lingering touches which leave a static longing – a yearning for something more.
“I think its burning…” Wanda offers as she glides off the counter and walks around the island to stand beside Natasha and take the spatula from her waiting hand. “You’re too tired to cook.” She muses.
“I’m not tired.” She pauses and takes a moment to collect herself. “Just a little distracted.” She openly admits, and gladly passes the spatula to the younger woman.
Natasha watches Wanda’s lips curve into a bashful smile as her complexion is dusted in a shade of pink as she attempts to salvage the pancakes beginning to sear against the pan.
“When you said we should eat, I thought you meant something edible.” Wanda teases with a scrunch of her nose.
Natasha sinks thankfully into her bed later that night, feeling the memory foam mattress remould itself around her fatigued form as she lay there, basking in the feeling of plush weightlessness.
It’s not long before her mind slips into the realm of the unconscious, with her thoughts and memories splayed out before her in her dreams – guiding her with subliminal imagery. She dreams of breakfast with Yelena in an undecipherable diner in New York, it’s an unsettling dream, one which leaves her mind reeling and her pulse racing. Not for any dramatic sequencing – they’re merely comparing the fluffy quality of their pancakes to the heavy, thick, lumpy pancakes Melina would serve to them as children. Its unnerving as Yelena’s face is as undecipherable to her as the diner.
What would she look like now?
What would her voice sound like?
Would she have made it out of the Widow programme?
Would she even remember Natasha? She was much younger than she was during their time in Ohio, and trauma has a habit of flaying the brain and tearing its memories from existence. Natasha could merely exist within her subconscious as a fragmented distortion of the truth, something akin to a lucid dream or a past life.
She’s soon awoken from her troubled dreams by the sound of F.R.I.D.A.Y. and her detectable Irish accent.
“Miss Romanoff, incoming call from Captain Rogers.” The voice seeps into the inky darkness of her room, triggering her fight or flight response.
Natasha jolts up, her mind now fully comprehensible as she feels the adrenaline freshly course through her veins like liquid electricity with every pump of her heart. She takes note of the time displayed above Steve’s name on her phone’s home screen before she answers – it’s 05:25. Her stomach swoops nauseatingly at the realm of possibilities before she clenches her jaw to anchor herself.
“Steve?”
“Hey Nat, first of all we’re okay—”
“Better than okay!” She hears Sam bellow out in the background. They sound high-up, she can hear the wind slapping against them – its violent speed having not been broken by the bodies of buildings below. Perhaps they were surveying from a rooftop.
She raises a brow and unclenches her jaw, her lips quirking into a smile of relief. “Thanks for the clarification.” The liquid electricity begins to fizzle out and cool beneath her skin.
“Well don’t sound so happy about it.” Steve quips. His warming humour quells the remaining pool of electricity emanating in her core as she feels her heart begin to beat once again in a regular rhythm.
“So, what’s the news? Any updates?” She curiously probes.
There’s some shuffling on the other end of the call for a few moments. “We’re coming home, pack your stuff.” His answer is clipped, he sounds distracted.
Natasha’s brow furrows slightly in confusion, as the answer to her question only evoked further curiosity. “That sounds like an order, not an answer.”
“We found some new leads; I think the best option is to follow them up tonight. I need to run some data before we head back out. I can’t do that from here, and we can’t do that without you.” Steve offers, and she can almost hear the charming boyish smile at his second attempt in answering her question.
“Clear communication, man. Come on.” Sam teases Steve in the background.
“Alright, I’ll get ready, see you in a minute.”
It takes her less than ten minutes to be fully equipped in her tactical suit, comms device in place, weapons packed and holstered, and her go-bag ready by the elevator. She checks Steve’s location on her device – they were still fifteen minutes away, minus the time Steve requires to run data once they arrive back at base.
Natasha uses this time to navigate her way back to the top residential floor of the tower, the light sensors each flicking on and off in her wake – illuminating her path as the plush carpet swallows the rhythmic thuds following her tactical boot-clad footsteps. She knocks twice against Wanda’s bedroom door and patiently awaits a response. Steve will need to alert the entire team and inform of the progression of the mission once he arrives or en-route, but she wants to talk to Wanda first. She wants to talk to Wanda as Natasha, not collectively to the team including Wanda, as Black Widow.
The door creaks open with the handle engulfed in red energy before closing gently with a dull click once Natasha slips inside, as she somewhat blindly navigates her way amidst the sable darkness of the room. As she reaches the bed and takes a seat on the edge, the bedside lamp suddenly radiates the room in a dimmed warm light.
“That light would have been useful about five seconds ago.” She muses to a sleepy Wanda, who is now sat upright, blinking dazedly.
“What time is it?” Wanda questions, her voice raspy and thick with sleep.
Natasha pulls out her phone from her utility belt to double check, the screen glaring harshly against the dimmed atmosphere of the room. “It’s just after 5:30.” She offers Wanda a soft smile, finding her sleepiness endearing as she squeezes her eyes shut at the offending light.
Wanda blindly reaches out to place her palms over Natasha’s phone screen to stop the blinding light and comes to sudden stop as she makes contact with Natasha’s gloved hands, knowing what that means.
“You’re leaving.” It’s not a question this time, it’s a statement. She opens her eyes, now sobered from her sleep from the realisation of reality, her eyes roaming across the expanse of the black tactical suit for confirmation.
Natasha nods twice, surveying Wanda’s features for any signs of discomfort or distress. Once she steps into the elevator and makes her exit, it marks the first time that Wanda will be left alone without Natasha since Sokovia. Before now, Natasha had never put too much thought into when this specific situation may arise, or why, or how. It had been so quiet for so long, they had been given the freedom to live their lives in the Tower how they pleased, with no leads to follow, simply patiently waiting for the migration to the Compound to begin.
However, it was here now, as were they.
Wanda nods in return, her delicate brows furrowed ever so slightly. “Do you know how long you will be gone?”
Natasha shakes her head once as she places her phone back into a compartment in her utility belt. “It shouldn’t take too long, but I can’t say for sure.”
Wanda silently observes for a moment, looking as though she has an endless stream of questions to ask but is withholding them, and begins anxiously twisting the rings on her fingers.
“Will you be okay?” Natasha questions, as she clasps both of her hands against Wanda’s to stop the nervous fidgeting.
“Promise me that you will be.” Wanda softly demands as her nervous fidgeting halts.
“I always am.” She deflects, her tone light and self-assured, as she raises a brow for emphasis. Although her humour is not positively received, as Wanda straightens her expression to convey her seriousness. “We’re just following up on a lead, it’s not ‘Battle of New York’ part two”.
Wanda’s expression lightens at Natasha’s second attempt at humour. “I saw that one on the news.”
“Yeah, it was a lot of fun – I hope you enjoyed the show.” Natasha’s dry sense of humour finally pierces Wanda’s worried veil of concern, as a small laugh escapes her lips. Natasha smiles in triumph, having succeeded in lightening her demeanour before leaving on a positive note.
There’s a faint buzzing through her right ear as her comms device is remotely activated – Steve and Sam were back and setting up. “Nat, we’re good to go.” Sam’s voice flitters out from the device and into her ear.
“I’ll be down in a minute.” She responds before tapping against it twice to mute herself, and then refocus her attention upon Wanda, who flexes her fingers within Natasha’s grasp to then entwine them together – so smoothly, like pieces of a puzzle connecting.
It’s such a gentle, nonchalant gesture, but Natasha finds herself not wanting to let go, not wanting to be without the familiarity of the woman before her for an undetermined length of time. It’s a new feeling, one which she does not have the time to contemplate right now – she needs to remain focused for the mission and cannot risk distraction.
“You need to go.” Wanda states, preparing herself for the departure.
“What are you reading right now?” Natasha enquires as she gently glides her fingers against and between Wanda’s, touching their fingertips together, and then gliding back down and softly squeezing.
Wanda’s brow furrows ever so slightly in perplexity at the odd-timed literature question, but answers, nevertheless. “A Christmas Carol, why?” Her eyes soften at the mention of the title as her lips curve at the edges – there’s meaning hidden beneath the glaze of fondness, but there isn’t time to uncover it.
Natasha tilts her head to the side with a brow raised. “It is December now I guess…”
“Okay?” Wanda probes through a puzzled laugh.
“There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour.” Natasha artfully quotes Dickens, a line from A Christmas Carol, and is met with a glowing smile of admiration from the woman before her.
“How do you do that?” Wanda asks as Natasha stands, reluctantly disconnecting their hands, and begins walking towards the bedroom door.
“That’s classified. See, I could tell you, but then I’d have to ki—”
“Go.” Wanda commands through a laugh, ceasing an and to the moment at Natasha’s cheesy use of a Maverick line from Top Gun.
“Hey, does Tony know about this?” Natasha questions a short while into their drive to the location.
The team saw Tony and Steve as the leaders of the group, they each portrayed impeccable leadership capabilities and qualities, each in their own way. Despite this, there were oftentimes inconceivable differences in their approaches, thus leading to equivocal communication. The team also perceived Natasha as their rightful buffer – the one and only person with the enigmatic strength, and creative intelligence to assuage any antagonism between them both.
As difficult and trying as it may be at times, she knew that she was the connecting piece of the puzzle – the perfect malleable antidote to whichever shape or state the boys may contort themselves into.
Steve flicks on the indicator to turn left, the light flickering like a tiny beacon in the darkness of the car, before smoothly turning the wheel and briefly glancing at Natasha mid-motion. “Yeah, Sam and I called him and Rhodey on our way over to you.”
“He’s not sad to miss the party?”
“Well, you know Tony. There’s always a bigger and better party. In this case, he’s doing something nice for us, so I’ll let him sit this one out.”
Before she can respond, the ambiance of the ride is interrupted by a low guttural groan emanating from Sam’s stomach. “There’s protein bars in the front pocket of my backpack.” She calls out to Sam who’s sat in the centre of the backseat.
“Have I told you that I love you recently? Because if I haven’t, I do. What would I do without you?” Sam rambles on as he twists over the backseat and into the trunk to rummage through their belongings to locate Natasha’s snacks.
“I don’t know, starve apparently.” She jests, watching Sam through the rear-view mirror as he sighs contentedly once he’s seated and taken the first bite.
The drive lasts for just over two hours, and they pull up in a deserted carpark belonging to an equally deserted-looking warehouse in Connecticut. The sun had begun to rise, as it peeked diffidently beneath the clouds, basking them in a cold hue of grey as it strikingly mirrored the early December snowfall which coated the ground. She could see her breaths escape in small clouds of condensation before her as she exited the car, as the tips of her fingers began to tingle from the sudden lack of heat.
“Get in, gather intel, get out.” Steve relays in brief the strategy they had formulated during the last 30 minutes of the drive over. “Fight, if we need to. Look out for each other, be smart—”
“And don’t do anything stupid, we got it, Steve.” Natasha finishes the end of his Captain Rogers pep-talk.
Getting in was easy, but no simpler than they had anticipated – it was an abandoned warehouse, after all. All which was required was a novice code-break on the entry systems, which Natasha hacked in less than sixty-seconds.
“The person who created this system is definitely not slightly smarter than you.” Steve muses in reference to a conversation held over their last H.Y.D.R.A. hacking task in the Apple store, as the screen glows bright green, signalling access to entry.
“That was a fluke, not many people are smarter than me, Steve.” Natasha boasts in her characteristically flirty demeanour.
Steve smirks at Natasha’s flirtatious confidence. “Oh, don’t I know it.”
Sam saunters in behind them both, glancing between each of them. “Why does it feel like I’m third-wheeling?” He asks rhetorically, out loud.
They decide to split up in order search further, faster. It’s quiet in the warehouse and Natasha can hear each individual movement the boys make in the near distance, as she busies herself connecting a storage device to the main system to download the intel and as much data she can gather. Data filtration can be done back at the Tower with Vision’s help, she didn’t have time to skim read to discover which parts were useful or useless. As the data transfer reaches the 90th percentile, a map pops up on the screen including a smaller window containing a recent communication log.
“Hey, come look at this!” She calls out, listening to the sounds of their footsteps as they jog to her location.
“Is that a GPS signal?” Sam questions as he nears the screen, leaning his weight onto the palms of his hands which are pressed into the desktop. There’s a small beacon glowing from a sequence of code located in the North-East region.
“Can we track it?” Steve questions, glancing towards Natasha.
“Yeah, just give me a moment to triangulate the location…” She swipes on the screen a few times before typing in a sequence of numbers on the keyboard, watching the window zone in towards the beacon as she hits ‘enter’. “It’s in Boston.”
Sam leans back so that his weight is fully supported in a standing position and shrugs nonchalantly. “Another two-hour drive. Man, I really miss the Quinjet.”
Steve furrows his brows in contemplation for a moment, his eyes zoning in on the communications log. “This has todays date stamp.” He taps his finger against the screen twice which zooms in by 200%, before quickly standing back and innocently holding up his hands.
“Okay calm down, Grandpa. It’s touch-screen.” Natasha jests as she mimics a pinching motion twice to zoom back out to its regular size. “It is todays date stamp, meaning someone was here today.” She pulls out the storage device from the main system.
Steve nods in finality having already made the decision to drive to Boston as soon as Natasha unveiled the location. “Let’s get driving.”
The strangled sounds of Sam snoring from the backseat began to flood the car an hour into the drive. Natasha had managed to sleep for four hours before heading out, and Steve required little sleep to adequately function due to the super soldier serum – it was no surprise Sam was feeling this exhausted.
“Do you think we’ll find him?” Natasha questions, her voice low so as not to disturb their sleeping teammate, and her eyes trained on the road as she takes her shift in driving to the next location.
“I need to believe that we will, if not today, then at some point. Hopefully soon.” Steve admits. There’s a raw evocation in his words, something which Natasha has heard before, something which is reserved for all things Bucky.
When she thinks of the uniquely divergent circumstance between Steve and Bucky, she can’t even begin to comprehend the many layers of intricate emotions, experience and stories which are hidden behind the eyes of these two men, one of whom she holds close to her heart. If she and Clint were ever thrust into a similar situation, she knows she would fight as amiably as Steve to get him back – yet they’ve only been a cardinal part of each other’s lives for a fraction of the time in which Steve and Bucky have shared together.
“We will.” She softly responds as they reach a red light, turning to offer him a warm and reassuring smile. The bright red hue of the traffic light enhances the determination etched into his chiselled features in the dim enclosure of the car.
“Thank you for doing this, Nat. I know you have a history with him too and it can’t be easy… it’s not who he is, that’s not the Bucky I know.”
Natasha tightens her grip against the steering wheel at the mention of her experience with The Winter Soldier during her Widow training. She knew what it was like to be subjugated by Dreykov, she knew how it feels to have someone controlling your mind from the inside out, to not have control over any aspect of your life, to be a prisoner in your own body and mind. If Steve expresses that the Bucky he knows, and loves is truly a different man than the monster she met during her training – she believes him. She trusts Steve, she has complete faith in knowing he would never do anything to endanger her safety or the team’s.
“What’s the protocol if we find him?” Sam questions, seeking reconfirmation as they exit the car.
It’s nearing midday now, with the sun set high in the sky and the early-morning clouds having drifted away. The bright rays bounce mercilessly against the glistening white snow which has continued to fall throughout the day. Natasha uses a hand to shield her eyes from the offending glare as they continue the rest of their journey on foot to remain inconspicuous.
“You find me.” Steve confirms, his eyes focused on the assembly of buildings in the near distance.
Sam and Natasha both nod in unison at their solidified instruction ahead of the mission. This time will not be as easy as the last – not a simple case of: get in, gather intel, get out. There are lights on in various windows from the ground floor all the way up to the top – there are ten in total, with eight cars parked in the drive connecting to the building from which the GPS triangulated.
Sam spreads his wings, causing a light mechanical thrum as they expand. “I’ll meet you inside, gonna’ scan the building from up top.” He informs them, gesturing to the top of a neighbouring building before he flies off into the distance.
“You ready?” Steve asks Natasha, his eyes evidently scanning hers for any signs of regret.
She cocks her head to the side with a quirk of a brow. “As ready as I’ll ever be, Soldier.”
“I can see nine heat signatures, three in the basement, two on the roof and four on the fourth and fifth floor. I’ll take the roof.” Sam’s voice filters in through the comms device.
“I’ll take the basement. Meet you inside.” Natasha directs as she and Steve begin jogging towards the building, surveying the environment for any cameras or advanced tech, ensuring complete evasion. The snow unsettles and quakes beneath their feet in their wake in disgruntled flurries.
In these situations, Natasha is a ‘punch first, ask questions later’ type person. If she punches first, there’s ample time to search for intel while the assailant is down, it also enables her the advantage of interrogation preparation – which is always easier if the assailant isn’t awake to fight the restraints.
Take out the three in the basement. Search for intel. Interrogate assailant’s if adequate intel is not discovered.
She artfully infiltrates the building by sliding in through an open window on the west-side of the building on the ground floor leading to the stairwell.
“Well, that was easy.” She mumbles to herself before leaning onto the metallic bars of the stairwell and then slightly over to look up, and then down, surveying for any movement. No dangerous movement is registered, but she does witness the first out of three of her targets on the floor below lingering by an open window, smoking.
She slides over the railing and glides onto the lower level, landing a few steps behind her assailant. He’s equipped in all-black tactical gear with a comms device in his left ear, blowing obnoxious rings of smoke through the open window.
“Don’t you know those things can kill you?” She questions, toying her opponent, waiting for him to register her presence.
He instinctively drops the cigarette and turns around startled; his eyes wide, but his reaction time is exceptionally poor. He freezes, just for a moment, but it’s a second too long and Natasha grows impatient. She twists on her left foot to allow her the correct positioning to strike one swift side kick to his upper mid-section, causing him to bend over in pain. As soon as his head is bowed, she grapples onto the back of his neck, drives back with her right leg, and then powers forward – connecting her knee to the soft cartilage of his nose. His hands fly up to protect his wounds, which allows her the freedom to wrap her arms around his neck, initiating a chokehold. It takes mere seconds for him to lose consciousness, with his limp form falling ungracefully from her grip.
“One down, two to go.” She whispers into her comms device, alerting the boys of her progress.
“One? I’m at three.” Steve boasts.
“Show off.” Sam and Natasha both reply in unison.
As she nears the entrance to the basement, she witnesses a H.Y.D.R.A agent pacing back and forth before the open door, throwing his gun into the air and then catching it, seemingly bored by monitoring his post. He seems distracted enough. As he throws the gun into the air again, Natasha launches up from behind him and catches it mere seconds before he does.
“Did I ruin your game?” She mocks.
The agent frantically pats his mid torso area in search of a secondary weapon. Before he’s unable to locate it, Natasha launches up a second time, wrapping her legs around his torso and her arms around his neck as she tightens her grip as hard as she can, feeling her forearm crush his trachea. She feels his chest rise and fall in uneven quick succession as he begins to panic due to lack of oxygen to his brain and air to his lungs. His feet begin to step in multiple directions as he attempts to maintain balance and focus. He wobbles a few steps back and loses his balance completely as one mistaken step plunges them down a short flight of steps into the basement.
Natasha feels her mid-back smack against the edge of multiple steps, with the weight of a heavily built adult man crushing her ribs on the way down. The pain is searing and white hot, sending chills down her spine and leaving her a little winded. As they reach the bottom, the H.Y.D.R.A agent is non-responsive at least.
“Ow…” She groans as she rolls away from where she had landed partially beneath him. His limp body connects with the floor with a heavy thud. As she stands, she experimentally stretches and flexes in different directions to assess for any bone breaks or ligament or tendon tears. She’s able to move freely, albeit in pain from the fall, but her adrenaline will serve as a sufficient pain-blocker soon enough. She picks up the gun which had fallen from her grasp and holsters it on her upper left thigh.
A loud crashing sound tears through the stairwell, followed by the basement door flying through the hallway before slamming into the wall connecting to the flight of stairs Natasha had just fallen. The metallic thud of the weighted door sparks a sharp ringing echo.
“Well, that’s not humanly possible.” She states aloud, having undoubtful suspicions on who it could be, watching as the assailant takes ponderous steps into her line of sight.
Shoulder length messy black hair, leather vest, metal arm… Bucky.
In one dramatic jump, Bucky jumps the flight of stairs, landing with a ponderous thud against the basement floor. Natasha sprints towards him, sliding feet first between his legs before kicking the backs of his knees and causing his legs to buckle. The action causes him to come crashing down into a front-kneeling position. She begins readying herself for a kick but is forcefully knocked as Bucky turns and uses his arm to send her flying into the concrete wall. Natasha is suspended in the air for a split second before she feels the disorienting thud of the back of her head smacking against the wall. It’s not hard enough to cause any real damage, but she’s left dazed and disoriented as she unceremoniously falls to the ground.
Bucky stands fully and begins speaking in Russian, she assumes to someone via his comms device. “I have located the Widow.”
“So you do recognize me.” She mumbles in Russian, the pain evident in her voice as she rolls over with seconds to spare – watching him turn and drive a metallic punch towards her head which connects with the wall, sending cracks through the brickwork.
She propels to her feet, shaking her head slightly to readjust her senses after hitting her head before driving her right knee into his chest. The action elicits a low groan as it knocks him off balance.
“Steve…” Natasha calls through her comms as she strategizes a way to survive until he arrives. “I found him.”
“I’m on my way!” He calls out.
Bucky lurches forward but is met with the brunt of a round kick to his neck. He uses his arm to push her leg away, and lurches forward again, this time using his metallic hand to push against her face - driving her into the wall once more. The back of her head hits the surface with a low thud, but she barely registers the impact, doesn’t feel the pain at all. Her pain receptors are too preoccupied with alighting every nerve ending in her face, alerting her of the runny warmth and white-hot heat emanating from her nose, and the metallic taste dripping into her mouth from her pierced lower lip.
Within seconds, she feels the glacial metal of his fingers wrap around her throat as his palm presses down onto her trachea, feeling the world around her compress and her vision and hearing begins to tunnel. She blindly reaches for the gun she holstered and had stolen from the other agent, her hand frantically swatting against her thighs. She locates it and brings it up so that it is at eye-line with Bucky, before pulling away and in one sharp blow sends the magazine pummelling into his left ear – obliterating his comms device within his ear canal and disorienting him from the impact.
The tech crackles and sparks as a sharp ringing pierces the atmosphere loud enough for Natasha to hear. He rushes to bring both hands up to retrieve the device and halt the painful sensation.
“Bucky…” She faintly hears Steve’s voice following hurried footsteps before they come to a stop.
Natasha swallows and blinks few times and cranes her neck to alleviate the pain from being strangled moments ago, feeling the taught muscles stretch in agony, allowing herself a few seconds to readjust knowing this was now Steve’s fight.
She can hear Steve’s voice, followed by shuffling, and then the sound of glass breaking - but it’s all muffled as her hearing is still tunnelled from the momentary asphyxiation. A few seconds later she hears the origin of the voice, his features etched in concern, a little dishevelled, but still emanating comfort.
“Are you okay?” He asks as his hands reach out to hold onto her shoulders, either to steady her movements or to provide comfort, maybe both.
“Did you get him?” She questions, wanting to ignore the abrasions beginning to swell across the expanse of her body like a glowstick. She looks past Steve but no longer sees Bucky.
He shakes his head, his brows in a deep furrow. “He dived straight out the window.”
Natasha nods in understanding and is about to question him further when she comes to her senses a little clearer. “Where’s Sam?”
“He’s okay, he got hit pretty hard too, but he’s fine.”
“Super Soldier get him too?” She questions.
“No, but not H.Y.D.R.A either…” He admits with a brow raised in contemplation, seemingly deep in thought.
“Let’s re-group tomorrow after we’ve all had some sleep.” Steve announces as he enters the drivers-side of the car.
Natasha slides into the passenger’s seat as Sam climbs into the back and immediately settles into a position to resume his sleep from earlier. “Sounds good to me.” He mumbles. “I think we did good, Steve. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“We’ve found him before; we’ll find him again.” Natasha offers, placing a comforting hand to his shoulder.
“Yeah, I know. I was just hoping today would be the last.” Steve admits as he ignites the engine and begins their journey home.
The drive back to the Avengers Tower is quiet, aside from the sounds of Sam snoring and the whirs of cars on the highway. Natasha reaches forward and turns on the radio at some point, alighting the car with the cheery, festive spirit of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’, and notices Steve smile from her peripheral vision as the song begins playing.
By the time they reach the Avengers Tower, the sun has set beneath the horizon once more. She was far too tired and in too much pain to check, but she knew it must be evening-time. After Bucky and the H.Y.D.R.A agents had abandoned their post, they had stayed behind to search for intel - which she assumes had taken a lot longer than anticipated. It was worthwhile, however, as they pulled a significant amount of data. Their next move was to filter through everything in the next few days and strategize a new plan.
“I’ll unload the car, you two go rest. Meet me in the med bay if you need any help.” Steve calls out as they pull into the underground parking lot.
Sam and Natasha both ride the elevator to the residential floor of the tower.
“You good?” Sam questions as the elevator door closes behind them.
She nods, eyeing Sam still in his Wingsuit. “Planning on sleeping in that?” She jokes, eliciting a smirk and headshake from Sam who begins to unharness his attire and head back into the elevator to unpack his advanced weaponry in the armory in the lower levels.
Natasha had discarded her weaponry in the car after Steve had offered to unpack, leaving her with only her tactical suit to deal with. She has a headache, emanating from the base of her skull and connecting with the dull ache at her nose – it feels as though her face is being hydraulically pressed.
Her feet pause outside Wanda’s door for a moment, contemplating going in and informing her of their return, but she continues walking toward her own room. She wants to assess the extent of her injuries first, clean herself up of any blood, dirt, and sweat.
She heads straight to her first-aid supplies once she enters her room, not bothering to flick on her bedroom light, navigating her way through the darkness with practiced ease. The bathroom light is blinding, however, almost nauseating accompanied by the agonising pain in her head. She squeezes her eyes shut and locates pain suppressants, placing four into her mouth before filling a cup with water and downing the entire thing.
Tentatively, she opens her eyes to analyse her appearance in the mirror above the bathroom sink: her lips are swollen and bruised, with a split through the left of her bottom lip, there’s blood smeared across her right cheekbone from where she had tried to wipe at her nosebleed, and there was already a light dusting of purple bruising beginning to form beneath her eyes. She purses her lips into a pout and shrugs at her own reflection knowing this isn’t the worst she’s looked, not by far. She raises her right hand to begin cautiously pressing at the bridge of her nose when her bedroom light is flicked on, causing her to flinch slightly at the unnecessary amount of glaring light.
“Nat? I knocked but you didn’t answer— you’re hurt…” Wanda notices as she nears the doorframe of the bathroom, making eye contact with Natasha through the bathroom mirror.
Natasha turns around to face the younger woman, noticing the worry etched onto her features as she crosses the doorframe into the bathroom. “I didn’t want to worry you.” She admits, closing her eyes again to shield them from the light, feeling instant relief as she does so.
Not a second later she senses the room’s flare soften as the lights begin to mellow, opening her eyes to witness Wanda using her powers to dim the lights to assuage her noticeable pain.
“You worry about everyone all of the time.” Wanda responds once Natasha has opened her eyes again and is focused. “You are always taking care of everybody else. Let me take care of you.”
Natasha’s eyes roam across Wanda’s features, noticing how soft they are – how warm and caring her eyes are right now, but also the challenging demeanour – she wasn’t asking Natasha if she could help, she was telling her that she is going to. She nods in agreement, sending jolts of pain through the back of her head, like a thudding jackhammer. She threads her fingers through her hair to assess the point of impact for the first time since her head connected with the wall, twice, relieved to find no blood.
Wanda watches on in worry as Natasha silently assesses her head wound. She places her hands on either one of her shoulders and gently guides her to take a seat on the edge of the bathtub, noticing Natasha hold her breath in discomfort at the movement.
“I will look.” She tells her, before standing between her thighs and tilting her head to gain a better view, as she begins weaving her fingers through Natasha’s hair to survey her wounds, gently pushing down on her head to locate any bumps or cuts.
“There is no blood, but it looks like you hit your head really hard.” Wanda explains as she delicately glides her fingers through Natasha’s hairline to stop at the nape of her neck, with the pads of her thumbs gently cradling her cheekbones, angling her head upward slightly to make eye-contact. “What happened?”
Relief. A sensation Natasha has experienced twice now in the short space of time she had arrived home. Once in the absence of light as the extraction of the harsh glare had helped alleviate the throbbing physical pain in her head. Now again, as she feels Wanda weave her fingers tenderly through her hair before cradling her face. She feels different now, in Wanda’s presence. The physical affliction is still there, but it feels more manageable – as though her mere presence has enshrouded Natasha in a sense of calmness and reassurance.
“Bucky.” Natasha offers with a small smile in the hopes to alleviate Wanda’s worry.
The younger woman nods. “You fought a Super Soldier.” She glides her right fingers from their cradling position to trace over the hand-shaped bruising on Natasha’s neck.
“It’s not the first time, and probably won’t be the last.” Natasha admits, knowing the inevitability of them facing H.Y.D.R.A and Bucky again, and again, and again, until he’s safe with Steve.
Wanda’s left fingers glide back up and resume their cradling position, and Natasha can sense the anxiety from Wanda at that possibility. She raises her own hands to grasp onto her wrists. “But it’s okay.” She offers, her voice gentle and quiet.
“Is it always like this?” Wanda questions, unconsciously leaning closer into Natasha at her touch.
“Not always.” Natasha consoles as she feels Wanda step in closer towards her, feeling the warmth of her body fit snug between her own – it’s comforting, but she’s too tired to resume this position and brings her hands down to hold onto the edge of the bathtub and essentially support her bodyweight.
“Where else are you hurt?” The younger woman wonders, tentatively pressing onto Natasha’s bruised and swollen split lip, her own eyes tracing her movements.
The touch leaves her lips feeling tingly in a wake of faint pain, but it’s a gratifying type of pain. Her eyes remain focused on Wanda’s, watching them zone in on her ministration – and in the dimmed warmth hue of the bathroom they almost look green, as the light illuminates her eyelashes in a way which makes them glow.
Her thought process is interrupted as she notices Wanda’s blue eyes resettle on her own.
“I’m not sure. I need to take off my tactical suit.” She explains, already feeling the intricate map of abrasions across her torso at the mention of further injury.
Wanda nods, and gestures to Natasha’s blood-smeared face. “And then I will clean this. Do you need help with your suit?”
Natasha looks down at her tactical suit and then up at Wanda, with one brow arched. “Front zipper – I think I’ll be fine. I’ll call you if I’m not.”
Wanda departs the bathroom and closes the door behind her – Natasha assumes she’s right outside, as she hears no retreating footsteps.
She manages to successfully kick off both her tactical boots from her seated position, and slowly stands from the edge of the bathtub, bracing her core in the hopes that it’ll ward off any pain. Climbing out of her suit is much easier than expected – with the zipper down, she smoothly wriggles out of it. Now with her skin free she’s able to see the bruising in a mosaic in shades of blue and purple from her ribs, mapping its way around to her back. She presses her fingers along her ribs to assess for any breaks and finds none, before repeating the process anywhere she deems necessary. All surface wounds.
“I’m going to take a shower.” Natasha calls out as she slips out of her underwear and steps over the bathtub, bracing her hand against the far wall for support. She hears Wanda call out as the water begins spluttering out of the showerhead, cascading like the warm spray of a waterfall around her.
The water is refreshing against her clammy, inflamed skin as it washes away the blood, sweat, and grime. She closes her eyes and dips her head under the stream of water, clenching her jaw in discomfort as the heat stings her lips and her nose.
Washing her hair is a struggle, however. It takes great concentration and determination to hold her hands level with her head for longer than ten seconds without excruciating pain radiating from her midsection. But she perseveres, nonetheless.
Once she’s done, and clean, and feeling as fresh as she possibly can considering her ailments; she stands under the stream and watches the pinkish water begin its descent down the drain, watching the swirls of water become clearer and clearer with each clockwise rotation.
Her thoughts are occupied with Wanda. She thinks of how easier today has felt because of her and how incomplete the day would feel had she not seen her moments ago. She thinks of the warmth she radiates when she smiles, or when she’s happily enthralled in her reading. She thinks about the gentle affection reserved for Natasha – affection she finds herself yearning for.
Once the water is completely clear before it leaves the drain, she decides it’s time to leave. She turns off the shower, and with it her thoughts.
“I found you clean clothes.” Wanda calls out as the water stops.
Natasha takes a towel from the wrack, wrapping herself in it before opening the bathroom door. She feels the cool air of her room seep in and tear through the moist condensation of the bathroom as it prickles at her wet skin.
“Thank you.” She smiles at Wanda who hands her a neatly folded pile of clothes before stepping back into the bathroom to change.
After a few moments she’s dressed in clean underwear, socks, and grey hoodie and sweatpants, and revels in the loose comfort they provide in comparison to her skin-tight tactical suit. Her hair is still more than a little damp, and she feels the water drip onto her neck and shoulders as she exists the bathroom and into the bedroom.
Wanda is sat on the edge of her bed, patiently waiting for her return. “You look much better.” She announces, a gentle smile blooming at Natasha’s presence.
“Are you suggesting that I didn’t before?” Natasha muses as she stands in front of Wanda on the bed, her tone light and humorous.
“I just prefer it when you are not covered in blood.” Wanda replies honestly, her eyes scanning the parts of Natasha’s face which were blood-smeared before her shower.
Natasha searches for Wanda’s eyes, wanting her full attention. “You were worried.”
Wanda nods as she stands from the bed to pinch her fingertips upon a strand of Natasha’s wet hair, the cool temperature of it seeming to sober her thoughts as her eyes languidly find Natasha’s.
“Okay, I understand that. I would be worried too.” Natasha consoles. “But this is what I’m trained to do, I’m trained to be faster, and smarter and—”
“Being fast does not mean that you are invincible.” Wanda’s voice breaks towards the end of her declaration.
Natasha feels her throat go dry and unable to form an articulate response. If only she were invincible, then she could quell Wanda’s worries and anxiety – some of them, at least. She could promise that she will always be okay, but that would be a lie. Pietro was enhanced, but he was untrained. Whereas she is highly trained, but without enhancement. Neither bode well in her favour. Her eyes scan Wanda’s face, so pure with evocation and patiently awaiting a response, which Natasha has left a moment too long.
Instead, she feels instead of overthinking a verbal response and steps forward, wrapping her arms around Wanda’s midsection. Mid-movement, she feels Wanda bring her arms up and reciprocate the movement, taking a step forward so that their bodies are flush together before nuzzling into her neck slightly.
As they stand there, Natasha realizes this is the first embrace Wanda has experienced since Pietro, and instinctually she tightens her grip around the younger woman, wanting to account for the times she should have been held but wasn’t. It hurts a little against her newly acquired injuries, but she doesn’t care. She feels Wanda inhale a shaky breath before slowly sighing in relief against her neck, dusting her skin in gentle tingles. Natasha smiles softly, knowing her physical touch is enough to assuage her pain, and knowing that it’s needed, and wanted, and reciprocated.
The unsatiated yearning she feels for Wanda is partially quelled at her new revelations, and the feeling of Wanda breathing against her neck with the satisfying pressure of behind held. It’s the most contented Natasha has felt from physical touch in her adult life. “I should have done this sooner.” She admits sincerely through a smile.
Wanda smiles against Natasha’s skin, silently agreeing with a small nod of her head.
Chapter 5
Notes:
For descriptive imagery purposes: Nat’s hair length is Civil War.
Shout-out to @natskatebishop on Tiktok for being amazing and supportive.
Christmas themed chapter in June? Life has been so crazy: crazy busy, crazy eventful, good crazy, bad crazy, and all and everything in between. Thank you for being so patient for this update!
Again, I’m British, so if the geographical locations/distance/timings are incorrect, kindly let me know and I will amend where necessary. Oh and I can’t drive, so if any car stuff is incorrect, that would be why.
All fluff and no action – enjoy :)
Chapter Text
The migration to the compound is executed smoothly, with all due thanks to Pepper and her fantastic capabilities in managing the migration project, and also Tony himself.
“No party until New Years’.” Pepper chastises Tony, crossing her arms against her chest to assert her dominance.
“But it’s Christmas, it’s the party season—”
“Exactly, people have families, Tony. If you want everyone here to celebrate the new compound, we need to find a date which works with everyone. It’s already mid-December – right, Nat?” She aims at Natasha who enters the compound from the main entrance for the first time.
Natasha studies Pepper, and then Tony, silently assessing the situation at hand. “Whatever it is, I agree with Pepper.”
“Cap, you’re with me on this, right?” Tony dramatically pleads to Steve as he strolls in behind Natasha.
“I mean, who am I to disagree with these two amazing women?” Steve answers with an innocent shrug.
Tony watches Pepper’s sweet smile blossom into bashful at Steve’s boyish charm. He raises a finger in his direction. “First of all, you – stop that.” He then turns to Pepper and raises his arms in mock exasperation, expelling a long sigh. “And secondly, fine - you win. Are you happy now?”
“For beating you and outsmarting that big, beautiful brain of yours? Always.” She smiles sweetly, but it’s laced with an arrogance reserved for Tony. She kisses his cheek in farewell before sauntering off through the compound.
Tony raises a brow as his lips down-turn into a pout. “It’s not such a bad idea, and why would it be, it is Pepper’s idea, and she is—what happened to your face?” He directs towards Natasha, interrupting his nonsensical ramblings.
“While you were here choosing wallpaper colours for the living quarters, I was out doing my job.” She replies, her voice void of any malice.
“Would you have preferred if all the bedrooms had pink wallpaper with tiny little purple hearts on them, Agent Romanoff? I’m sensing that’s not really your style, correct me if I’m wrong?”
Natasha smirks at his retort, knowing that he is correct. “So, are you going to give us the grand tour?”
“Do I look like a tour guide?”
Steve parts his lips to respond but Tony silences him with a raise of his index finger. “Don’t answer that. Follow me.”
Their grand tour lasts for roughly twenty-minutes – it could have lasted a lot less had it not been for Tony elaborating each singular detail in each section of the compound. It was wholesome to see him so excited about the finality of his new project and experiencing it bloom into something tangible - something they could all benefit from as a team.
Especially having known Tony for longer than any of the others had, Natasha has seen first-hand the ways in which he has developed as a person. The Tony she had met years ago under her alias would have never even considered converting an old Stark warehouse to provide a home infused training facility for his friends and teammates. It was reassuring to see his fiery narcissism diminish as his altruism flourishes.
Their living quarters are separated from the main compound where agents are free to roam, train in the facilities, and eat in the main canteen. The living area is a lot larger than the one in the Avengers Tower, and also significantly less clinical-looking – with more natural tones, warm lighting, and carpeting, as opposed to minimalism, fluorescents and grey-scale. There is also a majestic, and slightly obnoxious Stark-esque Christmas tree glimmering in the centre of the space.
“Mi casa es su casa.” Tony states as he gestures towards the open-planned living room connecting to the high-technically equipped kitchen.
Steve looks to Natasha for clarification, with a vague perplexity ghosting his expression.
“It means my house is your house.” She explains to him with a reassuring smile. “It’s Spanish.”
“I might even go as far as to say it’s more your house than mine. You guys do a lot, for… well, not a lot, actually—Steve, how were you even making rent after they defrosted you?” Tony gazes distractedly in thought for a moment. “I wanted you all to have somewhere for everything that you continue to do.”
Steve’s smile is radiant, and contagious, as Natasha’s smile blooms into a radiance of its own after noticing. “Tony, this is amazing. I can’t—we can’t thank you enough.”
“Yeah, Tony, you’ve really out-done yourself this time.” Natasha agrees as her eyes languidly roam the luxury of their new living arrangements.
Tony tilts his head to the side as his lips quirk into an accomplished smirk. “Well, I will be staying here sometimes too.”
“Your things have been taken to your rooms, you’ll also find stuff you may or may not need - do with it what you will. The rooms have been allocated with names on the door, and the keys are inside. Have fun un-packing.” He flashes them a pearly smile before disappearing back into the main compound, presumably to continue working on Mark 46.
“See you at dinner.” Steve dips his head slightly in her direction as he begins his hunt for his room marked ‘Rogers’. She watches him stride down the hallway leading to the rooms, and successfully find it two doors down on the left.
Upon hearing his door click closed after him, she begins her search, making a mental note of the rooms as she searches: Rhodey, Vision, Hill, Rogers, Barton, Lang…
She comes to a sudden halt as Vision floats out in front of her from a room on the left, seemingly in his own world and utterly distracted.
“Natasha, it is so good to have you here at last. Welcome home.” He greets, as he gradually floats towards the ground until his feet are flush with the carpet.
“It’s only been a few hours, Vision.” Natasha toys. “We had breakfast together this morning.”
“Ah yes, well, it’s sort of felt like limbo before you and Captain Rogers arrived; but now that we’re all here… it feel’s somewhat complete.” He offers her a kind smile before walking past her into the direction of his room.
Her eyes flick up to make a mental note of the room which Vision had just vacated: Maximoff. Natasha is pleased that Wanda is making an effort to be social with everyone, and even more so that she seems to have bonded and made a true connection with Vision. Wanda is pure of heart, with a sensitive soul – a temperament of such can make it difficult forming connections with people as it can be quite intricate to understand. Despite Vision’s short life-span thus far, he seems to have acquired the depth and compassion to provide Wanda with friendship. After witnessing her lose the only person she cared for, it’s comforting to witness her heal enough to let people in.
Natasha smiles to herself as she locates her room two doors further down to the right, with ‘Romanoff’ printed on the wooden door. The names are a new addition to their living arrangements – in the Avengers Tower, each door was blank. However, there were not as many people residing there as there are here at the compound.
As she pushes the door open, she’s greeted by the sight of Wanda – standing in-front of the fitted wardrobe to the far left of the room hanging up clothes.
“Wands, are you un-packing for me?” Natasha asks, her tone curious, as she closes the door behind her.
Wanda places the hanger onto the railing and turns around to face Natasha, a smile blooming at the now-familiar use of her abbreviated name. “I knew that you would be busy with Steve all morning, and you are still injured so I wanted to do something to help.”
“You didn’t need to do that.” Natasha gently responds, completely enthralled with the woman before to even take a glimpse of her new living space as she takes a few steps towards her.
“No, but I wanted to. I also wanted to return something.” Wanda admits as she reaches towards the bed to retrieve an item of clothing.
Natasha smirks slightly in recognition at the red jacket Wanda gestures to – the same jacket that she had worn in Sokovia. “My jacket.” She continues walking until she reaches the bed before taking a seat next to the clothing. “You can keep it.” She offers, running her fingertips across the fabric as she looks up at Wanda.
“It looks better on you anyway.” Natasha purposefully controls her voice to drop an octave lower as she studies the woman before her – watching in triumph as a pink blush begins to bloom across Wanda’s cheeks.
Her new bed feels… different. Her new mattress was without the imprint of her body which she had spent months crafting with various sleeping positions. It was still memory foam, which hugged the contours of her body like a cloud, but it wasn’t her regular cloud, and it left her feeling displaced and unable to sleep without her familiar comfort.
There is also one unmistakeable difference, and perhaps the true catalyst to her discomfort in her new bed. Her sheets are also new, and freshly washed, cascading her senses in the sweet scent of lilies. Whereas her sheets in the Tower were saturated in the scent of coconuts, vanilla, and something else – something unequivocally Wanda.
Until this moment, Natasha had not been aware of how dependent she was on the familiar comfort of the younger woman to help her drift into a peaceful sleep at night. It takes only a few short seconds for her conscious mind to process what this means, because truthfully, she had been processing for a while now. The yearning for affection, the unsatiated contentment from physical closeness, the unbridled wanting to make her blush, and the need to create a safe space for her to heal within.
Natasha throws her arm over her eyes - the crook of her elbow fitting perfectly – as she expels a sigh into the darkness of her room. Her mind often wanders to thoughts of Wanda before sleeping and upon waking – thoughts of which shelter her in a tender fondness. She wonders when such thoughts permeated her subconscious mind and banished her dwelling of Bruce, or when they assuaged her trepidation towards dreams of the Red Room.
A hesitant echo at her bedroom door ripples through her room and splinters her thoughts. She’s not sure how late into the evening, or early into the morning it is. The compound sounds hushed, with only the gentle whirring of the air conditioning providing a soothing thrum throughout its expanse. She assumes it’s late enough for most of its occupants to be in a deep slumber.
“Come in.” Natasha calls out gently, already knowing who it is.
At the invitation, Wanda enters her room and gently closes the door behind her before walking over to the bed and tentatively stops as she reaches one side. “I can’t sleep.” She admits - her voice strained yet barely above a whisper - watching as Natasha sits up from her lying position.
“Are you okay?” Natasha questions, as she searches Wanda’s features for any signs of upset or distress. Wanda doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence is a little too long for Natasha to bear. She doesn’t pry any further – Wanda will open up to her in her own time. Instead, Natasha pulls back the comforter as a silent invitation for Wanda to join her in the warmth of her bed before resuming her lying position.
As Wanda climbs into the bed, her dark hair splays out beneath her, tickling Natasha’s cheek in the process. She can feel the comforting warmth of her body pervade the space beneath the comforter and she’s overcome with an urge to provide comfort, gravitating closer to the warmth. Natasha stays relatively still, however, trying to gauge what it is that Wanda might need from her.
With their now-close proximity, Natasha can hear the tremulous rhythm to Wanda’s breathing as her eyes zone in on the shaky rise and fall of comforter, before trailing up to her face. Wanda has her eyes squeezed forcefully closed, and her jaw clenched - her affliction evident. A sight of which tightens like a vice at Natasha’s chest.
“You’re safe.” Natasha offers, her voice smooth and comforting.
Wanda nods at this and flexes the fingers of her right hand atop the comforter, the material bunching between her fingertips. It takes less than a second for Natasha to decipher it’s meaning as a silent request, and another second for her own hand to lay gently atop Wanda’s, and then another second for Wanda to interlock their fingers and squeeze.
“You’re not alone, I’m right here.” Natasha’s eyes scan Wanda’s features, watching as the muscles around her eyes relax first, and then the muscles in her jaw. She trails the pad of her thumb across the side of Wanda’s hand which remains cocooned between her own and the comforter; and after a short while feels the tension of her grip loosen.
A few moments pass during which Natasha listens to the thrum of Wanda’s breathing settle from erratic to steady and familiar – she begins counting each steady inhalation, something she found herself doing regularly in moments of silence.
“Thank you” Wanda mumbles into the night, ceasing Natasha’s counting. She turns slightly so that she is facing Natasha on the bed with the soft material of the pillowcase pressing into her cheek.
“You don’t need to thank me.” Natasha responds as she turns to face Wanda, her hair unceremoniously falling into her line of sight at the movement.
It elicits a small smile from Wanda who uses her free hand to tuck the hair behind Natasha’s ear, letting her hand rest just beneath her jaw with her fingertips woven into auburn at the nape of Natasha’s neck.
“Thank you.” Natasha softly jests, her own lips lifting into a smile at Wanda’s. She feels the tender fondness at the affectionate touch begin to swell within her, and she’s almost certain it perceptively spills from her.
Wanda removes her hand and lets it fall between them, and Natasha tries to ignore the deep longing which gnaws heavily at the centre of her chest at the loss of such affectionate contact.
“I was having a bad dream…” Wanda begins, averting Natasha’s line of sight momentarily before resuming eye contact – the vulnerability pooling in her eyes. “I do not remember it, but I was hot and breathing heavy when I woke up—and my heart was beating so fast. I just remember a feeling.”
Natasha reaches out to take hold of Wanda’s hand – her fingers sliding comfortingly between hers before gliding the tips of her fingers from Wanda’s wrist, palm, and then fingertips in a silent soothing lullaby.
“What were you feeling?” Natasha gently prompts, her voice slow and barely above a whisper.
“Alone. I remember feeling completely alone, just endless nothingness.” Her voice breaks a little towards the end as she visibly swallows trying to contain her emotions.
Natasha’s brow furrows in worry as she keeps her eyes trained softly on Wanda’s, linking their fingers together and squeezing in reassurance. “You are not alone.”
“I don’t feel alone when I’m with you.”
They are both quiet for a moment – Natasha counts five languorous, soothing breaths from Wanda before her Sokovian accent ripples through the comfortable silence pervading them.
“Why?” She questions.
Natasha understands the question despite its obvious ambiguity. “Because I care about you.” It’s simple and truthful, and the most truthful Natasha has been about her feelings in the longest time. She helps Wanda because she does truly care about her. Even so, she searches Wanda’s eyes, wondering if she has said too much, wondering if she has accidentally tripped and fallen over an unspoken boundary and breached a territory too soon, surged by the vulnerability of the night. “I want you to feel safe.”
Safety is something Natasha regards of the highest importance for those she cares about. Feeling unsafe and unprotected is one of her earliest memories and something she has struggled with all throughout her life: from her Widow training, and even in Ohio. She knew her time with her faux family was limited, and every morning she would wake with unsteady breathing and heart palpitations as anxiety crashed over her in waves, pulling her under deeper and deeper with the uncertainty of whether that morning be her last waking in that bed, in that home.
The tender sensation of Wanda gliding her thumb over Natasha’s cheekbone pulls her gently from her uncontrolled thoughts as her eyes refocus to meet Wanda’s.
“I care about you, too.” Wanda admits as she uses both of her hands to hold Natasha’s resting against the bed between their bodies and begins absentmindedly playing with her fingers. “And I do feel safe… with you.”
Natasha smiles contentedly at Wanda’s admission as she lets herself study her features in the dusk of the room. The moonlight drifts in through the blinds – the pale light illuminating Wanda in a soft ethereal glow, accentuating the small curve of her nose, the contours of her cheekbone and jawline. They’re close – almost nose to nose, and Natasha can see each freckle on her complexion, the bow on her upper lip.
“You’re staring.” Wanda notes, interrupting Natasha’s moonlight swooning. Her voice sounding amused, bashful, and much lighter than it had previously.
Natasha smirks slightly, her green eyes finding Wanda’s again. “Not staring, admiring.”
A faint blush blooms across Wanda’s pale complexion as a soft sigh unexpectedly escapes her lips which have formed into a smile at Natasha’s admiration.
They fall into a comfortable silence shortly after, and Natasha senses sleep has taken Wanda when her breathing evens out further and her hand movements falter completely, with her fingers falling slack between her own. Natasha nuzzles into her pillow and brings her free hand up to clasp onto Wanda’s hands clasped onto her other, and revels in the content happiness that she has successfully created a safe and comforting space.
Natasha is softly awoken from her slumber the next morning, with her senses deliciously imbued with a calm serenity, coconut shampoo, with hints of vanilla, and Wanda. She can feel the dip in her mattress beside her where the other woman lays, and the unmistakeable perceptive awareness of being admired.
A smirk ghosts her lips as her eyes remain closed. “You’re staring.” Her voice escapes in a low, gravelly tone - still thick and enveloped with sleep.
“I’m sorry.” Wanda’s voice is light – no remnants of sleep left, and Natasha wonders how long the younger woman has been awake beside her, and how long she has been admiring her sleeping form.
“Don’t apologise. I like it.”
“You remember how to get here?”
“Well hey to you too” Natasha muses through a stifled laugh at Clint’s poor telephone manners.
The sound of whooshing air filters in through the receiver as Clint laughs into his phone before resuming his topic of conversation. “I know you do—”
“Then why are you asking?” Natasha interrupts, having far too much fun toying with her friend, who had evidently called with a clear intention and purpose. She taps the ‘loudspeaker’ button on her screen before dropping her phone onto her bed as she begins undressing from her now damp and sticky training clothes.
Tony and Steve had agreed upon temporarily pausing team training for the holiday season, so that people had the freedom to visit their friends and family without the constraints of Avengers commitments. Not that many of them had friends or families in the outside world separate to the compound. It was a lovely, festive gesture, however.
Natasha still spends her mornings either out running – which she can now do in the open, green expanse surrounding the compound, or kicking Sam’s ass in various hand-to-hand combat drills on the mats. This morning she had opted for a 4-mile run around the compound.
“I was plannin’ on picking you up for Christmas, but Laura asked me to pick up her parents from the airport while she watches the kids, and I can’t do that and drive all the way to New York and back to get you.”
Natasha laughs as she peels off her leggings which had become fused to her skin like glue with perspiration. “Don’t worry Clint, I don’t need a personal chauffeur service, I think I can survive a road trip to Iowa.”
“And bring Wanda. I don’t want her spending Christmas alone.”
Natasha smiles at Clint’s unbridled kind-hearted nature. It’s a part of him which is usually reserved for Laura, his kids, and Natasha. He has a tendency to encase himself in a solid, soldier-like exterior when on the field, and before recently completely hide the man he is outside of Hawkeye.
“Neither do I – I think that’s a great idea.” Natasha’s train of thought is interrupted by the wailing sounds of kid’s voices echoing in the distance on the other end of the line.
“Okay, I gotta’ go break up a war.” Clint muses at the acknowledgement of a frivolous fight breaking out between Lila and Cooper.
“Call if you need backup.”
“Backup required for the 24th, see you then.” Clint disconnects the call, leaving Natasha alone in the silence of her room.
She’s still smiling even after the call disconnects – pleasant memories of celebrating Christmas at the farmhouse swirling joyfully through the forefront of her mind. Basking in the excitement of children on Christmas morning is something Natasha holds so dear to her heart. It’s so pure and virtuous, so untainted by the cruelty and harshness the world has to offer. Something Natasha had stolen from her childhood, something she will never have the opportunity to experience.
Ensuring that Cooper, Lila, and now baby Nathaniel have the most amazing Christmas each year is a priority for her – for their benefit, but also selfishly hers. It is probably the only time in her life in which she’ll be able to dote on and spoil children and share the abundant love she has for them, never being able to have the experience with her own children. Something Natasha has had stolen from her adulthood.
“Wands, do you want to drive first?” Natasha calls out to Wanda as she finishes packing their luggage into the trunk of the car, the hood closing with a satisfying dull thud and clink. Snow and ice begin cascading from the car to the ground at the movement.
Wanda was a little apprehensive about joining Natasha on her trip to spend Christmas with Clint and his family, not wanting to feel like she is imposing on a lifetime of familial traditions. She warmed to the idea after a few short hours, explaining that she wants to meet the baby they named after her brother.
“Drive first? Natasha, I cannot drive.”
Natasha looks up at Wanda as she approaches her position. “You can’t drive?” Her tone was purely inquisitive and void of any mocking.
Wanda shakes her head before lifting her hand, showcasing flames of red energy. “I’ve never needed to. I can fly, remember.”
If it were Tony, or Sam, or one of the many members of their team who possessed the ability of flight, they would have taken that precise moment to showcase said skill and do a boastful lap of the compound to hubristically prove their point. Wanda is far more reticent with her powers and abilities. Natasha knows this is partly due to a control and confidence factor – a topic of discussion before, during, and after many training drills they’ve run together. It is also due to a personality factor – Wanda is far more introverted, only using her powers when the need arises and not necessitating the need to prove superiority. It’s a quality Natasha admires about her, one of many.
“Fair enough.” Natasha smirks and tilts her head to the side in acknowledgement. “If you’re not driving, then you can make sure I don’t fall asleep at the wheel. Deal?”
“Okay, deal. Are we stopping? Vis said that it will take almost a full day to get there.” Wanda follows Natasha into the car, buckling her seatbelt upon closing the door.
Natasha ignites the engine by tapping a finger on a touchpad located beside the wheel. A gentle and soothing thrum purrs at her instruction before she voice commands their destination into the GPS system.
“We’re stopping. We’ll need to sleep somewhere for the night. The drive is too long for just one person driving.” She turns to look at Wanda, a brow mischievously arched and a smirk at her lips.
Wanda straightens her brow and purses her lips at Natasha’s comment.
“Don’t worry, Wands. I think it’s pretty cute that you can’t drive.” She flashes a wink towards the younger woman before focusing her attention on the drive ahead.
Roughly seven hours into the drive Natasha decides that it’s time to find somewhere to sleep for the night. Wanda has valiantly failed her one and only mission of their road-trip so far – she has fallen asleep in the passenger’s seat, therefore unable to stop Natasha from falling asleep at the wheel. Natasha is glad, however. She knows that Wanda has been having difficulty sleeping again since the team migrated to the compound, and although they haven’t explicitly spoken about it yet, she suspects it’s the acclimation to her new surroundings. The compound is a new territory, with an abundance of new people, it’s unfamiliar and with unfamiliarity comes unease.
Natasha precisely remembers experiencing a similar acclimation period when she first boarded the Helicarrier upon defecting to Shield. She had become so accustomed to sleeping in such dangerous places in unknown cities surrounded by people whom she couldn’t trust that it became familiar, and familiarity provides a sense of comfort. The Helicarrier was the safest place she had ever slept at that point in her life; with a team of people she could trust – it took her a short while to mitigate her defence and let her guard down.
She pulls into a motel as they reach Cleveland. It’s quite dull and unassuming from the exterior, exuding humble rates and affordable comfort. The interior is quite the same: double room, two double beds – no memory foam mattresses, one bathroom – shower, no bath, and far too much beige, browns, and neutral tones. It’s warm inside as they enter, for which Natasha is grateful.
Wanda heads to the bathroom shortly after they cross the threshold to their room, her footing slow and a little unsteady as her mind swims in the haziness of sleep. She re-emerges a little while later with wet hair, fresh dewy skin and dressed in comfortable sleep appropriate clothing.
A little while after that, Natasha emerges from the bathroom in a similar manner. The room is now dimly lit, with the bedside lamps casting a warm amber glow throughout. Wanda is perched upon her chosen bed with her back against the headboard, and book resting upon her thighs with her knees drawn up halfway towards her chest. It’s a serene image, one which pervades Natasha with such yearning. She runs her fingers through her brushed hair, feeling the excess water drip onto her fingertips as she looks over at the unoccupied bed – her bed. No serenity, no yearning, no coconut shampoo scented sheets, no Wanda. Simple emptiness.
“I thought you’d be asleep.” She directs at Wanda as she feels the younger woman’s eye’s part from her book and resettle on her.
“I tried.” Wanda admits, her voice sounding somewhat defeated.
Natasha saunters past her own unoccupied bed and walks the very short distance to Wanda’s, laying down beside her seated form atop the comforter. “Talk to me about your book.”
Wanda closes her book but keeps it clasped between her palms and thighs, shifting slightly so that she can make eye-contact with Natasha resting on the pillow beside her. “You are always so interested my reading.”
It’s an observation, but Natasha decides it’s one which requires an answer. “You get so lost in the stories, maybe sometimes I want to get lost in them with you.” It’s a truthful and vulnerable answer. Wanda is able to completely detach from reality for a short period of time, and completely immerse her conscious and subconscious mind within the fabricated reality of the stories she reads. Natasha has never quite mastered the art of escapism to such heights, but it’s quite comforting to do so vicariously through and with Wanda. Selfishly, that is a reason why she is so interested in Wanda’s reading. Selflessly, she knows that Wanda would read to Pietro and that it would comfort her to do so. Perhaps discussing her current novel or reading to her tonight will provide her with such comfort to enable her to sleep peacefully.
Natasha momentarily becomes lost in the whirlwind of her own fleeting thoughts, but when she resurfaces from their depths, she’s met with Wanda gazing down at her with such tender endearment.
Wanda recites a quick synopsis of the plot and characters thus far before continuing to read her novel, this time out loud so that Natasha can follow along. A chapter later, and Natasha is slowly swaying in limbo between the conscious and unconscious world, tethered by the soothing sound of Wanda’s voice and the melodic tilt of her accent. She remembers Laurie proposing to Jo and having his poor heart broken. Natasha has read this book – it’s a classic, she was forced to read it during her formative years – so it’s quite easy for her to follow, even in the last few moments before sleep envelops her completely.
It is late in the afternoon by the time they reach the farmhouse in Iowa. The sun had already begun to set behind the winter wilted trees in the horizon, with hues of purple and pink dusting across the white, snow canvased land surrounding Clint and Laura’s home.
Upon ringing the bell, a small stampede of tiny feet can be heard rushing to the door in excitement at the arrival of their guests, followed by a cheerful Clint greeting them.
“Auntie Nat!”
“Can you fly? My dad says that you can fly! Can you?”
“Whoa, can you guys let them get into the house before the harassment starts?” Clint directs towards Lila and Cooper, sidestepping to let Natasha and Wanda into his home.
Natasha ruffles Cooper’s hair in endearment before scooping Lila up into her arms who seems overjoyed to see her favourite person.
“So, can you? How fast can you fly? Faster than Iron Man?” Cooper stands before Wanda, gazing up at her in amazement and perceptively bursting with curiosity and excitement.
Wanda laughs fondly at Cooper’s enthusiasm, smiling down at him. “I can fly, but I am not sure how fast yet.”
“Can you show me?” He is now rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, his elation now entirely unrestrained.
“Hey Honey, let’s give Wanda some space. How about you go and play, and maybe she’ll show you another time.” Laura interjects from behind, placing her hands lovingly on Cooper’s shoulders to ground his exhilaration. He waves at Wanda before running off into another room.
“Sorry about that, he’s very excitable.”
Wanda smiles and shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry, he is a sweet kid.”
Laura takes a few steps closer and wraps Wanda in a warm, welcoming embrace. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Okay, so Nat, you’re sleeping on the sofa—”
Laura turns to glare at her husband and his severe lack of social decorum. “In all of the languages with all of the words, and you choose that sentence?”
Clint raises his hands in dumbfounded exasperation. “Come on’, I was joking.” He smirks a little at his wife before averting his attention to Natasha, who is stood pulling adorable faces with Lila still in her arms. “Nat, as Laura’s parents will also be stayin’ here, we only have one free guest room. You got two options: bunk with Wanda in your room, or camp out on the couch?”
Natasha looks over at Wanda for reassurance and waits for her to make the call. Since migrating to the compound, Wanda has spent every night sleeping in Natasha’s bed. Some nights were fortuitous – having fallen asleep watching a movie, or just simply spending time together. Other nights were intentional – Wanda seeking comfort from night terrors or her inability to sleep. Despite their casual familiarity with sharing a bed, Natasha wants Wanda to have the choice on whether or not it’s okay this time.
“You can stay with me.”
Clint, Wanda, and Laura’s parents were all sat on the living room floor playing boardgames with Lila and Cooper, with baby Nathaniel sleeping soundly in his mobile despite the delightful festive chaos of Christmas Eve. There is dimmed festive music playing throughout the house, with glimmering lights encasing every corner in a soft glow of an abundance of colours.
Natasha uses a large wooden spoon to stir the simmering mulled wine in the pot on the stove before her – the sweet spices wafting up to invigorate her senses. Her line of sight is focused on the games in the living room, however, as she stirs absentmindedly – with slices of lemon sloshing against the sides of the metal pot as gusts of steam tickle her face.
Wanda looks happy - she looks at peace playing simple boardgames in a comforting familial environment – she looks at home, even. She wonders if Wanda is thinking of Pietro and the games they played together as children whilst celebrating Jewish holidays with their parents, similarly to how she thinks of Yelena at times like these. She and Yelena never had the opportunity to celebrate a real Christmas together – just a mediocre photo-op for the purpose of the mission, but it was nice to pretend, even for a few short hours.
“Nat…”
She faintly hears her name being called from somewhere behind her, it’s distinctive enough to pull her from her thoughts as she turns around to see Laura attempting to get her attention.
“Hm?” She questions, her hand still instinctively stirring the mulled wine in the pot.
“I said I think it’s time we start serving.” Laura repeats, gesturing towards the mugs she has placed on the counter beside Natasha to serve the wine.
Natasha follows her line of sight towards the mugs then back up at Laura, who is smiling knowingly at her, a mischievous gleam to her eyes.
“Sorry, I was a little…”
“Distracted?” Laura completes her sentence for her, her eyes flittering into the living room towards Wanda and then back to Natasha, her knowing smile never once faltering.
Natasha smirks and nods, knowing she had been caught somewhere between swooning and lost in a sea of her thoughts, and busies herself with beginning to carefully pour the wine into the mugs with a ladle, watching the red liquid pool just below the rim of the porcelain.
It is just before midnight when Natasha decides to retreat to her room for the night. The kids had excitedly ventured to bed of their own accord early into the evening on the premise that the earlier they sleep – the earlier Christmas morning will arrive. Laura’s parents had followed not too shortly after, with Laura’s father drinking far too much wine and needing to be escorted up by his wife. Wanda and Laura both retired for the evening about an hour or so ago, leaving Clint and Natasha to catch up properly in person for the first time in months.
They had spent the first hour or so actively talking, reminiscing old mission stories, catching up on events in each other’s lives they had not been present to witness. They had then begun to tidy up the disarray which had been left cluttered across the floor from the games earlier and got into a light-hearted competitive debate on whom could win the disbanded game of Uno.
Natasha wins, expectedly. Throughout the evening they have also continued to drink the mulled wine, and Natasha is seemingly unaffected by insobriety – she feels a little warm, and joyful – the perfect state of mild inebriation. Clint, however, is just passing the border of tipsy – his inhibition is affected, his movements and reaction times sluggish, and his words slurring a little.
They finish tidying the room before heading upstairs. Natasha detours into the bathroom on the landing first to get ready for bed. The cool water feels refreshing against her slightly flushed skin as she begins washing her face, and the glacial toothpaste flushes out the souring remnants of wine leaving her feeling fresh.
She enters her room as quietly as possible, guiding the door closed with an almost silent ‘click’, not wanting to disturb its other occupant, before blindly changing into comfortable shorts and a t-shirt to sleep in. As she nears the bed, she can tell that Wanda is awake by the rhythm of her breathing, but she remains silent as she climbs into the bed and lets her head fall onto the plush pillow.
Once Natasha seems settled, Wanda turns around to face her. “Is it late?”
Natasha shakes her head, the cotton pillowcase bunching at her cheek slightly. “It’s nearly midnight.” She lets her eyes roam Wanda’s complexion – there is no moonlight glow like the one in her room at the compound, but it’s still light enough for admiration. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”
Wanda nods, but soon decides to elaborate upon seeing the concern etched on Natasha’s face. “Not because of the dreams. I think it is difficult to sleep when you are not here.” Her voice is barely above a whisper at her unguarded admission, and Natasha watches her eyes roam her own complexion for a sense of reassurance at the unbridled honesty.
“I have trouble sleeping when you’re not here, too.” Natasha admits, her own voice a silken half-whisper.
Wanda smiles, and her own eyes meet Natasha’s again in confidence. “That makes me feel a lot better.”
Natasha smiles and expels a muted sigh, the warm air of her breath escaping in a small gust against Wanda due to their proximity.
“You smell like cinnamon and mint.” Wanda observes with a charmed smile.
“It’s the mulled wine and toothpaste.” Natasha laughs softly.
Her amusement is sobered as she notices Wanda’s line of sight languidly drop to her lips, causing her insides to deliciously swoop in response. Before she allows herself that same opportunity, she feels the pad of Wanda’s thumb press against her lower lip.
Natasha is accustomed to taking control in almost all situations in her life, but in this very moment, she is a willing passenger to whichever journey Wanda has embarked them on. She feels safe with Wanda, she knows she can be emotionally and physically vulnerable with her and feel completely supported and nourished whilst doing so. She feels comfortable in Wanda’s exploration and current decision-making process, wherever it may lead them to.
She watches Wanda’s eyes linger on the pink contours of her full lips for a little while before she feels them being delicately tugged apart by the pad of her thumb. Her pulse flutters beneath her warming skin, igniting a static electricity across her entire body at the younger woman’s ministrations. Natasha focuses on the steady inhalation of her own breathing, aware that Wanda can feel the small gusts of air escaping against her fingers due to her touch.
Whilst keeping her thumb against Natasha’s lips, Wanda’s eyes slowly travel up to meet Natasha’s. The light green hues of her eyes engulfed in a pool of black at her dilated pupils. Natasha wonders if her own pupils have bloomed in such yearning, in the anticipation of a new level of physical touch.
“The wine has stained your lips red.” Wanda’s voice melts into the tension pervading them, and it’s a little raspier than usual. Her breath smells sweet – like cinnamon and mint, just how she had described Natasha’s – the scent is inviting, and mildly intoxicating. She can almost taste it as the small gust escapes and coats the small space between them.
“Is this shade of red a good look for me?” Natasha’s voice escapes low and gravelly, and she can feel her upper and lower lip press against Wanda’s thumb as she speaks.
Wanda’s eyes zone in on Natasha’s lips once more, her throat visibly moving as she thickly swallows. She seems a little nervous, and at that realisation Natasha’s instinctual want to close the distance between them is replaced with the need to provide safety and reassurance. She takes hold of Wanda’s hand and closes her thumb and fingers to her palm before pressing her knuckles to her own lips and placing a tender and delicate kiss, holding her there in place for a moment.
She watches the nerves dissipate from the woman lying before her as a new expression takes place across her features, one which Natasha hasn’t witnessed on her before. Her pupils remain dilated, but her disposition is much softer as she exudes adoration.
Chapter 6
Summary:
My sincerest apologies for the extremely late update, but all for great reasons: I’ve been busy moving cities, changing jobs, falling in love with my girlfriend, and then moving in together, struggling with being unwell (not so great), and also writing my own stuff <3
I have the next chapter also written. I have come prepared!
Inner turmoil, lustful longing, and jealousy - enjoy.
Chapter Text
The golden hush of morning filters through the blinds in slanted lines, catching the copper glints in Wanda’s hair. The world is hushed in the way only Christmas morning allows. A quiet that feels untouched, sacred. Snow clings to the windowsill in frozen lace, the distant creaks of old wooden beams settling into silence, a world paused in its slumber. But here, within these four walls, there is only this—only them.
Beside her, a tangle of auburn hair spills across the pillow, loose waves catching in the pale light like embers barely stirring in the hearth. Beneath the unruly cascade, Wanda sleeps, half-buried in the plush comforter, her breath slow, steady. The blankets have cocooned around her shoulders, rising and falling in gentle rhythm, the warmth of her presence a familiar quiet gravity which Natasha welcomes. Natasha exhales softly, the breath barely stirring the space between them. Wanda shifts, her lashes fluttering, and for a moment, Natasha stills, as if caught, as if watching something fragile, something fleeting. But Wanda only sighs, the smallest sound, tucking herself further beneath the blankets, her face half-buried against the pillow.
Natasha smiles, spellbound and utterly lost in a quiet awe which sneaks up and lingers. Wanda looks so effortlessly and devastatingly soft with the way the light kisses the curve of her cheek, how her breath comes in slow, steady drifts, untroubled by the thoughts Natasha knows plague her waking mind.
Her own thoughts drift towards memories of the night before - she had felt the press of Wanda’s thumb against her lips, the deliberate weight of her gaze lingering there—red-stained, warm, trembling between temptation and hesitation. Her eyes unabashedly linger on Wanda’s delicate lips.
She remembers the scent of cinnamon and mint on Wanda’s breath, the way it had mingled with the air between them— thick, intoxicating, laced with something unspeakable. The way Wanda’s throat had moved when she swallowed, how her pupils had widened, how her lips had parted just slightly.
In that moment Natasha had wanted to close the space between them, to taste the cinnamon from her lips in the moonlit quiet of the room, and Wanda had wanted it too. It was written in the softness of Wanda’s expression as Natasha had kissed her knuckles instead. The tension had not broken; it had only deepened, settling into the space between them like an unfinished sentence.
A sentence which remains unfinished.
The morning light is creeping in, washing them both in something pale and golden and all too revealing. Last night is still here, lying between them in the hush of waking hours, in the unspoken breath Natasha holds in her lungs.
Wanda stirs.
It’s gradual, slow, like something rousing from beneath deep waters. A sigh escapes her lips first, barely more than a whisper of breath against the pillow. Then, a small frown creases her brow, lashes fluttering—shifting between sleep and waking, caught in the liminal haze where dreams still linger. The blanket shifts as she stretches just slightly, exposing the smooth curve of her shoulder, the warmth of her skin catching in the light.
Natasha should look away.
She doesn’t.
A murmur slips from Wanda’s lips—soft, almost unintelligible, and then her eyes flutter open. Unfocused and drowsy before sharpening and focusing on Natasha.
A breath catches, though Natasha isn’t sure if it’s hers or Wanda’s. Wanda blinks, slow and heavy-lidded, before a faint, drowsy smile tugs at her lips, sleepy and untouched by the burdens of the waking world.
Innocent fragility.
Natasha swallows. She should say something—should break whatever this is before it unravels them both. But Wanda is watching her now, blinking up at her with something dangerously unreadable in her gaze, and then the smallest, sleep-heavy smile touches the corners of her lips—soft, unguarded, untouched by hesitation.
“You’re staring.” Wanda muses, her voice thick with sleep.
It’s light and humorous and melts away the icy tension biting at Natasha’s mind.
“Good morning to you too, Wands.” Natasha murmurs, her voice husky and quiet in the early morning as she begins to sit upright against the headrest.
Suddenly, the thud of little feet racing down the hall echoes though the farmhouse, hushed voices turning into laughter could be heard from downstairs – they would be expected downstairs too. She knows she ought to move, get dressed, brush her teeth, and head downstairs, but she can’t - she’s swathed in the lingering tension that clings between them.
Instead, she watches as Wanda shifts, stretching slowly beneath the covers. The blanket slips just a little further down her shoulder, revealing the smooth line of her collarbone, the curve of her throat. Natasha’s gaze follows the movement, like a tide drawn to the moon, her fingers twitch where they rest against the sheets, an ache blooming somewhere deep within her chest, different from before. Sharper. Heavier.
Are these same thoughts dancing upon Wanda’s mind, too? Playing a silent symphony of her thoughts and feelings – her mind an orchestra. Does she too feel this shift, this heavy current pulling them in deeper?
The Black Widow is a master of deception, a skill the Red Room had equipped her with. This skill allows Natasha to comfortably submerge within a facade—not just in action, but in emotion. Every minute detail is calculated. Her true feelings caved behind intricate webs of practiced expressions, concealed even from herself at times. In the field, emotions are a liability, a tear in the webs could unravel everything.
With Wanda, she remains floating above the facade, her actions and emotions raw and gnawing fervently against everything she has been taught to know and do.
“How long have you been awake?” Wanda’s voice flitters through the room, anchoring Natasha back into the present.
“Not long.”
“Merry Christmas.” Wanda gently murmurs, her eyes widening slightly as she sits upright, in the realization of Christmas morning.
Late afternoon descended with a hush of snowfall, draping the farmhouse in a quilt of soft white. The scent of turkey still swirled throughout, casting quiet reminders of indulgent memories made at their family dinner. There was an old Christmas movie playing in the family room, melodic transatlantic voices swayed the ambiance of the room into a comforting warmth.
Clint, Laura and her parents, Cooper, and Wanda were sat around the coffee table mulling over a game of Monopoly. Wanda sat cross-legged on the floor beside Cooper, with Lara and Clint on either side of the table, her parents perched comfortably on the sofa, and baby Nathaniel in the loving arms of his grandmother.
“Honey, that’s not how the game works...” Laura lovingly chides. “Pay up fifty bucks to get out of jail.”
“But I don’t have fifty bucks.” Clint admits.
Lara laughs playfully menacingly, seemingly harboring most of the Monopoly money. “Well, then I guess you just gotta’ roll a double or wait.”
Clint turns to face her fully, his face a mask of innocence. “As my Wife—”
“Nope.” Laura interjects. “No marital freebies, and besides, I’m not a Monopoly cop, I don’t have the jurisdiction to let out criminals.” She holds up both her hands, feigning a complete lack of control over the situation, garnering a laugh from the game's participants.
Natasha laughs at their interaction from where she is sat at the table of the dining room adjoining the family room – her and Lila are coloring in a Disney activity book she was gifted for Christmas – they were currently fixated on Anna and Elsa.
“Auntie Nat.” Lila coos, her eyes not leaving the delicate trails of pink on white paper.
“Hm?”
Lila drops her pencil and looks up at Natasha, her eyes bright with curiosity and childlike wonder. “Do you have to go home?”
A loving, tender smile tugs at the corners of Natasha’s lips, a quiet reflection of the bond she shares with her favorite tiny person. Truthfully, the Barton farmhouse feels more like home than any Avengers facility ever could. Clint is her family, and by extension, so are Laura, Lila, and Cooper.
“My home is here with you,” Natasha toys, raising a finger to playfully boop Lila’s nose, earning an innocent giggle. “How about I call your mom after New Years, and we can talk about anything you want?”
Lila doesn’t verbally respond but begins eagerly nodding her head in unabashed excitement and approval.
Cooper rolls his turn with the dice, moving his piece to its new rightful home on the board, and asks, “Can you tell me about your brother?”
Natasha turns to glance toward the group nestled in the family room, unsure of what she expects to find, only knowing that all she can and should do is watch—an onlooker to something delicate.
“Cooper...” Laura gently chastises, shooting Wanda an apologetic look over her son’s blunt curiosity.
Wanda doesn’t answer at first. The question hangs in the air, and for a brief moment, all she can hear is the soft crackle of the fireplace, the distant murmur of the old movie playing in the other room.
It isn’t the question itself that stills her—but the way Cooper asks it. The present tense. Your brother. Like he is still here, still somewhere in the world, instead of a memory edged in grief. It’s such an innocent slip, unknowing, and yet it lodges itself somewhere deep in Wanda’s chest.
But she swallows it down. She forces herself to exhale, blinking past the sting in her eyes.
“No, it’s... it’s okay.” Her voice is soft, steady, as she offers Laura a small, reassuring smile before turning to Cooper. “What would you like to know?”
Cooper takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself for the flood of words tumbling just behind his excitement.
“Well, my dad says he’s super cool and super-fast and really funny. And he said that your brother saved him from something dangerous, and that’s why my brother is named after your brother,” His voice speeds up, his enthusiasm bubbling to the surface. “I asked if I could get an Avenger Funko of him, but my dad says there isn’t one, which I think is unfair because I want to put it on my shelf with my other favorite heroes.”
He looks at her then, eyes bright with admiration, waiting eagerly for her response.
Wanda feels something warm and aching unfurl in her chest. A bittersweet smile tugs at her lips, and she exhales softly, running her fingers along the edge of the board game as if grounding herself in the moment.
“Your dad is right,” she murmurs, a quiet fondness in her tone. “He was all of those things, and he would very much agree, too.” Her lips tug into a knowing smile at how confident and somewhat vain her brother could be.
She pauses, then adds, “And you’re right too—it is unfair .” There’s a heaviness to her voice towards the end, something which only Natasha perceptively notices.
Cooper grins at that, satisfied, and something in Wanda eases—just a little.
"You're hesitating," Natasha observes, circling Wanda like a predator, sizing up her prey.
"No, I’m not," Wanda retorts, her voice tinged with defensiveness, though the clenched fists at her sides betray her frustration.
Natasha raises a single brow. "Then why haven’t you landed a hit?"
They’re in the training room, the air thick with the scent of sweat and adrenaline. Wanda’s heart races, a fact Natasha can sense from the sheen of sweat slicking her pale skin and the quickening rise and fall of her chest. It’s not just exertion; it’s the way Natasha moves—fluid, precise, every step deliberate, every glance calculated. Natasha knows she’s a tough opponent, but she also knows Wanda is holding back, pushing herself beyond her usual limits, resisting the urge to unleash her powers in hand-to-hand combat training.
"Again," Natasha commands, her voice crisp and professional.
Wanda lunges forward, but Natasha sidesteps, anticipating the move, and in one smooth motion, catches Wanda’s wrist, twisting her arm behind her. Wanda gasps, her back colliding with Natasha’s chest, a stinging resonating from her wrist to her fingertips.
"You're leaving yourself open," Natasha murmurs, her voice low and intimate, her words brushing against Wanda’s ear.
Wanda swallows hard, hyper-aware of the warmth of Natasha’s body pressing against her, of the fingers wrapped just a little too tightly around her wrist.
"Relax," Natasha instructs. But Wanda can’t—not with Natasha’s breath fanning against her neck, not with Wanda having the lower hand in this sparring session.
Wanda tilts her head slightly, catching the smirk playing on Natasha’s lips.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" She challenges, her pulse thrumming, each nerve on edge, her skin electric with the proximity, with the tension in the air.
Natasha leans in, just enough for Wanda to feel the ghost of her words against her skin. "Maybe."
Then, with a subtle shift, Natasha pulls back, keeping ahold of her wrist, her demeanor snapping back to professional, “How are you getting on with the reading I assigned to you?”
Wanda’s brow furrows, caught off guard by the question. "Do you really think now is a good time to—?"
Her words are cut off as Natasha twists her arm just enough to apply pressure—no harm intended, only to emphasize the moment. Wanda inhales sharply, the sharp sting a reminder to focus.
“‘ You have power over your mind, not outside events ’...” Natasha begins, her voice calm and insistent, urging Wanda to recall an imperative lesson from her assigned reading. “You can’t expect to control every situation and every outcome. But if you control your thoughts, you control your actions and your reactions. You can’t assume that you’ll always have access to your powers, you need to be able to think and feel without them.”
Wanda’s grip on her powers was never absolute. Natasha had seen it firsthand in Sokovia—the way grief and rage had twisted through her, how raw, untempered energy had crackled in the air around her like a storm with no center. Even now, she caught glimpses of that volatility, flickers of unrestrained power slipping through Wanda’s fingers in training, moments where emotions overran logic, where frustration and fragility tipped the scales.
Natasha had given her something to anchor herself to: Stoicism. A way to master the battle between impulse and control. Whether Wanda embraced it fully or merely humored her, Natasha wasn’t sure. But she had seen the way Wanda’s lips pressed together in quiet thought when she read, the way her hands stilled when she recited passages under her breath. She was trying. And that, Natasha thought, was enough.
“’ Realize this and you will find strength. ’” Wanda finishes as she exhales slowly, processing the words.
Natasha loosens the grip on her wrist but remains close. “Good job, Wands.” The praise is quiet, almost absentminded, because something is shifting between them—something as imperceptible as breath, as tangible as gravity.
Wanda gathers her focus, shifts her weight, and in one quick, smooth motion, she pivots, using her leverage to artfully switch their positions so that Natasha’s back collides with her chest as Wanda grips onto her wrist just tight enough. An echo of their former position, an echo of Natasha’s former control.
Natasha stills, raises a brow, tilting her head slightly to see her opponent. “Impressive.”
“You left yourself open.” Wanda playfully retorts, each word dripping with pride as she mimics Natasha’s earlier coaching points.
Natasha exhales a quiet laugh, feeling the warmth of Wanda’s breath against her shoulder. Wanda had always been a quick learner—but this? This was different. There was a confidence to her now, an ease in her movements that hadn’t been there before.
“Did I?” She challenges, her voice an octave lower, teasing in the way she’s known for.
Wanda doesn’t let go immediately; her grip lingers like an afterthought, her thumb brushing over the rapid pulse at the inside of Natasha’s wrist. It’s a simple touch, almost absentminded—but Natasha feels it seeping into her skin.
Faint inebriation. A misty haze. Altogether quite disarming.
Natasha doesn’t move to break the hold.
“So,” Wanda murmurs, tilting her head slightly, the strands of her hair tickling Natasha’s cheek. “What happens now?”
Natasha knows the answer. She should flip them again. Easily. Shift her stance, slip free of Wanda’s grip, and reclaim control of the fight. That’s what she should do. That’s what she’s been trained to do.
Yet, she doesn’t.
Instead, she lets Wanda linger, knows that her opponent has begun questioning their line of direction.
A moment passes. Then, another.
“You tell me,” Natasha finally says, her voice lower now, quieter.
Wanda doesn’t answer right away. She watches Natasha, her eyes tracing, searching for something. Her grip remains, just for a moment. “I think I win this time.” Her voice cracks, barely audibly, her Sokovian accent deliciously melodic.
And with that, she releases Natasha, stepping back.
Natasha remains still, watching Wanda as she moves, as she stretches, rolling her shoulders. There’s something different now. It’s in the way Wanda looks at her—not just playful, but curious. Calculating.
Natasha is hyper aware. The way the loose strands of hair frame her face, the way the flush of exertion lingers high on her cheeks, the way her breath is just a fraction deeper than it was before.
It’s not new, this awareness. It’s not sudden. It’s been there, creeping in at the edges, threading through their time together, through late-night conversations, through quiet glances across briefings, through the almosts and not-quites of their dance.
Wanda is real.
She’s not a mark, nor is she unrequited attention.
This isn’t some distant longing, some untouchable thing. Wanda is here, solid and tangible, her presence filling the space between them in a way Natasha can’t ignore. She doesn’t just see Wanda—she feels her. The warmth of her body, the steady rhythm of her breath, the unwavering way she holds Natasha’s gaze.
This is real. Real is dangerous.
Wanda steps forward again, this time to grab her water bottle from the bench. She twists the cap off, takes a slow sip, and then—
“Shall we go again?” She asks.
Natasha wets her lips, exhales, and nods. “Let’s go.”
The compound hums with quiet activity, the distant murmur of voices and the soft whir of overhead lights filling the space. The twilight sky shimmers with hues of purple and pink—a watercolor painting bleeding into the night.
Natasha finds Steve in the lower levels, near one of the private briefing rooms. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his face drawn with the kind of exhaustion that settles into one’s bones rather than their muscles. It’s a look all too familiar, a face worn by her friend all too often.
“Captain Rogers, brooding?” Natasha toys, stating the obvious.
Steve exhales a quiet huff of amusement but doesn’t deny it. He glances at her, then back down at the file in his hand—its edges slightly crumpled, like he’s been gripping it too tightly.
“I got a lead,” he says, voice measured but laced with something heavier. His expression solemn, yet serious, with a faint glimmer of hope gently rippling within those charming blue eyes.
Natasha’s gaze flickers to the folder, and despite herself, she tenses. It ’s not conscious, not something she can fully suppress—it happens in the smallest of ways: the near-imperceptible shift in her shoulders, the slow, deliberate exhale through her nose.
“Bucky.”
Steve nods.
“I don’t know how reliable it is yet, but it’s something. A sighting. Possible Hydra ties.” His jaw tightens. “It’s thin, but it’s there, and it’s the best we have.”
Bucky.
The name carries weight—more than she’s willing to show.
She has fought him before, felt the cold brutality of his efficiency. Felt the visceral temperament of the Winter Solder during her Red Room training. He wasn’t just a ghost; he was a weapon with a past she couldn’t untangle, an identity that had flickered in and out of existence like a faulty light. But for her—he was a wound, an old scar that still prickled at the edges, an echo of the very organization that had stripped away her own autonomy.
Natasha studies Steve carefully. She’s seen Steve hopeful before, determined. But this—this is something else. A quiet desperation, tempered only by years of discipline.
She decides to meet him with the professionalism of work—the same focus and composure they’d bring to a mission—measured, intentional—but beneath the professionalism lay an undercurrent of quiet understanding, the kind reserved for her friend.
Bucky means the world to Steve. He knows a side, a reality, to his best friend which Natasha hasn’t met. He knows that his Bucky is in there, somewhere—buried deep within the hurt, the trauma, the indoctrination of the Winter Soldier.
And Steve means something to Natasha, just as she means something to Steve.
Natasha shifts, fingers skimming the edge of the table before coming to rest against its surface. There’s a part of her, the wounded part, that recoils at the thought of stepping back into Hydra’s shadow. She’s spent too much of her life clawing her way free of ghosts like this. Bucky Barnes was another chapter in a book she had burned. Her fingers lift to trace against her nose, her lips—in memory of the most recent bloodshed caused by Bucky.
But this isn’t her fight.
Her eyes meet Steve’s patient, hopeful expression.
She exhales through her nose, masking the battle raging inside her with the same composed professionalism they’d bring to a mission—measured, intentional, a perfect imitation of control.
“What do you need from me?” she asks, because she knows he wouldn’t have pulled her aside if he didn’t.
There’s the smallest shift in Steve’s expression—not relief, not quite—but something close.
Something grateful.
Something that makes the decision worth it.
What she carries doesn’t matter as much as what she can do for the people who matter to her.
“I need to know if you’ll back me on this.”
There’s a weight to the words, an unspoken understanding between them. The last time he chased a ghost, it had nearly torn the world apart. He’s asking if she’ll be there to keep him steady—or to pull him back if he goes too far.
Natasha holds his gaze for a long moment. She could remind him of the risks, the politics, the tangled web of consequences. But he already knows all of that, and knowing Steve, he had already mentally run through multiple operational drills, calculated risks, measured losses, successes—all before he approached her.
Instead, she nods.
“I’m in.”
Steve exhales, some of the tension in his shoulders easing, just slightly. He doesn’t say thank you, but he doesn’t have to.
She glances at the file again, lips curving into something wry. “Guess I shouldn’t get too comfortable?”
Steve offers a tired, yet charming smile. “Wouldn’t be like you.”
Natasha smirks, tilting her head slightly. “You owe me.” Her voice is light and suggestive, in an attempt at bringing levity to the weight of their discussion.
A small laugh escapes him. “Yeah, you may be right. How about dinner?”
She feigns flattered surprise. “Are you asking me out, Rogers?” Natasha watches a faint pink begin dusting across Steve’s fair complexion at her questioning. It was always entertaining to dance this dance with Steve.
He parts his lips to speak, and then closes them, only amusing Natasha even further.
“You know,” She begins, crossing her arms over her chest and resting her hip against the table. “If I were about fifty years older, I might have considered it.”
Steve shakes his head laughing, but there’s amusement in his eyes now, the weight of their conversation lingering but softened. "You’re impossible."
Natasha laughs with him, nudging his arm before pivoting towards the door. “Let’s go, Rogers. Less brooding, more socializing.”
The evening was soon approaching time for Tony’s self-proclaimed, long awaited; New Years party.
With the weight of Steve’s revelation still lingering in Natasha’s mind, the transition into the New Year’s Eve party feels almost surreal. The contrast between personal and professional worlds sharpens, making the night feel more vivid, more precarious.
The Avengers compound has been transformed. Soft, golden lights reflect off polished floors, casting warm halos over sleek decorations. The scent of something spiced lingers in the air—maybe mulled wine or cinnamon-laced cocktails. Music hums through the space, a careful blend of old jazz and modern beats, settling into bones rather than demanding attention.
The team is scattered across the room, some leaning into the celebration, others simply existing within it. Thor, all laughs and physicality, is telling some exaggerated tale to a captivated Sam and Clint. Fury nurses a drink, caught in deep conversation with Maria Hill—more than likely work related.
Natasha’s eyes roam the party, making a mental note of the attendees, the buffet station, escape routes, where the bar is situated.
Tucked near the bar, Vision and Wanda are lost in quiet conversation. Her laughter is soft, the kind that lingers, slipping beneath the hum of music and conversation. She tilts her head just slightly—the way she always does when she’s engaged, when something has caught her mind in its grasp. The city lights pour in through the glass behind her, casting a soft glow along the curve of her shoulders, gilding the auburn strands of her hair.
There’s something different about her tonight. Relaxed, yet watchful. Present, yet searching.
She stands with her back to the room, wrapped in the neon shimmer of the skyline. The red of her dress is striking against the cool wash of light, a quiet echo of all the versions of themselves they have lived through, all the lives they have worn like second skins. Red—the color of power, of grief, of longing. The color of all the things they have been, and all the things they have yet to become.
As if sensing eyes on her, Wanda turns her head just slightly and notices Natasha, meeting her eyes, a warm smile ghosting her lips—small, and soft, just for her.
Before she can linger too long in the moment, a familiar voice cuts through the hum of conversation.
“You’re staring,” Sam murmurs beside her, his amusement rich as he hands her a drink.
Natasha resists the urge to scowl, taking the glass without looking at him. “I’m observing.”
Sam makes a sound—something between a scoff and a laugh. “Sure. And I’m the next Captain America.”
She allows herself a smirk before taking a slow sip of her drink. The warmth of it spreads across her chest—spiced, with a subtle burn that reminds her Tony probably paid far too much for it.
“What’s stopping you?” she muses, her gaze flickering up toward Sam.
He looks briefly perplexed before realization dawns. “Well, I’m The Falcon, for starters.” He gestures broadly, nearly sloshing his drink, the ice clinking. “—but don’t think I didn’t notice that deflection.”
“What deflection?” Natasha asks, feigning innocence.
“Oh, you know,” he gestures vaguely, “the part where you got all tight-lipped and broody the second you saw Wanda, like you’re in some tragic black-and-white film about a war you’ll never come home from.”
Natasha stills. Just slightly.
Sam notices.
She takes another sip of her drink, measured, calculated. The alcohol is smooth, but the burn is secondary to the way her mind twists on itself, on him saying never come home from, of him noticing.
Natasha Romanoff doesn’t have a home. She has places she can call home, but not one solid place, moment, or person. She is a weapon dressed in borrowed softness, a ghost slipping through the spaces between people, learning how to exist among them without ever fully belonging.
But Wanda is warmth in a world of cold.
Wanda is red. Not just blood and sacrifice, but something fuller. Richer. The color of embers before they catch fire, of something still burning but not yet turned to ash.
Sam nudges her shoulder, pulling her back before she can disappear into that thought. “Look, I’m just saying—if you’re gonna’ spend the whole party making sad eyes at her, you might as well—”
“I don’t make sad eyes.” Natasha cuts in, too quickly, too sharp.
Sam deadpans, tilting his head. “You absolutely do. It’s like… assassin puppy with a dark past.” He then attempts to replicate the expression.
Natasha glares. “Don’t make me hurt you.”
Sam grins, utterly unbothered. “At least that would be an appropriate reaction.”
Before she can reply—before she can even begin to think of a rebuttal—another voice interrupts.
“Rushman, meet Ryan... Rob—”
Tony saunters over, a suited SHIELD agent in tow, his expression alight with mischief. The man beside him looks both exceptionally eager and slightly out of his depth, like someone who just realized he might be in over his head.
“—Riley?” Tony reels off names, unsuccessfully fishing for the right one.
“Uh—it’s actually Ryder.” The agent offers, his voice tinged with polite correction.
Tony waves a hand, utterly unbothered. “Charming. Anyway, Rushman, I’ve brought you a new friend. Huge fan, very excited to meet you. Play nice.” He winks at her from behind Ryder’s shoulder, his smirk half amusement, half instigation.
Natasha’s glare is calculated—just sharp enough for Tony to read, just teasing enough for him to know she’s letting him live.
The agent guides them toward a high table, eager, unaware of the game he’s about to enter. Natasha places her glass down, taking a moment to smooth out her dress—black satin, sleek and effortless, the halter neckline exposing the elegant slope of her shoulders, dipping low enough down her back to be considered dangerous. The fabric clings in all the right places, moving like water when she shifts, whispering against her skin.
Natasha is good at this—smirking, leaning just enough, playing the game while keeping her distance. Ryder, for all his well-rehearsed confidence, is easy to read. He holds himself with the relaxed stance of someone who thinks he’s charming, who is used to people laughing at his jokes, used to getting a little more attention than he probably deserves.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to meet you,” he starts, setting his drink down with just enough weight to be noticeable.
Natasha tilts her head slightly, already slipping into the well-worn rhythm of this game of empty, meaningless flirtation. “Is that so?”
“Oh yeah,” Ryder nods, grinning. “You’re kind of a legend. And I mean that in the highest respect.”
She allows herself a small smirk, sipping her drink languidly. “A legend? That’s a bold word for someone who doesn’t even know my real name.”
His grin widens, clearly emboldened. “I know enough. I know you’re the best at what you do.”
Natasha hums, letting the words settle between them. She doesn’t confirm or deny, only tilts her glass, watching the amber liquid shift in the light.
Ryder takes this as encouragement, leaning in just slightly. “So, tell me, do you ever get tired of people underestimating you?”
Natasha’s lips curl at the edges, a sharp and knowing thing. “Not really. It makes things more fun.”
Ryder downs the rest of his drink in excitement, tipping his empty glass toward the bar before sauntering off for another. She can already anticipate the return, the easy bravado, the next attempt at keeping up.
She feels it before she sees it, a quiet but undeniable presence stepping in beside her.
A shift in the air, a flicker of warmth against her periphery.
She doesn’t announce herself. Just settles into Natasha’s space like she belongs there, a presence woven into the very fabric of her awareness.
“Hi,” Wanda says simply, her voice as smooth as the sip she’s about to take.
Natasha tilts her head slightly, something already stirring in her expression, an almost-smirk curling at the edges. “Wands, how can I help?”
She notices Wanda doesn’t have a glass. It’s a small thing, but notable. “Can I get you a drink?” Her voice is light, warming.
Wanda doesn’t answer. At least, not in words.
Instead, she reaches for Natasha’s drink, lifting it from the table without preamble, and takes a slow, deliberate sip.
Natasha watches her over the rim of the stolen glass, lips quirking in curious amusement. She recognizes the motion, the quiet claim in it. Remembers a similar moment weeks ago in the kitchen—cold hands, warm breath, Wanda’s chai tea disappearing into Natasha’s grasp as easily as this whiskey does now.
Only this time, Wanda is the one reaching first.
Natasha smirks. “Or we can share mine instead.”
Wanda doesn’t respond, not immediately, but the corner of her lips presses inwards as she swallows, the weight of her gaze lingering.
And then Ryder returns, fresh glass of whiskey in hand.
He hesitates, glancing between them, expression shifting into something uncertain. Natasha doesn’t miss the flicker of realization in his features, the way his grip on the glass subtly tightens. He saw Wanda drink from hers. He noticed the way the air thickened in response.
Natasha lifts a brow in his direction, curiously waiting.
Wanda tilts her head, setting the glass down with a quiet clink.
The sound feels louder than it should, a punctuation mark in the moment.
Ryder, catching onto something but unsure what, clears his throat. “Uh—well. I should probably—” He gestures vaguely toward the crowd. “Yeah.”
He sounds defeated as he makes his way back into the flow of the party, whiskey untouched.
Natasha watches him go, amusement flickering in her chest, before turning back to Wanda, who remains completely unbothered about his departure.
Her fingers linger for a beat too long against the stem of the glass, a tension in the set of her shoulders that doesn’t quite belong. There’s something restless in the way she stands—not exactly uncertain but deliberate in a way that feels at odds with the ease she’s trying to project.
Natasha notices, she always notices.
“I didn’t know you were a fan of whiskey,” she remarks, lifting a brow.
Wanda hums, brows furrowing slightly. “I did not know it was whiskey.” She exhales softly, barely noticeable if Natasha wasn’t already attuned to her. “I’m not a fan.”
Natasha watches her for a moment, the amusement curling in her chest now sharper with something else—something she will leave unnamed, for now.
But she senses, quite clearly, that Wanda wasn’t a fan of Ryder, either.
Natasha hums in response, the sound low, considering. She leans forward, elbows resting on the table, fingers idly tracing the rim of her glass. “Not a fan of whiskey,” she repeats, head tilting slightly. “And yet, you drank it.”
Wanda exhales, the faintest furrow between her brows, as if she, too, is trying to decipher her own reasoning. Or perhaps she already knows and doesn’t wish to say it out loud.
“I was curious,” she says at last. A simple answer, but not an empty one.
Natasha lets the silence stretch between them, just for a beat. Then, with a smirk, “About the whiskey, or about me?”
Wanda meets her gaze, and for a moment, there’s something unreadable in the depths of her expression. “I think both,” She muses, her voice quiet, but the weight of it lands firmly between them.
Natasha doesn’t move away. Doesn’t tease, not yet. She only watches, committing every small detail to memory—the way Wanda’s fingers flex slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach for something; the way her gaze flickers, never quite uncertain, but something close to hesitant.
Something like wanting .
Wanda’s fingers fidget, a restless energy unraveling at the seams of her composed exterior. It’s a familiar sight—one she has witnessed in meetings, in the quiet, stolen moments where Wanda thinks no one is watching.
Without hesitation, Natasha reaches out, catching Wanda’s fingers in her own. A quiet, steadying touch. The tension in Wanda’s shoulders eases just slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. Natasha smooths her thumb over Wanda’s knuckles, grounding her.
The music shifts, a slow jazz number weaving through the air, twining between the soft murmur of conversations and the distant hum of the city beyond the glass. The golden light catches in Wanda’s hair, deepening its auburn hues, setting a quiet fire in the strands. Her dress—scarlet silk, like something painted in longing—clings to her silhouette in a way that makes Natasha’s pulse slow and steady, deliberate.
“You look beautiful tonight,” Natasha says, her voice hushed, a delicate admission meant only for Wanda.
Wanda blinks caught off guard, and for a moment, Natasha wonders if she’s overstepped. But then Wanda’s lip's part, a breath of something unspoken caught on the edge of them. Her fingers curl slightly around Natasha’s, not gripping, just holding. Just feeling.
A ripple of excitement rolls through the space as voices rise in countdown.
“Ten!”
Natasha leans in slightly, voice a murmur. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”
“Nine!”
Wanda smiles, almost blushes, small but genuine. “So are you.”
“Eight!”
The crowd grows louder, their anticipation thick in the air. Someone pops a bottle of champagne in the distance, laughter rising in response.
“Seven!”
Natasha’s gaze flickers, taking Wanda in fully—the way the golden glow of the lights catches in her hair, the way the rich red of her dress hugs her body in ways Natasha chooses to ignore, for now.
“Six!”
Wanda shifts, turning more fully toward her. Natasha can see the way her pulse flutters at her throat.
“Five!”
And maybe she should say something clever, make a well-timed joke. Maybe she should let this moment stretch just a little longer, let the anticipation coil tighter.
But—
“Four!”
She lifts a hand instead, finding Wanda’s wrist with an ease that feels inevitable, thumb pressing just gently against the inside of her wrist. Her skin is warm.
“Three!”
Natasha leans in, and Wanda doesn’t pull away.
“Two!”
She doesn’t kiss her. Not yet. Instead, she turns her head slightly—just enough to brush her lips, featherlight, against the sharp line of Wanda’s cheekbone.
“One!”
A barely-there exhale from Wanda, a moment of stillness between them, the noise of the party fading into the background for just a second too long.
Then—cheers, laughter, the eruption of celebration around them.
Natasha pulls back just slightly, her lips still close enough that Wanda can feel the warmth of her breath.
“Happy New Year,” she murmurs, and there’s something indulgent in her tone, something pleased.
Wanda exhales slowly, something shifting in the depths of her gaze, something Natasha wants to unravel.
“Happy New Year,” she echoes, she breathes, soft but certain.
Chapter 7
Summary:
I’ve sincerely missed writing these two. I wasn’t sure if any of you would return if I updated, so thank you very very much <3
Natasha’s trauma is so overlooked in the movies, and it feels so so delicate to write.
Chapter Text
The briefing room is quiet. Unusually so.
Steve stands at the head of the table, jaw tight, arms braced against the metal surface as he surveys the classified report in front of him. The overhead lights cast sharp angles across his face, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes.
No one speaks. Not yet.
The tension in the air is a living thing, coiled and restless, threading between them like a specter of battles fought and lost.
Natasha leans back in her chair, the mechanics creaking, splitting the silence. Her fingers laced together in her lap; gaze fixed on the file but not really reading it anymore. She already knows what it says. The words had burned into her mind the moment Steve slid the folder across the table.
HYDRA resurgence confirmed. New intelligence suggests the Winter Soldier is alive. Captured. Controlled.
Bucky.
She exhales slowly through her nose, keeping her breathing steady. She doesn’t look at Steve—she doesn’t have to. She can feel the weight of this pushing against him, sinking into the quiet recesses of his conscience. And all the while, she swallows the weight pressing against her own memories—of a life once lived, once stolen.
Beside her, Wanda shifts slightly—not out of impatience, but something else, something coiled tight beneath her ribs.
Natasha feels it without looking. She senses her discomfort as if it were a speaking thing, communicating to her in a language lost at sea.
Steve finally straightens, clearing his throat, the sound echoing into the silence. “This mission is strictly recon.” His voice is even, but the steel beneath it is undeniable. “We confirm intel, assess Hydra’s movements, and get out. No heroics.”
Natasha hums, something dry in her tone. “Heroics never work out well for us anyway.” She muses, choosing to ignore how flashes of red taint her mind.
Clint scoffs from the corner, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, tell that to Steve.”
Steve’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. His fingers tighten slightly on the file. “We leave in two hours. Small team—low profile. I want this clean. In, out, no casualties.” His voice is crisp, clipped, concise.
Natasha straightens, rolling her shoulders – shaking off her unseen impeding thoughts. “I’m in.”
Beside her, Wanda speaks without hesitation.
“So am I.”
It’s not a question, nor is it wrapped in the softness of suggestion. It carries the weight of a vow.
Natasha stiffens, her jaw clenching ever so slightly as she keeps her gaze forward—a line drawn in discipline.
Steve glances towards the younger woman. “Wanda—”
“I am not sitting this one out.” Her voice is quiet but unyielding; the edges smoothed by grief, sharpened by certainty. “Not when—” She cuts herself off, jaw clenching in the unabated silence, laden with thoughts she’s unable to voice.
Not when its Hydra.
Not after Pietro.
Not if Natasha will be there.
Natasha slowly turns, a quiet precision in her movements. Her expression is carefully composed and her voice cool, collected, measured. “It’s reconnaissance.” she says. “It could get complicated; it might get dangerous.”
“So is everything we do.” Wanda meets her gaze, calm and unwavering. “I’ve fought Hydra before. I know what they’re capable of.”
The words are steady, but beneath them Natasha hears the unspoken. The echo of the grief Wanda still dares to touch—Sokovia, the Mind Stone, the weight of her brother’s absence pressed into the shape of her spine.
She feels trepidation bubbling at the centre of her core as she remembers the lingering metallic taste at the back of her throat from unending screams and the sickening scent of blood in unlit corridors. The way Dreykov broke her and girls alike from the inside out, the way Hydra broke Bucky—how Hydra tried to break Wanda. Taking soft and sacred minds, conditioning them into controlled weapons of mass destruction.
Natasha knows this fate—carries it like a leaden shadow, one which hides behind her eyes and settles deep within her bones.
She swallows the fears as they claw at her mind—fears of her past, the ghosts that still linger, fear of what Hydra could take if they get too close. Who they could take.
Natasha’s expression remains impassive, but Clint notices the briefest flicker in her eyes—small, imperceptible to most, but not to him.
It’s there and gone again in a single breath, but he catches the tremor just beneath the mask.
Clint knows Natasha—he knows what missions like this do to her. How they resurrect buried trauma, peel open scars she’s stitched closed too many times before. He sees the rigid line of her shoulders, the storm blooming quietly beneath the surface. He knows, without needing to ask, that this isn’t about logistics or tactics.
Natasha was trained to operate, to calculate—to act without question, without hesitation. She was trained to be alone, remain alone. No attachments. No softness. Complete the mission. Never feel it.
The weight of Clint’s glare presses against Natasha’s periphery. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. She can feel it—the knowing look, pressing against her like an unspoken truth.
Steve studies Wanda for a moment, his features sharpening with careful deliberation before he exhales slowly. “We need to gather intel—and you know more about Hydra than most of us.” His tone is low, a measured urgency threading through each word as he meets Wanda’s eyes.
“Nat?” he inquires, glancing toward Natasha.
The decision, as Wanda’s mentor since her defection, ultimately falls to Natasha. Her approval isn’t just protocol—it’s personal. Though Wanda’s skills were honed for reconnaissance, there remained gaps that needed filling before she could be deemed battle-ready. Natasha’s heart palpitated with a mix of professional assessment and a selfish fear for Wanda.
The low hum of the air conditioning underscores the tension—a quiet reminder of the high stakes ahead. Pressing her lips together, she feels the weight of responsibility settle like an anchor at sea. With a final, decisive nod, she speaks.
“Fine.” She turns to face Wanda, her expression composed, calculated. “You’d be a great asset to the mission.”
Steve’s eyes flicker with relief and resolve, and in that charged moment, the unspoken understanding among them cements the next step in their journey.
Wanda exhales a small breath.
Clint sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair. “Guess that means I’m coming too.”
Natasha smirks, a mask slipping neatly into place. “Because you’re invested in our safety?”
“Because someone has to keep you three from getting killed.”
Natasha rolls her eyes.
Steve scoffs.
“We leave in two hours.” He looks up at both Sam and Vision, “You two, stay alert for backup.”
“Of course, Captain Rogers.” Vision agrees, calm.
Sam nods, his lips contorted into a tight pout, evidently upset he won’t be joining them, yet. “You got it.”
Chairs scrape against the floor as they move to leave, echoing in the tension suspended in the room, but Clint stays behind for half a second longer, eyes following Natasha as she turns sharply on her heel, exiting without another word.
He notices the way her gaze follows Wanda, as Steve chivalrously ushers her out of the briefing room muttering something only audible for his intended audience.
Natasha walks with purpose, footsteps soft and deliberate, her mind still tangled with the matter of the briefing. She hears the easy cadence of Clint falling into step beside her.
“Nat.” He greets. His voice quiet and familiar.
She doesn’t halt, not at first, simply slows. She expels through her nose—a sigh caught in restraint as her steps come to a stop.
“Clint.” She responds, crossing her arms, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
He observes her for a moment, deliberating on how to approach. “You good?”
Natasha tilts her head slightly; her voice is low and steady. “Just peachy.”
It’s a fleeting moment—a slight tightening of her jaw that Clint catches. The cool, composed mask she wears, all-too familiar to him, briefly reveals its truth, and he unravels her like a worn thread.
“You don’t want Wanda on this mission.”
Natasha leaves it a moment too long for a response.
“But you didn’t stop her.” he adds, tone gentle and observant. “You could have.”
She shrugs, her jaw clenches, unclenches. “Would you have?”
Clint lets the question sit between them for a moment. “No, I think she’s ready. But I’m not the one who watched her fall apart after Sokovia.” He waits another moment, giving Natasha space to comment, defend, intervene. “You care about her.”
She averts her gaze for just a second, weighing how much to say, how much to reveal. “Careful, Barton,” she replies lightly—almost too lightly—as if mocking a truth too deep to admit. “You’re starting to sound like someone who believes I have feelings.”
Clint smirks, shaking his head. “I know you do.”
The corridor grows still for a beat, the silence thick between them. The ambient hum of the compound seems to grow louder, filling the space with an almost unbearable weight. Natasha’s usual quick wit falters in the quiet, her voice low and edged with something that feels like a fleeting vulnerability.
Her next words expel softer, better measured, as if she is holding onto her resolve as it slips through her fingers. “It doesn't affect my judgement.” She lets down her guard, albeit only slightly—an admission wrapped in defense.
“I know that.” Clint counters softly. His gaze is gentle, but it carries the weight of years spent knowing her too well. “Doesn’t mean it’s not affecting you.”
Natasha doesn’t immediately respond, unsure how.
“I know you.” Clint begins, “this mission, Bucky—this whole thing, it’s different. I’ve seen what happens when things get too close to home for you.” His tone is soft, his voice is barely above a whisper—as though he’s trying to coax down her walls, trying to understand her unspoken thoughts.
She exhales, considers deflecting with humor, or perhaps plain defense. “I’m fine, Clint. I’ve been fine for a long time. You don’t need to worry about me.” Her words escape with an unwillingness to be vulnerable—firm, but a subtle tremor, trying to convince herself as much as him.
Clint studies her a moment longer, his eyes reflecting both concern and a reluctant fondness. Finally, he steps back, running a hand through his sandy, tousled hair as he chuckles quietly. “You know, you’re the worst at lying to me.”
Natasha’s full lips quirk into an honest smile. “You’ve not given me much reason to practice.” Her voice is soft, her eyes flickering to him for a brief moment of thankful, unspoken understanding.
Despite her reservations, Natasha is relieved by the pause. Clint’s gentle retreat from further inquiry is a silent acknowledgment of the gravity she feels—the looming mission, the stirrings of unexpected feelings, unearthed residual trauma, and the way Wanda has begun to inhabit corners of her herself that she once believed were inhabitable.
“Alright, but if you ever need to talk—”
Natasha interjects with a smirk. “I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” He concedes, giving her a soft nod. “For what it’s worth, she looks at you like you hung the damn moon, Nat.”
The armory hums with quiet efficiency, the steady rhythm of preparation filling the air—the metallic slide of ammunition into magazines, the low murmur of tactical adjustments, the familiar weight of weaponry being secured. Overhead, fluorescent lights flicker in their dull, steady glow, casting long shadows across steel racks and the rows of gear waiting to be claimed. The scent of gun oil lingers, sharp and clinical, woven with the faint traces of leather and worn fabric.
Natasha moves through it like a ghost, silent and precise, her hands working through the motions without thought—tightening straps, adjusting the weight of her knives, securing the holster at her thigh with a practiced ease. The ritual is muscle memory by now, a process that has settled into her bones over years of repetition.
Across the room, Steve and Clint pack the last of the supplies, murmuring to each other in the way that soldiers do before battle—low, steady, practical.
Her gaze shifts to the left, unbidden, towards the far side of the room where she finds Wanda, fastening the last strap of her suit. Wanda moves with a quiet confidence which blooms with each sunrise, each motion more measured than the last—a subtle elegance. A kind of grace Natasha has always admired, but never quite known how to touch.
An undeniable, hushed pride unfurls deep within Natasha’s chest. Yet, it is quickly overshadowed by a slow, coiling tension that wraps around her ribs, tight and unyielding. The weight of the unspoken presses against her sternum. She knows the weight of blood-soaked hands, knows the harrowing sound of a last breath escaping into the cold, knows the way loss can carve itself into a person so deeply they are never quite whole again.
In their line of work, it’s inescapable. Inevitable.
The thought clutches at something primal in Natasha—an ache not born of logic, but of instinct, the kind which burrows beneath the very fiber of your being.
Assassination was an art she knew too intimately—quiet, precise, and final. She slipped through enemy compounds like dusk itself, breathless and unseen. She's cleansed herself anew in an endless fashion, but the red still rises—silent and spectral, like a blood moon drowning her repentance, unmoved by her mercy.
There’s a part of her that still sees red. Still hears the screams. Still wakes up drenched in sweat, with her heart galloping as if trying to flee from her past embedded deep within herself.
Natasha was a weapon forged in shadow—trained to erase her needs, her fear, the tender ache of being—stripped down to silence and sculpted into winter steel.
Wanda is a wildfire in bloom, luminous and volatile, and oh so inherently good. She is everything Natasha was trained to silence. She is the tender ache of feeling, the warmth that thaws steel, the light that drowns the deepest shadows.
It unmoors her.
Her instinctual training stings, sharp and primal—coercing her to retreat into the cold steel of her past, but Natasha reaches through the wildfire, drawn to its warmth, despite the burn it promises.
She feels her presence like the static hum before an electrical storm, an invisible force crackling in the space between them as she nears.
“You’re quiet,” Wanda observes, her voice calm, a soft cadence that wraps Natasha in warmth. Her words are careful, measured, knowing her silence is more than a fleeting thought.
Natasha pops a magazine into a pistol before turning slightly to meet her gaze. “I’m focused. You should be too.” She deflects.
The weight of her gaze lingers, warm, unwavering. She steps closer, almost imperceptibly, closing the distance between them with the ease of a magnetic pull. Wanda furrows her brow, unconvinced with the facade before her. “You’re worried.”
Natasha tightens a strap with more force than necessary, a brow raising as she shakes her head in acceptance. “There’s just only so much I can do to protect you out there.”
Her voice is sharp, but her eyes portray a fraying tenderness.
“I can protect myself.” Wanda replies, softly but firmly. Red light flickers faintly around her fingertips, restrained but present—an echo of power she’s never had to prove to Natasha.
Natasha watches the red energy engulf the space between them, let’s a moment pass. “That’s not—I know you can.” Her gaze lifts to meet Wanda’s, green and storm-lit. “Stay close, don’t take any chances, don’t do anything in the heat of the moment you might regret later. Those regrets, they stay with you.”
Wanda drops her hand, the space between them empty and hollow without the magic of her warmth.
“I promise.” She murmurs, her eyes soft and sincere. Something warm and understanding flickering beneath the surface.
Natasha doesn’t respond. Her teeth press into the soft flesh of her cheek, lips pulled into a faint pout—thoughtful and restrained. Her gaze holds Wanda’s for a moment too long searching, almost hesitant.
Wanda studies her as if studying weather on the horizon—reading the shift in clouds, the wind before the storm. “What are you not telling me?” Her voice is low, coaxing.
Natasha’s gaze softens, the weight of something unsaid settling between them, as fragile as an unspoken whisper. “Nothing I’m sure hasn’t already crossed your mind.”
Wanda’s lips part, a breath of intention falters on her tongue. She doesn’t push, doesn’t need to. The silence lingers thick between them, like summer rain before a storm.
The starless sky is cloaked in low fog and the bitter winter wind as snow falls in dry flurries, sticking to stone, steel, and the woodland expanse. The air stung her cheeks and tightened in her chest, crisp and sharp, laced with pine and cold metal.
They were ten klicks east of the extraction point, weaving their way through the tree line toward the buried remains of a Hydra facility Steve’s intel had dug up from an old SHIELD archive. A recon mission, simple in theory. Locate the compound. Confirm its activity—or lack thereof. In and out.
The facility was a labyrinth of shadow and steel, concrete burrowed deep beneath the earth, its corridors echoing with an unsettling hush which underpinned the danger within.
Their footsteps echoed like the beginnings of an avalanche through the tunnel ahead, each sound reverberating from steel pipe to steel pipe with an overbearing eruption. The structure was aged and unfolded before them in sparse sterile flickers every hundred feet—fluorescent lights humming overhead. Shadows casted across their faces, across the peeling rust-lined walls, across the dust that drifted in the wake of their movement.
Natasha’s movement was feline—precise, quiet, coiled. Her body obeyed without resistance, instinct driven and without second thought. It was too easy and too familiar to slip into this version of herself in the field. It was a welcomed refuge.
Fragments of her past haunted her silence—faces she willed to forget, names she wished she had never known. Yet, here she was, chasing a ghost.
Beside her, Wanda remained poised yet slightly uneasy—her hands held ready at her sides, fingers flexing occasionally. Her power was restrained but alive with an eagerness as it emanated a low hum of heat in the space between them.
Steve leads at point, his silhouette cast in shifting shadows under the fluorescents, his shield drawn close to his body. HIs steps are calculated and ghost-quiet despite the heavy weight of his muscular form.
Clint crunches softly atop the gravel behind Natasha, his bow slung across his back. “This brings back memories.” He whispers.
Natasha arches a brow as she briefly turns back to face him. “Snow, silence, likely death. Yeah, I’m getting nostalgic.”
Clint smirks. “Remember the base in Minsk? You took out six guys with a single knife.”
Natasha hums thoughtfully, her features emanating pride. “It was five. The sixth—”
She was soon cut off by Steve. His hand darts up at a junction—a fork in the corridor where the darkness swallows two branching paths. “We split here. I want eyes in both wings. Romanoff, Maximoff, you take right.” He gestures towards a sign with an arrow signaling towards the ‘Main Server’.
“Intel is likely kept in the mainframe” He gestures towards Natasha being the information specialist. “Barton, you’re with me. We’ll sweep the barracks. Regroup at extraction.”
“See you in a minute.” Natasha muses towards Clint and Steve.
As they descend further, the decaying infrastructure is replaced with sterile steel and the low hum of servers, growing louder and louder with each step as if pulsing from within the walls.
Wanda follows in step, close enough to catch her cadence and mirroring it almost unconsciously.
“How are you holding up, Maximoff?” Natasha questions, glancing briefly to her side towards Wanda. The name feels sterile on her tongue, so far detached from abbreviated names uttered in affection. It helps Natasha remain focused, professional, attentive to the mission at-hand.
“I’m okay, a little nervous.” Wanda replies honestly.
“Good.”
Wanda hesitates, her brows furrowing slightly. “Good?”
Natasha tilts her head to the side in thought, her boots echoing softly on the steel floor as they approach the main server door.
“Nerves mean you’re not numb to the risk.”
Her voice is low, almost conversational, but there’s a rawness beneath it—a quiet tenderness which betrays her nonchalance.
She finds the terminal to the left of the door and kneels beside it, fingers moving instinctively over the worn touchpad, her eyes scanning the faded digits like muscle memory.
Wanda watches her in unabated silence.
She is mesmerized in the way Natasha works, the way she moves—precise, unhurried and composed. As if she’s done this a thousand times before and will do it a thousand times more without a second thought. Her fingers elegantly dance over the keypad, as her mind works wonders, the only sound the faint tap of plastic and the slow pulse of Wanda’s own breath.
“The day you stop feeling anything...” Her voice falters for a fraction of a second. She steadies herself, quieter now. “...that’s when you should worry.”
She doesn’t look at Wanda as she speaks, she keeps her gaze fixed on the panel urging her mind to focus on the task at hand as it teeters on the edge of old wounds.
Sterile floors, the sting of antiseptic, the torturous ways fear was stripped from her like a weakness. How she was taught to empty her nerves like blood from a wound, to move without flinching, to kill without shaking.
Natasha wonders now if the fear ever truly escaped her, or if she buried it deep enough until it stopped making noise.
Her fingers hesitate—just once—above the final number.
Wanda sees it. The subtle shift in Natasha’s shoulders, the faint flicker behind her eyes she’s trying so valiantly to hide from her. No fear, no hesitation. But a fracture. Like the light catching on a hairline crack in glass held in moonlight. She knows that for all of Natasha’s grace, for all her lethal confidence and composure, she carries the weight of everything she’s ever survived in the quiet corners of her being.
Wanda feels it. The sheer force of will it must take to keep moving forward when you’ve been trained to feel nothing, to silence pain, to suppress fear, to be a tool for a someone else's war—someone else’s ideology. Yet Natasha is alive and fighting, because she believes in people, because she believes in something better.
The keypad beeps as the lock disengages with a sharp hiss. The sound pulling them both from their fraying thoughts.
Natasha stands and steps back from the terminal, calm and stoic, as if she hadn’t just peeled open something raw inside herself. The door unlocks with a click, but she lingers there for a moment, eyes scanning the hallway, one hand still resting against the frame. The red glow of the emergency lights brush against her jaw, casting her in shadows and sharp edges.
“Stay close.” She orders, but it has the tender softness of a plea, an undertone meant only for Wanda.
Wanda nods, her gaze transfixed on Natasha’s. “I promise”
The server room is narrow and claustrophobic, filled with floor-to-ceiling towers humming with outdated Hydra tech. Natasha moves towards the main terminal with familiar ease. Her eyes intently scanning the screen as her fingers dance across the connected keyboard—purposeful and precise. One by one, encrypted firewalls melt away.
The data was dense: logs, personnel records, surveillance backups. Some encrypted, some scrubbed already.
A folder pings open. Wanda steps closer to inspect alongside Natasha.
The folder contains grainy footage of a looping video on a timestamp: a concrete cell, a figure shackled in the corner, unmoving, dark hair disheveled.
Bucky.
Natasha’s teeth press into the soft flesh of her cheek as she expels a long soothing breath as she absorbs this newfound information.
“Is that him?” Wanda questions, her eyes darting from Natasha to the shackled man in the grainy video.
Natasha nods once.
The terminal pings again as she continues working at the keyboard. Lines of text begin flooding the corner of the screen.
‘Asset 14: Disciplinary confinement. Executions of defectors logged weekly’
“They’re using him as an executioner.” Natasha mutters, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s a failsafe.... punishment and propaganda. Parade the ghost of the Winter Solder and everyone falls in line.”
The screen reflects in her eyes—cold and clinical, looping endlessly.
“They don’t need him to think.” She says after a moment, softer now. “Just obey. Just pull the trigger when they want on who they want.”
The terminal pings again, the screen flickers, glitching briefly before it’s overridden with an alert.
‘ACCESS BREACH DETECTED
LEVEL 5 RESPONSE INITIATED
EST. ARRIVAL: 00:01:30
PURGE IN 300 SECONDS’
The lights overhead flicker, her eyes snap towards the door where the emergency lights cast strobes flooding the room in jolting pulses. Seconds later the alarms wail.
“We need to move.” Her voice sharpens instantly, her precise tension returning like the snap of a wire as she extracts the drive.
“We’ve been tripped.” Clint’s voice crackles through their comms. “Eyes everywhere. You’ve got maybe ninety seconds before they’re on you.”
Wanda’s power stirs instinctively at her fingertips as tension coils.
Natasha’s gaze snaps towards Wanda. “Back door. North corridor. I’ve got point.”
Seconds after they exit the room, gunfire erupts. Wanda instinctively throws up a hand, casting a shield in front of them. The bullets ricochet off and spark against the metal floor in a deafening echo.
Hydra soldiers' zone in on them on both sides.
Natasha moves like a practiced shadow—swift, precise, driven entirely by instinct. She pivots and strikes, each movement honed to lethal perfection, her every muscle memorizing the dance of battle.
She advances with unrelenting focus, every step methodical. The first Hydra soldier rounds the corner, and she empties a bullet into his left shoulder without hesitation.
As another soldier charges towards her, she sidesteps and grabs the barrel of his gun and twists—his wrist shatters with a wet snap and he squeals out in pain. She uses this moment to whack the end of her Glock into his nose.
Another emerges at her flank. She pivots on the ball of her feet and drives her elbow into his neck, sending him to the ground gasping for air.
Behind her, Wanda lashes outward in fierce jagged bursts of power, disarming all weapons and launching soldiers into the walls with a flick of her wrist. Control edged in panic—they're outnumbered, and she is overtly aware.
Wanda falters for a fraction of a second as panic surges up and splinters her focus. Her control slips just as a soldier rounds the corner; rifle raised.
Natasha sees him first.
In a single breath she spins, arm snapping forward as she launches a blade through the air and buries it deep into the solder's thigh, knocking him down, but not before he fires.
The shot goes wide yet still grazes Wanda—carving a searing path just above her brow. She stumbles back with a pained gasp as scarlet blooms across her temple and blood drips, warm and disorienting.
Natasha’s heart stutters.
She turns on instinct, eyes urgently scanning Wanda’s face—searching for the depth of the wound, for clarity, for breath. “You okay?” It’s barely audible over the wailing alarms.
That single moment of human vulnerability is a moment too long.
A shadow crashes into her from the side. She hits the ground hard as the air is knocked from her lungs. She feels the steel-cap of a boot burning her shoulder as she’s pinned down. She gasps for air and reaches for her blade but is met with the end of a rifle pummeling into her wrist.
The corridor explodes in a halo of red light. Every remaining Hydra solder is launched—crashing into walls, sliding across the ground. The air crackles with unstable force as lights burst in their sockets showering shards of glass, and the wailing emergency alarms come to a groaning end.
Natasha jolts upright, chest heaving, eyes wide. Her ears still ringing from the tumultuous chaos. The corridor is a live wreckage: concrete cracked, walls scorched, solders groaning in heaps, floors littered with glass and steel.
She doesn’t have time to question Wanda’s control, but she feels it unsettle something in her. That level of power is tethered to her emotion. It burns fast and bright.
Wanda drops to her knees, panting, the last of the magic crackling softly around her fingertips like embers fading in a breeze. She is trembling and lit from within, pupils blown and blood painting her brow.
On visceral instinct, Natasha glides on her knees before coming to a stop in front of Wanda. Her hands rise to cradle Wanda’s face, thumbs brushing the blood dripping from above her temple. Natasha holds her gently, reverently, like something sacred she’s afraid she’ll break.
“Wanda...”
Her voice isn’t a command, nor is it a question. It’s a tether, breath-warm and quiet, a name spoken as an anchor for them both.
Wanda’s breath stutters as she meets Natasha’s gaze. Her storm-lit eyes dim to a soft ember burning low after the passing of a storm. Magic still hums at her fingertips, no longer the wildfire that raged moments ago—feral, and all-consuming. It draws inward, not extinguished, but contained.
Natasha’s eyes flicker across Wanda’s—searching and scanning, for awareness, for pain, for her.
Flushed with heat, and blood, and visceral emotion, Wanda begins to steady.
“Rendezvous point Alpha. Five minutes. Go!” Steve orders over the comms.
Wanda blinks a few times nodding – a silent confirmation she’s okay.
They burst through the emergency exit as it groans open against its frozen hinges, their boots landing hard on heaps of snow. The world beyond the bunker is black and silent except for the wind carving through barren trees. Pines sway above like obstinate sentinels. The night is harsh, beautiful, and unrelenting.
Natasha reaches for Wanda’s arm as they descend into the woods, branches cracking with their steps under icy cakes of snow. Their cover had been blown—their new focus was to gain as much distance as physically possible.
A few hundred feet down the slope, Clint breaks through the tree line from the east, limping slightly. “You two good?” He calls out as he nears them, fingers still gripped tight onto his bow.
“We’re fine.” Natasha calls back, as trepidation bubbles hot at her core, her grip tightening against Wanda’s arm. She arches a brow towards Clint, gesturing towards his visible limp.
Clint takes them in with a glance, silently assessing. Wanda’s blood-smeared face, the way Natasha’s hand is clenched tight around her arm. He says nothing. It isn’t the time. He simply nods in response to Natasha’s non-verbal question. He’s fine, and it’s not important right now.
“Where’s Rogers?” Natasha asks, surveying the area.
“Right behind—”
“I’m here.” Steve announces as he jogs through the snow towards them. He looks slightly disheveled, but almost pristine in comparison. “We should head to a safe house. There’s one about thirty minutes north on foot. Let’s move.”
No one questions it.
They hike in silence, broken only by strained breaths and the crunch of snow beneath them. The moon breaks through the clouds now and then, washing everything in silver shadows. Steve takes point, his shield firing spectral lights into the wilderness as Clint soldiers through his newly acquired injury.
Natasha’s pace is steady yet urgent, her senses hyper aware of everything . Every rustle in the trees, every slight change in the wind, each branch which breaks beneath their boots, Wanda’s labored breathing beside her.
She burned bright, a wildfire in bloom, scorching.
That amount of charged and unleashed power is manifested as raw emotional energy. Wanda doesn’t fully understand the extent of her power, nor can she control it. Wanda’s eyes flicker from shadow, to branch, to moonlight, as if wrestling to keep her mind grounded in the present. Her head is tilted slightly, her blood-streaked face washed in moonlight under the scaling branches, and Natasha can see a faint tremor in her shoulders as she walks.
“Wanda,” Natasha calls softly but firm. She doesn’t respond immediately, and Natasha’s gaze flickers up towards Clint and Steve, leading the group ahead, before slowing their steps.
Wanda lifts her hand, slowly and subtly up towards her temple again. The blood has mostly congealed but still paints her fingertips crimson and Natasha’s stomach twists at the sight, her pulse thrumming beneath her snow-bitten skin. Natasha understands Wanda’s power is connected to her emotions, she’s seen it, felt it, even. She can see Wanda is teetering on the edge, she’s drained and overwhelmed.
“Stop.” Natasha commands gently.
Wanda falters for a brief moment before her eyes meet Natasha’s. Theres a vulnerable fragility in her gaze, something Natasha has not seen before. Wanda drops her hand from her head to grip onto Natasha’s shoulder, steadying herself.
“Wands.” Natasha repeats, this time using her fingertips to gently lift her chin, urging her to stay grounded. She studies the rawness of exhaustion storming in Wanda’s eyes, the sea of emotions unnerving her.
Wanda blinks—once, then twice—and for a short fleeting moment, her shoulders loosen, the tension easing as her breath escapes in tremulous clouds that curl into the cold air.
“I’m fine.” She mutters.
“No,” Natasha murmurs, her eyes analyzing, scanning over her deftly. “You’re not.”
The take a short pause in the snow, just long enough for Natasha to inspect her head wound. Her fingers are warm and inviting against the frost-bitten chill of the night, moving gently across Wanda’s crimson-washed skin, careful to avoid inflicting any further pain.
“You need to rest.” Natasha’s voice is low and steady, comforting.
“I’m fine, really. We need to keep moving.” Wanda’s eyes flicker toward Clint and Steve, who have stopped just ahead, watching and waiting. “I don’t want to slow us down.” she adds, straightening her spine with a quiet, stubborn resolve.
Natasha follows her gaze, then returns her focus to Wanda. There’s hesitation in the way her eyes linger—calculation, concern, the impulse to argue—before she lets out a quiet breath through her nose. “Okay,” she says, softer now. “We keep moving.”
But her eyes say the rest. Warmth. Safety. First aid. Just a little longer.
Clint says something to Steve ahead, something about clearing the perimeter, but Natasha barely registers it.
They file in quickly, boots thudding across wooden floors worn soft with age.
The door thuds shut behind them, the emptiness of the place swallowing the sound in a single gulp. The chaos outside now a distant memory of ice, gunfire, and blood. The safe house is dim, the air cold and stale, a mundane mercy.
Steve moves without speaking, a silent soldier checking corners, windows, exists. Surveying their haven. Clint’s boots scuff across the wooden floorboards as he limps, locating the first aid supplies and dropping them onto the kitchen counter.
“Well,” he mutters. “That sucked.”
Steve snorts as he emerges. “We’ve had worse.”
“I have frostbite on my ass, Steve.”
“You’ll live.”
Natasha moves quietly toward the kitchen, filling an old tin kettle with water from the tap. She lights the gas stove. The flame kicks in with a hiss. The blue glow casts long shadows on her face. She needs clean, sterile water to tend to Wanda’s head wound.
Wanda hasn’t sat down. She lingers near the wall, posture tense, one hand gripping her opposite elbow.
“You okay, kid?” Steve asks gently.
Wanda nods, but it’s clipped. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
The kettle whistles.
Natasha doesn’t move until it’s screaming. She turns the knob, silence swallowing the room once more as she fills a bowl with the now sterile water.
“Wanda.” Natasha murmurs her name like an arrow wrapped in silk—gentle, but unwavering. It cuts through the fog of pain, commanding her focus with a softness that steadies. She gathers the first aid supplies and guides Wanda toward one of the vacant rooms.
The door clicks shut behind them.
The room is quant, and Natasha locates a lamp on the nightstand, its amber glow soft against the worn wooden walls. The bed is low and narrow, with a small desk in the corner, long-forgotten books from a life passed gathering dust.
“Sit down.” Natasha urges, her voice barely above the rustle of fabric as she steps forward. It holds no command, only a gentleness reserved for Wanda—the kind that aches in restraint.
Wanda follows and sits on the edge of the bed with the weariness she attempted to conceal on their trek here. Natasha crosses to her and kneels wordlessly in front of her, instinctive like a prayer.
The bowl of water and first aid supplies are placed on either side of her, the soft clatter of metal on wood barely audible over the pulse thrumming behind her ears. She peels off her gloves slowly, her fingers stiff and pale from the cold.
The bed is low, and they’re at eye-level but Natasha doesn’t meet Wanda’s gaze. Her thoughts ricochet with the force of an unloaded magazine: Bucky a controlled weapon, Wanda mere millimeters from a headshot, her unleashed use of power to protect Natasha, how Natasha wasn’t fast enough.
Her fingers hover for a moment above the sealed gauze, tearing it open with trembling fingers. Her breath is measured, but her movements betray her. Her vision swims with old ghosts and new guilt. Her voice doesn’t come—her jaw tightens in the empty space where words live.
She dips the gauze into the hot water, feeling the heat flood her body in a welcomed refuge. Natasha starts at the edge of Wanda’s brow, gently brushing her hair back and delicately tucking it behind her ears before gently dabbing at the seeping cut. The water begins to dilute the congealed blood, turning it into faint pink rivulets that trickle down Wanda’s cheek.
The wound isn’t serious, but it stings with heat from where the bullet seared her skin. It’s split but shallow and raw, the diluted blood now drying into a copper stain against her angular cheekbone. It’s superficial in comparison, but close enough to terrify.
Her touch is precise, practiced—a soldiers' care.
But her hands falter, the cloth stills.
Just once, but enough for Wanda to feel it, to notice what Natasha hadn’t—her trembling hands.
Natasha is consumed, imprisoned somewhere fluorescent-lit and soulless, concrete walls. Red Room memories bleeding into the present, the Winter Soldier, the ambush, Wanda crumpling in the corridor.
“Natasha?” Wanda murmurs with unbearable softness.
“Hm?” Natasha blinks before her gaze drifts again, like a leaf caught in a current.
Wanda studies her for a moment, the quiet kind that listens. Her gaze traces the beautiful contours of Natasha’s face—the taught muscle in her jaw, the distant gleam behind her eyes, the way her breath comes shallow and uneven, like she’s trying not to feel too much all at once.
There’s a fracture—not visible to most, but Wanda sees it. Her mind is splintered: half here half somewhere buried beneath frosted blood and old ghosts.
“Where are you right now?” Wanda’s voice is quiet, her words sinking gently like pebbles in water.
Natasha opens her mouth and then closes it. Her tongue feels thick and laden in her mouth, heavy with unspoken thoughts. She drops her arm and rests her hands on Wanda’s knees, the bloody gauze between her fingertips.
“I’m here.” She decides, finally, dressing a lie in truth.
Wanda lifts her hands, brushing her fingertips gently across Natasha’s temples and tapping ever so lightly.
“No.” She whispers. “You’re here.”
The touch is featherlight, but heavy with compassion, a tether back to the present. She cups Natasha’s cheek with her right palm. “You’re here, but you are not here with me. ”
Her hands feel warm against the cold air of the room, grounding, steadying. The kind of warmth which seeps in slow and deep, like sunlight through leaves. It encompasses Natasha, blooming into places the shadows kept hidden from light.
Wanda’s thumb grazes just beneath her eye, as gentle as a whisper.
The room feels quiet in a way which magnifies each breath, each heartbeat. The icy wind rattles faintly at the windowpane, but it’s distant—hollow, so far detached from their fragile pocket of stillness.
Natasha’s lashes flutter as her breath stutters out, shaky and low, like something long held finally released. It’s expelled in a deep relief.
She doesn’t speak. Not yet.
This intimacy, this quiet kind of vulnerability—it unmoors her.
Her hands remain atop Wanda’s thighs as she kneels before her, her head dipped—almost reverent. She imperceptibly feels the way Wanda looks at her, the quiet intensity, the patience in her stillness. She’s waiting, but not for an explanation, not for words, just for Natasha to return to herself.
Natasha remembers a different room, another quiet. Soft rays of sunlight casting kaleidoscopic patterns against bathroom tiles, the stinging scent of antiseptic, Wanda nestled between Natasha’s thighs as she cleansed blood from her nose. She remembers the shape of that silence, how it had pressed between them—unnamed—how Wanda had reached for Natasha’s face then, too—cautious, unsure, but needing to do something. Anything.
Natasha’s eyes lift slowly and meet Wanda’s. There’s a flicker of recognition—not of her, but of the memory. The echo of comforting hands and unspoken confessions.
“I’ve lived so many lives,” she murmurs into the quiet, her voice barely above a whisper. The words spill like loose threads, unraveling silk-soft and worn thin by time. “The Red Room. Natalie Rushman. SHIELD, Black Widow...”
Wanda stays with her in the moment, still cradling her face, the pad of her thumb brushing along her cheekbone. Her other hand drifts to Natasha’s arm, steady and grounding. I’m here.
Natasha swallows, the next words dry in her throat. “None of them were me, not really,” she says, quieter now. “They were masks. Just shadows stitched together to serve a purpose.”
Wanda doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. Instead, her gaze softens—not with pity, but with recognition. With the ache of someone who’s lived in the dark and learned to name its shades.
She finds fragile footing as she continues, comforted—held by the stillness between them. By the way Wanda watches her, listens without judgement.
“I was useful,” she says quietly, “controlled.”
She pauses. Her green eyes lift, softening as she meets Wanda’s gaze. “I was trained not to get attached... feeling got in the way of the mission.”
Wanda’s eyes don’t leave her. She remembers Natasha in the aftermath of Sokovia—soft and steady, a calm at the eye of a storm with no center. How she sat with her when no one else could. Tried to fix nothing. Just let Wanda break, and stayed. She was there whenever Wanda needed her.
Here in the dim hush of the safe house, Wanda truly sees Natasha. Not the Widow, not the weapon. She sees the woman behind it all, and what she sees breaks her a little.
Natasha is made of all the broken pieces she refused to leave behind.
This impossibly composed, devastatingly competent woman before her had once held her together whilst she was nothing but waves of grief, flames of fury, and depths of loss. Wanda sees beneath her mask fully, for the first time, she sees how much of Natasha’s strength is borrowed from sorrow and carried with poise and dignity.
“I don’t know how to do this.” Natasha breathes, delicately, her voice breaking towards the end.
This time, it isn’t her history she’s confessing—it's the present. The vulnerability that lives between two women trying to trust.
Wanda doesn’t immediately answer. She studies Natasha with that unshakable quiet she wears like armor—gaze steady, soft, and searching. The space between them swells with unshed words they’re both too afraid to name.
“You don’t have to,” Wanda murmurs into the silence. Her voice is quiet, yet so certain. Then, gentler, she says “Just do not disappear.”
There’s no tremble in her voice, but it’s oh so close. As if she is balancing on the edge of something that could tip into more, if either of them dared to lean.
Natasha’s jaw tightens at the unbearable closeness of this—the ache of something long hidden being pulled into the light.
“I’m trying,” Natasha offers truthfully raw, real, and trembling.
Wanda’s gaze doesn’t pry; it offers. Quiet understanding, unwavering and soft. The kind of soft that doesn’t dissolve under pressure but holds shape. She exhales, her hand moving down Natasha’s arm until her fingers brush at her wrist—a touch wrapped in promise.
“I know,” she says, barely above a whisper. “I can see it.”
She doesn’t reach for more; doesn’t press into the spaces Natasha hasn’t yet offered—but her voice is warm with something unspoken.
Natasha leans into the moment, into her touch, into her stillness. She leans into the quiet, frightening relief of being seen. She leans into the wildfire, held by its warmth.
Chapter 8
Summary:
I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I hope you have a lot of fun reading this chapter 😏
Chapter Text
The rain hadn’t stopped all morning.
It tapped against the windows in soft, rhythmic pulses — a cold mist cloaking the Compound in grey. Beyond the glass, the sky was the color of bruised slate, and the pines rattled in the wind, dark in the distance. There was a faint hush in the air, a weight which could only be brought about by downpour.
The kind of rain that turned the world ghostlike. Distant. As though everything beyond these walls belonged to another life. The downpour blurred the tree line, streaked the windows, and draped the Compound in a soundscape of hush and patter. Inside, it felt like existing in a bubble beneath the storm—a quiet cocoon untouched by time. Nothing could reach them here. Not memory, not mission. Just the rain, and the silence it left in its wake.
Inside the briefing room, the screen glowed faintly in the low light. A topographical map flickered red overlays which pulsed faintly on the screen—not unlike warning lights or distant sirens. The kind of glow that made you think of blood. Elevation lines, ridgelines, and a scattering of red pins threading across a dense stretch of Washington State. At the center: Olympic National Forest. Thousands of acres of wet silence, shadowed pathways, and fog-thick ravines. A perfect place to vanish.
Steve stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, posture tight. His eyes tracked the slow-moving cursor across the map.
Natasha stood at the far end of the table, one hand braced against the cool steel surface, the other rotating a flash drive between her fingers like a coin. Her face was still, focused as she watched the screen.
Wanda sat across from Steve, not focused on the screen, but instead her eyes watched Natasha. It was unconscious, with a soft intent stillness of someone caught in a thought they hadn’t meant to entertain so openly. Her hands were folded in her lap, thumbs brushing together in a slow, absent rhythm.
A faint crease painted her brow, subtle and unguarded, as if studying something delicate, something precious. It was a look which spoke of admiration, as if she were quietly in awe of something too beautiful to fully comprehend. Her gaze lingered on Natasha, washed in the ethereal glow of the overhead lights which seemed to halo her in softness as her fingers danced over the flash drive with precise, almost absent-minded movements.
Natasha felt it before she saw it—the weight of her gaze, the reverence. She turned her head, slow and deliberate, letting their eyes meet in a moment stretched thin and golden. A smirk curled at the corner of her full lips—knowing and amused—as a brow raised in quiet challenge.
Silently, she mouthed, “You’re staring.”
Wanda blinked, heat rushing to her face, painting her skin in a soft flush of crimson. Her lips parted, then pressed closed again, curling into a bashful smile before she turned her focus back to the screen, a little too quickly, too evident in her retreat.
Natasha felt it linger for stretched moments after Wanda’s retreat, basked in the warmth of being wondered at in such a way. It was utterly disarming and quite addictive.
Steve’s voice broke through the quiet tension that lingered between them, a moment suspended in the soft haze of shared glances. “The flash drive Wanda and Natasha pulled gave us what we needed. Hydra’s been using mobile relocation routes through the Olympic Peninsula. No heat signatures, no transmissions—but the logs show a regular pattern of movement. Bucky was relocated two nights ago.”
The name landed like a stone in water. No splash. Just weight. Sinking weight.
Clint leaned forward, squinting. “They’re hiding him in the national forest?”
“Beneath it,” Steve clarified, tapping a red pin. “Old Cold War tunnels. Off-grid. Government decommissioned the site twenty years ago. Hydra clearly didn’t.”
Sam frowned, glancing at the terrain contours. “And we’re just supposed to stroll through Bigfoot’s backyard and not get ambushed?”
Steve offered the ghost of a smile. “That’s the idea.”
Sam leaned back in his chair. “Right. So, we’re going full Shawshank Redemption now?”
Clint laughed. “That explains the damp.”
Steve blinked. “Shaw… what?”
Natasha’s lips turned into a smirk. “Prison break movie. Underground tunnels. Sewage. Very heartfelt.”
“That’s disturbing,” Wanda muttered.
“Iconic,” Sam countered. “We’ll watch it after we drag Barnes out of the forest sewer.”
Vision tilted his head. “Is it a reliable study of correctional architecture?”
Steve sighed. “It’s not relevant.”
“Feels relevant,” Sam said. “You ever crawl through five hundred yards of pipe, Cap?”
Clint snorted again. “Don’t encourage him.”
Steve brought them back with a soft command. “We’ll split into two teams. I’ll lead the approach. Nat, you coordinate intel—track ground signals, read terrain movement, reroute us if necessary. You’ll have command on comms.”
Natasha nodded once, her voice calm and sharp. “I’ll pull topography scans and route overlays by tonight.”
Sam raised his hand. “I’ll scout ahead. Aerial recon’s useless under this tree cover, but I can get eyes on foot. Maybe send Redwing under the canopy.”
Steve nodded. “Good. We leave nothing to chance. They’re expecting us to come loud. We won’t.”
“Extraction?” Clint asked, stretching.
Steve pointed to a gap near the river’s edge. “Tunnel system ends here. If we time it right, we go in quiet and pull him out before they move again.”
Natasha tilted her head, studying the map. “And if they’ve already moved him?”
“We follow the trail,” Steve replied. His voice didn’t rise. “We don’t stop.”
Wanda’s voice broke through the moment, quiet but steady. “We’ll find him.”
It was certainty woven from something deeper. Natasha felt it, a quiet weight beneath her words—the kind born from loss. Wanda has known loss, she still feels it with every waking breath, and due to this, she understands the weight Steve carries. The pain of knowing someone could be gone, of wondering if there was still a way back.
Wanda wore her empathy like armor—not brittle but forged. It threaded through her with a quiet kind of strength, it grounded her to every jagged edge of the world; to the soft and brutal alike. She didn’t flinch from feeling. She moved through it and let it wash over her like rain; let it shape her without washing her away.
Natasha watched her with something that almost ached. There was no mask, no rehearsed restraint in Wanda—only truth, and the quiet courage to bear it. She felt things without apology. Without armor in the way Natasha had been taught, and that left her luminous.
A rawness lived in her, untamed and whole. Natasha, who had spent a lifetime hiding from the ache of being known, found herself drawn to it, drawn to her , as if pulled by gravity. Like a moth to a flame.
Chairs scraped as the team began to disperse.
Clint stretched with a yawn. Sam nudged Vision toward the hallway, still giving a half-hearted explanation of Shawshank logic. Wanda stood slowly, eyes lingering on the screen, then on Natasha.
But Natasha lingered behind, gaze focused on the red pin pulsing on the screen like a distant warning light.
Bucky was out there. In the cold. In the dark.
She remembered the last time she saw him—not as the man Steve had described, but as a figure in shadow. A blur of muscle and memory. Eyes like gunmetal. Hands like guillotines. Not vacant. Not savage. Just trained.
Like she had been.
Hydra had broken him the same way Dreykov had broken her—systematically, surgically. Strip the softness. Teach the silence. Program obedience and erase the self.
Asset. Widow. Ghost.
The training room hummed with the steady pulse of energy—an echoing heartbeat of the Compound itself. Above, the ceiling lights buzzed, too bright, too sterile, casting long shadows that stretched across the floor like specters. The air crackled with the remnants of Wanda’s magic, the scarlet glow flickering around her like a trapped storm.
She stood in the center, feet spread apart, every muscle in her body taut with concentration. Sweat glistened on her brow, the dark strands of hair plastered to her face. Her breath came in shallow gasps, throat dry, but her gaze never wavered.
"Three more," Sam's voice came through the comms, sharp and steady. His figure hovered above, wings outstretched, blocking the view of the sky. "You stop them, or they drop a payload on the Compound. No pressure."
Wanda’s only response was the tightening of her jaw, the flicker of her focus sharpening to a dangerous point. She had trained with Sam before, but today felt different. Today, the air was thick with something else—an urgency, a weight, a pressure she couldn’t escape. The drones came at her like swarming bees, each one a potential strike. She could feel their buzz even before they were within range. It made her pulse quicken, the magic inside her reacting to the tension, to the threat.
Her palms burned as she lifted them, not commanding, but guiding the magic as though it were part of her skin, part of her pulse. The first drone closed in, its metallic body gleaming as it tilted toward her. With a flick of her wrist, she ripped it from the air in a burst of red light, sending it scattering into sparks.
One down.
But the second drone was faster, darting past her shield like a rogue comet, its payload already primed. She didn’t hesitate. The air around her hands shimmered, energy pooling in her chest as she focused. The explosion came a second too soon, but she caught it—her shield crashing into the drone’s metallic frame, her knees buckling as she willed it to hold.
And then, a third drone. This one came without warning, its sensors adjusting mid-flight. It dove straight for her head, aimed at a target she hadn’t prepared for.
Her fingers fumbled for control. Her heart was beating too fast.
She barely raised her hand in time.
The drone froze, midair, suspended in a split-second of silence before its systems fizzled out, lights flickering out like stars burning out too soon. It dropped to the ground with a soft thud, lifeless.
Wanda stood there, trembling, the remnants of her power still crackling around her like static. Her chest heaved with the effort of it all. The room felt too close, suffocating in its silence.
She didn’t move. She didn’t speak.
Instead, she sank to one knee, the weight of her exhaustion settling in her bones, the scarlet glow fading in her fingertips.
"Simulated casualties: Zero. Performance: Elevated. Fatigue level: Critical," FRIDAY’s voice echoed overhead, clinical and indifferent.
Wanda's gaze remained fixed on the floor, the faint tremor in her hands the only sign that she was still human.
Natasha stood still as stone, her arms crossed, her gaze sharp but unreadable as she watched from the observation deck. She watched Wanda with a quiet intensity, her own presence like a steady pulse in the background.
Her eyes followed every movement; every breath Wanda took. She saw the way the younger woman’s shoulders trembled beneath the weight of her own power, how she held herself together, despite everything, despite the overwhelming force that threatened to consume her.
The stillness between them stretched. The room was quiet, save for the sound of Wanda's labored breaths. Sam, hovering in the air above her, made no move to speak either. He knew. He always knew. This was Wanda’s fight, her battle to face, and it was a fight that would make her stronger. Not just physically, but emotionally, mentally.
"She’s pushing too hard," Natasha said quietly, her voice low on the control deck, eyes still fixed on Wanda.
"She needs this," Sam replied. He landed beside Natasha, folding his wings. "Control comes through pressure. You know that."
Natasha didn’t respond right away. Her fingers drummed once against her arm before she spoke.
"And if pressure breaks her first?"
Sam looked at her, eyebrows raised. "You don’t really think she’s breakable."
Natasha exhaled, a slow breath through her nose. "No. I don’t."
Her gaze softened slightly, not in pity, but in understanding. Wanda wore her power like a second skin, but even the strongest skin can bruise. And yet, she admired that fight in her. That relentless grip on control even when her body screamed for rest. A familiar kind of defiance.
Wanda stood up, slowly, unsteady at first. Natasha and Sam watching from above on the control deck. Natasha focused her vision on something familiar on Wanda’s chosen training attire. Her shirt—Natasha’s t-shirt, she now realized—hung loose on her frame. It was unmistakably hers, and something about the sight of it—that quiet, unspoken intimacy—cut through Natasha like a whispered secret.
She opened the comms with a soft click.
"Is that my shirt?" she asks over the comms, amusement tinging her words.
Wanda glanced up, a slow smile curling her lips. "Yes," she admits, voice teasing but breathless. "You left it after—"
Sam holds up his hands and shakes his head, brows raised, eyes darting between them both as he cuts off Wanda mid-sentence, “Okay, should I leave the room, or...?”
"You should go reset the drones," Natasha said dryly, averting her gaze from Wanda and towards a perplexed Sam.
Sam chuckles as he turned away, muttering under his breath about being a third wheel.
The training room hums with the residual static of Wanda’s magic, faint sparks still dissipating into the air like dying fireflies. The overhead lights are dimmed, and the burnished floor reflects the last tremor of Wanda’s power, the air still thick with labored heat.
Wanda sits in the corner of the training room, legs folded beneath her, shoulders drawn tight. Her palms rest against her thighs, fingers twitching in slow, unconscious spirals. Each breath she pulls in is shallow, tight at the edges as she tries to anchor herself—to not reach for more, to not lose grip. Her chest rises in staggered rhythm as she practices control, restraint.
Wanda’s jaw clenches, her eyes fluttering shut. A sheen of sweat clings to her collarbones in exhaustion from training so fervently her fingertips feel bruised.
Natasha wordlessly makes her way towards Wanda. Her footsteps are soft, measured, as she analyses the weary woman before her, carrying water and a towel, anticipating the sweat which slicks Wanda’s skin—draped over her like a heavy cloak of exhaustion.
Wanda takes them both, her fingers grazing Natasha’s for a brief, silent moment. It was a simple thing, a subtle touch, but it felt like safety, a promise of attendance. Natasha was the first to act: in training when Wanda faltered, in the field when plans were ambushed, in the quiet of her room during sleepless nights. She didn’t offer grand speeches or comfort wrapped in cheap words. She was simply there.
Like gravity. Like breath. Like something Wanda could lean into without ever needing to ask.
Natasha lowered herself onto the mat. She moved with ease, practiced grace, settling cross-legged in front of Wanda, her palms splayed on the floor behind her for balance. The muscles in her forearms flexed faintly, but her posture was open, unguarded in a way she rarely allowed herself.
“You did well,” she said, her voice low and steady, tinged with something softer beneath the edges. No grand praise, no dramatics. Just a quiet, unwavering truth. “But you’re pushing yourself too hard.”
Wanda’s breath caught. The tension in her shoulders didn’t loosen, but it flickered—like a wire pulled too tight might finally give. “I’m trying,” she murmured, her voice raw around the edges, still caught on the weight of what she'd just achieved. Her fingers curled against her thighs. “Sometimes it feels too difficult to control.”
“I know.” Natasha’s tone gentled. She shifted, sitting more upright, her body subtly angling toward Wanda. “But I also know you’ll learn. Control isn’t the absence of feeling—it’s knowing when to let go and when to hold on and that takes time.”
Wanda’s gaze lifted to her, vulnerable and uncertain, and something in Natasha’s chest coiled tight. Her expression—open, stripped, utterly earnest—made her feel like she was witnessing something sacred. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion, damp tendrils of hair clinging to her temples.
“But what if…” Wanda’s voice trembled, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to do this alone?”
Natasha’s brow furrowed. Without thinking, she leaned forward, her hands finding Wanda’s thighs—fingertips splayed, a grounding touch, firm but gentle.
“Wands,” she said, softer now. “You’re not alone. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Her thumbs stilled, resting lightly, as if even the air between them needed soothing.
For a moment, they just breathed. The room still lingered with an echo of magic still warm in the air. Outside the training room’s high windows, the late afternoon light filtered gold across the floor, dust motes catching like falling stars.
“ Non est ad astra mollis e terris via.” Natasha offered, softly.
Wanda blinked, her brows drawing slightly together. “Latin?” she asked, the faintest scrunch of her nose softening the edges of her exhaustion.
Natasha smirked faintly. “One of the many languages I speak,” she murmured, the cadence almost teasing.
Wanda tilted her head, eyes narrowing with gentle amusement. “What does it mean?”
“There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.”
Wanda’s lips bloomed into a smile, soft and slow, and Natasha found herself smiling at the wonder, at the flicker of something warm and unguarded lighting her from within. Her smile reached her eyes, glimmering with a little more than appreciation.
“What else do you know in Latin?” Wanda asks, her voice quiet, as though savoring the moment.
Natasha pauses for a moment, admiring the woman before her. Wanda’s flushed cheeks, the way her fingers played with the hem of the shirt at her thighs, the way her shirt clung slightly to Wanda’s form, damp from sweat, softening the sharp edges of her, how she looked at Natasha with just as much awe. Her own hand twitched, aching to reach for a stray lock of damp hair clinging to Wanda’s cheek and tuck it back.
She tilts her head slightly, voice low, “Te videre est mirari”
To see you is to admire you.
She didn’t translate it. Didn’t offer clarification afterward. Just let the words hang between them, soft and reverent.
Wanda gazed at her, eyes searching, something shifting in the space between them. Her lips parted—just slightly—and Natasha caught it: the barest glance, Wanda’s eyes flicking down toward her mouth before catching herself and blinking it away. Too fast. Too telling.
But Natasha noticed.
She always noticed.
As though she said nothing, the corner of her mouth curved, just barely. Her thumb brushed Wanda’s thigh—so slight it could be mistaken for a reflex. A tether.
“I could tell you what it means,” she added, eyes gleaming with mischief and restraint, “but then I’d have to kill you, and I’d rather not do that.”
Wanda laughed, but it came out soft, breathy—a little breathless, even.
The common room was quiet, cloaked in the tranquility of peace which only came late at night. With lamps dimmed low, golden pools of light rest upon furniture like halos. The rain had thickened into a steady rhythm against the windows, a soft percussion to a quiet hour. A half-empty popcorn bowl sat abandoned on the coffee table, its contents staling and forgotten, a movie paused mid-frame on the screen.
Sam was already out cold on the sofa, limbs thrown wide with one sock off, hand trailing the floor. His snoring was soft and rhythmically uneven. Steve sat cross-legged against the foot of the sofa, mission report aglow in his hands, brow furrowed beneath the pale light of the tablet screen. Clint was sprawled on the rug nearby, shoulders tucked against the coffee table, casually shuffling a deck of cards—flicking one up into the air and then catching it in a whisper of motion. The flick of his wrist was sharp, surgical. Practiced in a way that had nothing to do with boredom, and everything to do with muscle memory.
Natasha padded in on quiet feet, socked and silent, the wooden floor cool beneath each step. Her eyes swept the room—cataloguing out of tactile habit—before her gaze found Clint.
He didn’t look up. Instead, with a breath as casual as a yawn, he launched a single card through the air. It spun like a blade, humming softly, almost imperceptibly, and sliced toward her eye-line at a precise angle.
Natasha caught it two inches from her face.
“Too slow,” she said, eyes cool and amused as she turned the card over in her fingers—the Queen of spades stared back at her.
Clint grinned up at her, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Only because I didn’t use my good wrist.”
“I didn’t know people of your age still had those.” She quipped.
Steve snorted, his eyes never leaving his report.
“You of all people do not get to laugh.” Clint quipped towards Steve.
“Hey, I’m just glad it wasn’t me for a change.”
Natasha padded in further, flicking the card back with a snap of her fingers. Clint caught it mid-air without blinking, then tucked it back into his deck with a flourish.
“Where were you?” Clint asked, tilting his head toward her. “You missed movie night. ‘ My Cousin Vinny’ , Nat. I picked it special for your sophisticated tastes.”
“I was going over the topography scans from the briefing,” she said, dropping down into the armchair beside Steve. “You know, like someone responsible.”
Steve snorted, again.
“Leave that to Steve, he’s already deep in the trenches.” Clint gestured toward Steve, who was still engrossed in his report.
Natasha leaned her head back, letting her gaze trave the ceiling. “He’s doing it wrong. You’re supposed to read the dry intel before the movie, not during the credits.”
Steve smirked, still not looking up. “And you’re supposed to relax when we have a night off.”
“I’m here now,” she murmured, half-smiling, letting the weight of the evening settle across her shoulders.
“Yeah, well, we didn’t make it to the credits,” Clint said, gesturing lazily toward the screen, paused mid-scene. “Steve stopped watching for his homework, Sam passed out halfway through—” he flicked a card with idle precision, watching it land flat against Sam’s rising chest, “—and Wanda said she was gonna’ go read, but she left her book behind.”
He nodded toward the arm of the sofa, where a well-worn paperback sat curled slightly at the corners, forgotten in its solitude.
“Maybe she just didn’t like the movie,” Clint added with a shrug, but the edge of his voice carried something softer—not quite concern, but curiosity.
Natasha followed his glance to the book, its spine familiar, its absence in Wanda’s hands noted like a missing rhythm. She stepped over, picking it up without further comment, her fingers brushing the faint indent Wanda’s thumb always left in the pages.
“She probably meant to come back,” Natasha commented quietly, tucking the book beneath her arm.
Natasha disappeared into the hush of the dim kitchen, the glow of the under-cabinet strips casting shadows on the tiled flooring. She moved without urgency, with the familiar clink of mugs and the hiss of the kettle filling the space.
She brewed the tea with an ease of ritual, her motions smooth, practiced. Pouring the water into two cups, with a spoonful of honey in one for Wanda. A small detail filed away and recalled without effort. A quiet offering steeped in silence.
She held the book beneath her arm, holding a mug of tea in each hand as she left the kitchen. As she emerged again, Steve was still reading, Clint had gone back to his cards, and Sam remained undisturbed—the card rising and falling gently with his breath.
“Goodnight, boys.” She called out.
“Night, Nat.”
“Goodnight”
Wanda’s door is ajar, the faint light from her room seeping into the corridor. Natasha had noticed that she often leaves it this way—just enough for quiet company to feel welcome, but never wide enough to beckon the world in.
Natasha doesn’t knock.
She slips in, balancing two mugs in one hand and Wanda’s book tucked beneath her arm. The room greets her with a hush—golden lamplight glowing against walls the color of parchment, a candle flickering on the windowsill, and Wanda curled up at the head of her bed, comfortable in a threadbare sweatshirt, her knees drawn to her chest.
It smells like candle wax and something floral and faintly sweet—something Wanda. Lamplight gilds the parchment-colored walls in amber, soft and forgiving. A candle flickers near the windowsill, casting shadows that sway like lullabies.
Wanda looks up, slow, and her face shifts not in surprise, but in the quiet ease of recognition, like she'd been expecting her.
Natasha uses her foot to guide the door closed, hearing it click behind her before she makes her way over to Wanda. “I thought you might want your book back,” she says, low and quiet, her voice smoothed by the ambience of the room, “and I made tea.”
Wanda’s gaze flickers to the mugs of tea. “You made tea,” she repeats, a smile unfurling at the corners of her lips. “Are you sure you can’t read minds?”
Natasha’s shrug is small, almost imperceptible—a shift of one shoulder, the barest lift of her lips into something that might be called a smirk, if it didn’t carry such a quiet kind of reverence.
“I’m observant,” she replies, her voice low and even.
She crosses the room in a few slow steps, the soft brush of her socks against the rug barely making a sound. As she nears the bed, Wanda reaches out—first for the book tucked beneath Natasha’s arm, then for one of the mugs balanced in her hand.
“Not that one,” Natasha says, quiet but firm.
Wanda pauses, blinking up at her with a quirked brow, fingertips brushing the curve of the wrong mug. “Why not?”
“This one has honey.” She lifts the mug she made specifically for Wanda.
Natasha says it simply, but the words land with weight—not heavy, but deliberate, like the soft placing of a card in a game where every move counts.
She doesn’t meet Wanda’s eyes when she says it. Instead, her gaze lingers on the steam rising from the mugs—tendrils curling like breath in the hush between them. A small gesture, a trivial thing. But it isn’t, not to her.
Because she remembers. Not just the way Wanda stirs her tea when the night runs long and sleep stays distant, but the little frown she wears when the bitterness settles wrong on her tongue. The way her shoulders loosen, just slightly, when warmth and sweetness touch her lips.
Natasha shifts the mugs, the correct one now extended in offering.
Wanda’s expression softens, her eyes flicking down to the second mug still held in Natasha’s hand. “You remembered.”
“I notice things,” Natasha says, barely above a murmur. She offers the correct mug now, their fingers brushing in the pass—skin on porcelain, skin on skin. “You add honey when you can’t sleep, and it’s late, so...”
Wanda cradles the mug between her palms like it’s something precious, the warmth seeping into her skin. For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything at all—just holds Natasha’s gaze, quiet and open and unreadable.
Natasha sits on the edge of the bed, close but not quite touching, legs angled toward her, elbow resting on one knee, eyes steady on the woman before her.
“Thank you,” Wanda says after a sip, and it sounds like more than gratitude, it sounds like being known. She cradles the mug between her palms like it anchors her.
Natasha watches her over the rim of her own mug, taking a slow and deliberate sip, feeling the warmth of the tea wrap around her.
“I’m surprised you’re not tired after today’s training,” she murmurs, tone soft but teasing, a small tilt of her brow.
Wanda smiles. “I am tired. But there will be a lightning storm soon and I want to see it.”
Natasha leans back slightly, curious. “How can you tell?”
Wanda’s eyes glance towards the open window, the night pressing close to the glass and swirling into the room. “When we were little, Pietro and I would stay up late and watch them. We would count the seconds between lightning and thunder.”
Natasha watches her carefully, delicately.
Wanda's voice doesn’t falter as it once did. It has retained softness, but not the ripe fragility. Its memory has smoothed over time, burnished with more warmth than grief. Months ago, even the mere mention of Pietro’s name would have drawn the air from the room and cracked her voice in sobs.
Natasha can now see growing inner peace, the lightness. The way Wanda’s lips curve at the corners in memory of her brother, in the easy cadence of her words, in how she doesn’t have to steel herself to speak of him.
It makes something in Natasha's chest ache. Quietly. Tenderly.
She doesn’t interrupt. Just watches. Soaks in the moment like the hush before a storm breaks.
A flicker of silver light stutters across the ceiling—the brief, silent promise of lightning. Wanda sets her mug gently down on the bedside table and rises, drawn toward the window like something magnetic.
Natasha doesn’t hesitate. She follows.
Wanda’s silhouette is framed against the glass, all shadow and pale glow, her arms folding loosely across her chest. The next bolt splits the clouds in silence, illuminating her face in profile—soft, solemn, devastatingly beautiful.
Natasha steps in beside her. Close enough to feel the charge in the air. Close enough to feel the warmth of her body beside her.
They stand like that for a moment—a breath held between lightning and thunder, between thought and action. Then Wanda turns, slow and searching, her gaze sliding over Natasha’s face like a fingertip tracing constellations. The silence crackles—charged and waiting.
The breeze curls in from the open window, gentle but insistent, tugging at Wanda’s hair until a few strands slip loose, brushing across her cheek. Natasha reaches up before she has time to analyse her movements, tucking the hair behind Wanda’s ear. Her fingers pause, hovering, then drift slightly, tracing the graze just above Wanda’s brow. The skin is tender, still healing, the faintest bloom of pink painted against otherwise unmarred skin.
“I just wanted to check,” she murmurs, though the words are barely more than breath, dissolving into the stillness between them.
Wanda doesn’t move. She simply looks at her—gaze steady, quiet, waiting.
Natasha’s thumb lingers at the edge of the wound, light as a sigh. And then slowly, drawn by the gravity that hums between them—her touch begins to drift downward.
A soft path. From temple to jaw. From jaw to chin. A slow, reverent glide—each touch a murmur, a question, a confession she doesn’t yet know how to speak.
It hadn’t been her intention. But she moves like gravity, guiding her hand, instinct leading where thought won’t tread. As if her body already knows what her heart is only just beginning to allow.
Wanda exhales, a soft release, as though Natasha’s touch has shattered the last of her resistance. Her long lashes flutter, her lips parting just enough—a soft bloom unfolding in shades of rose.
They gravitate towards each other, unspoken, without forethought.
They’re close.
Too close. And still not close enough.
The space between them hums with something unsaid. The air thickens, saturated with tension so palpable it trembles—magnetism pulling at them like tide to moon. Natasha’s thoughts scatter, her resolve slipping as Wanda’s nearness seeps into her bones, into her blood—something warm and irrevocable stirring in her veins.
She feels Wanda’s breath catch softly before it shudders out against her skin, warm and uneven. It lingers at her collarbone, light as a confession waiting to be heard.
Natasha’s breath falters. Her skin flushes before her mind can name why.
She knows Wanda feels it too.
This tension, coiling tighter with every breath. The pull between them, magnetic, inescapable. A restraint so thin, so fragile, it quivers against the strain of her desire.
Her gaze drifts to Wanda’s lips—the soft curve of them, parted just slightly, glossed with breath.
She stares, unabashedly.
And then languidly meets Wanda’s gaze.
Wanda’s pupils are wide, nearly eclipsing the green, cheeks tinged with heat and something quieter: yearning.
It lands in Natasha like heat—low and blooming, terrifying only in its tenderness.
Her tension frays, unwinds, dissolving into the moment. Her breath stutters as her restraint thins, giving way to something deeper, something aching.
Wanda leans in, only barely, but enough that their foreheads almost touch—enough that the warmth of their skin ignites the space between them, enough that their breaths become one.
Wanda lifts her hand, her fingers hovering a breath from Natasha’s jaw, trembling. Her skin tingles, electric. It isn’t yet a touch, but it lands like static, like the moment before lightning strikes—charged and inevitable.
When her fingertips find her jaw, it’s with reverence. Mapping the curve, the hollow beneath her ear, the slope of her throat. Her palm is warm, too warm, and Natasha leans into it before she realizes she’s moved at all.
The contact unravels her.
Wanda’s thumb brushes beneath her cheekbone, and Natasha’s eyes fall shut. Her lashes catch the light, her breath shallow.
The heat of her skin blooms outward as she’s held by wildfire—awoken, anew.
Their noses brush, and she feels Wanda expel a trembling breath, feels it inebriate her senses, feels it ghost over her skin like surrender.
Natasha lifts a hand to Wanda’s hip, anchoring herself to this moment, to this gravity, to her .
They inhale each other—soft and slow, the breath between them a sacred tether. It tastes like warmth. Like salt. Like yes .
Their lips meet—barely. A touch, not a claim.
A kiss that aches. Not hesitant. Holy.
A held breath let go. A trembling, aching surrender to something neither of them can deny.
Gentle. Bare. Like they might vanish if the other pushes too far.
But it shatters her.
Wanda’s lips are impossibly soft—like silk steeped in heat, like something sacred. Natasha feels herself unravelling, thread by thread, kissed open.
Her breath shudders. She tilts her head and deepens the kiss, claiming it, returning it. Wanda follows, sure and slow, her hands now anchoring them both.
Natasha sways into her—into heat, into stillness, into the aching pull of everything they’ve been circling.
She tastes like memory. The warmth of a morning long gone, the scent of sunlit sheets. She let the warmth seep in. Let herself feel it— all of it—the steady thrum of affection, the ache of longing finally answered, the quiet hush of safety in the presence of someone who sees her without a mask.
Wanda’s tongue grazes her lower lip, featherlight—a question asked in the ardent language of physical touch—and Natasha shudders. It’s gentle, electric, a whisper of her.
Her breath catches, like silk torn under pressure.
The rhythm shifts slowly, searing, languid in its movement—a gentle pull, a soft retreat, a push and give, like the rise and fall of a tide—teasing, inevitable.
It aches, not for more, but for closeness, a longing that thrums beneath their skin. Not a craving for satisfaction, but for connection—a quiet hunger shared between them, trembling with unspoken need.
Wanda’s mouth tastes of warmth, of salted longing. It’s intoxicating, familiar, yet unfathomably new. The faintest press of teeth, the soft flicker of tongue—it overwhelms her in the most delicious way.
Natasha’s hand rises, finding Wanda’s jaw, sliding behind her neck, fingers threading into her hair. She anchors her there, holding her as if she’s something sacred—terrified that this, too, might slip through her fingers.
Their mouths move together, slow and deliberate, a rhythm so deep it feels endless—utterly devastating.
Wanda hums, soft and unrestrained, a sound pulled from her in quiet surrender. It blooms between them, unbidden, and trembles against Natasha’s lips, settling low in her core—dizzying, disarming.
Natasha kisses her again. And again. And again—each one an unraveling, a surrender she cannot hold back, the tide of feeling surging through her, unstoppable.
The sound Wanda makes vibrates in Natasha’s chest, fracturing something inside her—not in lust, but in a quiet, aching need. She doesn’t pull back.
She doesn’t want to.
Wanda responds without hesitation, leaning in, her hands cradling Natasha’s face as if she might break from the force of her touch—but still, she can’t stop holding on, can’t stop touching her with a desperation she doesn’t try to hide.
They pull apart only when the air becomes too heavy, too thick with them.
Foreheads rest together, eyes closed, breaths shallow. Hands still, reverently holding on.
Their mouths part, lips swollen and soft, trembling with the aftermath—the silence between them full of all that remains unspoken.
The air feels charged—electric, searing with the unvoiced, with what still pulses beneath the surface like a flickering flame.
Wanda is the first to move, her lashes fluttering as she lifts her gaze, her pupils wide and dark. Her expression is flushed, vulnerable—a quiet invitation full of longing, of something deeper, something unspoken.
It makes Natasha’s chest tighten, her heart stutter—not in fear, nor hesitation, but in surrender.
Wanda’s gaze holds steady, unwavering, as if waiting—not for words, not for anything concrete—but for Natasha to breathe again, to find herself in the stillness between them. But Natasha’s thoughts are tangled, heavy, each beat of her heart echoing in her chest, reverberating against the walls she had so carefully constructed, walls which are crumbling.
The space between them hums with the weight of everything unsaid. Natasha inhales, her breath a quiet attempt to clear the fog of desire, to still the storm surging just beneath the surface. Each breath is an effort, a sobering plea to regain control. But her hands are still warm from Wanda’s touch, her pulse unsteady in her throat.
Wanda’s thumb brushes across her cheek, soft and deliberate—a fleeting echo of a touch she remembers from many nights ago, in a safehouse far from here. That light, grounding pressure, it settles deep in Natasha, pulling her back from the brink of her racing thoughts, coaxing her to be slow, to simply be, to stay present.
It’s an unspoken reassurance, one that neither of them needs to voice. The moment stretches out—delicate, fragile, hanging between too much and not enough. A delicate hesitation that binds them in its quiet intensity, pulling at the edges but never shattering.
Wanda is patience, calm and steady, and in the space between them, she remains a steadying presence. She doesn’t rush, doesn’t press. She lets the silence linger, lets it weave its way through them, giving them both space to breathe, to exist in this shared pause.
In her stillness, there is a quiet strength. A softness, but also an invitation—to stay. To stay and let the world outside them fade just a little longer. To let the quiet, this raw, tender moment, be enough for now.
Chapter 9
Summary:
fluff, and action, and hurt, and comfort.
this chapter has something for everyone.
https://ldxni.tumblr.com/ - if anyone wants to mutually swoon over life 🫶🏼
Chapter Text
The storm had thinned into mist by the time the house fell quiet.
Beyond the windows, the world blurred—silver rain dissolved into the darkness and moonlight diffused through a veil of drifting cloud. The sky glowed faintly, a pale wash of midnight above the trees, just enough to bleed softly across the bedroom floor.
The room itself felt sleepy. The kind of hush that breathes around you and folds into the night. Shadows lay draped over the furniture like forgotten clothes. The lamp on Wanda’s bedside table had been switched off long ago, but the moonlight casted long, tender shapes across the floor like moving constellations. The air retained the softness of extinguished candles, and skin warmed by blankets, by breath.
Natasha hadn’t moved in hours.
She lay on her side, spine taut, shoulders just shy of Wanda’s warmth beneath the blankets they shared. The covers were thick—cotton-worn, soft with time, weighty and comforting, heat held close between them like a held breath—steady, grounding. Wanda radiated warmth beside her, a subtle furnace beneath the sheets, skin faintly damp with sleep. Her breath touched the edge of Natasha’s shoulder in slow, rhythmic intervals— there, not there, there again.
The mattress dipped just slightly beneath them. The scent of lavender lingered in the sheets, faint and clean, and something sweeter—something unmistakably Wanda—something soft Natasha hadn’t meant to learn but already knew by heart. Candle wax, vanilla, the faint echo of her shampoo.
Natasha laid still, eyes open in the dark, limbs resting carefully beneath her against the mattress, and breath barely shifting the air between them. She glanced at Wanda who was sleeping soundly beside her, mouth parted slightly, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.
Natasha had stayed.
After their kiss. Their quiet, certain, devastating kiss.
They had shared beds before—countless nights in the ache of sleeplessness, post-mission silence, or seeking comfort in the hollow of grief. It had become common for them, a ritual. They had fallen into the habit as easy as the sun sets at twilight—inevitable and unspoken. Wanda would often crawl under Natasha’s covers without asking, and Natasha would often find herself in Wanda’s room without remembering the walk.
This was different.
They were not seeking comfort or cloaked with exhaustion.
This was intimacy.
This is chosen. Felt. Consequential.
Natasha had chosen to stay. Not because she was asked to or expected to, but because she wanted to.
Because when Wanda had kissed her—so softly, and so surely, and so tenderly—it had pulled at the parts of her she had long since buried. The parts she was trained to ignore. The parts that wanted, the parts that felt , the part of her that still believed in something more than orders and instinct and control.
Wanda had seared through it all: through the silence she had been taught to keep, through the stillness she had used to survive, through the armor she wasn’t aware she still wore.
Natasha had stayed because she wanted to—because she wants more: more than survival, more than closeness without cost.
She wants this .
She wants Wanda.
Because she feels safe enough to try.
Natasha thought of the countless rooms she had left before; slipping into the darkness like dusk itself, breathless and unseen. Of the beds she had left cold in her absence before her presence had even cooled. Spaces where touch was a transaction, and closeness dressed in lies.
Her skin had felt the shape of hands, but never the tender caress of meaning .
Not until tonight.
Wanda had kissed her like the rain kisses the earth—natural and so certain. As though Natasha had spent her entire life beneath cloudless skies waiting for the fall. Just the aching press of lips which asked for nothing and yet offered everything .
Natasha had not kissed her to manipulate, nor touched to gain an advantage. For the first time there was no agenda, no mission, no role to play. She hadn’t seduced for control, nor used her body as a weapon—she had simply let herself feel. There was no artifice, no calculation. Only a vulnerable, aching want—something she couldn’t hide even if she tried.
It was a moment—uncomplicated, yet all-consuming. A quiet truth spoken between two hearts, no lines, no masks. Undeniable and pure.
Wanda sighed into the space between them—pulling Natasha from her thoughts—the warmth of her breath whispering against Natasha’s shoulder. Natasha’s lips curved into a small smile as she watched her sleep.
A few seconds passed and Wanda’s brow furrowed as her breath caught before escaping in a whimper, barely audible.
Another followed, louder, higher, almost stuck in her throat. Her head turned into the pillow, fingers twitching beneath the blanket as she begun mumbling in Sokovian.
Natasha pushed herself up from the mattress, her movements slow and measured. She had witnessed this countless times—watched as sleep pried loose the careful seams of Wanda’s mind, leaving memories to unspool in quiet, aching threads beneath the shroud of dreams.
Her breath stuttered, caught, surged again. Her mumbling became clearer, frantic, too tangled. Her body jolted under the blankets; her legs kicked against the mattress and the blanket caught around her waist.
Natasha’s brow furrowed in concern as she sat up fully and reached out with a steady hand, her voice gentle and low.
“Wanda,” she said soft, but firm. “You’re okay.”
She pressed her palm lightly to Wanda’s shoulder, anchoring her without force, with just enough pressure to ground. Her other hand hovered just over her the side of her face, not yet touching.
Wanda remained submerged beneath her plaguing terrors. Her head jolted against the cotton pillow as her body thrashed once, her breathing ragged and shallow, hands clenched into fists around the sheets, the fabric twisting. Her mumbling rose to sharp, unintelligible panic.
Natasha gently placed her hand at the side of Wanda’s face, brushing her sweat-damp hair away from her face.
“Wands, it’s okay, you’re dreaming. You’re safe.”
Wanda jolted awake at the touch, rising from the mattress, wild, disoriented.
For a moment, she didn’t seem to register Natasha beside her. She simply stared into her as if looking through her—as if her mind was trapped in the liminal space between both worlds.
Natasha didn’t move, didn’t want to startle her further. She kept her hands where they were, warm and steadying.
“Wanda, it’s Natasha. I’ve got you, you’re safe,” Natasha’s voice was clear and grounding, dressed in a softness meant only for Wanda.
A moment passed.
Wanda blinked, once, twice, as realization dawned. Her eyes were glassy as her vision focused on Natasha in the moonlit room. Her chest rose once, too fast, with a slight tremble—a sob caught and dissolved on her tongue.
Wanda folded forward, her forehead dropped to Natasha’s shoulder, her hands clutched at the fabric of Natasha’s top. Her entire body slumped—slowly, like a wave pulling back from the shore.
Instinctively, Natsha wrapped an arm around her, a quiet tether to the present world. She didn’t squeeze, didn’t hold too tight—only stayed, a steady presence shaped from patience and care.
Wanda trembled, almost imperceptibly, but the tremors shivered through Natasha’s body, sinking deep beneath her skin. She felt Wanda’s heartbeat begin to steady, slow and tentative, and adjusted her own breathing to match—offering calm in the silent, fragile space between them.
“I’m sorry,” Wanda whispered, her voice fragile, unravelling between them.
“You don’t need to be,” Natasha whispered, the words brushing the shell of Wanda’s ear, meant for her alone.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.”
The warmth of Wanda’s body bled through the thin cotton of her sleep shirt, her trembling breaths shivering against Natasha’s skin like the last echoes of a storm. Wanda pressed closer, seeking something wordless, something safe. Natasha let her, gathering her in without hesitation.
“I thought I was alone.” She whispered, so quietly it barely stirred the air between them.
Natasha tightened her hold, just enough for Wanda to feel it—a silent vow stitched into the spaces where words fell short.
“You’re not alone, Wands,” she murmured, the rough edges of her voice catching against the tenderness swelling inside her. “I’m right here.”
Wanda didn’t respond, but Natasha could feel the way her body softened, inch by inch, the way her fists unfurled from the fabric of Natasha’s sleep shirt. Their breathing fell into a slow and steady rhythm, filling the hush between them, until the last lingering tremors faded into the night.
For a long moment, neither of them moved as if both afraid the quiet might shatter if they shifted even slightly.
With a tender, instinctive shift, Natasha eased them down onto the mattress. Wanda followed without a flicker of hesitation, curling into the shelter of Natasha’s body. Wanda buried her face onto Natasha’s chest, her breaths ghosting her collarbone, and her hand curling lightly against Natasha’s ribs. Natasha held her arm around Wanda, grounding them both in the fragile quiet of the moment.
Natasha could feel Wanda’s heartbeat against her skin, a soft, steady thrum, and the way her breathing grew slower, heavier, as sleep pulled at her again. She lay awake for a little while, holding her through the drift. She memorized everything—the gentle weight of Wanda’s arm draped across her, the warmth pressed into her skin, the ghosted breath against her collarbone.
This felt like more than intimacy.
It felt different than anything she had ever known—not heavy, but grounding. Not a burden, but a tether.
Natasha closed her eyes and allowed her head to rest lightly against the crown of Wanda’s hair. A part of her, small and vulnerable, almost trembled under the immensity of it—the unbearable gentleness, the terrifying ease.
She didn’t have a name for this , not yet.
The feeling rose up within her like a tide, vast and quiet and certain—too large for words, and too sacred to name.
It wasn’t sharp like fear, or wild like hunger. It was softer, heavier—a slow, inevitable blooming beneath her ribs, a gravity which submerged, and pulled her deeper into herself, into Wanda . It thrummed beneath her skin, quiet, endless, alive.
She let it live in the spaces between them—in the hush of the room, in the slow, sleeping weight of Wanda’s body against her own.
The morning seeped softly into the room, light slipping in around the edges of the curtain and weaving thin yellow streaks across the tangled sheets.
Natasha floated at the edge of sleep, caught in the fragile tether between the haze of sleep and the stream of consciousness. She felt the soft light flickering against her closed eyelids, the soft catch of warmth pressed against her chest, the gentle tremble of fingers laid atop her ribs.
Wanda stirred faintly, her body shifting closer, seeking Natasha even in the depths of her dreams.
Without forethought, Natasha tightened her arm around Wanda, gathering her closer. Her hand swept up the curve of her spine in slow, deliberate strokes, tracing the shape of her. It was a touch that lived in the tender space words were left unspoken.
She could feel the sleepy tremor of Wanda’s exhale where it warmed the hollow of her throat as she settled contentedly into the touch. Natasha tipped her head down slightly, brushing her nose lightly against Wanda’s hairline, a gesture so careful and somewhat dream-like in this liminal haze that it felt like prayer.
She hadn’t known her hands were capable of holding someone like this. She hadn’t known there was a kind of intimacy so quiet that it dismantled you without trying. Something that didn’t demand, didn’t break, but became—growing into the hollow spaces she hadn’t realized had been left dormant.
A few moments passed before Wanda stirred again, a little deeper, a little nearer to waking. Natasha stilled, feeling Wanda’s breath falter, the subtle unfurling of her body as awareness crept in, slow and delicate.
Another moment passed, suspended.
Wanda shifted her head just slightly, her brow brushing the hollow of Natasha’s throat—a soft, sleepy nuzzle—and the hand curled at Natasha’s waist tightened faintly, fingers gliding along the line of her ribs in a silent answer. Her lashes fluttered once, a whisper against Natasha’s skin.
“Can we stay like this for a little longer?” Wanda breathed against her, voice thick with sleep.
Natasha tightened her hold without thinking, feeling the slow, steady thrum of Wanda’s heartbeat against her own chest—soothing, grounding, achingly vital.
“We can stay here for as long as you want,” Natasha murmured back, her voice low, reverent, slipping into the stillness like a vow.
The briefing room is washed in strips of gold from the rising sun, stale air thick with the scent of burnt coffee and quiet yawns. The soft hum of the compound’s early morning quiet was broken by the clink of coffee cups against the wooden table, and chairs scraping as people filtered in.
Clint slumped in his chair on one side of the table, his eyes still heavy with sleep as he ungraciously chugged the molten brown liquid, already on his second cup as he awaited the briefing. He yawned loudly between sips, rubbing his face with his free hand as though trying to will himself into alertness.
Sam, however, was sat opposite, devouring a bagel with the kind of singular focus only early mornings could provoke.
Wanda had tucked herself at the end of the table opposite Clint, nestled beneath the comfort of her woolen cardigan. The soft morning light caught in her hair, casting an ethereal glow. She blinked a few times attempting to dispel the weariness from her mind, before tracking through the quiet shuffle of bodies around her.
Natasha moved with precision, already alert, though the slight weariness behind her eyes was unmistakable. She took a seat beside Wanda, smirking across at Clint’s slumped posture, her own mug on the table in front of her as though it were the only thing keeping her in the moment, now drained of its contents. The night had been long, filled with planning, strategizing, and going over the topography graphs—but longer still for Natasha, marked by the echo of a first kiss, sleepless hours tangled in thought, and the quiet ache of holding Wanda through a plaguing nightmare.
As the team settled, Natasha could feel Wanda’s gaze flickering back to her, a quiet in those knowing green eyes. She had come to understand that Wanda seemed to read her better than anyone, even better than Clint, sometimes—the way her expression softened when Natasha was lost in thought, the subtle tilt of her head that showed she was attuned to Natasha’s every shift in mood.
She was met with disappointment as she went to sip from her empty mug, and without thinking, she found her hand reaching to the right, picking up Wanda’s mug and taking a careful sip, the warmth of the liquid offering a brief moment of comfort. She didn’t need to look up to know Clint had noticed. His growing smirk simply radiating from across the table.
“You do realize that’s a violation of coffee etiquette, right?” Clint questioned, his voice still heavy with sleep as he stretched out his arm, a yawn playing at his lips. He looked over at Natasha with that familiar cocky grin.
Natasha shot him a glance, brow raised, trying to look nonchalant as she set the cup back down in front of Wanda. “What can I say? I’m resourceful.”
Sam chuckled between bites, devouring his bagel with impressive speed.
Wanda said nothing, but a soft flush crept up her cheeks, and she dipped her head, hiding her own amusement behind a slow sip of her coffee. The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, visible in Natasha’s peripheral.
Steve entered the room, sharp, authoritative, militant in his alertness. The mood instantly shifted upon his presence, the familiar weight of responsibility anchoring them to his leadership
“Alright,” Steve began, showcasing the map on the screen at the head of the room. “We’re running a tight window on this one. Agent Hill has secured us a Quinjet, it’ll get us in and out under radar. The journey there should take about three hours, tops.”
Clint raised a brow. “Wait, wait. None of our work since—” He cut himself off mid-sentence, not wanting to mention the events of Sokovia in front of Wanda. “Since Banner ghosted has warranted a Quinjet. How are we getting one now?”
“That’s what I wanna’ know,” Sam chimed in, half-serious and half-laughing. “I mean, we’ve had a lot of work, but we’ve been playing Uber in civilian transport.”
Steve ignored the jabs. “Hill’s been kind enough to lend us one for this mission.”
“Apparently extracting a brainwashed assassin from a Hydra black-site finally made the cut.” Natasha mused dryly.
“Any other surprises, Cap?” Clint questions, leaning over the table to refill his coffee mug from the pitcher.
Steve raises his brow, tilts his head slightly. “Vision’s been pulled from the operation. Tony needs him elsewhere.”
Wanda’s brow furrowed for a moment, but she said nothing. Natasha could feel the shift in the room—there was something about Vision’s absence that felt like a gap they hadn’t planned for, but Steve had already moved past it, shifting the focus to the mission itself. Everyone knew better than to ask.
“We’ve got Bucky in Hydra’s hands. We’re going to extract him before they can move him again. He’s being held in a facility in the mountains, and we’ll approach via the lowlands. We’re expecting a heavy Hydra presence—let's expect that they’re expecting us. We move fast, quiet, and hit them from unexpected angles.”
Sam finished chewing the last bite of his bagel, suddenly more alert, eyes narrowing on the map glowing on the screen ahead. “I’m assuming you’re not expecting us to just stroll in and knock on the front door?”
“Not unless you’re hoping for a quick exit,” Steve said, glancing around the room, “We’ll use the Quinjet to get as close as we can.”
Natasha’s mind begun slipping somewhere quieter, somewhere heavier, her fingers drumming against the side of her empty mug, the sound muted, lost beneath the low hum of the room. The mission was clear on paper, but the reality of it, of Bucky, began searing through her skin.
He wasn’t just a name in a briefing, a target on a map, or a blurred image on a satellite feed. He was a memory pressed into the marrow of her bones. A shadow she had once known, felt. A ghost stitched into the story of her own undoing.
Her jaw tensed as memories unfurled—half-formed, half-buried—of drills that stripped the soul from her body, of lessons written in bruises and obedience, of drills that flayed the mind faster than the body. The Red Room had shaped her into something sharp and hollow, crafted somewhat by the hands of The Winter Soldier.
A presence looming at the edges of her training, another blade honed by unseen hands, another instrument hired to carve the softness from her until there was nothing left but precision and obedience.
They hadn’t been people, then. Not Natasha, nor Bucky. Only weapons, worn thin by similar machinery, polished and poised to strike without hesitation, without thought.
Stripped of choice, emptied of hope .
Her eyes flickered up to Clint, who had once looked at her and seen something worth saving when she hadn’t known how to ask for it, who had shown her hope, who had offered her a way out without demanding anything in return. Not too dissimilar to how Steve now fought to pull Bucky back from the dark with that same stubborn, infuriating belief that even the most broken things could be mended.
Her mind was anchored back to the present with Wanda’s hand placing atop her knee under the table. As if she had read the tremors in her thoughts like a page from an open book. Warm, steady, grounding. She rested there without hesitation, her touch light and unmistakable.
Just an anchor, offered quietly, like a lighthouse cutting through the fog of a tumultuous storm at midnight. Natasha slowly unclenched her jaw, the tension loosening by fractions.
Steve adjusted the holographic map projected on the screen, his palm steady as he highlighted the perimeter. “Alright. Sam, you’re eyes in the sky,” he said, glancing at him. “Sweep the perimeter. Keep a visual on guard movements, call out anything that looks off. You’ll also be our first line if we need rapid extraction.”
Sam nodded, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You got it, Cap. I’ll be the angel on your shoulder.
Steve’s mouth twitched into a faint amused smile.
“Clint, you’ll be on external recon. We’ll need your sightlines clear before we move in. Disable any alarms of tripwires you find.”
Clint leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms overhead. “Copy that.”
“Wanda, you’re with me. Once we’re inside, you’ll handle surveillance disruption—scramble their cameras, senses, anything they’ve got monitoring internally. Subtle until we need it loud. We need to clear the central sector. Mainframe access should be located in the north wing. Intel suggests that’s where they’re keeping him.”
Wanda nodded in understanding. “Got it.”
Steve diverted his gaze towards Natasha. “Nat, you’ll be coordinating intel and handling comms. I need you to track their movements, adjust our routes on the fly, and keep everyone synced.” He paused for a moment, his gaze never wavering. “But be ready for emergency field deployment if things go south.”
Natasha gave a sharp nod. “Understood.”
“And extraction?” Clint asked, rubbing a hand through his hair.
“There’s an underground tunnel system,” Steve said. “It ends near the river. If we time it right, we’ll get in and out without setting off a firefight.”
“And if we don’t time it right?” Sam asked, brows raised.
Steve smiled, grimly. “Then we adapt.”
Natasha leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, studying the river bends, the heavy canopy coverage. She could already see the weak points, the potential snags. The plan was good, as pristine as possible, solid. But plans never unfolded like foretold stories in a book.
“Alright. Grab your gear, complete final checks, and meet at the hangar at 18-hundred-hours.”
The Quinjet hummed with a low, steady rhythm, its engines a muted pulse against the vast silence of the sky. Beneath the steady thrum of the craft, the weight of the mission hung heavy in the cabin, a quiet but ever-present pressure that drew the air taut. Natasha sat alone, her eyes fixed on the vast stretch of darkening land below, her gaze distant, unfocused, allowing the quiet to seep into her, if only for a moment, before the familiar surge of purpose beckoned for her.
She had been stoic, an impassable wall, since the briefing. The others had scattered across the cabin, each consumed by their own preparations, settling into their respective silences as they neared the drop point. Time to rest, time to center themselves before the storm broke. Natasha, however, remained in her own world—her posture curled inward, one foot propped against the seat, her knee drawn close to her chest as though the physical distance might shield her from the currents of her thoughts. A subtle guard, enclosing herself within a fleeting bubble of solitude, her mind adrift in a tangled sea of memories.
The past gnawed at her from within, aching. A whispering reminder of the things she had buried beneath layers of resolve yet refused to stay dormant.
It wasn’t long before she felt the familiar presence of Wanda beside her. The subtle shift in the air, the quiet brush of footsteps as she made her way before taking a seat beside her. Wanda didn’t speak at first, didn’t push, nor pry, just offered a calming presence, her gaze searching Natasha’s, reading the quiet storm beneath her eyes.
“I can tell that something is bothering you.” Wanda’s voice was soft, like a breath shared between only them, carrying the quiet understanding of someone who has glimpsed the shadows within Natasha’s soul and chosen to stay regardless.
Without drawing attention, Wanda’s hand found Natasha’s knee, a touch deliberate yet feather-light. An anchor offered rather than imposed.
“You do not need to talk to me if you are not ready,” She added, her thumb brushing slow, comforting circles through the fabric of Natasha’s tactical suit. “But you do not need to carry it alone.” Natasha didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze was still fixed on the window, the rushing clouds blurring past in a dance too fast to follow, as though she was searching for answers in the chaotic, fleeting shapes. Each passing cloud seemed to carry a piece of something she couldn’t quite grasp—some shard of clarity that would lighten the weight pressing against her. But it eluded her, slipping away with the speed of their flight.
“I was used like him,” She murmured, the admission brittle and raw, each word scraped from someplace deep inside. She couldn’t bring herself to meet Wanda’s gaze. It was easier to stay tethered to the view outside, to lose herself in something too vast to answer back.
“I was a weapon.” She said, almost absently. “A good one.” She swallowed against the tightness rising in her throat. “I never failed.” Another moment passed, heavier. “Because failure wasn’t an option. It was all I knew.”
Wanda’s fingers tightened slightly against her knee—a small, wordless promise that she was still there—that she would remain, no matter how deep into the shadows the confessions unraveled.
A breath passed between them, thick with the weight of unspoken things.
Natasha shifted slightly, dragging her gaze from the clouds to meet Wanda’s. She found no judgement in her eyes, only patience, only softness. She saw sadness, too, but also a fierce kind of tenderness, a silent vow that whatever Natasha offered, she would carry it without flinching.
It gave Natasha strength to continue.
“The Winter Soldier was used by Soviet operatives to help train recruits in the Red Room,” she said, her voice low, scraped raw. “They loaned him out, when they needed a weapon to teach us how to become weapons.”
The words hung between them, heavy, trembling in the cabin.
Wanda looked at her as if she were a precious thing. She gazed, wanting to reach further, deeper, but didn’t dare disturb the ache. Her eyes didn’t widen with shock or soften with pity. They steadied, sharpened, as if anchoring Natasha in place, letting her know that whatever she carried, she would help carry, too. There was something quiet in her gaze—unvoiced, patient, reverent—as though she was holding space for Natasha’s pain without needing to fill it. This thing between them wasn’t spoken aloud, but it lingered, unformed and burning, in the way she didn’t look away.
Wanda didn’t speak immediately. She only moved closer—slow, deliberate, until her shoulder was touching Natasha’s. Solid. Grounding.
Her hand slid from Natasha’s knee, fingers curling instead around her wrist in a gentle hold, thumb tracing absent circles over the pulse point. A silent comfort. The most she could offer in a space not built for privacy.
Natasha leaned into her shoulder, slow and measured, just enough to feel the rhythm of Wanda’s breath beside her. Just enough to root herself in the present, to quiet the thrum in her chest.
She didn’t need a promise that things would be okay. Or words that tried to make sense of something senseless.
She needed this.
She needed Wanda.
The moment held, suspended in breath and silence, a thread between them neither one pulled taut, but neither let go.
Then Steve’s voice cracked through the comms—low, steady, inevitable. “One hour till landing. Final checks, everyone.”
Beneath the static, Wanda’s voice found her—so soft it barely crossed the space between them, but Natasha felt it thread through her. “We will talk more when we are alone. When it’s safe.”
A promise. A tether.
A quiet place to return to.
The Quinjet sliced low through the night, its engines softened to a near whisper. Inside the cabin, the air was thickened with militant focus—a simmering tension that encapsulated the cabin, sharp and heavy. Gear clinked softly, the only sounds the muted thud of boots against the floor and the occasional crackle of leather tightening over gloves.
Steve stood by the hatch, shield slung over his back, checking the map flickering on the screen in his gauntlet. Beside him, Clint adjusted the bowstring over his shoulder, movements tight, deliberate.
Wanda hovered near the rear, eyes downcast, murmuring under her breath in Sokovian as a faint shimmer of red danced between her fingers—a quiet pulse of concentration, already beginning to weave through the air.
Sam double-checked Redwing, the drone compact against his forearm, his mouth set in a focused pout. His wings were folded tight to his back, ready for rapid deployment.
Across from them, Natasha sat at the small console, headset secured, eyes scanning rows of thermal feeds. Her jaw was tense, a muscle twitching just below her ear, betraying the steady pulse of adrenaline beneath her composed exterior.
“Landing in sixty seconds,” she announced, voice low over the comms, despite the beat of her heart.
They moved like parts of a machine—swift, silent, exact.
Weapons checked. Final looks exchanged.
The Quinjet shuddered lightly as it landed, hidden in the shadowed hollow of the forest. The hatch cracked open with a hiss of pressurized air, and the night flooded in—cold, damp, laced with the bitter sharp scent of pine and frost.
Steve led the way down the ramp, shield glinting dully under the moonlight. Clint slipped into his shadow, bow at the ready. Sam ghosted ahead at an angle, Redwing releasing from his arm with a mechanical whir to scout the perimeter. Wanda moved last, her steps nearly soundless, her power coiling low and ready at her fingertips.
Natasha watched from the console, the feeds a collection of shifting figures in grainy green.
“Redwing’s got two sentries up ahead, one on the west ridge, one circling the eastern access,” Sam reported over comms, voice clipped, professional.
“Copy,” Natasha murmured. “Steve, shift forty meters west. Wanda, jam their frequency for the next five minutes. Go dark after that.”
“Understood,” Steve answered.
One by one, they vanished into the tree line—swallowed by the tall pines and inky darkness. Natasha leaned back slightly in her seat, exhaling slowly through her nose. Her fingers hovered over the console, a conductor orchestrating an invisible, high-stakes symphony.
Trepidation stirred low in her core, coiling tighter with every breath. Something felt wrong—subtly, yet unmistakably wrong—the same silent dissonance that had threaded through their reconnaissance mission. Her fingers hovered above the console, trembling almost imperceptibly, the adrenaline sharp and restless in her veins, seeking an outlet and finding none.
The forest swallowed them whole.
Steve led the advance with ghostlike precision, his footfalls muffled by the thick underbrush, snow kicking in his wake. He raised a fist—the silent signal—and the group fanned out.
Clint moved into a flanking position, bow drawn, scanning for the sentry Redwing had marked. Sam moved higher up the ridge, moving low and fast. Wanda brought up the rear, her senses stretched outward in an invisible net, picking up the flickers of hostile minds nearby.
“Two heat signatures at the gate,” Natasha murmured over comms, voice a whisper against their ears. “Timing their patrols... Now. Move.”
Steve lunged forward, shield first. The first guard crumpled with a muffled grunt before he could even register the movement. Clint was a half-second behind him, a precisely aimed shock arrow piercing through the air and knocking the second sentry flat with a soft sizzle of discharged energy.
Clean. Silent.
“Perimeter secure,” Steve confirmed.
“Proceed to breach point Alpha,” Natasha instructed. “Sam, above. Wanda, stay close to Steve. Cover him.”
Sam nodded to himself, wings deploying with a muted hiss as he lifted into a low-hover position above the tree line, scanning for threats.
Wanda moved like a shadow at Steve’s shoulder, her fingers flickering with subtle red energy, ready to disarm alarms or seize a weapon from an unwitting guard before it could turn on them.
The dissonance only grew.
It was too easy. Too silent.
The facility was a brutalist mass of concrete half-buried into the hillside. It loomed up ahead, its defenses suspiciously lax.
Inside the Quinjet, Natasha’s brow furrowed as she flipped between security feeds. No alerts triggered. No reinforcements mobilized.
Her instincts clawed at her, unrelentless.
“Are you letting us in?” She murmured to herself.
“Converge on the south entrance,” Natasha instructed quietly. “Standard breach. Sam, eyes on the roof—”
The words barely escaped her lips before Redwing shrieked an alert through Sam’s gauntlet.
Movement. Dozens of new heat signatures—from beneath.
An ambush.
“Incoming! Underground deployment!” Sam barked, banking hard as the first spray of gunfire lit the trees below, the sound echoing through the wilderness.
The comms exploded into controlled chaos—sharp reports, grunts of impact, the whine of repulsors and the reverberation of the shield, arrows snapping from strings.
Natasha didn’t hesitate.
She ripped off the headset and attached her field comms device, weapons holstered and ready.
There was no use commanding from a distance. No time to hold the line remotely.
She was needed on the ground.
The woods detonated into chaos.
Muzzle flashes split the darkness like lightning strikes, stuttering fire through the blackened trees. Bullets hissed passed like angry wasps. Voices rose—sharp, barking orders in languages Natasha could dismantle by instinct alone.
Her boots slammed into the dirty snow, and she was already moving—breathless muscle memory.
“Sam, roof!” she snapped into the comms, voice cutting like wire. “Clint, cover right flank!”
Steve tore into the first wave, shield raised, with Wanda a crimson storm at his side, her powers crackling like electricity as rifles ripped themselves from enemy hands.
Gunfire ripped the air. Natasha ducked low, a phantom streak across the undergrowth. She dived behind a fallen trunk as bark errupted around her in a storm of splinters. A searing line tore across her shoulder—a graze, shallow but singing with pain.
She didn’t flinch. She clenched her jaw as the adrenaline coursing through her veins numbed the pain.
Through the chaos, Clint moved like a ghost between trees, arrows a moving in blurs until a glancing blow shook him down to one knee.
Sam took a blast full-force, wings folding around a cluster—a living shield—the explosion rattling the very ground. Blood slicked down his temple, a beacon against the muddy snow.
“Status!” Natasha called after witnessing the blow.
“Still breathing!” Sam called back.
“Just peachy!” Clint mused.
She waited for a break in gunfire before sprinting forward, sliding into cover beside Steve just as he slammed a guard aside with the brutal grace of a hammer.
“South entrance is a no-go,” Steve called, his voice frayed over the chaos. “Too exposed.”
“I see a second,” Wanda said, breathless, eyes flaring. Her red magic thrummed at her fingers, her voice a thread of calm, a center to this storm. “There is basement access. I can open it.”
Natasha nodded. “Okay, do it.” Her lungs burned from the sprint, her shoulder now chilled and sticky with congealing blood.
“Wilson, Barton—coverage on my mark. Extraction point is shifting.” Steve ordered.
They formed a jagged perimeter around Wanda as she tore the basement door open with a vicious snap of her hands. Concrete groaned and cracked under the force, the sound swallowed by the snowy expanse.
The door slammed shut behind them with a shudder that echoed like a gunshot, metal screaming against metal.
Flickering fluorescents buzzed overhead like dying insects, casting jagged light that stuttered down the corridor in bursts. Concrete walls loomed too close, pinched tight, the air thick with rust and dust. Every sound magnified in the space: the scrape of boots, the rasp of breath. It was the kind of silence that listened back.
Steve took point, shield raised, steps precise, shoulders taut. “Slow. Watch your angles.” He commanded, voice low.
Natasha fell to rear guard, every nerve wired, cataloguing every movement, listening for echoes that didn’t belong. Her body felt bruised, her shoulder burning where the bullet had seared too close. The pain was familiar, anchoring. It kept her senses sharp.
There was a distant clatter. It was too fast, too careless. It pulled the moment taut.
“Hold.” Steve ordered, holding up a closed fist, before flattening to the wall. The team followed.
Boots begun thundering against the concrete floors.
Three guards. Armed. Running.
Steve stepped forward, like a tide crashing the shore, absorbing the first volley of gunfire with the blunt force of his shield. The sound cracked like thunder in the narrow space.
Wanda lifted a hand and effortlessly ripped the rifles from all three guards, sending them crashing into the walls. Destroyed.
Clint sent three arrows launching.
Thiwp. Thwip. Thwip.
Bodies dropped, groans ricocheted off the walls.
For a breath, the silence was absolute.
Too still. Too loud.
“Clear,” Steve said, quiet but certain.
They continued deeper. Hallways spiraled like veins—Soviet paranoia in cemented concrete, the stench of damp stone and old metal soaking into their lungs.
“Eyes up,” Steve said, voice steady. “We’re close.”
A metal bulkhead door loomed ahead, scarred and reinforced—the kind meant to keep something in, or something out.
Steve raised a hand to halt. “Clint, cover left. Sam, right. Wanda—”
“I’m ready,” She whispered, red blooming between her fingers. Not frantic, not flaring, but deliberate. Controlled.
Steve stepped back, giving her room to work.
The others watched in silence, the air drawn tight around her as the lights flickered overhead, the weight of concrete pressing in.
Wanda reached towards the bulkhead panel—the metal groaned beneath her power. Sparks bloomed like fireflies across the circuitry, dancing in brief, fevered patterns as her magic threaded through rusted wires and old code.
It wasn’t force. It wasn’t infiltration. A quiet unmaking.
The lock sputtered, then hissed.
A low, reluctant groan as the mechanisms disengaged.
The room was shadowed and still, lit only by the flickering remains of dying flourescents. In the corner, slumped against the far wall, shackled at wrists and ankles, gagged, face drawn tight and battered but unmistakable—Bucky Barnes.
He looked like a ghost caught mid-hunt—as if he had been trapped in the act of forgetting how to simply be human.
Three guards flanked him, rifles jerking up.
The hallway erupted into chaos.
Arrows sliced through the first two before their fingers found the triggers.
Thwip. Thwip.
A pulse of red flared from Wanda’s hands, and the last guard was swung sideways into the wall, unconscious before he had even hit the wall.
Silence.
Ringing.
The scrape of boots over grit, over concrete.
For a moment, the air was thick with the aftermath—the silence after violence. Breathing. The faint buzz of electricity.
“Get to the riverbank” Steve ordered sharply, voice cutting through the stillness. He turned towards Sam and Clint. “Move, now.”
Sam and Clint didn’t hesitate, sprinting toward the exit, already anticipating the next steps.
Bucky’s eyes flicked between them all, wild and rimmed with a feral brightness—the kind of alertness only bred from years of violence, where mercy was always a trap and silence a trigger.
He begun to twitch, every muscle drawn taut between bruised skin, tendons like piano wire ready to snap. The chain between his wrists rattled once, then again, louder as he strained, shoulders pitching forward like he might shatter himself to strike.
Natasha moved first, slow, hands raised in a non-threat, the hush of her movement barely louder than breath.
“Bucky,” Steve started, stepping forward, voice low and steady.
Bucky groaned, a guttural sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest—not pain, not recognition, just pure, unfiltered fight. He thrashed violently against his restraints. Steel groaned under the force. A warning.
“Wait,” Wanda said, softly but certain.
Her voice cut clean through the tension, threading beneath the noise with a kind of velvet gravity. She stepped forward just a pace, her hand lifted—not yet glowing, but open, gentle.
Steve glanced at her, the hard line of his jaw working, his eyes scanning Bucky again—assessing risk, instinct warring memory.
Wanda turned to him.
“Can I try something?” she asked, quietly. Not commanding. Requesting. Seeking permission, not control.
For a heartbeat, Steve didn’t answer. The silence between them stretched, taut as a wire.
Then, a nod. Small and solemn. A soldier trusting another with something sacred.
“Be careful,” he murmured.
Wanda inclined her head, then turned her gaze to Bucky—soft and unflinching—and stepped forward, the air humming with tension.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said gently.
The room stilled—oxygen tight, thick with held breath.
Her fingers curled midair, the red bleeding from her palms in quiet spirals as she hovered her fingertips an inch away from his temple. The glow caught the edges of Bucky’s face—hollowed, bruised, rigid with the kind of tension that doesn’t come from fear, but from memory. From instinct.
Natasha watched him through the wash of scarlet light.
She knew that look. The way a body can armor itself without moving. The way past clings to muscle, to marrow. Bucky looked the way she had felt when the night was too quiet—like something old and terrible might come slithering back if she blinked.
Natasha didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She just felt , too much, all at once. He is the shape she might have taken if she had not crawled her way out through blood and ruin. She knew that hollowness—knew what it meant to be broken so completely that even freedom felt like a trick.
Wanda stepped into that grief with gentle grace.
Wanda touched only the edges of his mind. She didn’t tear through his thoughts. She didn’t dominate or demand. She offered calm the way most people offer violence—with instinct, with ease, with a suggestion of safety.
It unraveled her.
Wanda understood; not just the pain, but the shape of it. How to hold it gently, how to leave it whole.
Natasha’s breath caught, low in her throat.
She had seen Wanda’s power before—had fought beside it, bled in its orbit. But this was tenderness wielded like a weapon. Not to destroy, but to heal.
Bucky’s jaw slackened, barely. A flicker of breath. A falter in the tight coil of his body. He blinked at her as the trembling slowed.
Wanda withdrew her magic like a tide receding—leaving only calm in its wake. She hadn’t taken anything from him but simply given him enough stillness to choose.
Steve stepped forward, hands unthreatening, and pulled open the shackles. They clattered to the floor in dead weight.
Bucky didn’t speak, but he stood calmly. He didn’t fight, didn’t run.
Wanda stayed close to Bucky, her magic low and ready should he falter. Steve led, shield up, eyes scanning every corridor with precision-born discipline. Natasha covered their flank, every step measured, precise, ready to pivot at a second's notice.
The halls blurred past in a smear of shadow and steel—a twisting maze of cold war ghosts. Doors slammed open under Wanda’s flicks of magic. Alarms shrieked. Gunfire cracked in the distance.
The tunnel stretched behind them, dark and suffocating. The world outside felt like a distant echo in comparison. They emerged into the damp, cold night air with a rush.
The night air tasted cold and sharp, the earth slick beneath their boots as they broke through the dense tree line. The river was ahead, a winding, dark ribbon under the moon’s ghostly glow. Their breath came quick, but not from exertion alone—the rush of escape, the anticipation of freedom pushed them forward.
The riverbank loomed ahead, the water slapping softly against the shore, a final boundary between them and the mission’s success. The Quinjet appeared over the tree line, slicing through the dark sky like a phantom, a whisper of steel against the stars. The hum of its engines carried, steady, familiar, like a lifeline piercing through the tension.
At the edge of the river, Sam and Clint waited, their silhouettes stark against the darkness. Sam’s eyes flicked to them as they approached, his expression a contrast of relief and urgency.
“Ready to move?” Steve’s voice was a low command, but his eyes were fixed on the Quinjet, its descent already in motion.
Clint gave a sharp nod, his bow still hanging loose at his side. “It’s been clear for a while. Sam’s been holding the bird steady for us.”
The Quinjet adjusted its path, banking lower, gliding toward them with perfect precision. The air around them began to stir, its engines a deep, rhythmic pulse. Sam’s fingers danced over the control tablet, a seamless extension of himself as he guided it toward the clearing.
As the craft leveled, the ramp began to lower. Clint was the first to step on, but stood at the entrance, assuring every last person boarded safely. Wanda followed, guiding Bucky, and Natasha followed close behind. Steve and Sam brought up the rear, taking one last sweep of the expanse.
“Everyone accounted for? Sam called out, the sound of the engine rising as the Quinjet began to ascend.
“Affirmative.” Steve replied, voice laced with relief.
The Quinjet shot into the air, its engines a low, steady hum beneath them. The earth below shrank into nothingness, the riverbank and trees dissolving into the dark. Natasha felt the world shift as the weight of the mission, the danger, the hours of tension lifted. A silence encapsulated the cabin, but it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t oppressive. Just a quiet that felt earned.
Chapter 10
Notes:
Hi friends. Sorry this update took a little longer than the last few. I live in England, and we’ve had a surprisingly great summer. Any fellow Brits here will understand how rare of an occurrence this is in comparison to the permanent grey, wet filter we live in. So, I’ve been trying to enjoy time outside as much as I can!
I had so much fun writing this chapter.
Chapter Text
The corridors hummed with a sterile brightness, fluorescent light buzzing in its cage above her. It pressed against Natasha’s skull, too sharp, too white, a static halo that made her want to flinch. She kept her eyes forward, jaw tight, boots dragging a dull echo from the polished floor.
Her shoulder ached in time with her steps – a pulse that tugged at the edges of her patience. The bullet had only grazed her, but the sting of it lingered, threaded with sweat beneath the torn fabric of her suit. It wasn’t the kind of wound that felled her, only the kind that gnawed, the kind that whispered of frailty when she most wanted silence.
She had stayed with Steve once they returned to the compound – after the Quinjet hissed open and the weight of the mission settled over them like dust after a desert storm. Bucky had been sedated during their flight home, and ushered to a secure room within the compound, under 24-hour surveillance. There wasn’t much to be done: debriefing notes, weapon checks, inventory reports – the kind of bureaucratic tidying-up they had both grown to loathe, but she lingered anyway.
She helped Steve sort through it all despite knowing he could manage alone, but she also knew him well enough to recognize the silence hanging off his shoulders like grief, despite their success. He wouldn’t ask for comfort – not explicitly through words, not even in glances. But he had faltered for a millisecond too long when unfastening his shield, and Natasha knew.
He wouldn’t want to speak yet, but he would appreciate the quiet, comforting solace of someone who could relate. So, she stayed, quietly, steadily – she folded herself up and laid down her presence beside his like an armor.
When they were done, he walked her to the medical bay, stopping at the entrance. His blue eyes found her, his expression open and quiet in the dim light – an unwavering steadiness she has come to know, even in his own apparent unsteadiness. A relieved smile formed faintly at his lips as his hands find her forearms and squeeze. They stand like that for a moment – two ghosts in their own right, carrying the weight of old wars, old lives. Two lives intertwined through one ghost, one man. He tipped his head to her in that characteristic chivalrous charm before walking away.
The thought of lying beneath clinical lights, beneath cold instruments and colder, unfamiliar hands made her stomach knot. White sheets, antiseptic smiles, strangers with latex gloves – it all felt too much. Too exposed. Too foreign. Too harsh.
She pressed a hand to her shoulder, fingertips sinking into torn fabric, coming away dry. The blood had clotted hours ago – still warm near the wound but cooling at the edges. The adrenaline which powered her movements had now abandoned her in slow, merciless waves, her exhaustion undulating with every beat of her heart, bone-deep and blooming.
The walk to her room felt too long. The walls leaned in with clinical indifference, and the lights above so cruel in their clarity – each flare like a needle through her skull. Her vision tightened, sharpened, as though her senses overcompensated. She felt everything . The slow chill creeping up her spine as her temperature dropped with the adrenaline. The soft squelch of sweat-soaked fabric. The weight of her limbs beginning to drag, every step a negotiation between pride and surrender.
She didn’t waver, not yet. Although she swam at the edge of it – circling her like a slow current, waiting for her to slip. She continued forward, shoulders squared, jaw clenched, needing to make it to the one place where she might allow herself to breathe.
The door to her room clicked shut behind her, breath leaving her in a slow, silent exhale. The air is warm, soothing, and steeped in lavender and vanilla, holding her like a memory – like skin warmed by candlelight.
Natasha blinked, the sudden softness of the room a little disorienting after the chaos of a snowcapped battlefield. Shadows settled gently across her vision before her eyes focused on Wanda.
She sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, framed in the golden hum of lamplight. A quiet constellation of shadow danced across her cheekbones, reverent and still. She held two mismatched mugs – one between her hands, the other waiting on the table beside her.
She didn’t speak at first, just looked up when the door clicked closed, her eyes already searching. Her gaze was so intimately patient , it made Natasha’s entire body soften. A small, knowing smile curved at her mouth, a smile painted only for Natasha.
The scent of chamomile touched her next, unfurling in the warm air like an offering. Of safety. Of stillness.
She felt Wanda’s presence like the slow rise of breath after being held underwater and lets herself breathe.
Her tactical vest slipped from her shoulder with a low, broken exhale. Pain seared through her – sharp, and deep.
She doesn’t see how Wanda’s eyes flare, doesn’t see her hand clench around the mug, but she feels it – the shift in the air, the heat of attention narrowing. Wanda hasn’t spoken yet, but it radiates from her – a quiet, fiercely held tenderness. A tenderness that reaches Natasha before touch, before speech.
Wanda’s eyes catch the dried blood before she notices anything else.
It stained the fabric at Natasha’s shoulder, blooming rust against matte charcoal. Wanda sees it all in one breath, and in the next, she’s moving.
“You’re hurt.” Wanda’s voice is soft but steady, her hand resting lightly on the bicep of Natasha’s uninjured arm, her eyes surveying the damage.
“I’m fine,” Natasha offers gently, tucking stray damp strands of her own hair behind her ears, grounding herself.
Wanda’s eyes track the dark line on her shoulder, the torn suit, the rusted blood crusting the frayed edges. “You were bleeding.” Her eyes meet Natasha’s, worry pressing in despite her calm tone. “You were shot.”
Natasha chances levity, as a small smile paints her full lips, masking her fatigue. “I was shot at,” She responds lightly, careful in her choice of words. “It’s... not serious.”
“Natasha.” Her voice holds no reprimand, just a quiet insistence, like a hand closing around her own.
“I know,” Natasha acquiesces, her voice softening further wanting to quell Wanda’s concern. “But you don’t need to worry.” She inclines her head slightly, a silent acknowledgement.
Wanda purses her lips, her eyes scanning Natasha’s features before she begins steering her toward the bathroom. Her touch is firm, but not forceful – a tether more than command.
“Shower first,” Wanda says quietly, her voice low, almost too tender for the space. “Then I’ll help with your shoulder.”
Natasha doesn’t answer, just nods, the movement slow and heavy. Still catching up to herself in the midst of her exhaustion – her own body delayed behind the pull of Wanda’s gentle voice.
Wanda stops them just outside the bathroom door.
Her hand rises before she can think, drawn by instinctive care. Fingers brush the zipper at Natasha’s collar; she eases it down only a few inches before her knuckles graze below the soft skin of her collarbone, her thumb pressing warm and tender into the hollow at the base of her throat.
Natasha’s breath catches at the warmth of contact.
Wanda freezes and meets Natasha’s gaze. The air sharpens, suspended like a silk thread stretched taut between them. Wanda’s fingers hover, as she blinks slow, her knuckles warm against Natasha’s collarbone.
“Sorry,” she whispers, her cheeks flushed. “Is it... okay if I...?” Her voice trembles, faltering at the end.
Natasha doesn’t answer right away. In that pause, she feels the weight behind the question – the unspoken care, the invitation, the permission Wanda is seeing. Is it okay if take care of you? If I see you? If I let myself... Each unvoiced thought threads through the space between them, soft, deliberate, urgent.
The instinct to deflect rises – a joke, a shrug, a shield – anything to break the moment, but she resists. Because something in Wanda’s gaze holds her, disarms her. A tenderness Natasha has never been offered without demand, without expectation. Reverence.
The weight of it settles over her skin like warm summer rain.
She nods, slow and deliberate. Consent quiet but complete. The surrender of a soldier lowering her weapon.
Wanda exhales, and her fingers move again with care, pulling the zipper lower, pausing as though afraid to overstep. The warmth of her knuckle's brushes over Natasha’s skin, tracing the curve of her sternum, lingering over the gentle dip beneath her ribs. Each pass hovers just above, sending a ripple through Natasha – a flicker along nerves that sense the touch without fully meeting it. She exhales softly, leaning back fractionally, letting the fabric parting and Wanda’s careful hands define the space between them.
In this quiet, fragile moment, Natasha wants to be seen .
She wants to be known .
Wants, with aching clarity, Wanda .
Natasha lets her peel away her suit, layer by layer, and lets herself be seen.
Wanda eases the suit from one shoulder, and then the other, fabric slipping down to gather at her waist. Cool air kisses where her warmth had been, and Natasha almost leans forward to follow. The worship in Wanda’s movements makes her skin feel new, seen for the first time.
Wanda kneels as she graciously works the suit lower, hands steady, fingertips brushing almost-there paths over her skin. Every motion is careful, measured, deliberate – like a ritual of unveiling.
Worship.
Natasha feels offered to. Without demand. Without expectation.
When the suit pools at her feet, she steps out, standing in her base layer, sweat-slick and shadowed with blood. Wanda pauses and reaches forward tentatively, the pad of her thumb presses against the faint outline of a bruise at Natasha’s outer thigh, tracing its shape across the slope of her muscle, her fingertips resting at her knee. She then rises slowly, her gaze travelling over Natasha with a softness that sees everything – bruises, scars, history.
Then Wanda slowly reaches out again, her fingertips now tracing the silvered arc of an old scar at the inside of Natasha’s bicep. She studies them, honors them, as though she is reading the contours of Natasha like a text that deserves to be venerated.
Natasha’s breath trembles under the careful devotion of Wanda’s touch.
Wanda meets her gaze and studies her for a moment, gives Natasha the option to resume her usual control, and when she doesn't, she turns her attention unto the torn skin at her shoulder. Her thumb pressed there lightly, warm against the angry edge of the bullet graze, and for a moment she simply holds it, as if her hand alone could steady the ache.
Slowly, carefully, Wanda leans in closer. The warm brush of breath fanned Natasha’s skin first, soft and human, before her lips pressed against the unmarred skin just beside the wound. The kiss wasn’t hesitant nor hungry – it was devout. As if she were sealing a promise against her skin.
Natasha stilled, her eyes fluttering closed. A lifetime of training urged her to flinch, to step away, to reinforce her shields against something so disarming, something so real. Yet she remained present, her chest fluttering with unfiltered intimacy, allowing herself to feel the depth of each touch.
She had been undressed by hungry hands, cruel hands, by her own hands when necessity demanded. But never hands that wanted only to know her, and to see her, and to honor all that she had been. All that she is. Wanda’s lips against her shoulder felt like a benediction, and Natasha, who had never believed herself worthy of prayer, found herself quietly undone.
Wanda meets her gaze, her eyes soft and features equally undone. “I’ll find you clean clothes.” Wanda offers, her voice quiet and awed in the moment.
Natasha nodded in gratitude before stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind her. It shuts with a muted click, echoing faintly in the quiet of night. The silence in the bathroom is fragile, save for the faint hum of the vent and the whisper of pipes waiting to be called to life.
She peeled away her base layer, the damp fabric dragging in refusal like a second skin, reluctant to release her. Every stretch of the elastic over her bruised skin is a small sting – a reminder written in violet and rust. Her shoulder protests sharply when she raises her arm, and she exhales, steady, controlled, cataloguing the pain.
Once her tainted clothes were placed in the basket, she stepped beneath the showerhead and twisted the handle, relief flooding her as warmth filled the air. Steam bloomed immediately, softening the harsh edges of tile and mirror, cloaking her into something less defined, less sharp. She stepped into it without second thought, and the water enwrapped her like a veil of solitude.
The heat bit first, searing her skin before it settled into something closer to mercy. It rushed over her head, carving rivulets down her temples, her spine, between her shoulder blades where tension knotted like iron, a wrought path up the fine muscles in her neck.
She closed her eyes and memories flickered in fragments: the metallic snap of gunfire, the anguish in Bucky's eyes, the faint quiver of his mind as Wanda spoke to him, impossibly gentle – threading through the chaos like carefully sewn silk.
Her throat tightened. Water dripped from her lashes. She moved through the motions – gel, lather, rinse; shampoo, lather, rinse – her body mechanical. The soapy spray struck her marred shoulder, and she thought of warm lips pressed there moments ago. For an instant the water was not water at all – it was Wanda’s fingers, tracing bruises with a tenderness, mapping scars with a reverence she hadn’t thought possible.
She pressed her palms to her eyes, her mind now tethered to that touch. The sting at her shoulder as the soap bit raw flesh only deepened the impression: pain met with tenderness, not discipline.
She breathed, slow and deliberate, letting her body sway beneath the spray. Each inhale burned warm against her ribs, each exhale left her lighter. She allowed herself to imagine that silken thread draped across her body, softening the sharp edges of her mind.
And in the hush of the shower, with water streaming down her bruised body, Natasha let that thought linger.
She didn’t chase it away.
Her hand hovered at the handle before twisting it sharply cold. The warmth vanished instantly, replaced by a biting cascade which stole her breath. It was discipline – an old ritual pressed into her by the Red Room – a reminder that she owned her body, her nerves, her mind. Endurance. Control.
Only when her breathing became languid and the cold turned into numbing warmth did she shut off the water, her body heat blooming fiercely against the chill air of the bathroom.
She found a pile of neatly folded clothes atop the closed lid of the basket; a black cotton t-shirt, and navy sleep pants. Natasha pressed the towel over her face, then wrapped it slowly around her body before reaching for the shirt. The cotton is cool against her warm skin and smells faintly of lavender, vanilla. Even her own clothes smell faintly of Wanda now.
By the time she stepped into the bedroom, the air felt warmer, softer. The lamplight is more glow than flame, stretching long shadows across the room. Wanda is sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, the first-aid kit open beside her, gauze and antiseptic already laid out like instruments of a quiet ritual.
Her eyes lift at the sound of the bathroom door closing behind Natasha. That same patient, steady gaze finds her again, searching without pressing. An unspoken question lingers there, gentle but certain.
“Sit,” Wanda says softly, patting the space beside her.
Natasha takes her place beside her on the bed, crossing her legs in a similar fashion, the springs dip as her weight settles.
But then Wanda reaches slow and deliberate, fingers brushing the fabric near her shoulder, and Natasha feels it again. That silken stitch of tenderness, the thread weaving steady through the torn edges of her life.
Wanda’s hands hover for a heartbeat before she carefully lifts the fabric of her shirt sleeve to bunch over her shoulder, exposing the bullet graze. The skin around it is bruised and still warm, a muted bloom of violet and rust. She doesn’t rush as her fingers trace the edge lightly, a quiet mapping.
“This might sting” Wanda murmurs, voice soft, almost a whisper of reassurance more for Natasha than for herself.
Natasha nods, watching Wanda’s brow furrow in concentration. The way her steady hands pour antiseptic onto sterile gauze. The scent sluices through her senses. The moistened pad is pressed gently against the wound, dabbing in slow, careful motions, searing in its wake, her jaw clenched.
Wanda then retrieves tiny butterfly stitches from the kit. With careful, deliberate movements, she places them over the wound, each one crossing and adhering softly, like carefully sewn silk. Her fingers linger over the skin briefly with each application, smoothing the tension without pressure, letting Natasha feel the tender care stitched literally into her flesh.
“Stop moving.” Wanda gently scolds, meeting her gaze.
“I’m not moving.” Natasha defends, raising a brow in question.
Wanda pushes gently at the tops of Natasha’s shoulder in a downward motion. “You’re lifting your shoulders and its pulling at the stitches.”
“I carry tension there. Occupational hazard.” She muses, pulling a small smile from Wanda at her nonchalant humor.
Natasha exhales, low and steady, letting her shoulders fall just a fraction. When the last butterfly stitch is set, Wanda covers the wound with a small gauze pad, pressing lightly to secure it.
“You are impossible.” Wanda says, voice low, almost a murmur against the quiet of the room.
Natasha raises a brow, lips twitching into a casual pout. “What did I do now?”
Wanda doesn’t meet her gaze as she busies herself with tidying up the used clinical supplies. “You’re only human.” Her words carry an edge – a careful tether between care and quiet fear.
“Last time I checked...” Natasha says lightly, but she senses it: the tension in Wanda’s fingers as she fusses over the gauze wrappers, the pause before she speaks, the slight tightening around her eyes.
Wanda meets Natasha’s gaze, her hands busy with folding gauze wrappers again, and again, and again. “You were shot, Natasha.” She steadies herself with a quiet breath.
“I know, and I’m okay.” She reaches out to clasp Wanda’s hands in her own, the wrappers crumple between their palms. “It’s okay.” She reads the subtle tremor in Wanda’s voice, the shadow of something she refuses to name – grief, memory, fear, and her own chest tightens with the unspoken knowledge of whom Wanda did lose to a similar scenario.
“Occupational hazard.” Wanda murmurs, repeating Natasha’s earlier comment, but her voice lacks conviction.
Natasha laughs a little, small and breathless. “Yeah. But that doesn’t mean you ever get used to it.” A pause, her voice an octave lower, “And it doesn’t mean I want you to.”
Wanda nods wordlessly, her eyes never leaving Natasha’s.
“You did really well out there today.” Natasha offers gently, keeping Wanda’s hands clasped in hers.
Wanda’s shoulders soften tentatively at the praise, her mouth tilting into a small smile. “I have a great mentor.”
Natasha shakes her head once, her lips twitching into a smile. “That was all you, Wands.” Her thumbs begin tracing patterns against the delicate skin at the back of Wanda’s hands, grounding her. “Empathy isn’t a skill you’re taught. It’s instinct. You either have it, or you don’t.”
“You’re not impossible” Wanda almost whispers, her accent thickening in the hush of her voice. “It’s just impossible to not worry about you.”
For a short moment Natasha isn’t sure how to respond. Her throat constricts at the honesty, the rawness of it. “It’s impossible not to worry about you, too.”
Wanda’s gaze travels to the stitched wound at Natasha’s shoulder, now delicately bandaged by her care, then back to her face, her eyes tender. “I don’t want to lose you.” She admits, her voice soft, but calmer than before.
Natasha inhales a grounding breath, squeezing Wanda’s hands, her thumb pausing in its movement. “Then don’t let go.”
Wanda slips a hand free to tenderly cup Natasha’s face, her fingers weave into the fine hairs at her nape. Natasha lets herself be held, feels the warmth of gentle touch bloom against her skin as she leans into it just a fraction.
The hush between them deepens, steady as breath. With the slow gravity of inevitability Wanda leans in and presses her lips to Natasha’s with aching gentleness, a careful press that lingers, soft and unhurried. Natasha parts her lips just slightly, enough to welcome Wanda closer, enough to taste the chamomile tea on her breath as it brushes with her own. The kiss tenderly deepens, gentle and searching, like a truth spoken in a language only the two of them know.
Wanda’s thumb strokes Natasha’s cheekbone, coaxing her deeper into the moment. Every brush of their mouths feels deliberate, reverent, a kind of intimacy neither of them had ever known.
Their mouths part just slightly, lips sliding and brushing again, lingering in the pause between inhalation and exhalation. Wanda’s lips glide along Natasha’s cheek, a dewy ghost of warmth, the faintest press of her lips there, before she rests her forehead against her temple.
Wanda’s voice comes in a whisper against the shell of her ear, “I won’t let go.”
Natasha’s eyes flutter closed again at the faint press of Wanda’s lips against her skin which lingers longer than the kiss itself. Her breath falters with the weight of it, her mind at a loss for words. Instead, her hand slides up the curve of Wanda’s neck, fingertips threading into the soft hairs at the nape. With a subtle tilt, she guides Wanda back toward her and presses her own kiss to the crown of Wanda’s head, soft and deliberate, brushing her lips along the delicate sweep of her hairline. Wanda exhales at the contact.
The gesture steadies her. She holds Wanda there for a moment, lips resting against her skin, and breathes her in, hoping to wordlessly convey the quiet vow she is unable to voice:
You’re safe with me, too.
I won’t let go of you, either.
As Natasha slowly pulls away, Wanda leans into her, chasing the warmth of her body, and rests her temple against Natasha’s. Natasha keeps her close, hand still cupping her neck, her thumb now brushing lightly below her ear, feeling each small, shivering response that whispers trust. She notices the pulse there, beneath her thumb, steady and alive – a quiet metronome that syncs with her own heartbeat.
“Can you slow down?!” Clint calls out, his voice a muffled echo against the crunching snow beneath their feet and the bitter wind lapping at their cheeks. Natasha barely registers the strain in his voice.
Winter has cast the compound grounds in a sharp white veil, the icy air bites at their skin, prickling away at their warmth. Each breath forms a fleeting cloud that vanishes almost as soon as it leaves her lungs – like moments of stillness she can never quite hold onto.
Her shoulders still ache slightly under the memory of their rescue mission. A dull pulse lingers where the bullet grazed her. But the chill presses her posture upright, refusing her rest. The ache is a familiar grounding, easier to hold onto.
“Can you keep up?” Natasha calls back, tilting her head a fraction to check on Clint now flagging behind her on their run. His movements are stiff, muscles tight from post-mission exhaustion.
“I’m injured!” He responds, albeit a little breathlessly.
Natasha slows her movements until she is beside Clint, their pacing now equally matched. “So am I,” she says, though the words taste heavier than the scrape on her skin.
“Yeah, your shoulder.” Clint deadpans, lowering his voice to a respectable volume with their closer distance.
Natasha simply shrugs and focuses on flicking her toes with each backward kick, hearing the snow scatter into tiny blizzards in her wake.
“Why are you running so fast anyway? You should be takin’ it easy.” He questions, chancing a tentative look at Natasha, his tone now neutral thanks to their conversational speed.
She smirks, keeping her eyes focused forward, sensing the shift in his tone and body language. “This is me taking it easy.” Her gaze hooks on a branch rattling in the wind, as if holding fast could steady her own rattling thoughts.
“You’re not runnin' just to run.” Clint keeps his eyes forward, offering her the control to decide how much to let him in.
Natasha’s breath catches, vapor suspended in the cold before dissolving as if stolen from her. “I’m trying to.” Her stride falters, muscles pulling tight, as though the ground itself resists her attempting to keep moving.
Clint lets the silence stretch, letting the wind carry it between them and away. When he finally speaks, its softer, almost a murmur over the snows crunch. “You’ve been carrying a lot lately. It doesn’t just roll off, Nat.”
She doesn’t look at him. The ache in her shoulder is distant compared to the weight of their conversation. “I know. I just...” Her words taper off, engulfed by the bitter air.
“Just?” Clint prompts, ever steady yet patient. He doesn’t reach, doesn’t pry – he simply opens a space for her to speak. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
Natasha pulls her gloves tighter around her hands, the icy bite of the wind nipping at her wrists. A faint warmth lingers in her memory – Wanda's hands, steady against her shoulder, a gentle pressure which had unraveled her with the grace of leaves drifting in autumn.
Her body now aches to slow, boots crunching a rhythm in the frost. She wants to tell him – to unpack the memories of the Winter Soldier breaking her until she was unbreakable. To speak of how Wanda reached him with such gentleness so precise it shattered her entirely.
Instead, she grounds herself in the sound of Clint’s voice, the warmth of his body beside her as it reaches through the wind and holds her steady, the familiarity of the snow-laden trees, and the sharp winter wind that stings at her cheeks.
“I never thought I would see him again.” She whispers, almost to herself.
“I know,” Clint replies, voice low. His response is simple, allowing her space to end the conversation here or let him in a little further.
“The truth is a matter of circumstances. It's not all things to all people all the time. And neither am I. Maybe neither is he.” Her words are a mere mumble over the snows crunch and wind’s bite.
Clint takes a moment to absorb her words, carefully thinking through his own. “You think he’s changed?”
Natasha tilts her head a fraction in a shrug, lifting her hands. “Steve knows Bucky Barnes. I don’t.” A pause. “Two people. Same man. I have more experience with that than most people.”
She thinks of the many aliases she has assumed in her life, and all that she did within those personas: Natalia Alianova Romanova, Natalie Rushman, Chernaya Vdova, Natasha Romanoff...
“You’re not those people anymore.” Clint firmly states, having first-hand experience of the guilt Natasha carries from her former lives.
“I know I’m not,” Natasha agrees, a solemn smile paints her lips. “Maybe he’s not that person anymore either.”
Clint nods along as he maintains their leisurely pace, snow spattering up with each strike of his shoes, white flecks clinging to his pants like ash. “You want to find out? Forget Steve for a sec – think about you. Do you want to know for yourself?
Natasha takes a moment, allows herself a slow breath and is present with the way it burns her sinuses and glazes her lungs in a frosty residue. Without breaking stride, she looks over at him and nods once for herself, and another for him. Affirmative.
“Good,” Clint says after a moment, taking her nonverbal response as a cue that their conversation has now come to an end. “Now quit slackin', we have two more laps to do.”. He quickens his pace abruptly, sending snow into her pathway haphazardly.
Natasha’s lips twist into a quiet smile, the frost at her cheeks softening in the warmth of familiarity, and for a moment the weight in her shoulder's eases.
Natasha sat cross-legged on the library floor, a tablet balanced on her knees, pages of decrypted HYDRA files spread around her like fallen leaves. Each document was a thread into the labyrinth of Bucky’s past – conditioning sequences, memory suppression logs, trauma triggers coded in clinical language that failed to capture the human cost.
She traced the lines of operational reports with her thumb, trying to imagine Bucky Barnes in each entry, the Winter Soldier executing orders whilst the boy Steve once knew slept somewhere deep beneath.
Her jaw tightened at the meticulous cruelty of it all: chemical subjugation, psychological manipulation, repetitions, triggers, debriefs, erased identities, replaced memories. Every file she read was a measure of control forced upon him.
Her eyes absentmindedly scanned over text before letting her eyes drift over the scattered paper. Each one a testament to what she once was, or what she could have become.
The thought pressed against her ribs: someone else, another girl born into the shadows could be sitting here now, crossed-legged in the plush library of the Avengers compound, sifting through dossiers on Natalia Romanova. Learning the methods of The Black Widow rather than the escape of a life reclaimed. Her fingers flexed against the edge of the tablet. Clint had shown her a way out, a crack of light in the machinery of her own making, and without his impossibly patient guidance she might still be buried in the archives of the Red Room; studying herself as if she were merely a file to be exploited.
Never quite human. Never quite free.
The faint hum and distant clatter of the compound did nothing to ease the tension coiling through her shoulders. She inhaled slowly, forcing herself to focus on patterns, on the logic of undoing the programming, on the faintest whisper of who he might still be beneath the Winter Soldier.
The door clicked softly in its wake, a faint metallic echo in the quiet of the library. Tony stepped in, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Romanoff,” he greeted, the usual tilt of casual arrogance undercut by a flicker of something warmer.
Natasha looked up from the tablet, her eyes narrowing slightly before she let them soften. “Stark.” Her voice rasped from hours of solitude and quiet focus.
He sinks onto the long sofa to her right, exhaling with exaggerated weariness as the cushions sigh beneath him. “All work and no play, I see,” he mutters, tugging off his glasses and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.
She shrugs without looking up, swiping through the tablet. “Define ‘play’.”
He hurls his folded glasses at her with precise speed – a sharp thwip through the air. Reflexively, she catches them between the tip of her first two fingers and thumb, just shy of her face, brow lifting in amusement as her eyes flicker up to meet his.
“You know, if you wanted to play, Tony, all you had to do is ask.”
He raises a brow of his own, lips pouting slightly. “I don’t play well with others.”
“So I’ve heard.” She mumbles with a smirk, unfolding the glasses and perching them atop her head.
Tony opens his mouth, gestures as if about to debate her point, then closes it with a faint sigh.
Natasha tilts her head, eyes glinting with that sharp, calculating mock triumph. “What do you need from me?”
He leans in, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of her tablet, curiosity practically vibrating off him. “I wanted your take on this,” he says, nodding toward the screen, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a mix of respect and impatience. “His brainwashing is... tricker than I expected.”
Natasha quirks a brow. “Trickier than you thought, or trickier than you can fix?”
Tony shrugs, hands spreading in exaggerated helplessness. “Touche.”
Natasha leans back slightly, placing the tablet onto the ground atop the files. “So, trickier how? You’ve run simulations, cross-checked files, deployed every shiny toy in your lab?”
Tony abruptly stands, and then flops onto the arm of the sofa, one leg dangling. “Check, check, and check.” He reaches for his glasses atop his head, frowning at Natasha as he notices where they’re placed. “But, as a great scientist once said, ‘If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants .’”
Barely pausing, he adds, “Sir Is—”
“Isaac Newton, I know.” Natasha interrupts, deadpan, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Are you saying you can’t do this alone?”
Tony nods as he taps his temple with mock solemnity. “Two brains are better than one. Most of the time. I’ll make an exception for this one. It’s pretty... big .”
“So, are you calling in a favor?” She asks, redirecting him with a measured calm that somehow makes her words land heavier than his usual flurry.
“Exactly,” Tony says, feigning relief that Natasha is finally following. “A favor from a guy who’s... well, let’s just say, he’s good with minds that get scrambled in ways I can’t exactly un-scramble.”
Natasha tilts her head, eyes narrowing just slightly in mischief. “Call a meeting.”
“A meeting?” He echoes, incredulous, tilting his head as if the concept itself is a threat to his universe.
“With Steve, with everyone else,” she continues, her tone clipped but deliberate. “This is a team discussion.” She lets the corner of her mouth twitch in amusement at his predictable hesitation.
Tony exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes rolling upward. “Do I have to?”
Natasha leans back slightly, letting the silence stretch just long enough for her quiet authority to sink in. “Yes.” she says, calm, unyielding.
Tony groans, but the humor sneaks back into his voice. “Fine. Fine. But on my terms.”
The common room was quiet except for the low murmur of a long-forgotten film left running on the TV. A glow from the screen mingled with the warm lamplight, softening the edges of the room. Wanda lay curled along the sofa, propped against the armrest with a pillow tucked under her ribs. Her book balanced loosely in one hand.
On the floor, Natasha sat with her back against the sofa, tablet angled toward her knees. One hand scrolled through reports, the other pressed into the taut muscle at the base of her neck. She rolled her head once, twice, trying to work out the stubborn knots. A sharp breath slipped through her nose when the relief didn’t come. Her jaw tightened. She switched sides, fingers digging into her opposite shoulder.
The tablet felt heavier with every page of the report. She shifted her grip, the muscles at the base of her neck pinching as if in protest. She pressed her thumb hard into the knot lodged there, rolling her shoulders again in a vain attempt to coax them loose. The ache had been simmering since her morning run with Clint, and now it gnawed at her, dull and unyielding.
Wanda’s eyes flicked over the top of her page, watching the subtle rhythm – scroll, press, roll, breathe. Over and over. The stubbornness of it almost made her smile. She folded in the corner of the page she was reading.
Another sharp intake of breath, another shift of muscle under skin. Wanda closed her book and reached out, her hand resting lightly on Natasha’s shoulder. Just enough to still her frustrated movements.
“Do you want some help?” Wanda questioned softly, careful, almost hesitant.
“No,” Natasha said, eyes still fixed on the tablet. “It’s just reports. I’m nearly done.”
Wanda’s thumb brushed, slow and deliberate, over the fabric of Natasha’s shirt. Her palm squeezed tentatively at the rigidness of her trapezius. “Is this helping?” She asked quietly, her voice careful.
Natasha expelled a breath at the touch. Her head gave the smallest nod, the motion sharp with reluctance. She didn’t trust her voice – not with the way her body betrayed her, aching toward that touch before her mind could tighten control.
Weight shifted behind her as Wanda drew herself upright, her legs sliding to either side of Natasha’s arms. The sofa dipped, enfolding them closer. Natasha was bracketed within Wanda’s presence – a warm enclosure, unhurried and inevitable.
Heat bled through the cotton of her shirt as Wanda’s hands settled at the curve of her shoulders, thumbs finding the ridges of tension. The first press of Wanda’s thumbs at the base of her neck sent something loosening through her chest – a surrender disguised as breath.
Each knead, each press, drew her deeper into the unfamiliar rhythm of release – her body answering before her mind could intervene. The sweep of palms, firm and sure, carried heat that sank into muscle and bone, memory and missions, until Natasha could no longer tell where the ache ended and the solace began.
Wanda’s movements ignited a weightless feeling at the press of her thumbs, and Natasha found herself angling backward into it, chasing more.
“More pressure... yes, there.” Her voice came out lower than she intended, roughened by something that wasn’t quite control. Surprised at how unguarded her own voice sounded.
Wanda’s thumbs pressed in deeper, steady, coaxing a sigh from Natasha’s parted lips.
“Slower,” Natasha murmured, the word a command softened by breath.
“Like this?” Wanda’s voice was quiet, lilting with patience, as she slowed her movements. Though Natasha could hear the undercurrent – a thread of something warmer, curious, almost playful.
A little breathless, Natasha murmured, “Yes.”
The word shivered between them, not just agreement but surrender, and Natasha tipped her head forward, baring the pale column of her neck. The stray wisps of her hair brushed Wanda’s knuckles when she moved higher, ghosting along the line of tendon and bone.
Natasha wasn’t sure when the tablet had grown heavy in her hands, her grip loosening until it slipped into stillness on her lap. She only knew the shift of Wanda’s palms – warm, steady, coaxing knots from muscle that had forgotten how to soften. She let her head fall forward a little more, allowing Wanda more access, more presence. She was exposed, vulnerable, and the warmth of Wanda’s breath fanned the delicate skin of her neck, feather-light. It pulled a harmonizing breath from her, disorienting, dizzying.
Her fingers twitched against the tablet, unconsciously grasping at nothing, grounding herself whilst letting the touch reverberate. Her chest rose and fell in unsteady harmony with Wanda’s own breathing, a silent symphony that threaded through the room. Every press, every glide of skin against fabric devoted them both to the quiet sanctity of this moment.
“Can you push your thumbs—” Natasha started, but Wanda was already there. Her hands shifted, sure and unhurried, finding the curve of Natasha’s shoulder blades, pressing into the tight band of muscle as though she had been tracing the map of Natasha’s body for years.
Natasha’s breath fractured, catching halfway out. She hadn’t expected to be read so easily, hadn’t expected the anticipation of being known. Her skin prickled with heat, from the intimacy of being seen without asking.
The room felt smaller, air denser, every sound outside of their moment had been muted. She could hear the catch of Wanda’s breath as clearly as her own, fluttering against her neck, stirring the faint hairs there. The brush of fabric as Wanda shifted her weight echoed gently. The subtle indent of thigh’s bracketing her shoulders, emanating heat. The rhythm of a pulse – not hers, not Wanda’s, but something they shared for that moment – a steady thrum which blurred the edges of her control.
Did it blur the edges of Wanda’s control, too?
Natasha let her hands fall open on her thighs, palms bare, unguarded. The tablet slid off her thigh and landed on the carpet with a muted thud . Her body leaned back a fraction, disappointed when she felt the cool edge of the sofa graze her shoulder blades.
Wanda’s thumbs drifted higher now, slow and deliberate, dragging the heat of her touch up along the tight ridges of muscle. She paused at Natasha’s traps, kneading gently, then let her thumbs press inward – firm, certain – into the tense slope that carried years of weight.
Natasha’s breath stuttered, sharp on the inhale, long on the exhale. Her lips parted soundlessly, head bowing forward as though her body had surrendered the last measure of tension without her permission.
Wanda moved again, climbing higher, her thumbs sliding up to press into the tender pressure points at the base of Natasha’s neck. The pads of her fingers curled forward, balancing along the edges of her jawline, cradling her face without ever demanding it.
Natasha’s lashes fluttered. A small, unguarded sound slipped from her throat, soft as a hum. Her body slackened beneath Wanda’s thumbs, her pulse heavy and unsteady in her veins.
“Any other requests?” Wanda whispered, laced with the same thread of gentle playfulness, as though she knew the power she held in her hands.
Natasha’s head tipped back just enough that her temple brushed against Wanda’s fingers. “Stay there,” she murmured, the words slurring slightly with release, her control almost abandoned to the precise weight of Wanda’s touch.
Wanda held her thumbs steady, firm circles pressing into the tender pressure points at the base of Natasha’s head. Her touch was a caress upon skin that had only known pain. Her touch was water over stone – soft and patient – wearing down the walls that violence had forged.
The shift was subtle – thumbs giving way to fingertips, fingertips giving way to nails that combed slow paths through the dense weave of Natasha’s hair. Her scalp prickled beneath the touch, each stroke tugging at nerves she didn’t know were wired so close to the surface. Wanda traced circles along her crown, dragging lightly with the tips of her nails, a languid rhythm that sent currents down Natasha’s spine and bathed her in sensation.
Her skin hummed with it, the sensation blooming outward, spilling past the confines of muscle until it was everywhere at once. Her head tipped back before she realized it, surrendering weight into Wanda’s hands. Every pass through her hair unstitched another seam, every languid scratch at her scalp loosened something that had been bound too tightly, too long.
It was too much and not enough, a sensory flood that was both unbearable and impossible to pull away from. Natasha felt unmade beneath it, suspended between tension and release, teetering in a space that left her raw.
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