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“Agent Romanov, I have been alerted that your heart rate has spiked to 200 BPM, exceeding what is considered by the medical staff to be your maximum heart rate while training. Would you like me to deactivate the treadmill for you?”
Natasha wiped her forehead, stringy red hairs sticking to the back of her hand briefly as she forced out a strained response between gulps of air.
“No.”
Friday was right, of course, her heart was hammering in her chest-- so quickly in fact that it felt like the organ might burst out of her skin any second and flop around the floor of the training center. But the AI pointing it out to her really wasn’t very helpful, especially not when she had no intention of stopping. Sure, her calves were burning, her feet ached as they slapped against the belt, and she was pretty sure she could feel a stress migraine beginning to form behind the sweaty space between her eyes. But on sleepless nights training by herself sure beat lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, memories lingering in the dark recesses of her room and prying at her mind.
Besides, Wanda had fallen asleep in Nat’s room last night after a movie (50 First Dates, definitely Wanda’s pick) and some tea. Their movie nights had started off as something weekly—a simple routine to help settle Wanda in when she first moved to the compound and couldn’t get the sound of bombs out of her mind as she tried to sleep. Nat reasoned it would be a good idea to indulge the girl and form some bonds, especially since she’d been appointed to train the little witch. But “weekly movie nights” quickly turned into “twice weekly” and eventually “every-other-nightly,” and they always ended with Wanda cuddled up into Natasha’s side, fast asleep until their morning meeting.
The first time it happened, Wanda had been so embarrassed, shooting up from the mattress the same shade of red as her uniform. Nat felt so bad for the poor thing, of course she said it was fine. She told herself she tolerated Wanda’s nightly presence mostly for the other girl’s sake, but it had since become rather evident to anyone paying attention that the ex-assassin enjoyed the witch’s soothing presence and comfortable company. She always slept better when Wanda was around.
But not always, of course. Even Wanda’s sweet smile and steady breathing wasn’t always enough to stave off Natasha’s most horrific of nightmares, and tonight’s was especially bad. Instead of risking waking Wanda up with her fervent pacing and heavy breathing, Nat relented to sneaking down into the training center on quiet feet. Pushing her body to its utmost limits was physically painful, yes, but embarrassingly it was probably one of her least destructive grounding techniques, so she indulged the coping mechanism somewhat unabashedly.
Besides, she was in good company-- there was no doubt in her mind that practically everyone at the compound knew the stinging, burning ache of pushing your body to its limit as a way to avoid something even more painful. She’d probably seen Steve with bloody, cracked knuckles at the dinner table from knocking a punching bag off its hinges more times than she could count.
“Apologies, Agent Romanov, but I must inform you that exceeding one’s maximum heart rate for prolonged periods of time can increase their risk of suffering a cardiac event, such as--”
The redhead huffed, black spots and stars twinkling on the fraying edges of her vision as she zeroed in on a particular tile in the floor and increased the treadmill to its max speed of 20MPH. Her french braids were thwacking against her exposed back with such high ferocity, she briefly worried they might leave a mark.
“Friday, I’m fine. Drop it. Offline.”
This wasn’t her first time disobeying the AI. In fact, this was a pretty common occurrence between the two of them. It got under her skin and annoyed her to no end, even if she knew the disembodied voice was simply following her programming in an attempt at keeping the team “safe”. She knew herself and her body better than anyone, and certainly better than some robot Tony built. There were (more effective) but much worse things she could do to calm her mind after a nightmare.
She wanted to keep running just to spite the disembodied voice, but Natasha could feel her muscles were just about done-- she’d been running for probably upwards of an hour and, though she couldn’t feel the pain as much since she was tingling from the waist down, her knees were starting to wobble and there was a new, fresher pain like electricity in her lower back, that shot down into her quads every time she lunged. Between gasps for air she pled with her body arbitrarily: just a
little
longer, just a
little
bit further--
“I knew I saw the lights flip on in here.”
The distinctly masculine voice echoed in the emptiness of the training center as someone entered the room from behind her. Before she could stop herself, the sound made Nat flinch, and she hesitated in her stride for only a moment too long, just long enough to stumble. Helplessly, her ankle rolled and hit the track with a crunch. She grunted in pain as both feet flew out from under her on the treadmill, sending her crashing to the floor.
Natasha fell with a heavy thunk, the machine spitting her out onto the cold tile floor like chewed up gum. She landed rather ungracefully on her back, all but sprawled out on the floor with a fierce thrumming in her ankle and a buzzing in her head that made it impossible to hear what the figure standing in the doorway had shouted as he rushed over towards her.
As he neared closer, leaning over and eclipsing her in his shadow, Natasha finally realized that it was Bruce.
Of course it’s fucking Bruce.
He had a very creased, worried expression on his face, and his mouth was moving but Natasha still couldn’t quite hear what he was saying over the ringing in her ears-- she was pretty confident, however, that he was saying something along the lines of:
“Are you alright??”
Instead of answering him, she just groaned again and ran her hand over her sweaty face before sitting up. Her vision swam, and if she’d eaten dinner she might’ve even puked.
“Geez Nat, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Bruce scratched the back of his head awkwardly before moving to switch off the treadmill that was still whirring behind her. He then hurried over to the towel rack by the door and grabbed a gray hand cloth, offering it to her. She scowled at him when he returned, but she could tell the towel was Bruce’s attempt at extending an olive branch, so she accepted. Plus, the towel was a good call-- she was pretty much drenched in sweat, her sleep shirt beyond soaked through.
Bruce cleared his throat as she snatched the towel from him, wiping herself off from where she was still sitting on the floor (she was sort of nervous to try standing for fear that her ankle would hurt too badly to hide, and she’d give the injury away. The
last
thing she needed tonight was Bruce trying to cart her off to medical. Or, worse yet, trying to patch her up himself.)
“Couldn’t sleep either?”
Hesitantly, Natasha nodded. If it were someone else she probably wouldn’t have admitted to it so openly, but it was plain to see Bruce was in the same boat.
More nights than not Natasha could see the lab lights flicker on after dinner from the window in her bedroom, and stay on well into the early morning hours. Sometimes Bruce fell asleep at his desk, surely, drool pooling on the cool metal table, but usually she assumed Bruce stayed up working on something or other. Taking notes, building prototypes, writing proposals. He was married to his work-- it made him feel useful in a way that didn’t involve being big and green and smashing things. Once or twice a month he usually stopped by the training center to check on her like this. He got lonely, she assumed. Natasha didn’t quite have that problem, but she sympathized, even if (selfishly) she was slightly annoyed by the interruption. Especially when that interruption included a sprained ankle, apparently.
“How long you been at it, Nat? You look…”
Bruce chose his next words carefully, in part due to the less-than friendly expression Natasha was giving him as she wiped her face.
“...tired. I mean, it’s nearly sunrise.”
Natasha sat up straighter, looking out the wall of large, lined windows opposite them in surprise. Bruce wasn’t wrong, baby blue light danced on the horizon of the training field outside.
She’d known it was late, but she didn’t think it was that late. Three, maybe. Looking at the sky now she guessed it to be closer to four in the morning, maybe even 4:30, which meant she was supposed to be up for a mission debriefing meeting in less than 2 hours. So much for trying to go back to sleep, she thought. Probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, but for Wanda’s sake she was going to at least try. She despised making her worry.
Turning away from the windows and sighing, Nat shrugged at Bruce, straining to remember what he’d even said. She didn’t feel like she had the energy for socializing with him right now. She loved Bruce like a dysfunctional brother just as she did all of her teammates, but conversation with him didn’t always come easy.
“I dunno, I guess. I woke up around two and couldn’t get back to bed.”
Feeling her answer was somewhat inadequate, she added:
“It made sense to train.”
Bruce bit the inside of his cheek, like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how. Instead he reached his hand out to Natasha, helping her up from the floor without her having to perform the embarrassing task of asking. If he saw her wince as she stood, from both her throbbing ankle and achy leg muscles, he didn’t point it out. These were two reasons, of many, Natasha liked Bruce. He was a slight nuisance at the best of times and horribly annoying at the worst of times, but he doubtlessly understood the occasional necessity for shared silence.
Until he spoke, of course, and ruined it.
“Maybe you need a hobby.”
Nat shot Bruce a look of confusion and quiet anger as she brushed her hands off on her thighs. His words held an implication behind them she wasn’t quite sure she appreciated. Bruce hurried to amend this, his words coming out a little rushed and stuttery in the way they often did when he was nervous.
“I mean, ya know, everyone needs a hobby! Something to…I don’t know, something you can do when you can’t sleep or, when you need to…get your mind off of things…”
Seeing her face, still simpering, he reiterated:
“...yeah. A hobby.”
As though saying the word again would clear everything up for the woman.
Nat turned and started walking (or limping, really) away from Bruce, effectively trying to end the conversation. She suddenly felt very tired, too tired to entertain whatever this impromptu check-in had devolved into. Bruce meant well, (of course he did, it was
Bruce
, he always “meant well”) but irritation prickled at her still-sweaty skin. She needed a shower and her bed and
silence
. This conversation had quickly become exhausting.
As she moved away she tossed over her shoulder,
“I
train
when I can’t sleep.
That
is my hobby.”
Bruce called after her, following her through the automated doors to the training room and out into the cool, dim hallway. Their voices sounded different in the more confined space, louder. The sound of Bruce speaking grated at her ears and she resisted the urge to claw at them dramatically.
“Training is your
job,
Nat. Your hobby can’t be something you get paid to do, people need something
separate
from their work. Hitting the gym is great but, it’s not something you do to feel
joy
, to feel
free,
to just relax. Certainly not the way you do it.”
Natasha whirled around to face him, face red. They were standing outside his lab now, a few feet from the elevator that would take her back to her quarters. She struggled to keep her voice low and steady-- there was no one who slept on this floor of the compound, but still. Unsurprisingly, most of their colleagues were pretty light-sleepers by nature, and she didn’t need another well-meaning avenger butting into her life and demanding a wellness check.
Feeling defensive, she spoke harshly,
“Are you really one to talk, Bruce? You
sleep
in your lab, for fuck’s sake. Don’t talk to
me
about separating my work.”
Bruce wrung his hands and stared at Nat sort of expressionless, and for a second she thought maybe she stunned him into silence. Then, before she could turn away, Bruce gestured towards the closed lab doors in front of them.
“Come on, before your shower let me show you something.”
Nat had half a mind to refuse. In fact, she probably had even more than half a mind to turn on her heels and leave Bruce beckoning in the hallway. But something about his face, the almost vulnerable, soft look he was giving her as he opened the lab doors and gestured for her to step inside meant she couldn’t refuse. Bruce was one of her closest confidants, and she was only so angry with him anyway because at least some part of her (probably the part still feeling the vicious pain in her ankle) knew he had a point.
“
Everyone
needs a hobby, even the “great Avengers.” If I stayed up actually working in my lab every night, Nat, I’d go insane. Or green. Or both.”
Bruce was faced away from her, leading her over to a big steel lab table with a great white sheet over it. He gripped the edge of the sheet tightly, shooting a nervous look over his shoulder as though someone might be spying on them both from the still-open doorway. Bruce was always the paranoid type, but then again, so was Nat. Despite the coolness of the lab Bruce had beads of sweat on his forehead.
“...Don’t laugh.”
Nat bit back a smile.
“No promises.”
With a flick of his wrist, the white sheet flung up into the air and then off the table, settling on the cement floor at their feet. Natasha wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting underneath the sheet; a bunch of top-secret prototyped weapons, maybe, or a mess of wires that turned out to be one of Bruce and Tony’s little pet projects for improving Friday’s AI. What she definitely hadn’t been expecting was at least a dozen tiny structures made of glued-together popsicle sticks, effectively transforming the lab table into a small popsicle stick village.
None of them were painted, just that milky-brown raw wood, but there was what looked to her like a church with a steeple, a two-story school house, and a whole suburban neighborhood of houses complete with the picket fences and all. A hot glue gun, still-warm, teetered on the edge of the table, a small pool of translucent glue hardening underneath, clearly the tool used to put together this whole…diorama.
“I know, it’s stupid.”
Bruce rubbed the back of his neck again, laughing and leaning to pick up the crumpled sheet and wringing it in his hands like he had the towel. He was clearly (very) embarrassed.
“But…it helps me.”
Natasha wasn’t sure what to say. She didn’t feel compelled to
laugh
per say, as Bruce might have feared, but she was definitely…surprised. She figured anyone would be surprised, really, to learn that the Avenger known for smashing things enjoyed the tedious task of building miniature buildings out of a material as fickle as popsicle sticks. She cleared her throat, finally pulling her eyes away from the table long enough to see Bruce staring at her in anticipation before quickly looking away.
“...this helps you, how?”
Bruce gestured with the sheet towards the little popsicle stick houses.
“It’s relaxing, ya know? Like…”
He trailed off for a moment, watching carefully as Nat picked up one of the houses (the church?) and turned it over gently in her calloused hands.
“It’s repetitive. Soothing. Keeps me from going green, helps me breathe a little easier, that sort of thing. I’m good at smashing, yeah, but I’m good at
making
too-- not just weapons or tech, but things like these stupid little wooden houses, too.”
A look of recognition and understanding flashed across Nat’s face, so Bruce continued.
“There’s no pressure, nothing riding on this. It’s just for me. Sometimes you need something like that. Sometimes you need something that reminds you of life before it was all about saving the world.”
Natasha picked at a clump of clear glue pooling on the wooden structure’s little corner with her fingernail.
“I don’t really want to be reminded of…before.”
She hadn’t meant to sound so sad, so vulnerable, so…
small
as she’d said it, but between her nightmare and Bruce’s intervention, this night was starting to wear her down. Bruce just shrugged.
“Well, hobbies don’t have to be reminders. They can make for great escapes, too.”
He tightened his fists as he said this, giving a hard look at the flexing tendons and muscles in his wrists, silently acknowledging that he too knew what it was like to want to forget.
He shook the look off quickly and cleared his throat, before re-covering his little models with a swift flick of the sheet. Nat watched quietly as all the little buildings were covered in a layer of white, looking like heavy snow on their tiny, shingled roofs.
“Just something to think about.”
And think about it she did. Despite her best attempts at brushing off the interaction, Nat replayed Bruce’s words in her head the entire walk back to her dwellings, the entirety of her shower, and even well into the team’s usual pre-meeting breakfast. The fact that Natasha was making an appearance before their 6:30AM call time at all was evidence enough
something
was on her mind. Usually the last thing she wanted to do after another sleepless night was socialize, but she couldn’t stop thinking about what Bruce had said.
Maybe you need a hobby.
It was a stupid idea, really. And yet, she couldn’t stop considering it, turning the words around again and again in her mouth like a little marble. What would her hobby even be? There weren’t many things The Black Widow liked to do. There were many things she was good at-- but having trained for the better half of two (almost three) decades to hone her skills in espionage and assassination hadn’t left her with a lot of free time.
Nat thought hard: she was good at reading people, at getting information, at swaying her hips and shooting guns and pretending like she was fine when she wasn’t. She could make peanut butter sandwiches and drink vodka straight from the bottle, and she’d been told she was a good kisser since she was far too young to be kissing. She could push herself till she had bloody, blistered hands and feet in the gym and she could use her sharp words like weapons to cut others down when real weapons weren’t an option. But none of this seemed to lend itself very well to a hobby.
I used to be good at ballet.
She pushed that particular thought away quickly, like it’d burned her. No, there was
nothing
about her time at The Academy she enjoyed.
As various team members slowly filtered into the kitchen-dining area, each in various states of awake, Nat fidgeted with the metal handle on the cutlery drawer. It was obnoxiously loose, and could be wiggled back and forth to elicit an unpleasant metal squeak sound. She wiggled it back and forth, like a loose tooth, letting the repetitive squeak help drown out her thoughts.
“Are you going to just keep standing in the middle of the kitchen and staring at the silverware drawer, ‘Tasha? Or are you going to be a dear and set the breakfast table for me?”
Wanda playfully bumped Natasha on the hip as she said this, giving the redhead a cheeky smile as she plopped a banana peel into the compost bin. If the rest of the team thought anything of Wanda using her nickname and calling her “dear,” they thought better than to say anything. Nat had been so preoccupied by her own thoughts, she hadn’t even realized Wanda was standing in the kitchen with her, let alone all but finished making breakfast for everyone.
“Sorry, I was just thinking.”
Wanda gave Natasha a sad look, easily having noticed when she woke up this morning that the redhead hadn’t slept. Nat averted her eyes, and from the dining table Clint quipped,
“Romanov thinking? Sounds dangerous.”
Nat sent him a scowl over her shoulder with no real malice behind it, but the joke finally set her in motion again as she started gathering utensils to set the table with (even if only to escape Wanda’s pitying blue eyes). Natasha was usually a notoriously bad breakfast-eater, usually skipping the meal in favor of sleeping in or getting an early start on training, but when Wanda was making the meal she always tried to turn up. Not for Wanda’s benefit (well, fine, maybe a little for Wanda’s benefit) but because the witch was a phenomenal cook.
Before she had joined the team, Steve was the one who made all their meals, and while she wasn’t one to talk (seeing as her cooking prowess extended little beyond making peanut butter sandwiches and cereal) his meals…left much to be desired. They were very…well, quintessential 1940’s war rations. Which was to say they ate a lot of spam, concentrated orange juice, and soy grits for breakfast. Not exactly most people’s idea of a delicious and nutritious meal, though it did make skipping breakfast pretty damn guilt-free.
Now, looking at the breakfast Wanda had made, Nat’s face immediately lit up--it was a delicious smelling onion and bacon omelet, the sort of thing Natasha found you only really knew how to make well if you were born in Eastern Europe. It looked perfectly fluffy and golden brown, not to mention it was pretty ginormous given that it needed to feed at least half a dozen hungry people. She hadn’t thought she was really all that hungry, but watching the cheese pull as Wanda cut the first steaming corner of the dish off and placed it on a plate for Nat to bring to the breakfast table, the redhead found her mouth watering.
“Looks good?”
Wanda smiled carefully at Natasha, looking more than a little self conscious as she plated the food. It had taken a lot of convincing from everyone in the beginning to make Wanda admit that her own cooking was, in fact, quite good, and even
more
convincing to make her agree to being the team’s bonafide in-house chef. The little witch absolutely adored cooking for others, but Natasha could tell even now, months later during little moments between the two of them that Wanda still feared her dishes weren’t up to snuff. Natasha forced a wide smile,
“It
smells
even better. I love omelets.”
Wanda practically beamed, helping Nat to carry out the food.
Once everything was settled and the team began eating, Natasha mostly retreated back into her own mind again. Every once in a while she would laugh at something, or give Wanda a nod as she chewed to show she was enjoying the food (which she very much was, mind you) but for most of breakfast, she thought again about the strange feelings her conversation last night (or earlier that morning, really) had left her saddled with. Bruce had said “everyone” needed a hobby, something separate from their work life. But was it really even true that the rest of her teammates had a hobby themselves? She doubted it.
To be fair, Wanda did have many hobbies Natasha could think of. The girl liked to crochet during their movie nights sometimes if they were all out of snacks (because it gave her fidgety hands something to do), and obviously she enjoyed cooking, and sometimes even baking on special occasions--”special occasions” being code for whenever Nat was craving something sweet. And, okay, Clint had his little interests too, most obvious being his bizarre passion for construction projects (Laura was always complaining to Nat about her husband’s latest, “brilliant” renovation idea. They almost always involved “trusting the process,” as Clint would say).
But Steve didn’t do anything like that. He trained just like she did, spent a lot of time as their defacto-leader scheduling meetings and barking orders, and devoted hours to binge-watching some old show called The Three Stooges , which really wasn’t a hobby so much as it was an addiction. Tony liked programming and building tech bullshit in his spare time, but according to Bruce’s stipulation about hobbies being something totally separate from work, Nat didn’t really think that should count.
Were there some secret things her friends liked to do in their free time that she didn’t know about? Obviously it was true the Avengers didn’t spend 100% of their time together (there were lots of things Natasha did that she liked to think no one else, not even Wanda, knew about) but they did spend a lot of time together. They lived together, after all, and the complex was big, but still.
When Nat thought about it though, she realized that she probably only knew about Wanda’s interests because, well, she spent what would probably be considered a disproportionate amount of time with the other girl compared to everyone else (a thought that she had to quickly brush aside to keep from spiraling). And, to be fair, the ex-assassin had lived with Clint and his family for a period of time right after being freed from The Red Room, so of course she would know things about him the others didn’t--they didn’t even know he had a family at all until earlier this year.
She wouldn’t have ever guessed Bruce enjoyed…wooden crafts and hot glue guns, not until it was revealed to her approximately four hours ago, and even still it was a hard pill to swallow. So, maybe she didn’t exactly know everything about everyone the way she assumed she had. By that logic, if she spent more quality time with the others, maybe she would discover what their strange little hobbies were, and it would aid her in finding her own hobby (if she even decided to follow through with that stupid plan).
Or, she could just spy on them all until she figured out their secret little interests that way….
Yeah, spying it was. That’s sort of a hobby, right?
Her first target, she decided, should be someone easy. Someone who wouldn’t notice her lurking around too quickly, and who wouldn’t suspect much even once they did. Steve or Tony would be suspicious right away, Vision could literally see and walk through walls, Peter had the whole tingle-thing, and Sam and Bucky were military-grade paranoid. Suffice to say, picking Thor as her first target was pretty much a no-brainer.
“Natasha?”
Nat turned at the sound of her name--everyone else on the team had already vacated the breakfast table to prepare for their mission debrief in an hour, but Natasha was still sat and Wanda was behind her, peeking over at her from across the kitchen island as she scrubbed dishes. She had a tentative smile on her face, and Nat quickly shot up, immediately feeling a pang of guilt for not having offered to help her clear the table.
“Hey, sorry-“
Natasha stumbled as she got up from the table, briefly grimacing. She’d all but forgotten about her hurt ankle, and now it hurt a lot more after resting it for an hour under the table. She quickly tried to hide her pained expression from Wanda, but it was too late, and Wanda’s smile vanished in a flash.
“You’re hurt.”
It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement, and Nat knew better than to bullshit Wanda. She could lie to lots of people, her poker face was a trait she prided herself on since childhood, but whether because of her powers or something else entirely (that Nat didn’t have the courage to further explore) it never worked on Wanda. The redhead shrugged inadequately, and made a point of walking the rest of the way over to the kitchen island without limping or favoring her uninjured foot, even though she could feel her torn tendons throbbing. She made a mental note to wrap it when she got back to her room.
But still feeling Wanda’s painfully worried gaze bore into her, Nat added:
“It’s nothing, just rolled it while training. I can walk it off.”
Wanda pursed her lips, still looking not at all satisfied with Natasha’s words. It made the older woman squirm a little—someone else’s disapproval shouldn’t make her so nervous, and if it was anyone else it wouldn’t have. But it was Wanda, so Nat floundered. Her temple throbbed a little in frustration--why did she have to care so damn much? Nat couldn’t help not to think that, most of the time, it would be so much easier for both of them if she just didn’t.
“Really Wands, it’s nothing. You know me, I’m tough.”
Her attempt at charm bounced right off.
“Yes, and stubborn.”
Wanda doubled her efforts washing the dishes, finally averting her eyes as Nat carefully and silently saddled up beside her to help towel them dry. They worked in mostly-comfortable silence, though Nat could tell Wanda was waiting for the right moment to speak again, maybe trying to choose her words carefully or work up some courage. When they were truly just enjoying the quiet Wanda liked to hum, not all but hold her breath the way she was now.
“Where did you go last night?”
The question was careful, and calculated, as Wanda’s words always were, and as Natasha had suspected, they proved that Wanda had noticed her absence. Nat’s face grew hot with shame, and maybe a little of something else too. Of course she’d noticed her absence.
“Couldn’t sleep, so I went to the training center.”
Wanda handed Natasha another dish.
“And that’s how you hurt your ankle? Pushing yourself too hard on no sleep?”
Nat’s hackles raised, her voice immediately taking on a defensive edge.
“I wasn’t- I didn’t-“
“You could’ve woken me up.”
Wanda’s quiet tone, disappointed, sad even, made the excuses ready on Natasha’s pointed tongue curl up and die.
“I could have-”
Wanda’s fingers shook, and the cup she was scrubbing almost slipped out of her sudsy hands.
“I would have helped.”
Natasha didn’t know what to say. How could she say: I didn’t want to cry, and looking at your tired eyes after a nightmare would’ve made it too difficult to swallow down the tears. I didn’t want to be a burden, because then you might leave me and I’ve gotten so used to you being a constant in my life I don’t know how I ever managed without you. I didn’t want to show too much and scare you the way I sometimes scare myself. I didn’t want to
hurt you.
Instead, she just settled for,
“I didn’t push myself too hard. Bruce distracted me while training. He had this whole speech about-“
Natasha stopped herself short. She didn’t want to betray Bruce’s trust by disclosing his secret affinity for crafting, and she also wasn’t sure she wanted to admit to being so all-consumed and troubled by her apparent lack of a hobby. If she mentioned it to Wanda and spoke it into existence, she’d be admitting to someone else that what the scientist had said held some sort of merit.
But Nat could tell by the way Wanda had perked up at her words and abandoned her next dish mid-scrub that it was too late, Wanda wouldn’t stop until she properly finished her half-finished sentence.
“Speech about what?”
Still, Nat couldn’t give in so easily.
“Nothing, it was dumb. You know Bruce and his rambles.”
Wanda officially gave up on the remaining few dishes and utensils, wringing her hands out on one of the dish towels by the sink and then stepping away from the kitchen island to lean against the opposite counter. Her arms were crossed and a smile was tugging at her lips.
“Yeah, I know Bruce and his rambling, and I know said rambling doesn’t usually stick with you the way whatever he said to you last night currently is.”
Natasha opened her mouth to protest Wanda’s (accurate) assertion, but the younger woman cut her off, a small edge of exasperation in her voice.
“Nat, you’ve hardly spoken a word to any one all morning, and you were so lost in thought at breakfast you tried to dip your omelet into your coffee instead of your ketchup.”
Nat had suddenly become very interested in the dish cloth she was holding, fidgeting with the tag and avoiding Wanda’s eyes. When the young witch realized the two were clearly at an impasse, she sighed and pushed off from the counter. With a confidence that made Nat exhale all the air from her lungs and promptly drop her dishrag onto the tiles at their feet, Wanda clasped one of her hands tightly in her own and started leading her out of the kitchen behind her.
“Where are we-?”
“We’re going to my room so I can wrap up that ankle injury you’re trying so desperately to conceal, and in exchange for my kindness, you’re going to tell me all about what Bruce said.”
Natasha wanted to pull her hand away instead of being helplessly led to what felt like her doom, but for some inexplicable reason it felt sort of like an impossible feat to separate herself from Wanda. Still, she had to at least
try
to defy.
“And what if I don’t?”
Though she was facing the back of the brunette’s head, Nat could hear the smile in Wanda’s voice.
“Then I guess I’ll have to send you to medical and interrogate Bruce myself.”
…to Wanda’s room it was.
“This is so fun and exciting!”
“Yeah? Well, it won’t be so “fun and exciting” if we get
caught
.”
As Nat gently elbowed her in the side to keep quiet, Wanda giddily put a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggle. It only half-worked, though, with most of the admittedly sweet sound still slipping out. Though Natasha tried desperately to hide it, she was smiling too. It felt good to have such a low stakes mission together for once, as opposed to the usual doom and gloom of their actual assignments.
“Giggling isn’t very conducive to spying either,
Little Witch
.”
The nickname only made Wanda giggle harder, bordering on a full-blown laugh, which echoed around the little closet they were both stuffed inside of. They were so closely pressed together, in fact, that Nat could smell the rosemary mint shampoo in Wanda’s hair and the hint of coffee on her warm breath and,
shit
, good thing it was dark in here because Nat’s hot face was
definitely
red. She subtly checked the smell of her own breath by hotly exhaling into her palm--she had still yet to brush her teeth that morning.
Shuffling as far away from Wanda as she could (which was really only half an inch or two, goosebumps still marking the up and down of her arms from where the two womens’ skin were teasing at touching one another) Nat peaked out into the little flat they were currently stowed away inside of. Not for the first time the assassin took in the Prince of Asgard’s small dwelling space, surprised to notice how different it looked from her own.
Having been inside of Wanda’s room countless times which, for the most part, resembled Nat’s drab space almost identically, the personality all over Thor’s space was almost jarring. She’d assumed all the Avengers sort of faltered equally when it came to personalizing or decorating their space aside from some practical places to hang their respective weapons and wardrobe pieces--Wanda’s room had some tea and snacks that were specific to her, and perhaps some more throw blankets on the bed than her teammates. Clint kept some small pictures of Laura and his kids pasted to his bedside table. Nat kept metal handcuffs locked to the metal rivulets of her headboard, just in case .
But Thor’s room, though much less grand than his dwellings back home for certain, was unmistakably his in a way that was distinctly foreign to her. For all his frequent absence, it was clear that the God of Thunder made a point of decorating his space with relics from his home planet and other mementos showcasing his victories across the cosmos. Little golden trinkets and things lined newly installed shelves on one wall, and on the opposite hung a large pegboard displaying a menagerie of bizarre and unusual golden weapons that thrummed intermittently. There were a few posters that lined the walls, original artwork of characters she wasn’t familiar with, likely those from Norse mythology.
On one bedside table threatening to knock over his lamp was a stack of books that, according to the sticker on their spines, were checked out from the local library only a few minutes drive from the compound. They covered a wide variety of topics, ranging from hand-to-hand combat strategies (which, having been one to help train Thor in the fighting style should he ever lose his hammer while in the field, she could say with earnest he needed the reading) to different patterns of chess (which was probably for some cheesy bro-date the God had scheduled with Tony or Bruce) and even a sappy looking rom com novel (the cover had an illustration of two women flirting in an office setting, making eyes at one another from over the copier machine).
There were bits of Thor everywhere--from the little finger knit scarves tied around his wooden bed posts (most of which were definitely a Wanda gift) to golden beard clippings in the bathroom sink, the place was unmistakably his. But the most interesting section of the room, to Natasha at least, was certainly the desk that sat against the adjacent wall from where the two women were hidden in the closet. Unlike Natasha’s dust covered desk, it was very obvious from its messy appearance that Thor made good use out of his--personal use, of some sort, most likely, considering their mostly paper-less job really didn’t account for the utter chaos of his desk, strewn papers and several left-open spiral notebooks glinting in the morning sun.
“What’s with the notebooks?”
Wanda’s soft, smooth voice in her ear made the little red hairs on the back of Natasha’s neck stand at attention, but it warmed her to think that both she and Wanda had noticed the same peculiarity at nearly the same time. The witches' earlier giddiness had definitely subsided to allow for a more serious edge to her voice, both women switching automatically into mission-mode (even if the stakes weren’t exactly as high as, say, infiltrating some Hydra facility). It was incredibly endearing to her that Wanda should be taking something admittedly pretty stupid so seriously.
“I just fill out my mission reports digitally like everyone else. No way all those papers are just work-related, right?”
Nat shook her head, gears turning.
“Not unless Thor is secretly in charge of filing the entire team’s taxes or crunching compound expenses, I seriously doubt it.”
Again, that dangerous sound of a smile crept into Wanda’s voice, and Natasha couldn’t help but think about how the taller woman was having to kneel down a ways just to whisper into her ear, warm breath tickling her sensitive skin in their close proximity.
“Do you think that could be his…
hobby?
”
If it weren’t for Wanda’s endearing sincerity Nat might’ve felt sort of childish hearing the strange reason for their intrusion spoken aloud. But something about the way Wanda said it with such earnestness made her feel entirely secure in their little excursion.
“Bingo.”
Wanda stood carefully and moved like she was about to shift forward and maneuver her body around Nat’s, but the redhead was quick to grab the closet door knob first and tug it closed before she could get there, bathing them both in darkness as their little golden sliver of vision into the room disappeared.
The quick motion made her newly bandaged ankle throb anew, but she ignored the pain, seamlessly shifting her weight to the other foot. Wanda had insisted upon her going to medical (as she so often did) as soon as she peeled Natasha’s sock away and saw the full extent of her injury, skin a swollen and mottled purply-blue, but (as always) Natasha refused, so Wanda had done her best to stabilize the injury on her own. She’d done an excellent job as always--but damnit if it didn’t still hurt.
“What--?”
Nat pressed a finger to her lips, eyes searching in the darkness for Wanda’s at the exact moment that Thor came loudly bumbling into the room.
The two women held their breath as they listened to the Asgardian’s heavy footsteps trail all over the small room, first moving toward the bathroom, then around his desk and the bed, and finally stopping to linger outside the closet. Wanda gripped blindly for Natasha in the dark, rubbing her cool hand down her forearm before making contact with her hand and holding it tightly. It wasn’t like they’d actually be in danger if Thor caught them hiding in his room (he’d probably be more confused than anything else, if Nat were being honest--that blank blue-eyed stare so clear in her mind’s eye) but boy, would it be awkward trying to explain themselves. Plus, neither woman liked to fail a mission, however unserious it might have been.
After what felt like an actual eternity of wondering whether Thor was going to open his closet door and reveal their hiding spot, the sound of his quiet voice filled the near-silent room. He spoke under his breath and pawed at the other side of the wooden door panel in front of Natasha’s face.
“Thursday…Friday…Saturday…wait, Friday the
21st
? Is that right?”
Thor huffed,
“Stupid Earth calendars…why would they schedule Steve’s birthday on the same day as Ostara? Hmph,”
Thor rummaged around somewhere (presumably his pocket) and produced something with a click that Natasha figured must have been a pen, because only a second later the wooden door between the two shook with an angry fervor as the God scribbled out some dates on the paper calendar evidently hung up on the other side. If she hadn’t been trying so hard to stay quiet the ex-assassin certainly would’ve laughed, especially because she knew with certainty that Wanda was covering her mouth and clutching at her sides painfully behind her.
Thankfully, it wasn’t much longer until Thor was wandering back out of his room, automatic door whooshing closed and locking behind him on the way out. Just to be certain the coast was clear, both supers stood in silence with the closet door closed for several long beats. Eyes long since having adjusted to the dark, Nat squinted down at the sleek black watch on her wrist. The team meeting scheduled for that morning where Steve would give the mission debrief was set to start in the next 20 minutes in the common room, so the odds of Thor returning again to his room sometime between now and then seemed slim to none (Nat knew he was always on-time to their debriefs).
Glancing at Natasha’s watch too from over her shoulder and probably thinking the same thing, Wanda whispered:
“Now’s our chance.”
Nat gave a quick nod, taking a deep breath as though what they were about to do was some brave feat, and then opened up the closet doors so that both women could spill out into Thor’s bedroom. Quickly but with complete silence in case someone might be listening, both Natasha and Wanda crept over to the desk on the other side of the room, marveling at just how cluttered it was.
From inside the closet the Asgaurdian’s space hadn’t seemed quite so messy, but now with an up-close look, Natasha didn’t miss the way Wanda’s face twisted and pinched, looking almost as though the sight of such an unorganized work space was causing her physical pain. The little witch was what Natasha lovingly referred to as, “a bit of a neat-freak.” Wanda argued that Nat was just a slob so, by comparison, everyone seemed like a neat freak--but Thor’s disaster zone of a desk proved otherwise.
Reading her mind, or perhaps just seeing the shit-eating grin on Nat’s face, Wanda rolled her eyes.
“Oh please, your desk is never this messy only because you never do any
real work.
”
Natasha chuckled and Wanda bumped her side playfully. The ex-assassin didn’t exactly have a clever retort because, well, the younger girl was probably correct.
“It does make finding what we’re looking for harder, though. Especially when we don’t know exactly
what
it is we’re looking for.”
Wanda moved her hands to hover over the first stack of miscellaneous folders and notebooks on Thor’s desk, but then hesitated before pawing through them.
“Do you think he’ll notice if we move anything?”
Natasha snorted,
“Please, I don’t think Thor would notice even if you moved the whole
desk
and left it levitating in the center of his room.”
With Natasha’s permission (because it was really
her
pseudo-mission) Wanda wasted no time seizing the near-toppling stack of papers before her. Nat followed close behind, plopping down in Thor’s spinney desk chair to give her ankle some rest. They only had 15 minutes until the meeting now, so they had to act quickly if they wanted to find their teammate’s secret hobby and make good time.
“Not to be unkind, and I’m still getting to know everyone on the team, but Thor doesn’t seem very…astute.”
Natasha laughed, a deep, rich sound emanating up from the bottom of her belly. It was hilarious hearing Wanda’s attempt at insulting someone (or
not
insulting them).
“Yeah. I mean, even if he did somehow notice something was awry, he certainly wouldn’t suspect the two of us. We’ll blame it on Tony, he’s nosy.”
Wanda smirked wickedly,
“‘Tasha, you really are wicked.”
“You’re the witch, not me.”
Punctuating her words, Wanda used a small, red tendril of magic and a twitch of her fingers to thrust all of the miscellaneous pieces of paper and bound notebooks up off the desk, spreading and suspending them in the air above them for easier viewing.
“Okay, so what’re we thinking? Thor never struck me as an illustrator…maybe he writes? Conducts Earth research?”
Nat shook her head, carefully scanning the wall of paper surrounding them.
“No way Thor conducts
research
. I’d sooner guess origami.
Much of the paper on her teammates desk was just nonsense--grocery lists, random phone numbers or little memos. It didn’t help that Thor’s handwriting was atrocious, though she supposed she couldn’t really blame the God. Maybe his Allspeak penmanship was impeccable. Seeing nothing that really jumped out to Natasha nor Wanda, the Black Widow began, for a minute, to doubt her instincts, wondering if maybe she (and by extension, Bruce) had actually been wrong, and Thor had no such hidden hobby or interest.
The thought made something squeeze in her chest, something she couldn’t really understand--something sort of like disappointment, which instinctually made her bristle, face hot with shame. Why did she care so much about this? Drag Wanda along with her and invade her teammate’s privacy, all for some stupid--Hope? Wish? She wasn’t sure what to call it--that maybe if everyone around her had some obvious and absurd work/life balance, she too could strive for the same, even if only to get Bruce off her back and less achy muscles.
But then she saw it--an innocuous, unassuming composition notebook hovering just above her head, one word scribbled very messily in blue marker on the cover:
Poetry.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this…but he’s actually pretty good. Cheesy, sort of tooth-rottingly sappy, but endearingly…romantic?”
Wanda set down the notebook, carefully positioning it crookedly in the middle of the precarious stack of other folders and papers, right where it had been before their snooping. They hadn’t read the whole thing--because it turns out that Thor, like, big hammer Thor, was actually quite the wordsmith (who would’ve guessed). The entire thing, cover to cover, was filled to the brim with poetry. Page after page covered in poems of all kinds--haikuus, sonnets, ekphrasis, types of poems that Natasha had never even
heard
of before.
It was so much that they had no choice but to assume there were even more poetry journals hidden somewhere in the desk’s mess, but after flipping through and skimming some of his writing, the two women were both content to not read any more. Not because the musings weren’t good (because, being the reader of the two, Natasha defaulted to Wanda’s opinion of his work) but because, as it turns out, poetry can be quite an intimate thing. There were only so many times they could read through love confessions to some woman named Jane before starting to feel a little guilty.
Wanda continued to fuss with the particulars of Thor’s desk, trying to replicate exactly how it’d been before, undisturbed, as Natasha spun around in Thor’s chair and then, somewhat absentmindedly as she might have done while falling asleep in Wanda’s bed, she played gently with the wavy ends of the brunette’s hair plastered down her back.
“Oh, wow, I’m sorry. Are you swooning, Wanda? Does someone have a little, newfound crush on Thor?”
The younger girl rolled her shoulders and shook her head, dismissing Nat’s careful minstrations as she scoffed and shot a playfully agitated look over her shoulder.
“Very funny, Natasha.”
She was trying to keep her smile at bay, but again the sound crept into her voice, and Nat’s face broke out into an easy smile too. Obviously she was only joking, but Wanda was just so easy to tease. She probably would’ve continued doing so, pressing the witch’s buttons until she was utterly exasperated and all red in the face, but the brunette was already moving away from where she’d been standing at the desk and moving instead toward Thor’s bedroom door.
“We should probably head to the meeting soon.”
Natasha sighed, standing with a suppressed wince.
“If I show up on time, it’ll actually be
more
suspicious than if I were to show up late as usual.”
Nat picked at something under her nails, avoiding Wanda’s eyes.
“In fact…maybe I’ll just skip the mission briefing. I’m pretty tired and my ankle still hurts, I doubt I’ll be able to pay any attention anyway.”
A mischievous glint suddenly appeared in Wanda’s eye and she leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying Nat from where she stood across the room.
“Oh, really? The great Black Widow is going to
stay home
from an Avengers meeting to
rest
?”
Nat shrugged, maintaining her serious demeanor despite the obvious amusement creeping into Wanda’s voice. She stayed studying her nails.
“I dunno, maybe all that monologue, begging-whining you did while you wrapped up my ankle really worked.”
Wanda laughed,
“Okay, now I
really
know you’re lying.”
Nat just shrugged, uncharacteristically quiet, and Wanda quirked her eyebrow, smile only growing.
“Don’t tell me you’re planning to skip the meeting so that you can
snoop
some more, Natasha?”
Nat, again, shrugged, her coy facial expression saying:
wouldn’t you like to know?
Wanda took slow steps to close the space stretching between them.
“Because that would be an invasion of people’s privacy and a violation of your teammate’s trust…”
Nat laughed,
“Not you throwing stones from glass houses, little witch.”
The witch jutted out her bottom lip,
“Maybe I’m just sad you aren’t inviting me to join. I’m the villain, not you.”
Natasha rolled her eyes, playfully bumping into Wanda’s shoulder with her own as she stalked toward the bedroom door.
“Well…maybe you had to miss the meeting too. Ya know, to rewrap my ankle and nurse me back to health.”
Wanda leapt up and down with a suppressed squeal, smile beaming.
“Eee! Who next? Tony? Oh, Steve? I bet he has some old, dorky hobby. Like Battleship, or speed jigsaw puzzling.”
Natasha shook her head,
“You’re enjoying this a little
too
much, Wands.”
She bit her lip to keep from laughing some more,
“Like I said, ‘Tasha.
Villain.
”
“Well, Bruce was right.”
“Yeah. And grass is green.”
“God
damn
it, why does he
always
have to be right.”
Natasha and Wanda had just spent the last hour and a half systematically breaking into every Avenger’s room on the compound (not everyone was as trusting as Thor, so it was a lot of time spent lock picking) while everyone else sat diligently at the mission briefing. Generally, even those not assigned to a certain mission were encouraged to attend the briefing in case they needed to suddenly sub someone else in--which Nat had always thought was a pretty stupid rule, right up until this afternoon when it allowed for Wanda and her to have practically free reign of the entire building.
They did have one scare when Friday came online to ask about the two women’s intrusion into Tony’s lab. They told the program they were just grabbing some paper and things for Tony and bringing it back to the meeting, which gave them a good excuse for rifling through his desk, and the AI program pretty much left them alone after that, even if she was still undoubtedly suspicious. It went against Friday’s programing to rat them out if she didn’t have proper causation, so Natasha really wasn’t too worried about it.
They also had a close call with Clint, almost being spotted by him on the 4th floor. Evidently he’d left the meeting for a quick bathroom break, and he jogged right past the two of them trying to scale the walls in Peter’s room (Nat’s hands still felt sticky). Luckily, he wasn’t exactly the most astute for a sniper, so he didn’t notice either of them, but his sudden appearance did spook both girls enough that they slid down the webby walls and had to start all over again from the bottom.
That aside, their little private mission had been a smashing success. Maybe even too successful because, as it turns out, Bruce was entirely correct--every member of the Avengers, no matter how bizarre or well hidden it was, all had some sort of hobby or interest, something they could devote their time to aside from work. Not everyone’s was as unexpected as Bruce’s miniatures (which Natasha had finally caved and confided in Wanda about, who insisted upon going to see the tiny popsicle stick village for herself, and then proceeded to beam like a child over how cute and tiny everything was) but many of them still caught Nat off guard.
She was so sure that she knew everything there was to know about her teammates, but she had been wrong. She hated being wrong, and it made something unfamiliar and uncomfortable turn over and over in her stomach. She was really and truly the only Avenger without a hobby. That shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have made any difference whatsoever. It didn’t change anything. But for some reason she couldn’t verbalize, it was seriously weighing on her. Wanda could tell, she was sure. With every new hobby they’d discovered, Nat felt more and more--what? Disappointed? Saddened? This was about more than just being upset at having been proven wrong, and both women knew it, even if neither acknowledged it aloud.
After their searching was complete, no room left un-intruded upon, both Nat and Wanda returned to Wanda’s room and, with the witch’s help, the redhead had created a visual display of their findings on the floor. Obviously they couldn’t actually take something from everyone’s rooms, so they used various items from around Wanda’s room to represent each teammate’s hobby and then spread them all out on the carpet so that they fanned out in a little collage around them.
A pen for Thor and his cheesy poems, a chess piece for Tony (nerd), a paintbrush for Steve’s hidden portraiture (he was actually splendidly good--of course he was, Tinker Bell wasn’t bad at anything; lots of paintings of some woman named Peggy), some random coffee table book to represent Peter’s comic collection (which Wanda insisted upon counting as a proper hobby even if Nat disagreed), a random highlighter for Vision’s hundreds of finished sudoku and crossword puzzles (and those were probably just from this week alone), a rubber duck for Sam’s incubator (yes, apparently The Falcon raised baby chicks in all his free time as a new Avenger--who knew?), some charging cord to represent the mic setup they found in Scott’s closet (after much searching they discovered it to be for some underground podcast he hosted--the two girls listened to about the first 10 minutes of an episode, then shut it off), a napkin for Bucky’s yoga mat (Wanda squealed with excitement at that discovery, eager to practice with him), a thumb tack for Clint’s construction projects, and last but not least, a piece of string for Wanda’s crochet.
Looking at all the items around them and taking in all the new information they’d gathered was sort of a lot to process. In indulging her impulse, Nat had undoubtedly learned a lot more about her teammates--more than she ever thought she would’ve. She tried to convince herself that that in of itself was a victory…but the sentiment was flimsy at best. She hadn’t really gone through all this effort, dragged Wanda along into her mess and missed a mandatory meeting, just for some long distance bonding or rich personal insight. This wasn’t about sentimentality. Nor was she planning on using this information in any worthwhile, tangible way. It wasn’t blackmail, it wasn’t intel.
When she tried to put it into proper words, Natasha couldn’t really even explain what she thought this superfluous and childish journey would bring her, what end she was working toward. She didn’t have any grounds on which to feel disappointment and yet, it tasted bitterly in her mouth, like the copper on a penny. That conversation with Bruce had sent her tail spinning in a way she couldn’t reconcile with, and as she looked around at what was practically just a pile of trash spread out across the carpet, she knew this had all just been some distraction from whatever fragment of that conversation in the lab was picking apart her brain and making her itch. Even now, entirely off the treadmill and dead on her feet, she was running.
“Nat?”
Natasha didn’t know how long she’d been standing there in silence, nor how long Wanda had been trying to get her attention, but it was long enough that by the time she snapped out of it and met Wanda’s eyes again they were knit at the brow and milky with worry.
“Are you…alright? I thought I lost you there for a sec.”
Nat tried at a smile, but her teeth felt too sharp in her mouth, making it look more like a grimace. When she spoke, her voice was uncharacteristically soft, and Wanda saw the way she all at once deflated with exhaustion, like suddenly the fatigue she’d been staving off all morning and afternoon washed over her.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m just tired, I think. It’s silly but, this took a lot out of me.”
She gestured toward their mess, and Wanda smiled sympathetically, tucking a strand of red hair tenderly behind Nat’s warm ear.
“It’s not silly at all, ‘Tasha. I can tell you have a lot on your mind.”
Nat hummed in agreement, slowly closing her eyes as Wanda gently stroked the space between her eyebrows and the bridge of her nose with a single soft index finger.
“It’s loud up here.”
Maybe because she said it out loud, or maybe because she was touching her so tenderly with fingers that danced with magic, but Wanda’s minstration silenced every voice in Nastasha’s head for just a moment--buzzing the assassin with pure flooded relief. It was only the briefest of moments, but it set Nat’s skin ablaze with chills. When Wanda removed her hand and the ex-widow knew she had to peel her eyelids back open, it took more effort than anything she’d done in a while.
“Why don’t we go lay down, Láska? You look exhausted--and our mission is complete now, yes?”
Natasha wasn’t exactly sure how to answer. Was it over? Though she’d found everything she hoped to, she still felt no better about Bruce’s words, nor any closer to discovering an actual hobby of her own. She wasn’t good with words like Thor. She wasn’t patient enough for something as boring as chess. She could try painting Wanda’s face until her’s turned blue, but she’d never be as artistically gifted as Steve. She was too minimalist in her possessions for a collection of sorts and she didn’t have the AI programming to enjoy puzzles. For all of Wanda’s efforts yoga made her want to yank her hair out and her hands shook too much for crochet. She’d sooner kill herself than start a podcast and no matter how hard she tried to scrub the red from her ledger these hands would never be for something so sweet and gentle as bringing baby anythings into the world, let alone little chicks. For all her efforts today she still wasn’t good at anything .
“I can
feel
your head pounding, Láska.”
The sweet term of endearment in Wanda’s mother tongue again shook the redhead from her swirling thoughts, and she frowned to see the brunette gently massaging her own temples. She really
could
feel the other girl’s head pounding. Though Wanda tried her hardest to let Natasha have her privacy and leave her thoughts alone (especially after their first meeting), sometimes it was difficult.
“Sorry. I should go. The other’s are probably wondering where we’ve wandered off to all this time, anyway.”
Natasha stood up from the desk chair with every intention of heading for the door, but Wanda intercepted her before she could get very far at all, one hand carefully grasping her wrist.
“Let them wonder. Come, lay down with me?”
The sweet, almost shy vulnerability laced in her voice was enough to make Natasha a little weak at the knees, and of course she couldn’t say no to the witch’s simple request. Without more than a small nod of her head Wanda was leading her over to her mattress, so much cozier than her own with dozens of fluffy pillows and plush blankets. The quilt that Natasha had specifically claimed as her own some several weeks ago now was already laid out for her on the left side of the bed (where she most often liked to lay) and the sight pulled at her chest.
Wordlessly, she collapsed in a heap on the soft surface, and Wanda laughed a little as she made her way over to the other side of the bed and settled in as well, carefully taking Natasha’s head in her lap. As they both settled, Wanda switched off the lamp light and flipped on the television so they were bathed in only the warm glow of some cheesy 90’s family sitcom. The volume was so low you almost couldn’t hear it if you didn’t know it was on, but the occasional sound of canned laughter and audience roars coupled with their own breathing and the shifting of sheets beneath them made for the perfect white noise.
Quickly and with an ease that only came from practice, the two women fell into a calm quiet, though neither fell asleep straight away. Instead, Wanda played with Natasha’s red hair fanned out across her legs, occasionally rubbing her fingers across her forehead or scratching at her hairline. It was extremely relaxing, and Nat’s eyes remained closed even once Wanda began to speak, voice so quiet it was nearly a whisper.
“I could try teaching you to cook, you know. Or bake. If you wanted a hobby of your own.”
Since Nat remained silent, Wanda continued on.
“I know you hate admitting it, but Bruce really is right. Everyone needs something to do outside of work. You’ll go crazy otherwise.”
When Nat spoke she all but grumbled, voice thick with sleep.
“This can be my something.”
Natasha gestured vaguely toward the witch with a lazy hand and Wanda smiled, shaking her head.
“I’m not sure
cuddling
really counts as a hobby.”
Wanda rubbed small circles on Natasha’s back, gently massaging the place between her shoulder blades where they both knew she held the most tension and the redhead practically melted into her touch. The witch loved when Nat felt vulnerable enough to be clingy with her like this. It had taken a long time to get there.
“But if it did, you would be very good, Láska.”
Even in her most tired state, Wanda’s words made the blood rush to the assassin's cheeks. She tried further burying her face in Wanda’s lap to hide away the burning warmth, but she knew the witch noticed. She was
annoyingly
astute.
“We’ll find you something, Nat. It doesn’t have to be something you’re
good
at, necessarily. Just something you
like
to do. Something you can do when we’re like this and your body needs to rest.”
Those were the last words she could properly make out as Wanda’s soothing touch coupled with the warm glow of the television and soft introduction music finally lulled Nat into a long overdue sleep--though it wasn’t quite as peaceful as she’d hoped. Your body needs rest. Helpless to stop it, Wanda’s final words conjured only fitful dreams of bloody pointe shoes.
The next time Natasha woke up, the sun was so low in the sky it was hardly more than a little orange fingernail on the far horizon. It cast the whole of Wanda’s bedroom in a soft, warm light that transformed it into something akin to a little flickering lantern in the dark. When she shifted her body with a pained groan (her muscles really were sore ), she instantly frowned at feeling only a cool, empty mattress beside her. As she sat up with a sigh (and several popping sounds from her joints) the low hum of running water clued her in to the fact that Wanda must’ve left to go take a shower before dinner. Propped against the large wooden headboard, Natasha let the relaxing sound wash over her, gently easing away the last remnants of the nightmare still clinging to her mind. She usually didn’t wake up screaming and crying now as she once had when Clint first took her in. Now she was just used to it, and she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
Lost in thought, Natasha startled a little when Wanda’s head emerged from the cracked bathroom door beside the TV, but quickly resettled once her eyes landed on the sweet woman’s face, flushed from her shower and still shining with moisture. Wanda smiled softly at her, towel in her hands.
“You already know this, but if you want to change before supper you’re welcome to borrow anything from my closet, ‘Tasha. I’ll be out in just a few minutes, and then we can head down.”
Nat nodded her head, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed to stand as Wanda retreated back into the bathroom with a soft click of the door.
Nat stood only tentatively at first, carefully placing weight on her injured ankle to see how badly it might hurt after having been immobile for several hours, but she was pleasantly surprised when she managed to stand with only a slight ache. Maybe Wanda’s pampering really had helped, though she’d never admit it out loud. Injured ankle aside, though, the rest of her body groaned in protest at her movement, muscles tight and knotted. She probably should’ve stretched before her nap but, oh well. At least her head hurt a little less, and her eyes felt a little less heavy, vision sharper. It was a wonder what proper sleep could do.
It didn’t bother her that her clothes were wrinkled from her nap (she’d rolled up to dinner wearing literal pajamas before, so it really wasn’t anything out of the norm) but her shirt was sticky with sweat all down her back, likely from her bout of nightmares, so she decided it’d be best to change. With Wanda still out of the room she quickly grabbed a shirt from the top of Wanda’s neatly folded pile at the end of the bed and threw it on, enjoying the scent that filled her nose as the collar passed over her face. Cardamon . The fit was a little tight on her, and she rolled her eyes when she read the graphic on the front: “In my bad witch era,” but it would do. She tossed her sweaty shirt into the laundry hamper by Wanda’s door just as the woman emerged from the bathroom.
She looked only slightly more put together than Natasha did, with an equally cringy graphic tee on and some comfy sweatpants. Her hair was long and wet, so dark it almost looked black, and dripping down her back, sticking to her shirt. Her face was less flushed than before and perfectly makeup free. Nat had no desire to know what her own face looked like, probably marked with sleep and dark eyebags, but Wanda looked fresh faced and young and as beautiful as ever. It would’ve made her envious, even, if it didn’t fill her stomach with such butterflies.
Wanda shrunk a little under her gaze, feeling a little shy at the intensity of it. She ran a hand through her wet hair, squeezing dry the drippy ends.
“I hate that shower, there’s something wrong with the water pressure so it takes ages to wash everything and then there’s no time to blow dry my hair.”
Natasha hummed in consideration,
“Maybe check the shut-off valve? You might have a leak, somewhere.”
Wanda laughed,
“You say that as though that’s something I have
any
idea how to do.”
Nat smiled crookedly, cheek dimpling.
“It’s easy, remind me and I can show you some time.”
Wanda nodded indicating that she would, then was surprised when nothing else was said, those blue eyes still staring holes through her. A cool chill ran up her still-wet back, but she smirked.
“You know, it’s rude to stare, Romanov.”
Natasha rolled her eyes but cracked a smile, willing to concede when she’d been caught. She was still pretty tired from her nap and her brain felt like it was in a fog trying to keep up. All she wanted to do was keep standing in this cozy napalm room, mist wafting in from the bathroom and stare at Wanda backlit by the sun.
“Whatever little witch, let’s just go to dinner. The rest of the team probably thinks we’ve died.”
“Well, I hope they would be more concerned if that were the case.”
Wanda took hold of Nat’s hand and guided her toward the door as she shrugged, voice snarky.
“The Avengers get new recruits all the time, they’ll replace us with…I dunno, Ant Man or someone.”
Wanda’s laugh was so boisterous that it echoed all the way down the hall as they walked, only dropping each other’s hands once in the company of everyone else.
When they made it to the kitchen they were nearly the last to arrive, every other teammate already seated at the little dining table save for Bruce, who usually showed up late, anyway. A few heads turned when they showed up, Steve giving Nat a questioning glare no doubt in response to her having missed the mission briefing, and Clint flashing that shit-eating grin that never failed to piss her off, making a show of looking back and forth between the two women suggestively. Natasha and Wanda easily ignored them both, though the assassin had no doubts that the boys were only waiting until they were seated to give them the fourth degree.
Since Wanda was busy cuddling with Natasha, it would appear as though Steve was the one who cooked dinner that night, and he’d clearly just decided on something simple: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. At first, Nat only served herself up some potatoes (because she hated most vegetables and she especially despised Steve’s meatloaf recipe (it was exceptionally bland)) but seeing that this was the case, Wanda was quick to sneak some meat and veggies on her plate, and Natasha didn’t have the heart to put them back seeing the witch’s hopeful expression.
“Go save us seats, I’ll grab us drinks.”
Wanda smiled in silent thanks, taking Natasha’s plate in her empty hand so she could set it on the table.
As Wanda settled into a seat beside Vision, she called back to Natasha from over her shoulder:
“Oh, Nat, grab us some silverware too. No one
bothered
to set the table.”
Steve scoffed,
“That’s a lot of sass coming from someone who didn’t bother helping at all with the meal.”
Wanda raised her eyebrows challengingly,
“Oh? As though I didn’t make breakfast this morning and meal prep lunches for this afternoon, not to mention I make dinner
most
nights. So I would be careful who you give a hard time, Captain.”
Steve didn’t respond, but he did have the decency to look a little ashamed, slouching into his seat. Wanda looked pleased by this reaction, humming as she took a seat in her own chair. Natasha was smiling to herself in the kitchen as she poured some glasses of ice water, equally pleased by Wanda’s response. It wasn’t so long ago she would’ve cowered under Steve’s words, and now she was standing up for herself with such ferocity like it was nothing. It made Natasha warm with pride.
“Anyone else need anything while I’m still up?”
A few people also asked for forks and knives, so Natasha walked over to the table and set down her and Wanda’s water glasses before circling back to the silverware drawer in the kitchen. As she reached for the little cutlery drawer’s metal handle, she was reminded again of how loose it was, having fidgeted with it all morning. Despite herself, Natasha found herself doing much the same now, frowning as she wiggled the handle back and forth with her fingers and cringed as it squeaked unpleasantly. It probably just needed to be tightened, she thought, and she wondered if maybe she didn’t have some sort of tool that might work to fix it.
Then again, the threads on the screw might’ve been stripped, in which case it would need a replacement part. That would probably be easy enough to source. Certainly easier than all the parts she’d had to source for fixing up her motorcycle some months ago--now that had been a serious project. This was just something little, easy, maybe even insignificant. But it was something that bothered her--how many mornings had she come into the kitchen for breakfast and frowned at this drawer, fidgeting with the handle? Maybe it didn’t aggravate anyone else, or maybe it did but they were all just too lazy to do anything about it, more occupied by their jobs and, apparently, their hobbies .
“...Natasha? Food’s kinda getting cold, and we can’t exactly eat it without forks.”
Natasha pulled her hand back from the metal as though it had burned her, jumping like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t be, and a few sets of eyes peered curiously at her from over the kitchen counter, the big slab of stone concealing where her hands were. Her face burned with embarrassment--how long had she been standing there, staring at the stupid silverware drawer?
“Right. Sorry.”
Wasting no more time Nat pulled open the drawer (cringing at the loud scraping sound it made--maybe the hinges needed wax?) and grabbed a random assortment of knives and forks, hurrying over to dump her spoils in the center of the table.
“You good?”
Nat smiled tightly at Clint as she took her seat, nodding her head, but both he and Wanda looked unconvinced, and shared a brief look between one another. Whatever Wanda managed to convey in that look, it prevented Clint from teasing her any about having spent the day with Wanda (he was so convinced the two were
in love
with one another, which was just ridiculous). Maybe he thought she was having a hard time. In actuality she just couldn’t stop thinking about the silverware drawer, of all things.
Wanda’s influence didn’t, however, save both women from receiving an earful from Steve about their “flagrant absence” (nor did it save everyone else at the table who, sadly, had to sit through the scolding as well). Wanda apologized profusely for the both of them, saying that Natasha hadn’t been feeling well and she was helping her until they both accidentally fell asleep (which, the ex-assassin supposed, was at least partly true, and she admired Wanda’s commitment to telling half truths). Nat silently poked at her meatloaf, characteristically silent as she let Cap get it all out until, eventually, Tony politely asked him to shut the fuck up. Everyone pretty much finished eating in silence after that, and Bruce never bothered to show up at all which, seeing as how unpleasant the entire meal had been, Natasha thought was actually a pretty smart decision.
When it was time to clear the table it didn’t escape Natasha that Steve was careful to purposefully situate himself beside her in the kitchen, drying the dishes that she was in charge of washing. They were both only two plates in before he leaned over and began quietly speaking to her, and the redhead had to consciously hold in a groan of annoyance as he did so. She couldn’t necessarily blame him for being annoyed or worried or, whatever this was with her--but she could still be aggravated by it. She didn’t even fully understand the significance of the last 24 hours, so to try explaining it to Steve felt impossible.
“It’s not like you to miss a mandatory meeting.”
Natasha shrugged, schooling her facial expression to one of pure indifference.
“It’s not really like you to care so much.”
At that Steve bristled,
“Of course I care, Nat. I care about everyone on the team. You know that.”
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of running water and scrubbing. Most everyone else had already cleared out of the room aside from Wanda and Peter, who were both wiping down the dining table and making quiet, pleasant conversation themselves.
Finally Steve spoke, knowing he’d have to be the one to break the silence. “Do I need to be worried about you?”
His voice sounded almost pained with discomfort and Nat scoffed, wishing they didn't have to play out this same song and dance so frequently. At least when Bruce pestered her with undue concern it felt genuine.
“Steve, c’mon, I missed
one
meeting out of a dozen where you probably went over a bunch of shit I already know. You know I’ll be there and ready to go when it really matters, right? Have I ever not been? So can we just drop it?”
Her voice gradually rose as she spoke until both Peter and Wanda were also looking their direction, equally waiting for Steve’s response. He just sighed,
“Consider it dropped.”
But as the two finished washing and drying the dishes, their postures were equally tense, both jolting back when taut shoulders brushed against one another, and the air was suffocatingly stiff. It wasn’t often that Captain Steve Rogers got into conflict with anyone (aside from Tony, of course), least of all Natasha who, generally speaking, he usually considered to be someone always on the same page as him, always looking out for the betterment of the team as a whole. And while there was nothing at all wrong with the redhead putting herself first for once (as she had been doing more and more frequently since her blossoming friendship with Wanda had developed) it was still odd , especially when it meant the ex-assassin was blowing off her responsibilities. It went against her training.
But true to his word Steve didn’t bring it up again, and when they both finished their duties he left the room in silence, Peter in toe.
“I think he’s just worried about you.”
Natasha collapsed against the kitchen island, head in her hands as Wanda took a seat beside her on a metal bar stool.
“Well, apparently he can get in line.”
Wanda reached out a hand to stroke Natasha’s hair but then thought better of it, seeing how rigid the muscles in her back were and not knowing if a gentle touch would make things better or worse. Often it was better to let Nat initiate when it came to physical contact.
“If there are so many people worried about you, then maybe it’s for good reason, Láska.”
Natasha dug her nails into her palms.
“Or maybe everyone just needs to leave me
ALONE
.”
Wanda shrunk away from her as she lifted her face from the counter to shout. Instantly Natasha was filled with regret at both her words and the ferocity with which she’d spit them at the one person for whom it wasn’t even true. Guilt settled on her tongue in their wake and it was an acrid, sour taste. Wanda just stared down at her lap, avoiding her eyes.
“I’m…it’s just this whole hobby thing. It’s totally gotten into my head and it’s so--stupid! It’s just so stupid and it’s making me angry, I guess. Not at you or--not even at Steve. Just, angry at…”
“Yourself?”
Natasha pulled at a hangnail on her thumb until it bled, smearing the red with her index finger. She didn’t want to admit that Wanda was right, but hearing the word she knew she was.
“I just want to feel…
good
at something the way I feel good at training. The way I used to feel about…”
Nat shook her head, suddenly rising from her slumped position. Just as quickly as she’d allowed herself some vulnerability she was just as quick to put back on that stoic mask and feign apathy. The sight squeezed at Wanda’s tender heart, head aching with the metaphysical weight of Natasha’s unspoken thoughts, even as she tried desperately not to unwillingly hear them.
“It doesn’t matter.”
The witch reached for Natasha’s arm, trying to catch it before she was out of reach, but the redhead pulled back so that she couldn’t, hurrying toward the door. She spoke over her shoulder,
“I’m sorry for dragging you into everything today, Wanda. It was just stupid.”
And then Wanda was in the kitchen, all alone.
Nat laid on her back in bed, staring up at the ceiling and knowing without a shadow of a doubt that sleep was not coming for her. Between her mid-afternoon nap and all the racing thoughts in her head, coupled with those small shreds of her nightmare from earlier that still clung to her waking mind, it felt hopeless even to try. Instead she just sulked in her misery, shivering in the cold, still air of her room, so different from that of Wanda’s which she’d regrettably become so accustomed to. Wanda . If she weren’t so ashamed, she probably could’ve gone crawling back there. Wanda wouldn’t hesitate to invite her inside, even if she didn’t deserve it.
And she didn’t--not after goading the younger woman into missing a meeting for something so selfish and stupid as hobby hunting , not after getting her into trouble with Steve, and certainly not after her little misplaced temper tantrum after dinner. She never should’ve indulged herself in the entire endeavor, never should’ve let Bruce’s words wriggle their way into her brain. But clearly they had, otherwise she would be in the training center right now, finishing up her tenth lap on the track, sprained ankle be damned. Guilt sunk familiar teeth into her skin and rooted her to the bed. That’s what she deserved.
Still, her mind wandered to the little witch, as it so often did. She imagined she was asleep given the late hour, but probably still propped up against the headboard, hand in a popcorn bowl as credits to some terribly cheesy rom-com rolled on the screen. Or maybe she was halfway through a new crochet project, twitching fingers still wrapped up in the yarn of a half-finished scarf or hat or sweater. Wanda was always falling asleep in the middle of doing something and it astounded the older girl to no end how her mind could just suddenly go quiet like that, powering down.
Imagining the other woman in such a precarious slumber made Natasha feel suddenly squirmy and restless, an unexpected eagerness to escape the pit she was quickly sinking into settling into her chilled bones. With a start she leapt up from her bed, the uninviting atmosphere of her bedroom suddenly insufferable. She couldn’t go to the training center (for fear of being confronted again by Bruce, who would no doubt notice her newly bandaged ankle) but she decided she could still aimlessly wander the compound, even if that probably meant ending up at the liquor cabinet in the kitchen as she so often did on sleepless nights.
Tonight, Nat found herself drawn to the kitchen sooner rather than later, mostly because her head was still pounding and she thought if anything was going to help, it would be vodka. But as she fished around noisily in the cabinet looking for one of Tony’s bottles (because the only thing better than drinking her own alcohol was drinking someone else’s), she remembered the cutlery drawer from earlier and how it had bothered her so much. She reasoned she could probably drink while attempting to fix it, so she finished sourcing Tony’s cheap bottle of Smirnoff, popped off the cap, and took a swig straight from it while hurrying back to her room for a screwdriver.
Because she’d worked on her motorcycle a few months back, and because she was often roped into helping Clint with his various construction projects around the house whenever she visited, Natasha already owned a relatively nice tool box. It was mostly thrown together, something she’d purchased from some garage sale a million years ago no doubt, but it had most of the tools she ever happened to need inside and even some that she didn’t. She was also pleased to find, after fishing it out from the top part of her closet on tiptoe, that it included a random plastic baggie of nuts and bolts and tiny screws--just the right size for a tiny kitchen handle.
Without wasting another second, tool box in one hand and opened bottle in the other, Nat made her way back to the kitchen and all but collapsed in a heap on the tiled floor so that she could be eye level with the troublesome drawer handle. Using the tiniest screwdriver in the box, Nat first tried tightening the screw. When that proved to be unsuccessful, the handle still wiggly and eliciting an ugly squeak, Nat fully removed the screw and was unsurprised to find the threads totally stripped. Several sips of vodka and many different tiny screws later, the redhead finally found a matching little screw that fit into the spot where she needed exactly.
Screwing it tightly in place, she was beyond satisfied to find that the drawer handle no longer wiggled back and forth at all when fidgeted with, staying firmly rooted in place even when the heavy drawer was pulled open. Unfortunately, the drawer still groaned and squealed loudly when opened, the metal scraping against itself unpleasantly when open any wider than a crack. Nat sat back on her heels thinking, taking another swig of her drink to help sooth the headache that was finally beginning to recede. There was something satisfying about the task at hand--about being given a problem to solve with solutions quite easily found, and feeling like what she was doing, even with a task so small and insignificant, would make a small difference in her own life and the lives of her colleagues.
It was probably stupid to have felt that way; it was just a kitchen drawer, for fuck’s sake. But she couldn’t ignore the way her fingers twitched with the need to keep going, to keep fidgeting with something until it was fixed and right , the way it was supposed to be. What did this drawer need to keep from groaning so loudly--wax? She didn’t have any traditional metal wax (if she did, it would’ve been tucked away in the tool box), but she reasoned that candle wax would probably work to achieve the same end goal--right? It was made of the same stuff, functioned the same, and it would be a whole hell of a lot easier to source in the middle of the night.
Now about a third of the way through the bottle and starting to feel it, Nat stood to her feet with only a little help from the kitchen counter and went off in search of a candle. She didn’t have one in her own bedroom (her decor was, unsurprisingly, very minimal) but ever since Wanda had moved in to the compound it had been a goal of her’s to make their living space seem more, well, lived in--”a woman’s touch,” she’d said (which Natasha chose not to be offended by). One of those aforementioned touches was candles, and lots of them, so it didn’t take long for Nat to wander into some abandoned meeting room and find a Bath and Body Work’s three-wick on the table, never burned.
Returning with her find, Nat switched on the stove and used one of the burners to help melt some of the white wax on top of the candle until it was soft and pliable. Then, using a small dish rag and her fingers, Nat opened up the silverware drawer as far as it would go and smeared the hot wax onto the metal tracks where the drawer slid open and closed, lubricating it until the drawer could close without any protest. So satisfied with her work, Natasha sat there on the floor for who knew how long, just taking sips from her vodka bottle and opening and closing that drawer in silence aside from the sound of swishing vodka, clinking silverware, and her own heavy breathing.
Eventually, once both of her legs had fallen asleep beneath her and she realized she was actually shaking from the cold tile pressed against her bare legs (she was only wearing boxers and the same stupid t-shirt of Wanda’s from earlier), Nat closed the drawer with finality and stood up from the floor, hiccupping once as she did so. Still far from being tired (or drunk) enough to fall asleep without a barrage of nightmares, Natasha knew she wanted something else to fix--but what? She couldn’t exactly go stumbling around the compound trying every handle and hinge until she found something that needed tightening or replacing. Well, she could , but it didn’t sound like a very effective use of time, and she worried if she wandered too near the training center she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from hopping onto one of the machines and, in her drunken state, no doubt injuring herself. (Again).
Then she remembered--Wanda’s showerhead. Hadn’t she just been complaining to her earlier that day about something being the matter with her water pressure? Natasha had said she could show her how to check the shut-off valve and fix it, but she could also just fix it for her now, assuming she could do so without bothering the witch or accidentally waking her up (since the time was now well past midnight, and she had no doubts the younger girl was fast asleep). Wanda was a pretty light sleeper, but Natasha was, obviously, notoriously quiet and light footed. And if she did happen to wake up for any reason, the redhead could always just claim she wanted to come sleep in the other woman’s bed as she so often did (and that really wasn’t much of a lie, anyway).
Was it an invasion of privacy and maybe even a little creepy for Natasha to creep into her room uninvited by cover of night so she could fiddle with her shower head? Yeah, it probably was. But the two women had spent all day infiltrating their teammate’s bedrooms together, so this wasn’t really so different. And besides, then Wanda could enjoy her morning shower to its fullest, she reasoned, and that would negate the questionable morality of her act. If her fixing the shower also had anything to do with Natasha also wanting to apologize without actually apologizing, she wouldn’t admit it, even to herself. But her mind was made up, so with her vodka bottle and tool box in hand, she quietly padded down the hall to Wanda’s dwelling.
When the automatic doors opened for Natasha with a soft whir she held her breath, eyes adjusting to the dark as she silently stepped inside and let the doors close again behind her. Just as she’d predicted, Wanda was asleep on the bed with her back against the headboard and head rolled to one side so that her cheek was smooshed against her sweater-clad shoulder. Natasha cringed a little at the position, knowing that Wanda would wake up in the morning with a very sore neck, but of course resisted the urge to adjust her position in any way, lest she startle the witch awake. Across her lap, which was covered by Nat’s usual quilt, were little pieces of popcorn that’d fallen from the bucket at her side, limp hand resting on the rim. On the TV reruns of Full House played softly in the background. It was all soothingly predictable.
Resisting the urge to collapse in the bed beside her and curl up into the taller woman’s side Nat threw her head back, took a long sip of alcohol, and barreled her way into Wanda’s attached restroom. In complete silence Nat shut the door behind her, further muffling the sound from the tv so that the room was bathed in mostly silence and certainly darkness. She set her tool box down quietly beside the sink and then felt blindly along the walls for a light switch instinctively before thinking better of it, realizing that if she flipped the lights on the sliver of light that would seep through the cracks around the doorframe might alert the witch to her presence.
Instead, Nat decided to use her dimmed phone flashlight to guide her as she climbed over the tub’s edge and clamored to stand beneath the offending showerhead. It was only as she stood there that she realized, examining the inoffensive looking shower head, that she’d probably have to test the shower a few times after fidgeting with it to know if her efforts had actually worked to fix the water pressure issues Wanda complained of. Would the sound of running water switching on and off be enough to wake up the sleeping witch?
She took a deep breath--only one way to find out, right? To be extra cautious, Natasha stripped off her (Wanda’s) t-shirt and stuffed it underneath the bathroom door in an attempt to fill the gap and dampen any noise. Plus, if she got caught at this point, she figured she should probably pretend to be taking a shower, and this way she wouldn’t have to worry so much about her clothes getting wet under the running water, either. Standing there in the dark topless, phone flashlight held in her mouth so that she could use both hands while adjusting the valves with her wrench, she was feeling either exceptionally smart, or exceptionally drunk. Or maybe both.
After messing around with the valves sort of aimlessly, Nat decided it was time to just say fuck it and switch on the water to see how she was looking. As she turned the metal knob she held her breath, eyes skewed shut so she could listen for any sounds of movement from the bedroom that might indicate Wanda was waking up. She only jumped a little when the water came spraying out of the shower head at such a high velocity that, despite maneuvering her body to stand what she thought would be left of the water, both the end of her ponytail and all of her right arm got sprayed with ice cold water. She was quick to shut the water back off before it could get her any wetter, water running down her arm and dripping off her elbow so that the right side of her boxers were now cold and wet too.
It was at this moment that Natasha realized she didn’t actually ask Wanda what about her water pressure was screwy. She’d been adjusting the valves assuming her pressure was too weak since Wanda said her showers took painfully long as a result. Buuut, given the now insanely intense pressure of the water shooting out of her faucet like a piston, Nat could deduce that maybe she’d assumed incorrectly. As such, the ex-assassin spent the next 15-20 minutes undoing all that she’d already done, then properly fixing the shower head.
The next time she turned the water on, this time fully stepping out of the bathtub (just in case), the water came out perfectly , a big smile spreading across her face at the sight. She had half a mind to jump in herself after testing that the water temperature worked just fine because the perfect stream of water actually looked so inviting, but she figured it’d be best not to considering she had nothing of her own ready to change into (she needed to do laundry) and leaving Wanda with a pile of her dirty laundry seemed a little counterintuitive to her mission.
Satisfied and officially out of alcohol, Nat hesitantly shut off the water in the shower, hid her empty bottle under the sink, and retrieved her shirt from where it was crumpled up on the floor as a little makeshift noise barrier. Even though it was still a little too tight and certainly more Wanda’s style than it was her (the dumb graphic looking more endearing somehow when worn by her) the redhead was happy to slip it on, cold and stringy wet hair at the end of her ponytail still sticking to her shoulders and neck, goosebumps all over. Toolbox again in hand nat sighed, trying to prepare for opening the bathroom door, hand hovering nervously over the doorknob. What would she do now to occupy herself for the hours between now and dawn? She was officially out of things to fix. Tangible things, anyway.
Even so, and being drunk as she was, she still had at least the mind not to continue standing in wet underwear in the center of Wanda’s dark bathroom indefinitely. Mustering her strength, Natasha grasped the door handle and quietly opened the door. She expected to see Wanda’s room pretty much exactly the way it’d looked before, with maybe a little bit more popcorn spread across the bed or a different equally insufferably 90’s sitcom on the television. What she hadn’t expected was to see Wanda far from asleep but, in fact, wide awake, sitting at the end of her bed with slippered feet down on the carpet. Her hands were gripping a new crochet project of sorts, fingers working quickly with the yarn, and her milky eyes were all but glued to the TV screen. Well, glued until Natasha emerged from her bathroom, obviously.
As Wanda’s eyes met her’s it quickly became clear that Natasha was the much more surprised of the two, stumbling in such shock that she almost dropped her entire toolbox on the floor. Clearly, she hadn’t been quite as sneaky as she’d thought…
“What are you doing up?”
Wanda was probably trying to look something close to unbothered by the other woman’s presence, but her eyes showed nothing but amusement, curling up at the ends with a little hint of a smile. She set aside her crochet and crossed her arms.
“I think I’m the one who should probably be asking you that, Miss Romanov.”
Natasha swallowed thickly, feeling a little like a kid who’d been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing, but in actuality she probably wasn’t nearly as embarrassed as she should’ve been (and the alcohol coursing through her system was certainly to thank for that). Still, her face practically glowed red in the soft tv light. She at least wished she’d been wearing some pants.
“You losing your touch, Romanov?”
Now Wanda’s voice was ALL amusement, and her blank expression had given way to a very snarky little smirk, clearly very pleased with herself at having caught Natasha sneaking about.
Nat puffed out her chest in an attempt at matching the witch’s bravado, but it was very obviously phony, undermined certainly by her still flushed cheeks and slightly out of breath state. She truly hadn’t expected Wanda to ambush her like this and she felt woefully unprepared to match her wit.
“Maybe I wanted to be caught.”
Wanda shook her head, laughing.
“Right, of course, all according to your master plan.”
Natasha nodded her head but didn’t add anything more, just shifting her weight back and forth from foot to foot, and Wanda quirked her brow, rising fully from the bed.
In three quick steps she closed the space between the two women and Nat’s breath hitched. She didn’t know how to describe the way this situation felt aside from…
dangerous.
“Why are you so nervous, zlatko?”
Nat hiccupped,
“I’m not nervous. I’m drunk.”
Wanda pressed the back of her smooth hand to Natasha’s warm cheek, soaking in her heat with a sleepy smile.
“You’re
both
.”
Natasha absolutely melted into her touch, humming deep in her throat a sound that was closest to a purr, and Wanda happily flipped her hand over to properly cup the other woman’s face, fingers easily finding their place behind her ear.
“I didn’t mean to…did I wake you up?”
“I couldn’t really sleep anyway, just dozed off. I was thinking about you.”
Nat pursed her lips almost in a pout,
“Well, that’s stupid.”
“Yeah? Well, so is sneaking into my room to fix my shower head by the cover of night.”
Natasha didn’t have a very good rebuttal, because hearing sensible Wanda say it out loud now it did sound rather stupid and, as she’d feared, maybe even a little creepy. Wanda didn’t seem especially disturbed though, smile still on her lips.
“But, because you finally found your hobby and because I feel a little sorry for you standing there drunk in wet underwear, I’ll let it slide.”
Natasha snorted,
“You aren’t going to report me to the proper authorities?”
Wanda retracted her hand and Nat instantly missed her touch, but suppressed a groan when Wanda slipped said hand into her own and started tugging her back toward the bed.
“Just this
once
, ‘Tasha. Don’t start getting any ideas.”
If Natasha were more sober or maybe less tired (as sleep had suddenly crept around the corners of her vision and pressed itself against the crown of her head quite unsuspectedly as it had a way of doing in Wanda’s presence) she probably would’ve protested, or at the very least insisted upon changing out of her semi-wet boxers first, but as she was Natasha was more than happy to abandon her toolbox at the foot of Wanda’s bed and collapse with her onto the mattress.
“Ya know, it’s about time we have someone handy around here aside from Clint.”
Wanda shook the popcorn kernels off of Nat’s quilt and then spread it out over her, all but tucking her in before slipping in by her side.
“He isn’t as good as he thinks he is. Just ask Laura.”
Wanda laughed,
“If word gets around, the whole team is going to have things for you to tinker with and fix, ya know. Bruce and Thor are constantly breaking things.”
Wanda paused mid sentence as though deep in thought, and when she spoke again her voice was much softer, almost a whisper in Natasha’s ear.
“I have a music box that needs fixing, actually. It was my mother’s, something Pietro and I had salvaged from our home in Sokovia. I wonder if you couldn’t take a look at it?”
Wanda spoke again before Natasha could respond, shaking her head,
“It probably isn’t something that can be fixed anyway, it’s why I haven’t brought it anywhere to be looked at. The bombs they…it’s hardly recognizable as a music box, now.”
Natasha cut the sweet girl off, closing the space between them on the mattress so that all of her cool bare skin was now pressed against the witch.
“I’d be happy to look at it, Wands.”
She smiled, eyes twinkling in the way they only ever did when looking at her.
“Thank you, Natasha. And thank you for fixing my shower…assuming you
did
fix it, that is?”
Like a story already told, Natasha's hands found Wanda’s sides without having to look, head quickly buried into the warm space between her neck and her shoulder and Wanda clung to her in turn, rubbing her arms up and down gently to try and get rid of the redhead’s goosebumps. She talked around a yawn as she spoke, eyes already closing.
“Nah, I totally busted it, actually. But it’s like you said, a hobby doesn’t have to be something you’re
good
at, right little witch?”
She planted a kiss to the top of Natasha’s head with a sigh,
“Absolutely right, Natasha. That is absolutely right.”