premium service: part two
natasha romanoff x paramedic!femreader
FLUFF / SLIGHT HURT/COMFORT
summary: "Next time the sky opens up, give me a call." When a routine emergency call goes horribly sideways and leaves you trapped beneath a collapsed structural wall, you finally press the button on the sleek black earpiece Natasha gave you. You expected S.H.I.E.L.D. tactical support you didn't expect the Black Widow herself to tear through concrete to get to you.
authors note: i dont like this one 🫩.
masterlist
Part 1
————————
Three weeks had passed since the sky split open over Manhattan, and the city was still creaking under the weight of its own recovery. For you, it meant grueling double shifts, endless cups of lukewarm gas station coffee, and a permanent layer of white drywall dust on your heavy work boots.
It also meant keeping a sleek, black, unmarked earpiece tucked safely inside the breast pocket of your uniform shirt.
Every time you felt the cool, high-tech metal brush against your chest, you felt a little ridiculous. You hadn't used it, of course. You told yourself you wouldn't—you were a professional, and Natasha Romanoff was an international super-spy who saved the world. She had high-caliber, global threats to worry about. She didn't need to be bothered by a local paramedic who couldn't stop thinking about the sharp, intense green of her eyes or the dry, gravelly hum of her voice.
Until today.
It was supposed to be a standard search-and-rescue sweep. A dilapidated, five-story tenement building on the Lower East Side had been deemed highly unstable after the battle, and a city crew was preparing to demolish it. Your rig was stationed on standby in case any squatters or stray animals were found inside before the wrecking ball swung.
You had volunteered to do the quick walk-through of the second floor. The air inside was freezing, smelling of damp rot and old plaster. You moved carefully, shine-testing the beam of your flashlight into dark doorways and calling out into the empty rooms.
"NYFD! Anyone in here?"
Your voice echoed hollowly. You turned into a back bedroom, stepping over shattered glass, when a deep, sickening groan vibrated through the floorboards beneath your feet.
You froze. The air pressure in the room suddenly changed, a sharp crack like a gunshot echoing from the ceiling above.
Before you could even lung toward the doorway, the world violently caved in.
The collapse was deafening, a roaring avalanche of snapping support beams, crumbling brick, and heavy plaster. You were thrown backward onto the floor as the ceiling gave way. Darkness swallowed you whole, accompanied by a choking, blinding cloud of white dust that filled your throat and lungs.
When the roaring finally stopped, a heavy, suffocating silence settled over the room.
You coughed weakly, tasting copper and bitter ash. You tried to sit up, but a sharp, white-hot spike of agony shot up your left leg, making your vision swim with black spots. You gasped, squeezing your eyes shut as tears leaked down your dirty cheeks.
Shining your flashlight with trembling hands, you looked down. Your lower left leg was pinned entirely beneath a massive, splintered oak support beam, which was weighed down by a heavy slab of collapsed concrete wall.
"Medic 4, this is dispatch, what is your status? We heard a collapse," your radio buzzed on your shoulder.
With shaking fingers, you reached up and unclipped it. "Dispatch, this is Medic 4. I'm on the second floor, back room, east side. I'm trapped. I have a structural collapse on my lower extremity—"
A loud static hiss cut you off. You looked down at the radio in your hand. The antenna had been completely sheared off by a falling brick, and the battery casing was cracked.
You were completely cut off.
The air was thick, suffocatingly dusty, and above you, the remaining ceiling rafters groaned ominously under the shifted weight. The building was continuing to settle. Panic, cold and razor-sharp, began to claw at your throat. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't move. You were going to be crushed.
Next time the sky opens up, give me a call.
The memory of her voice, low and steady, flashed through your mind. Your hand flew to your breast pocket. Your fingers fumbled past the penlight and the trauma shears, finally wrapping around the cool, sleek metal of the earpiece.
You slipped it into your ear and pressed the single, flush button on the side.
For three agonizing seconds, there was nothing but dead air. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. You felt stupid. It was a S.H.I.E.L.D. device; it probably didn't even work inside a collapsed building, or maybe she had deactivated it, or—
Click.
"Identify," a sharp, automated digital voice demanded.
"It's… it's the paramedic," you gasped out, coughing as more plaster dust drifted down from the ceiling. "From the overpass. Manhattan. I'm trapped. Lower East Side, crumbling building, second floor… I can't get out, and the ceiling is—"
A sharp beep cut you off, and the line went completely silent.
You closed your eyes, letting your head fall back against the dusty floorboards. You let out a shaky breath, clutching your injured leg. You had probably just dialed a secure database in Virginia. They wouldn't send help for a civilian medic. You had to prepare yourself to wait for the fire department to dig their way through.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Every creak of the building made your muscles tense with terror.
Suddenly, a massive thud vibrated through the floorboards, shaking the dust from the walls. It was followed by the loud, mechanical whine of a powerful hydraulic tool, and then the screech of metal being violently torn apart.
"In here! I've got a heat signature!" a voice shouted. It was muffled, but it was close. Incredibly close.
A heavy block of concrete directly above you was suddenly lifted and tossed aside like a piece of styrofoam. A blinding shaft of grey afternoon light broke through the gloom, cutting through the haze of dust.
Squinting, you shielded your eyes. Through the clearing air, a silhouette dropped down into the rubble.
Sleek, dark tactical gear. Bright, fiery red hair dusted with grey plaster.
Natasha Romanoff scrambled over the pile of broken brick on her hands and knees. For someone who usually looked like she could stare down an army of aliens without a single hair out of place, she looked completely, utterly terrified. Her breath was coming in short, panicked gasps, and her eyes searched the darkness until they locked onto yours.
"Hey, hey," she breathed, dropping to her knees beside you.
Her hands immediately went to your face, her touch warm and incredibly grounding. Her thumbs gently wiped the thick dust from your cheeks, her eyes scanning your face for injuries. Her hands were trembling.
"Natasha?" you croaked, your voice dry and cracked. "You… you actually came."
"Of course I came," she said, her voice tight with a raw emotion you hadn't heard in it before. She slid her hands down to your shoulders, squeezing them gently to keep you anchored. "The second your earpiece activated, S.H.I.E.L.D. dispatch flagged it. The quinjet was already over the river. I'm here. I've got you."
She looked down, her expression instantly hardening as she assessed the massive oak beam pinning your leg.
"Alright," Natasha said, her voice shifting into its calm, tactical tone, though she didn't let go of your hand. "I'm going to lift this. When I do, I need you to slide your leg out. Can you do that for me?"
"I think so," you nodded, bracing your hands against the floorboards.
Natasha wedged her hands beneath the massive oak beam. With a sharp, low grunt of pure physical effort, she lifted the crushing weight. The muscles in her arms strained against her tactical suit as she hoisted the beam just high enough.
You let out a ragged cry of pain, dragging your injured leg free from the trap.
The moment your leg was clear, Natasha dropped the beam with a heavy crash. She was immediately back over you, her hands gently running down the length of your leg to check for a compound fracture. Her touch was incredibly light, careful not to hurt you any further.
"It's not broken," she murmured, her green eyes finding yours, filled with immense relief. "Just a nasty sprain and some deep contusions. But you need to get off this floor. The rest of this ceiling is coming down."
"I don't think I can walk, Natasha," you whispered, a tremor in your voice.
"Good thing you don't have to," she replied softly.
Before you could protest, Natasha slid one arm beneath your back and the other beneath your knees. With an effortless, fluid motion, she scooped you up into her arms, cradling you securely against her chest.
Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around her neck, burying your face in the crook of her shoulder. She smelled like leather, fresh rain, and gunsmoke and it was the most comforting, safe thing you had ever experienced. As she carried you over the jagged piles of brick and out through the shattered entryway, you squeezed her a little tighter.
"You're quite the lifesaver, Agent Romanoff," you mumbled against her collarbone.
"Just returning the favor," she murmured, her grip on you tightening reassuringly.
When she stepped out of the dust-choked building and into the cool, fresh air of the street, you realized the entire block had been cordoned off. A S.H.I.E.L.D. tactical team stood guard, along with your bewildered EMS partners. Your supervisor's jaw was practically on the pavement as he watched the Black Widow personally carry you out of a collapsed building.
Natasha ignored all of them. She carried you straight to the back of your empty ambulance, gently setting you down on the rear bumper—exactly where you had sat her three weeks ago.
She didn't step back. Instead, she stood close, blocking the rest of the chaotic street from your view, keeping you in her own private space. Her hands rested on either side of your thighs on the bumper, her green eyes scanning your face with lingering concern.
"You look awful," she murmured, though there was a soft, incredibly tender smile playing on her lips.
"You should see the other guy," you laughed weakly, leaning back against the open ambulance door. "Or, well, the ceiling. Thank you, Natasha. Truly."
"Don't thank me yet," she said, her voice dropping to a low, quiet register that made your heart skip a beat. She reached out, her fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, her hand lingering on the side of your neck. "I told you I'd be your personal security. I don't break my promises."
She reached into her utility vest, pulled out a fresh bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and handed it to you.
"Drink," she commanded gently. "And once the doctors clear that ankle and get you cleaned up…" Natasha leaned in a fraction of an inch closer, her eyes dropping to your lips for a brief, heavy second before rising back to yours. "…you're going to let me buy you a proper dinner. No cafeteria food, no emergency calls, and no falling ceilings."
You took a sip of the water, a warmth blooming in your chest that had nothing to do with the adrenaline. "Is that an official S.H.I.E.L.D. directive?"
"No," Natasha smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners . "That's a date."
