Summary: You and Nat got invited to dinner with your parents. Except your parents are dicks and Nat stands up for you.
Pairing(s): natasha romanoff x reader
Warnings: family issues, protective nat (fuck yeah), angst if you squint, hurt/comfort-ish.
a/n: nat fic as promised.
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Ever since you were little, you didnât have the best relationship with your parents. Your grades were mediocre, you stayed in your room most of the time, and what bothered you the most were the sly comments your mom would make about you.
âYour hair is so messy, no man would want to date a girl with a mane.â
âYou should exercise more, I think youâre putting on some weight.â
âWhy are you always locked away in your room, do you hate us or something?â
As you were growing up, you learned to tune it outâwhether it be through music, drinking, or just staying out so late the sun was rising when you got back home. You found every possible chance to get out of the houseâor just away from your parentsâand took it. You never truly cut them off; after all, they didnât do you any physical harm per se, just someânot soâminor infractions on your self-image. You talked to them barely once a year on the phone, visited during Christmas some years, but that was the extent of your relationship.
When you met Natasha, you rarely ever brought up your parents. Sometimes she would ask questions, purely out of curiosity, while you were cuddled up on the couch or when you two were baking together in the kitchen. You did your best to keep the answers short and simple. Not like there was much to talk about anywayâyou barely remember any interactions with your parents, let alone good ones. Most of them ended the same way anyway, with you being lectured on whatever it may be.
Natasha was the best girlfriend you could have ever asked for. You often woke up being smothered in kisses plastered all around your face and jaw, right before you glanced at the alarm clock beside you and realized you were late to work, begrudgingly leading her off you so you could go get ready. Natasha would take you on date nights weeklyâit was a must. Sheâd shower you in compliments every time she saw you dressed up for a fancy night out, even though she bought you the dress herself. She especially loved this black dress she bought you for your birthday dinner, which hugged your form perfectly, leaving her mouth âwatering,â as per Natashaâs own words.
There wasnât a second of any day where Natasha made you feel unloved or underappreciated. Every day you spent with her was no less satisfying than the last. Even when you had particularly hard days at work, or when your annoying coworker wouldnât shut up, you knew that you could always come home to your girlfriend and melt right into her arms. Natasha always finished work earlier than you. Being in charge of her own company made her work hours very flexibleâmuch to your benefit.
When you got that phone call from your parents asking you to come over and introduce them to Natasha, you were shocked, to say the least. Apparently, your sister had let it slip that you had a girlfriend, which she apologized for profusely once you confronted her. There was no getting out of this. Of course, when you told Natasha, she was overjoyed. In your two years of dating, she had never once met your parents. She never mentioned that she was upset about it, but you knew she always wanted to meet the people who raised you.
When the weekend finally rolled around, you were pacing the apartment like a cat in a cage. Every few minutes, youâd check the clock, even though you still had hours before you had to leave. Natasha was on the couch, legs crossed, watching you with that little smirk she wore whenever you were spiraling. She looked effortlessly put together in her cream blouse and slacks, hair tied back, but a few stray red strands fell around her face.
âSweetheart,â she said, voice soft but teasing, âyouâre wearing a hole in the floor.â
You stopped mid-step, exhaling through your nose. âI justââ You rubbed at your temple. âI donât know how this is gonna go.â
âTheyâre your parents,â she said simply, like that explained everything.
âExactly.â Natashaâs smirk faded into something gentler. She patted the seat beside her. âCome here.â You sank down, and her hand was on your thigh instantly, grounding you. She always did thatâtouched without hesitation, like she could anchor you with just her fingertips.
âLook, my parents are very⊠demanding. Iâm just saying, thereâs a reason I donât talk to them much,â you started to explain to her. Demanding was a nice way to put it.
âOkay. How âbout once we get there, anytime you want to leave, we will,â Natasha reasoned. You loved how she always, always considered your feelings above all else.
You reluctantly agreed, stepping away to get ready, changing into a simple blouse and some semi-formal dress pants. You knew anything less would get you snide remarks from your mother.
The drive to your parentsâ house was quiet. Natashaâs hand found yours on the gearshift halfway there, thumb tracing circles over your knuckles. You stared out the window, watching the same streets you used to bike down as a kid. Everything looked smaller now.
When you pulled up to the house, your stomach twisted. The curtains shifted slightlyâyour mother had already seen you. Natasha gave your hand a final squeeze before stepping out.
âDeep breaths,â she murmured.
You rang the doorbell before you could lose your nerve. Your mother opened the door, wearing her usual practiced smileâthe kind that didnât reach her eyes. âOh, there you are!â she said. âAnd this must be Natasha.â
Your parents and your girlfriend exchanged casual hellos and introductions before you all sat down at the dinner table. Dinner was always going to be uncomfortable, but you hadnât expected it to feel like sitting through an interrogation.
Your motherâs dining room was as immaculate as everâeverything symmetrical, the scent of lavender polish clinging to the air. Natasha sat beside you, perfectly composed, even as your motherâs gaze flicked between you both like she was assessing damage.
The first half hour was bearable. Polite questions about work, about traffic, about the weather. Harmless enough. But it didnât take long before the cracks began to show.
âSo, Natasha,â your mother said sweetly, swirling her wine, âit must be exhausting keeping up with such a demanding job. Youâre in⊠security, is that right?â
Natasha smiled lightly. âSomething like that.â You chuckled a little bit at her humble approach to the question, knowing that she had run her own security firmâthe largest one in the country, at thatâbut you ultimately kept quiet.
âMm.â Your motherâs eyes darted to you, lingering a little too long. âAnd youâstill between things, dear?â
You stiffened. Natashaâs hand, resting on your thigh under the table, gave a gentle squeeze.
âIâm working,â you said, keeping your voice even. âJust not in an office.â
âOh, of course,â your mother said. âNatasha must be very patient. Not everyone could handle such⊠differences in lifestyle.â
Your chest tightened, but Natasha didnât flinch. âI donât find patience necessary,â she said smoothly. âIâm proud of her. Sheâs doing what makes her happy.â
âHow nice.â Your mother glanced at you, lips curving. âI remember when you used to say you wanted to do something important.â
You forced a smile. âI still do, Mom.â
Your father chuckled, setting down his fork. âWell, maybe one day youâll get there. Youâve always been a little scattered with your plans.â
Your jaw tightened. âI have a job, Dad.â
He shrugged. âSure. Just not the kind of job you can brag about.â
Natashaâs hand tensed slightly on your thigh.
Your motherâs voice came next, honey-sweet and poisonous. âYouâve always been our dreamer. Never one for structure, never one for consistency. But I suppose Natasha doesnât mind that?â
âShe doesnât,â Natasha said evenly.
âOf course.â Your mother took a sip of her wine. âItâs just surprising, thatâs all. A woman of her success choosing someone whoâŠâ her eyes flicked over you, assessing, âstill hasnât quite found her footing.â
You swallowed hard, throat tight. âMomââ
She smiled, then looked at Natasha again, cutting you off. âYou must be very patient with her.â
Natashaâs fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Her eyes flicked upâcalm, but cold. âPatient?â
âWell, yes. Sheâs always been a bit scattered. Emotional, too. I imagine that takes some getting used to.â
Natasha set her fork down neatly. âIt doesnât.â The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut through the air.
Your father cleared his throat. âSheâs just saying you have different personalities, thatâs all.â
âRight,â Natasha said, voice soft but precise. âExcept thatâs not what she said.â
Your mother blinked, clearly thrown off. âI didnât mean anything by itââ
âYou did,â Natasha said, still calm, still polite. âYou meant to remind her that sheâs never been enough for you. You do it with a smile, but itâs still the same thing.â
Your motherâs lips thinned. âI donât appreciate being spoken to like that in my own home.â
âAnd I donât appreciate watching you tear her down in yours,â Natasha replied.
Your father leaned back, tone sharp. âYou donât know us. You donât get to sit here and judge the way we raised our daughter.â
Natashaâs gaze didnât move from your mother. âMaybe not. But I can see what it did to her.â
You looked down at your hands, throat tight. Natashaâs words werenât raised, werenât dramaticâthey were steady, deliberate. It almost made it worse.
Your fatherâs voice hardened. âThatâs enough. I think you two should leave.â
Natasha stood first, chair scraping quietly against the floor. She didnât argue, just reached for your handâthe movement small, but grounding.
You hesitated only for a second before standing with her.
Your mother spoke again, voice like ice. âYouâll regret this someday. Letting someone like her come between you and your family.â
Natasha didnât look back. But her voice, when she answered, was calm enough to sting. âIf this is what family means to you, I think sheâs better off.â
---
The house was quiet when you got home. Not the comfortable kind of quiet that usually came with late nights inâmusic humming softly through the speakers, Natasha muttering under her breath as she made teaâbut the kind that felt like everything had been turned down too low.
You didnât say much when you came through the door, just kicked off your shoes and went straight for the living room. Natasha followed, not saying a word either. She knew better than to fill the silence right awayâknew you needed a moment to just breathe.
You sank into the couch, elbows on your knees, staring at the dark TV screen. You could still feel the weight of your motherâs stare, the too-sweet tone of her voice, the tight smile your father gave every time you tried to speak. The way the air had grown thick with things you werenât supposed to say.
Natasha walked past you, quiet footsteps over the hardwood, and disappeared into the kitchen. You heard the familiar sound of the kettle being filled, the soft click of the stove. It was her way of grounding thingsâdoing something simple. When she came back, she was carrying two mugs, steam curling up from both.
âChamomile,â she said softly, setting one in front of you. âThe one with honey. You need it.â
You took it, fingers brushing hers for just a second. The warmth seeped through your skin, a sharp contrast to the cold pit in your stomach.
âThey wereâŠâ you started, then stopped. The words got tangled somewhere between your throat and your chest. âThey were worse than I remembered.â
Natasha let out a quiet breath and sat down beside you, close enough that her thigh pressed against yours. âYou donât have to defend them,â she said. Her voice wasnât angry, but it had that low edge. âNot after tonight.â
You shook your head. âIâm not. I just thought maybe theyâd changed. I wanted you to see that they could at least be decent.â
Natasha tilted her head, studying your face like she was trying to read every thought running through it. Then she reached out, her hand sliding over yours. âThey donât get to decide what youâre worth. Not after the way they spoke to you.â
You didnât trust your voice enough to answer. Instead, you leaned into her touch, letting your shoulder press against hers until she wrapped an arm around you and pulled you in completely. It wasnât one of her careful, measured embracesâit was solid, certain.
âYou handled yourself better than I did,â she murmured, almost to herself. âI shouldâve left sooner.â
âYou didnât do anything wrong,â you said into her chest.
âI shouldâve done more.â Her voice was low, steady â not angry, but threaded with guilt. âWhen your father said those thingsââ
âNat,â you interrupted, lifting your head enough to meet her eyes. âYou did enough. You were there.â
Her jaw unclenched, just barely. Then she gave you a small smile. âYou always say that like itâs supposed to make me feel better.â
âThatâs because it should.â
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The kettle clicked off in the kitchen, long forgotten. You could feel her heartbeat against your ear, steady and grounding. Her fingers brushed absently through your hairâslow, rhythmic motions that made your eyes sting for reasons you couldnât quite name.
âNext time,â she said finally, voice quieter now, âwe donât go back there unless you want to. Not because they ask. Not because you feel like you have to.â
You nodded, the motion small but sure. âDeal.â
She pressed a kiss to the top of your head, lingering there for a few seconds. âGood.â
You stayed like that for a long whileâwrapped up in the soft glow of the living room lamp, the hum of the refrigerator somewhere in the background. Eventually, Natasha leaned back, pulling you with her until you were both half-lying on the couch. Her hand found yours again, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin.
When she spoke again, her voice had softened to something almost fragile. âYou didnât deserve any of that, you know.â
You didnât answer right away, just turned your head toward her, your forehead brushing her shoulder. âI know,â you said quietly. âBut it still hurts.â
âI know.â She squeezed your hand. âThatâs why Iâm here.â
The words shouldnât have hit as hard as they did, but they did. You let yourself breathe for the first time that night. The silence that followed didnât feel heavy. It just felt safe.
