oh. oh. “the road will give you the thing you want the most” and it gave agatha death. oh. what she wanted most was her wife. oh. oh. she died because the road brought her death as her reward.
Chapter Summary: Waking up from your nap doesn't bring the relief you would expect. Unexpectedly harsh words greet you and two people you never thought you would see find their way to you.
Word Count: 9.7k
Warnings for this Chapter: none I think? maybe trauma response
A/N: at this rate no chapter is going to be under 7.5k so I'm just going to post it in full here when I feel up to it. like today :D
Series Masterlist AO3
—
You're in a field of cotton balls.
You reach out, burying your fingers into the mass, and squeeze a handful into your fist. They're fuzzy against your palm, yielding with just enough satisfying resistance to soothe the ache in your knuckles. They bloom with warmth. Your fingertips begin to thaw. You can feel the prickle of circulation returning to your skin.
You look up. It's nighttime.
The dark blue sky holds a full moon that rains down a pale glow, turning the white field around you luminous. Stars cluster into constellations in the distance. It's quiet. Not in the way where it scares you. Not in the way where your thoughts attempt to drag you under. It's a peaceful quiet where the world stands still for you.
Just for you.
You open your fist. The cotton balls roll away from your skin, plopping soundlessly onto the white expanse below. You drag your palm across the surface, tracking the soft texture. You press down with your full weight, expecting the fibers to collapse and drop you through, but they hold steady.
You gaze toward the distance, where the dark line of night seems to stretch on without an end. The scenery is identical in every direction.
A movement catches your eye. Your shadow stretches across the white surface, mimicking your posture. You look down at the dark shape. It tracks your frame perfectly, but it lacks any real definition. No features. No edges. Just a flat, black void cutting through the light.
But it's surely you.
When you raise your arm, the shadow raises its arm. When you tilt your head, the dark shape tilts its head.
You pause.
The shadow keeps moving for a fraction of a second before it snaps into a sudden standstill. It stops matching you entirely.
Staring at it makes your heart ache. You're perfectly fine with being a shadow drifting through life. Disappearing the moment the sun comes up to make room for real people—bright people with character, who roam and live and take up space.
You don't have to be special. You don't want to be. You don't need to be.
Flashes of green erupt across the dark sky. Ribbons of vibrant, shifting emerald and mint arc over your head, twisting like the aurora borealis you used to stare at in photos. They dance through the air, curving down toward you as if trying to make you smile.
The shades of green are too specific. You recognize them instantly.
"Please stop," you whisper, the sound catching in your throat. "Please don't treat me like I'm special."
The lights answer by swirling closer, tightening their perimeter until they weave into beautiful patterns around your body.
You had gotten used to the quiet. You had accepted being alone. Doing everything by yourself. Only counting on yourself
A wisp of the green light brushes past your cheekbone. For a moment, the air sparks with warmth and the smell of jasmine blooms. It reminds you of Wanda's hand against your cheek when you shared her desk. That familiar warmth. The kind that makes you want to let your head fall and let her hand support you.
A brighter, vibrant green light wraps around you, completely blocking out everything. It forms a thick, impenetrable wall—exactly like Natasha blocking out the chaotic world past the office doors.
You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing your eyelids together until the pressure makes your temples throb, waiting until it's safe to look again.
When you open them, the sky is empty. The lights are gone without a trace. As if they were never there.
You're alone again.
You're used to this part. But your shoulders slump as if a weight was dropped on them. Your knees bend, the muscles in your thighs trembling as they threaten to drop your weight. You look back up at the empty sky, wishing you could see the green ribbons again, even though you're the one who just begged them to leave.
A part of you had hoped they would stay anyway, even when you turned your back.
It's fine. You're just a shadow, and the gorgeous lights have probably drifted away to find someone more beautiful. Someone who is a real person.
The corners of your mouth twitch upward into a small smile, but your gaze drops. It's exhausting being alone.
You lean back. The space beneath your heels fills with the soft give of the cotton, absorbing your weight as you sink into them. You feel completely weightless. You close your eyes, letting your muscles go slack. Your head tilts to the side, your cheek presses into the soft fibers.
Your heart still hurts. Even here, in this empty space with nothing but the moon, the stars, and the perfect comfort below you—a space made just for you—the reality catches up. You can't run away from the aching want to have someone else shoulder your burdens with you.
Or maybe two people.
The cotton slowly begins to compress beneath your spine, flattening millimeter by millimeter. The loft is disappearing. You don't know how far down the ground is.
Please, just let me stay here, you think, your fingers curling weakly, holding onto the cotton that remains. Let me stay in this place. Forever.
A sudden touch registers against your skin. Soft fingertips press against your ankle, tracing circles right over your veins.
Your eyes fly open. You crane your neck down to look, but the field is empty. There's no one there. You just continue to descend, your body getting heavier and heavier. Somehow, you know there's not much time left.
You lay your head back down, closing your eyes in acceptance.
"It's time to wake up, detka."
The softest, raspy voice reaches your ears, brushing against your skin with the same weight as the fingertips on your ankle.
And you fall.
—
The faint hum of the heater overhead. The rhythm of your own breaths, slow and even. The drag of pages turning in a book.
A hand rests on your ankle. The thumb moves occasionally, tracing a slow arc near the bone and over your veins.
Your eyes blink open. The fabric of the couch’s backrest comes into view, sharpening the more you blink. Your face is pressed into the pillow, squishing your cheek. It feels like there's a thick cloud surrounding your skull. Your thoughts lag, arriving one by one at a snail's pace.
Yesterday. Matt sitting in the common room. His grip on your hand. The suffocating smell of smoke filtering through the vent all night. Your burning eyes. Natasha demanding you take a nap. Her impossibly gentle voice.
You do feel slightly better after sleeping, but it's as though a weighted blanket has been draped over your mind and body. It's easy enough to maneuver around, but it makes itself known and stays as a nuisance in the back of your mind. Pain radiates in your throat when you try to swallow. Maybe you had been asleep longer than you thought.
You shake your head lightly, trying to force the fog away, but the clouds refuse to leave. It's still fuzzy. Thick, like cotton.
You force your shoulders back. Your spine arches slightly and the familiar popping of your vertebrae sounds through the office.
"Mmm…" A whiny groan catches in your throat at the sensation of your neck and back muscles stretching, slowly forcing themselves back to life.
The hand on your ankle squeezes lightly. You force your bleary eyes toward the source. Vibrant green eyes—identical to the light that had shielded you in the dream—are watching you with quiet amusement. A smirk tugs at the corner of her lips.
"How was your nap, sleeping beauty?" Natasha asks. Her tone is teasing, but a light seriousness remains in her eyes as she scans your face, tracking every twitch of your expression.
You blink a few times in a row. Your eyes don't sting as badly as they did earlier, though a slight burn still lingers behind your eyelids. It'll probably take another day to clear the prolonged exposure to the smoke. You still feel a dragging fatigue, but there are things you need to do. Spending your hours studying in Natasha and Wanda's offices instead of executing the regular tasks of an intern is already weighing heavily on your chest.
The office is slightly dim. Natasha must have lowered the blinds while you were asleep.
You flatten your palm against the couch cushion and push yourself up into a seated position. A wave of haziness washes over your vision, making the room sway before it clears within a few moments.
"I slept well. Thank you for the nap," you respond quietly. Your voice sounds weirdly scratchy, and trying to force the words out radiates a burning pain.
Natasha is seated in the open space next to your feet. Her hand remains wrapped around your ankle, the heat of her palm bleeding through your skin. The book she must have been reading is closed, resting flat on her thigh. Her body is shifted entirely toward you, treating you like the center of her attention.
"Your eyes look better than they did earlier," she notes, her thumb rubbing against your skin steadily.
She reaches for a water bottle on the coffee table that wasn't there before you closed your eyes. She cracks the plastic seal open for you and extends it. "Drink, detka. It sounds like your throat is dry."
Your fingers wrap around the plastic. "Thank you," you murmur gratefully.
Swallowing feels like sandpaper grating together. You take a long sip, but the cool moisture does little to ease the friction. The liquid slides down and stings like an open wound being doused with alcohol.
Detka. You repeat the word in your head. It's unfamiliar, but it's the exact same one she used right before you fell asleep. The way she structures her sentences makes it sound like a noun. She's calling you something.
Do you even want to ask? What if it's something bad? Maybe it's synonymous with troublesome.
There are more important things you should be asking, you remind yourself. Why are they treating you like you're special?
You set the bottom of the bottle against your thigh and glance up. Natasha has been watching you the entire time. Her lips are pulled into a rigid line. Her eyes look calculating. The shift is jarring compared to the teasing smile she had just a few minutes ago.
Maybe the thoughts getting stuck in your fuzzy head are showing plainly on your face.
"Nat—" you start, but a sharp knock on the door pulls her focus away.
Natasha’s shoulders look incredibly tense, barely moving as she turns her head toward the entrance.
"Let's talk about it later, okay?" She squeezes your ankle one last time before releasing it entirely. She casts a quick glance back at you, throwing you a smile that looks just a bit melancholic.
"Come in," she calls out.
Wanda walks in, her expression bright with a wide smile. You can almost picture sun rays following her steps as she crosses the room. Her soft yellow dress shirt matches her energy perfectly. It's the complete opposite of the dim room and the heavy mood hanging between you and Natasha.
The unspoken question sits like a wall in the space. Natasha must have anticipated it with how quickly she read your expression.
You smile back at Wanda, though the gesture lacks any real feeling. You're happy to see her, but your thoughts refuse to align properly. New questions twist alongside the old ones in your mind, but you already know they won't be answered right now.
Natasha rises from the couch and extends her arms above her head. She takes a deep breath, stretching her limbs, before looking down at you.
"I have to go to a meeting now." She gazes down at where her hand had just been resting on your ankle. A frown tugs at her lips. She looks like she's fighting a silent battle with herself.
"We'll all talk later," she says, giving a small nod to herself before offering you a tight smile. She reaches down, her fingers briefly brushing the bare skin of your ankle again.
She steps toward Wanda, who is looking between the two of you with a confused half-smile. Natasha leans in and kisses her cheek, whispering something low into her ear.
Wanda's eyebrows furrow at the words. She turns to look at Natasha, but she's already made her way to the door.
"Bye, girls. Have a good study session," Natasha says without turning around.
The door shuts with a soft thud.
Your gaze drifts back to Wanda, whose green eyes soften the longer she looks at you. She rounds the coffee table and slides onto the space right where Natasha was sitting just moments ago.
"Natasha told me you needed a nap. Do you feel better, honey?"
You look down to where your legs are still resting on top of the cushions. A heavy blanket is draped over your lap. The fabric feels far too warm against your heated skin. You shift your weight so your legs hang over the side of the couch, pushing the blanket away and bunching it into a divider between you and Wanda.
"I feel okay," you murmur, forcing a small smile. It isn't entirely the truth, but you do feel marginally better compared to when you arrived this morning.
Wanda scoots a fraction closer to you, ignoring the bunched fabric. "I've been stuck in a board meeting since I got here this morning," she says with a sigh of exasperation. Her eyes gleam as she turns her head to lock onto yours. "Can you guess what it was about?"
Your eyebrows pull together as you rack your brain for an answer. You've hardly discussed actual company logistics since you started your internship. Except for yesterday.
"Was it about the end of the quarter?" you guess with hesitation.
Wanda's nose wrinkles right at the bridge, her smile filling with affection. "Exactly, smart girl. I did say I would schedule a meeting right away after our conversation yesterday."
Her smile is infectious. Your lips curve into a soft grin despite yourself.
She leans in even closer, her shoulder presses lightly against yours. She continues, "I was able to get to the bottom of the accounting bottleneck. You were right, darling. After a few targeted questions, I narrowed it down to one of the senior managers who was creating a disruptive atmosphere while also being far too lax about deadlines."
"So what will happen now?" you ask, your head tilting slightly. You're familiar with mock scenarios in textbooks, but actually witnessing how a large company approaches problems in the real world is entirely new to you.
"Well," Wanda starts, looking up toward the ceiling with a dangerous smile. "That manager has already been replaced as of twenty minutes ago. We'll just have to see how the person who took their spot fares under pressure."
You nod your head slowly in understanding. Good luck to them, you think to yourself. You have a feeling they'll need it based on the sharp glint in Wanda's eyes.
Wanda continues to talk about the meeting. She mentions names of executives you've never met, things that need to be improved, and projects that are going well. Her voice dips into a low register when she's a bit frustrated, then brightens when she talks about things the company is accomplishing.
You sit quietly, listening but not quite absorbing her words. A heavy throbbing is starting to build right behind your temples. Maybe you're still waking up. You nod when it feels appropriate, letting her sentences bounce off your foggy mind. You watch her expressions change—her brows furrowing, then smoothing out. Her eyes rolling, then crinkling at the corners when she smiles. An accent you can't entirely decipher becomes more prominent on certain words.
You could listen to her all day. Her voice feels like music in the quiet space.
Suddenly, she pauses and looks at you with a teasing smile. "Honey, are you even listening to me?"
She reaches out, her palm cupping your jawline while her index finger taps a playful rhythm against your cheek. Her hand feels cool against your skin.
No, not really.
"I'm listening," you respond earnestly. It's painful to speak but you swallow past the burn. You don't want to hurt her feelings.
She lets out a light chuckle. "You look like you're still half asleep," she says, squeezing your cheek lightly before her hand relaxes. She tilts her head, her eyes softening. "Your cheeks are still so warm from when you slept," she notes, leaning in closer to investigate.
Suddenly, her face scrunches up in confusion.
She leans in incredibly close, her chest almost brushing your shoulder as she breathes in deeply. Her hand drops from your face entirely. She leans back, her eyes hardening as she takes you in fully. Her lips pull into a thin line.
"Darling, you really shouldn't smoke," Wanda says, her voice dropping into a stern tone. "It's bad for you."
What?
The clouds swirling around your head clear instantly. Her expression. It's the exact same look that was leveled at you countless times when you were growing up. A look full of disappointment.
Your heart begins to race erratically, thudding violently against your ribs.
"I… I didn't smoke." Your voice trembles from your sharp pulse throbbing painfully in your throat.
Wanda raises one of her eyebrows. Her jaw remains tight.
She doesn't believe you.
Your hands begin to shake violently against your thighs. You curl your fingers inward, digging your nails deep into the center of your palm. The skin breaks. A dull, wet sting follows, but the actual pain doesn't register through the noise in your chest. You slide your other palm flat on top of the wound, clamping down hard to hide the tremor.
It's too familiar. That look.
It reminds you of the times in high school when you spent days studying for tests and losing sleep, running your system entirely on fumes. You had put your all into it, truly. But when the results arrived, the numbers were just good. Not great.
Your father had always told you that as long as you tried your best, then it was okay. You really had done everything you could, but your absolute best just wasn't enough to satisfy him. After seeing the results, he had looked at you and asked if you had truly tried. You were honest with him. You told him that you had given it your all.
But he gave you the exact same look that Wanda is giving you now. The flat, heavy skepticism that tells you your words means nothing.
Why is the truth never good enough? Why aren't you good enough?
It hurts.
You haven't felt this ache since the day you packed your bags and left your parents' house. The two years that followed had been empty, colorless, and safe. No one could hurt you because you refused to allow anyone to get close enough to try.
You allowed this hurt to happen. By smiling genuinely, laughing wholeheartedly, and opening up even a fraction. By deviating from the way you've been living so far.
Alone.
You pull your shoulders back, locking your spine into a perfectly straight line. Your hand reaches up, your fingers clawing through the tight knots that had formed in your hair while you slept. The strands catch, pulling harshly against your scalp, but you ignore the sting. You force your fingers through anyway, smoothing the hair down until it obeys.
Your hand slides down to your blouse. You glide your palm hard against the soft fabric, smoothing out the wrinkles over your chest until the presentation is pristine. If you stay around Wanda for much longer, you know you might crack.
The strings pull. Your lips tug automatically into your practiced smile.
Reaching out, you grab your phone off the coffee table. The lock screen shows it's right around lunchtime. Pressing the back of your hand against the cushion, you push yourself up into a full stand. Your legs wobble unsteadily under your weight, a cold shudder running through your thighs. It must be from lying down for so long or the lingering residual effects of your sleepless night.
You grab one of the straps of your backpack, hoisting the weight upward, and slide the straps over your shoulders.
"Darling—" Wanda starts, her eyes widening as she watches your sudden movements.
"May I go?" you ask politely, keeping your voice level and deferential. "I haven't been down to the sixtieth floor in a few days, and I'd like to check in with some of the analysts I met. Maybe I can eat lunch and study there for the rest of the day?"
Before she can answer, you reach down for the blanket bunched messily on the couch. Your fingers work quickly, lining up the corners and folding the heavy fabric into a perfect, flawless square.
"Wouldn't it be better to eat with Natasha and I?" Wanda asks quickly, an edge of urgency cutting through her voice. "We're planning to order from one of our favorite restaurants," she says, her tone lightening as if trying to pull you back.
You shake your head, keeping your eyes locked on the folded blanket. "I think I should get to know the people I'll be working with, since my time on this floor will end after tomorrow."
You turn your head toward the wooden door. You don't want to look at Wanda right now.
It's completely silent for a long moment before Wanda releases a heavy sigh.
"Okay," Wanda whispers, her voice cracking slightly before she raises the volume of her voice again. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart."
The term of endearment that had sent a warm flutter through your chest even a day ago sends a dull ache instead.
You nod, your chin dropping just enough to acknowledge the words. "I'll see you tomorrow. Have a good rest of your day."
You're already moving, your wobbly legs dragging your weight across the carpet toward the exit. You reach out, your fingers wrapping around the cold handle of the door and pulling it open.
"You too, honey," you hear Wanda say quietly behind you.
The wooden door clicks shut behind your back.
A wave of exhaustion makes you press your weight back into your heels, letting your head land gently against the door. The cool wood feels good against your hot scalp. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, your teeth gnawing back and forth.
Your eyes close against the bright space.
There's nothing special about you. You'll just become another nameless intern working at their company. Eventually, their attention will shift to someone brighter than you. Someone who is actually a real person. Someone special.
Your arm lifts, fingers twitching toward the cold handle, wanting to pull it open just to see Wanda again.
Instead, you force your hand back down to your side. The walk toward the elevator feels like wading through mud. You press the button for the sixtieth floor. The doors slide shut.
Just like the emerald lights in your dream, even if you wish they would appear before you again, they won't. Because you're the one that wished them away.
—
The doors slide open to the familiar, low chatter of the sixtieth floor. Analysts offer quick smiles along the walkway. Heading toward the far left corner, you navigate to the desk where you had spent so little time, setting your backpack against the side before taking a seat.
"Haven't seen you in a few days. How's the job shadow been going?"
Eli's playful voice rings out from the neighboring desk. Turning your head toward him, his teasing smile somehow manages to make you feel a bit better.
"It's been going well," you respond, forcing a small smile that fails to reach your eyes.
Eli tilts his head, squinting as he observes your face. "Doesn't look like it," he says bluntly.
Your gaze shifts down to your lap. Silence hangs heavy between you.
"I was kidding?" Eli chuckles awkwardly, clearly trying to salvage the conversation.
Your fingers find the plastic edge of the ID card hanging around your neck. "It's okay," you say, forcing a short laugh. "I'm just a little tired today."
"Whoa!" Eli exclaims suddenly, his tone forcing your chin up. "Your hand is bleeding."
A quick glance down confirms it. A small amount of blood is smeared across both of your palms.
Eli pulls his desk drawer open and reaches for a compact first aid kit. "I always have one of these on me. My boyfriend is a clumsy one," he says with a fond smile before leveling a focused look at your hands. "Is it okay if I take a look?"
You extend your arms toward him, palms up.
The moment his hand slides underneath yours to support your weight, the memory of Matt's crushing grip flashes through your system. Your fingers snap closed into a tight fist instinctively. Your teeth bite down hard on your bottom lip, and you avert your eyes to avoid Eli's searching gaze.
His hand stays exactly where it is below yours, holding your weight up gently. When he speaks, his voice is softer than earlier.
"I don't have any siblings, let alone a sister. So, sometimes I don't really know the best way to comfort girls. Sorry if I was too forward," he says apologetically.
The genuine tone makes you uncurl your fingers slowly. Shaking your head, you finally meet his eyes with a genuine smile. "Yeah, sounds like you need to work on it."
His jaw drops before he levels you with a playful glare. "Oh, don't worry. I'll make sure to clean your hand extra well with the antibacterial wipe. Brace yourself."
True to his word, Eli tears open a small foil packet. He begins to tell a story about the time his boyfriend tripped over absolutely nothing and broke his leg. The cold wipe dabs against your raw skin, his touch growing gentler the closer he gets to the crescent-shaped cuts your nails made.
"He still swears he tripped over a step. Can you believe that? We were walking down a flat sidewalk," he says, shaking his head exasperatedly.
You laugh along with him as the stories keep coming, his voice filling the quiet corner of the floor. Your focus stays anchored on his words. A strange numbness is settling over your skin. You hardly even feel the sharp sting of the alcohol against your open palms.
—
It's a slower night at the restaurant. Nights like these, Angie goes around feeding the waitstaff in the kitchen and asking about everyone's plans.
The metal pass is holding more of your weight than you'd like to admit. Your body has felt almost unbearably hot since leaving the office today, but you've dealt with much worse.
Angie had asked you to wait for a moment before returning to the floor. A quick sweep of your section already confirmed everyone is enjoying their meals.
Finally turning to you, Angie squints her eyes. "You look a bit off, sweetie. You feelin' alright?"
"I'm okay. I just didn't sleep enough last night. I should be fixed up by tomorrow," you say with a tired smile.
She gives you a blank stare like she doesn't believe you. "If you say so," she drawls out before looking through the small windows of the kitchen doors into the dining room. She points in the direction of the bar. "Nicole looks bored out there. Make use of her and take it easy today. It's okay to rely on the team, y'know?"
"I know," you respond with an appeasing tone. "I'll make sure to use her." You push off the pass. It takes a moment to stabilize yourself. Luckily, Angie is still looking into the dining room.
A glance at the clock on the wall shows only around an hour left of your shift. Returning back to the house after your internship today hadn't felt daunting, since you knew Matt would be sleeping in preparation for his shift. But with the conclusion of your restaurant shift overlapping perfectly with the exact hour he wakes up, the idea of stepping back through the front door feels impossible.
A tired sigh escapes your throat. You'll just have to fold the napkins slower tonight to avoid running into him.
—
It's Friday. Usually, the end of the week brings a sense of relief with it being the last day of classes. This week, the relief is entirely different. Come Monday morning, your schedule returns to the regular tasks of a standard intern. You'll finally be able to keep your head down and blend back into the crowd.
An email from Cindy had arrived first thing this morning. She apologized for not being able to escort you due to an assignment she's currently working on, instructing you to head up to Wanda's office on your own.
Wanda. You repeat the name silently in your head.
The thought of her sends immediate pricks of discomfort through your chest. It's hard to distinguish if the feeling is pain or unease. Your arm accidentally brushes against the metal wall of the elevator, sending a sharp wave of pins and needles across your skin.
Ever since your alarm went off, a heavy mound of pressure has been building right behind your eyes and forehead. Lifting your head off the pillow this morning had taken a massive effort despite the mundane motion. Your heated skin feels exceptionally sensitive, turning every slight movement of your limbs into a radiating ache. It's exhausting just to remain standing.
The elevator doors slide open to the C-suite floor, revealing the pristine marble floor. A part of you wishes you could just drop everything and lie flat against that cool stone. But this level of exhaustion and discomfort has become commonplace. You can bear with it.
Breaths become more labored with every step until you reach Wanda's office door. Pressing your hand against the wood takes some of the burden off your body before you knock twice.
Despite the fatigue, you force your mind to stay sharp. This is the last day. You'll only see them in passing after this. The conflicting feelings and the warmth you feel around them will disappear.
Are you okay with that?
The question flashes through your mind against your will.
You have to be okay with this. Maybe it's better that it's now. You knew you would walk away one day, before they could leave you broken. Before you accidentally give pieces of yourself away that can never be retrieved.
"Come in," Wanda calls out from behind the door.
Taking a deep breath, you straighten your posture with effort and plaster on a neutral expression. You turn the handle and push open the door, revealing Wanda sitting at her desk. She stands immediately upon seeing you.
The door shuts behind you.
The same chair from before is pulled up next to her desk in the same spot. The sight makes the pressure in your head build. Stepping up to the desk, Wanda watches you the entire way, her mouth opening and closing as if she doesn't know where to start.
So, you start for her.
"I have a few questions about some of the topics in one of my classes. It's going to be covered pretty extensively on the final. When would you have time to answer them?" you ask politely. You keep your voice low, knowing if you raise it any higher, it'll break and send you into a coughing fit.
"Darling, I think we should talk," Wanda says earnestly, tilting her head to search your eyes that keep averting from hers.
"Is it in relation to my internship?" you ask indifferently, setting your backpack down and pulling out your materials.
The creak of Wanda sitting down is the only sound in the office.
"No," she starts hesitantly. "About yesterday."
Looking up, you plaster on an apologetic smile. You try to ignore the scent of jasmine swirling around you. It pulls at your heart and threatens to break your resolve. Your thumb presses hard into the bandage on your palm.
"My first final is on Monday. I already sent Cindy my schedule," you respond. "Would we be able to schedule a time to talk about it another day? I'm a bit behind on studying."
Wanda looks like she's completely withering away. Her shoulders droop, her hands find each other to grasp tightly, and the corners of her lips pull down. The sight almost makes you want to say anything and everything just to bring back her bright smile. To have her call you smart girl and send that fuzzy feeling through your body like she did a few days ago.
But the instinct to protect your heart overrides everything else. These feelings will pass with time.
"I can answer some questions now," Wanda says with a weak smile.
"Okay," you respond, forcing your eyes down to your notebook page. "I made a note here. How would you…"
—
Natasha never ended up stopping by. She was called into an emergency meeting with investor and public relations in lieu of the upcoming earnings release. It feels fitting.
The look Wanda had given you when you said goodbye instead of I'll see you later still sticks with you even now, standing in the breakroom at the restaurant preparing for your shift. It was a look that made it apparent that this was final.
You take a deep breath in through your mouth. Your nose had become increasingly more clogged as the day wore on. You had to hide your sniffles between performative throat clears that made your throat burn during your time alone with Wanda.
You practice your smile in the breakroom mirror. It's reminiscent of the time before meeting them. It doesn't reach your eyes. It stays strictly within the line of cheerful and flat—just enough of a curve to let people know you're engaged in the conversation. It's hard to hold even this manufactured smile today.
Natasha patting your stomach to even out your breaths. Wanda praising you when you gave her department solutions. That's the problem when you become too comfortable and allow color to seep into your world. When the world turns gray again, you miss the light blue of the sky. You miss the orange-red rays of the sun. The vibrant green of their eyes. It tears a hole through you.
But it'll heal even if it takes a while.
Just get through this shift, you think to yourself, trying to force a surge of energy into your mind.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket. Sliding it out, you glance at the message preview on the screen. It's Matt.
You shut your eyes tightly before opening them again to read the text.
I'm not working tonight. Let's hang out. I'll be waiting in the common room.
There's no apology for that night. Not even an acknowledgment. Fear courses through your system at the thought of returning home to find him sitting in the exact same spot. His calloused hand gripping yours. The suffocating mixture of smoke and alcohol on his breath. The looming possibility of what could have happened if your house leader hadn't arrived in time.
The sharp sound of the breakroom door opening pulls you out of your thoughts. Suddenly, your own frantic breaths become loudly clear to you.
Your coworker, Nicole, is leaning against the doorframe with a smile. "Hi," she greets you. "You're a finance major, right?"
You force your breathing to even out momentarily, contorting your expression into a polite, practiced smile. "Yeah, I am. Why do you ask?" Your voice sounds scratchy, but you maintain the pleasant cadence you were taught.
"A couple of my friends who're finance majors dined here a few nights ago and recognized you," Nicole says with a chuckle. "They asked if I would ask you to come to a party tonight. They said they've been wanting to talk to you, but couldn't find the confidence. I'll be going as well, if you want to head over together after this?"
She looks at you with hopeful eyes. You have yet to go to a single university party. Not that you ever really wanted to. The idea of standing in a crowded room with music blaring and drinks sloshing around sounds unappealing.
I'll be waiting in the common room.
The memory of the text forces your thumb to press hard into your bandage, sending sharp signals of pain through your body.
"I…" you start hesitantly, "I don't have a change of clothes." Going to this party sounds vastly better than facing Matt, but the logistics are an immediate problem.
Nicole's expression shifts into an excited smile. "Don't worry, I have an extra change of clothes right here in my locker. I promise it'll be fun. There are so many people who have been wanting the chance to talk to you."
Her body turns around to face the kitchen walkway, sending a fleeting smile back your way. "We'll talk more after the shift. I'm so excited!" she exclaims before walking away.
—
The dining room fills with a heavy rush of regulars, making the shift drag while simultaneously passing in a blur. Every step makes your joints feel stiff, like creaking bones. Even a light touch against your skin sends sharp pinpricks across your body. But you continue to chat with ease, keeping your speech charismatic and your expressions engaged. It's one of the times where you're thankful this is programmed into you.
A few customers ask about your voice, noticing the raspy edge. Hiding the scratchiness is becoming a struggle as your throat continues to swell. You brush it off with a practiced excuse, telling them you've just been talking too much lately. It wasn't exactly a lie.
The shift finally ends, leaving you in the breakroom with Nicole. She hands you a gray long-sleeve shirt and a white skirt. It's freezing outside, but with what feels like literal lava burning beneath your skin, the light clothing sounds like a relief.
You unbutton your work shirt and slide it off. The fabric of Nicole’s shirt feels like sandpaper, scraping hard against your skin as you pull it over your head. The neckline cuts low, stopping just above your breasts. It's far less coverage than you ever wear, but you've also never been to a university party. Maybe this was the norm with how quickly it could get hot in a crowd of people.
You unzip your trousers, step out of them, and pull on the skirt. The sudden blast of cool air against your bare legs brings a brief second of relief. But it doesn't last long. The relief vanishes, and the room turns far too cold. Your body doesn't normally regulate its temperature well, but for the past day, it's been a pendulum. Swinging violently from a sauna to the arctic.
Nicole throws out names of people you don't know, but who are apparently in many of your same classes. You nod and hum in understanding whenever she complains about the boys in her lectures.
You stuff your work clothes into your locker. You'll be back tomorrow anyway.
Turning around at the same time, you both stand fully dressed. Nicole sends you a wide grin. "I can see why the guys were begging me to ask you to come," she says, followed by a sharp whistle.
You roll your eyes exaggeratedly. The motion backfires, sending a dull, throbbing ache straight through your temples.
"I'm sure that's why they asked you, too," you respond teasingly, forcing the pain down.
You open the door to the breakroom and look around. The kitchen staff have already cleaned thoroughly and are grabbing their personal things to leave.
"I think we should head out so we don't hold anyone back. Ready?" you ask, turning back around.
"You bet!" Nicole calls out, grabbing her keys. She jingles them in a sporadic beat.
Despite your body screaming at you to lie down, you can't help but laugh a little at her energy.
—
Bright fairy lights string across the front yards along the sidewalk. It's a block dominated by fraternities and sororities, most having decided the weekend before finals is the perfect time to throw a party. Loud, bass-heavy music bleeds from house to house, blending together as students drift between lawns to meet up with friends.
Walking beside Nicole, you discuss university life and expected final grades. The freezing night air bites sharply against the exposed skin of your upper chest and bare legs.
Some people call out greetings to Nicole as you approach the fraternity house where the finance and accounting majors are congregating. In front of you, drunk students sway unsteadily, barely catching their balance before they tip sideways.
The street is familiar. Your daily bus route passes right by this block early in the journey. Your own house sits only a short distance away.
Excited shouting and screaming echo from the next lawn over. Sparing a brief glance, you watch a few people lying starfish on the grass, giggling to themselves as they fail to push themselves back up, only to collapse and laugh all over again.
Nicole laughs, pointing toward a crowd hyping up a student shotgunning a beer. Apparently, it's someone from one of her classes, the onlookers push them to drink even faster.
The sound of your name being shouted from the crowd steals your attention.
"Hey!" a voice calls out.
Someone from the crowd sways slightly as he walks quickly toward you and Nicole. Without warning, he wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders. The sudden weight feels like he's dragging you straight down. You force your legs to lock, bracing your joints so you both don't collapse onto the sidewalk.
"I'm so glad you made it. I've been wanting to talk to you for forever," he slurs, his face too close.
"Oh, knock it off, Tyler." Nicole shoves his arm off your neck.
A sharp breath of relief escapes your throat. Tyler raises his hands in surrender, though one arm hangs clearly higher than the other.
"Us in finance are just friendly folk, Nicole. Right?" he says, sending a heavy wink your way.
"Right…" you respond, pulling your lips into an awkward, flat smile.
Nicole pipes up from beside you, leveling him with a look of disgust. "This is why you don't have a girlfriend."
Tyler rolls his eyes, but his pupils track so slowly it looks like he's seeing stars. Stealing a quick glance at Nicole, he wraps his heavy arm right back around your shoulders and forces you forward. Your legs shake violently beneath your weight.
"Hey!" Nicole calls out, following close behind. "Tyler, let her go." Her tone sounds playful on the surface, but a sharp edge cuts beneath the words.
He ignores her completely, pressing your body forward until you cross the threshold into the house.
The interior is pure chaos. Strobe lights flash erratically, sending blinding white needles straight through the heavy pressure behind your eyes. To your left, a beer pong game dominates the common room. The players slam their hands hard against the folding table whenever they miss, sending loud bangs that slice through the bass-heavy music. Crowds of students pack the space holding red cups, swaying and spilling alcohol onto the floor.
People turn their heads to track you as you pass by, their expressions shifting into pure surprise.
Tyler proudly marches you straight up to a large group standing near the beer pong table. He pats your shoulder once before finally releasing his grip.
The group looks you up and down in shock. One of the guys lets out a sharp whistle. "Wow, Tyler. How'd you manage to get finance's princess here?" His gaze travels between your face and below your chin. You pull your arms close against your chest, trying to shield yourself from the look.
"I worked my magic," Tyler slurs, leaning his weight into you. Your footing slips, and you stumble slightly before forcing your legs to catch yourself. The suffocating heat of the packed room sends sharp arrows of pain straight to your brain.
"You mean I worked my magic?" Nicole cuts in from behind. Her hands find your shoulders, holding your frame steady against Tyler's weight.
Turning your head, you give her a grateful smile. It feels like your brain is actively turning to mush. The space is too crowded. Too many eyes are locked on you.
One of the girls in the group catches your eye, offering a soft smile. "Hi," she says politely. "I've seen you in a few of my classes, but I didn't know how to approach you."
"Hi," you respond kindly. Her and Nicole's soothing voices feel like a balm against the pounding bass. "It's nice to meet you." You give her a gentle smile, lacking the energy for anything more.
The girl leans her head in a bit closer, her mouth near your ear. "I can see why people are so interested in you," she whispers playfully. "But if anyone bothers you, let me know."
"Me too," Nicole adds. You hadn't noticed her leaning in to listen, but she squeezes your shoulders lightly. "I'm going to go say hi to some of my friends real quick. If it gets too hot in here, let me know. I'll go outside and cool off with you. You feel a little warm already," she notes, studying your face carefully.
Nicole has already been so kind. You refuse to hold her back from having fun.
"I'm okay," you respond, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Go say hi to your friends," you say brightly, playfully pushing her toward a group looking at her expectantly. She throws a grin your way before disappearing into the crowd.
Immediately, Tyler presses his arm hard against yours. "So, what can I get you to drink, princess?" he asks loudly over the music.
"Just water is good, please." It isn't that you've never touched alcohol before, but the liquid always sits like a heavy rock in your stomach. It makes your brain fuzzy and your limbs refuse to cooperate. It's terrifying. It isn't the same gentle fuzziness that Wanda gave you.
Stop, you command yourself, cutting the thought off before it can dig deeper into your chest.
"Loosen up a little. Just one drink. Pretty please?" Tyler begs. He leans his face so close you're almost positive you could get drunk just from the heavy scent of vodka lingering on his breath.
"Tyler," the girl in the group warns, her voice laced with annoyance.
But the guys around him continue to press, their voices overlapping and bouncing off the walls.
"Come on, you can have the same thing as me."
"I'll make you whatever you'd like."
"Here," one of them says, shoving a red cup straight into your face. "Have some of mine."
The smell of cheap alcohol fills your nose, mixing with the suffocating heat of the room.
It's too much. You pull out your phone, casting a quick glance at the blank screen.
"Sorry, I have to get this," you say apologetically. "I'll be right back."
You wiggle your way out from under Tyler's weight. The group groans in unison as you back away.
Turning on your heel, you navigate your way through the packed room. The hot bodies of drunk students press heavily against yours, sending your heart into a rhythm that's far from steady. You force your way through the crowd faster, desperate for oxygen.
You're almost at the front door when someone's cold hand grips your wrist harshly.
You try to yank your arm away with a violent jerk, but their fingers refuse to yield. Your chest tightens. You need to get out of here. Right now.
"Is it really you?" a heavily accented voice sounds from behind you.
The lava burning beneath your skin freezes into solid ice.
No. There's no way.
Turning your head slightly, you peek over your shoulder. You're met with faces you could never forget. The two faces you've longed to see, that you've missed dearly, and that you've always felt incredibly guilty toward. A brunette and a blonde.
Kate and Yelena.
You can't do this right now. You never want to explain the reality of why you left them behind.
Yelena’s grip stays locked on your wrist while Kate stands right behind her. Their eyes widen in shock as they take in the side of your face.
Using their surprise, you rip your arm out of Yelena's grasp.
You stride quickly out the front door, the freezing night air doing nothing to clear the pressure in your head. Your eyes are frantic, scanning the front yard before you hit the concrete sidewalk and throw your weight around the corner. You need to be anywhere but here.
Rapid footsteps echo on the pavement behind you.
"Wait!" Kate calls out, repeating the word over and over into the night.
You don't stop. The remaining strength begins to wane in your legs, your knees threatening to buckle.
A hand clamps onto your shoulder, forcing your body to spin around. Yelena had always been faster than you in high school. It's exactly the same even now.
She levels a glare at you, gripping your shoulder tighter until her fingers dig into your collarbone. "What gives you the right to run away?" she yells, her voice echoing loudly around the empty space.
You cast a glance at your surroundings, grateful that the loud music bleeding from the houses makes it unlikely anyone else is listening to the commotion.
Reaching up with a shaky hand, you try to pry her fingers off your shoulder, trying to uncurl them one by one. "Let go," you grit out, your raw throat burning from the strain.
"So you can what? Run away again?" Yelena mocks sarcastically, refusing to budge. "You already did that two years ago."
Silence hangs heavy in the cold air, only the sound of your ragged breaths registering between you.
You force your eyes up, catching Kate's gaze immediately. She looks like she wants to reach out and pull you away from Yelena's grip, but she can't find it in herself to move. Her posture is frozen, as if she's terrified that any sudden movement will make you vanish again. Tears barely hold on above her lower lashes.
"I always wondered what happened," Yelena starts, her voice dropping into a low, raw register. "That maybe Kate and I had not been good enough friends. That we were not as close as I thought we were."
Her fingers claw tightly at your skin. Through the anger in her voice, you hadn't noticed the shakiness behind it. A gleam of moisture breaks through her glare as her eyes drop down to where her hand is gripping your shoulder for dear life.
"But at least when I pictured you, even without us, I thought you were happy. You were off somewhere smiling and laughing," she says shakily, before her voice spikes again. "But here you are, looking like this. How dare you?"
She forcefully shakes you by the shoulder. The sudden motion makes your vision blur and a wave of suffocating heat rushes back to your skin.
Kate steps forward, pulling Yelena's hand off your frame. "Stop it!" she cries out desperately. Tears track down her cheeks, glinting under the pale light of the streetlights. "Just stop," she whispers.
Turning to you, Kate meets your eyes with a watery smile. "Yelena and I need to sober up. Let's talk about this at a later time, okay?" she asks, the desperation clear in her voice.
You shake your head despite the sudden wave of dizziness. It feels like your consciousness is barely holding on by a thread. You won't be seeing them again after tonight.
"Why?" Kate pleads, her smile vanishing. "Why can't we talk after this?"
"Because…" you start weakly, your voice breaking entirely on the last syllable.
You sway unevenly on the pavement. Your breaths come out dangerously shallow and fast. Kate disappears and reappears in your blurry vision. The next thing you know, Kate has your arm slung over her shoulder, holding your weight up.
"Did you drink something? What's going on?" she asks frantically.
Yelena presses her palm flat against your forehead. The sudden chill of her skin feels welcome against the boiling of your blood.
"She is burning up," Yelena says, trying to search your eyes.
"I didn't drink anything," you manage to whisper.
You droop heavily into Kate, your legs completely failing. Everything around you looks pixelated. It's almost scary, but whatever is dragging your consciousness down calls to you, promising sweet relief. You want to listen to it.
A sharp, muffled sound cuts through the air from behind you, but you don't move.
Kate and Yelena's faces are suddenly lit up by a bright, sweeping beam of light Their eyes remain frantic, but a wave of relief washes over their expressions as well.
"Hey, I got your text to pick you up. Don't drink so much next time," an annoyed, raspy voice calls out. It's instantly familiar.
The sound of a heavy car door opening echoes down the street, followed by quick, decisive steps on the asphalt.
"What's going on? Did they drink too much?" the person asks, stepping in to help Kate support your body. Your head rolls helplessly to the side, leaning flat against their shoulder.
"She said she didn't drink anything," Kate says breathlessly. "I think she might have a fever. She feels really hot."
You look up slowly, trying to force your jaw to work so you can tell them all you can just walk home. It isn't far.
You're instantly silenced by vibrant green eyes looking down at you, alarmed.
"Natasha?" you mumble out, your voice barely a breath.
Yelena's hand freezes against your forehead.
"Yes, detka, it's me. I'm here," Natasha murmurs softly, her tone shifting instantly.
Yelena's hand drops away from your skin. She stands frozen, looking between the two of you in disbelief.
Natasha moves so she's standing directly in front of you. She pulls one of your arms over her shoulder. "I've got her," she says evenly to Kate.
Glancing at Kate, you see her eyebrows pulled together in hesitation, but she allows your arm to slide off her shoulder. Natasha places your other arm across her neck. Her hands find their way to the back of your thighs, and suddenly gravity isn't pulling you down as harshly. Your chest presses flat against Natasha's as she lifts you up, adjusting her grip beneath you.
Your body tenses immediately. Unwrapping one of your arms, you push your palm against her shoulder with a weak nudge.
"I can get home by myself," you argue, but the words lack any real strength.
Natasha adjusts her grip so only one arm supports your weight. Her other hand wraps around your fingers, lifting your arm and slinging it securely back around her neck. Sliding up to the back of your head, her fingers press lightly, guiding your face down until your cheek squishes flat against her shoulder.
"I'm sure you can," she says in a quiet, appeasing tone, her body beginning to rock side to side like she's lulling you to sleep. Your eyelids grow heavy, beginning to droop against your will. "You don't have to, though."
She uses her palm to cover your exposed ear. "Wanda, I need you to drive instead," Natasha calls out.
The muffled sound is a relief. The surrounding party noises were starting to send sharp, throbbing stabs straight to your brain.
You feel the motion of Natasha walking, holding you steadily so your body barely shifts. The sound of a car door clicking open echoes nearby before Natasha leans down, her breath brushing close to your ear. She slides onto the seat and tucks your legs close to the outside of her thighs, wrapping both arms around your frame to hold you close.
Your lips rest almost directly against the side of her neck.
"It's too hot," you whine quietly, your skin heating at the contact.
Natasha's hand begins to pat your back in a slow, steady rhythm. "I know, detka. It'll be better soon. Just sleep for now."
"Natasha, is that our sweet girl?" Wanda's voice projects from the front, sounding as if she's turned completely around in the driver’s seat.
"Yes," Natasha responds in a low register. "So drive carefully. We have precious cargo."
The steady rhythm of the patting continues against your back. Your eyes close.
The sharp sound of two more doors opening and closing pierces through the space, though the noises of the outside world are starting to fade into a distant hum.
"Natasha," Yelena’s voice cuts in from the seat beside you, her tone a tense mixture of anger and confusion. "We have a lot to talk about."
"Lena. Let's talk at their place. Let her sleep," Kate says from behind you.
A disgruntled, heavy sigh sounds through the vehicle.
"Let's go home," Natasha directs toward the front.
You press your face even closer into the curve of Natasha's neck. The heat is suffocating, but being held against her brings a completely different type of warmth. One that lets you know you're safe.
Using the last bit of your strength, your arms squeeze a bit tighter around her shoulders. Your mind drifts, slipping away from the waking world.
Right before the dark takes over, you swear you see a pair of gorgeous green lights—two slightly different shades—swirling together in the shadows around you.
They came back.
—
A/N: Lots of drama. Butttt, we were able to get R out of that house, at least for tonight. Just like how Natasha can't help but baby, I also can't help but baby you guys too. I keep adding to the ending to make it softer because I don't want you guys to finish the chapter feeling sad 😅 In exchange for the drama filled chapter, in the next chapter I promise: Wanda and R will talk, we'll learn more about why Natasha and Wanda are interested in her, maybe make it a little subby.
Thank you guys as always for reading and the comments/asks. It always makes writing the story more fun ♡
Dont you guys hate it when everyone thinks you're a monster except for this One Very Important Person who's willing to do anything for you even though you've let them down many times and betrayed their trust but they're still here despite knowing what you are and then one day they die because you weren't smart enough brave enough strong enough to protect them and they come back to you again but now something is wrong they don't remember their own deaths and therefore the critically important events for your relationship they claim they are the same but this is not true something is missing you want your loved one back but maybe you made them up maybe this incorrect version is many times more real than the image in your head. Maybe they're all you have left.
Dont you guys hate it when everyone thinks you're a monster except for this One Very Important Person who's willing to do anything for you even though you've let them down many times and betrayed their trust but they're still here despite knowing what you are and then one day they die because you weren't smart enough brave enough strong enough to protect them and they come back to you again but now something is wrong they don't remember their own deaths and therefore the critically important events for your relationship they claim they are the same but this is not true something is missing you want your loved one back but maybe you made them up maybe this incorrect version is many times more real than the image in your head. Maybe they're all you have left.
Summary: Wanda and Natasha have been flirting with you for years, and you were completely oblivious.
Word count: ≈2800
Warnings: fluff, throuple, kiss
Reading time: ≈15 mins
Req by: Tumblr anon
Type: Oneshot
“Morning, Y/N,” Wanda chimes cheerily from the hob, the gas already heating a pan of batter.
“Morning,” you murmur through a yawn, stretching your arms above your head, your pajama top tugging up on your stomach. Wanda's eyes are drawn from her frying pan to you, watching closely as your top tugs higher. Her eyes quickly snap away before she can burn breakfast.
“You're up early.” Natasha comments, walking in from the compound's gym, her usual early morning workout session.
“It's eight o' clock,” you reply.
Natasha walks further into the kitchen, greeting Wanda with a kiss on the cheek before running the tap for a glass of water. “Normally you're not up until at least nine.”
Wanda sighs. “Sleep good?”
“Like a baby.”
Wanda pushes a plate of pancakes towards you, the plate stopping in line with a bowl of berries.
“Thanks.”
“You're welcome,” Wanda replies softly.
Natasha settles beside you at the island, stealing a strawberry from your bowl before you can stop her. “Hey.”
“You weren't eating it.”
“I was about to,” you groan.
“You hesitated.”
“That doesn't mean you can just take it.”
“It does in Russia,” Natasha replies with a smug smile.
“It absolutely does not.”
Wanda laughs quietly to herself while flipping another pancake. You miss the look she shares with Natasha completely. Natasha doesn't. Three years. Three years of lingering touches, extra blankets left outside your room, favourite snacks mysteriously appearing in the kitchen and invitations to every movie night. Three years. And somehow you still thought they were just being friendly.
“Y/N?” Wanda asks.
“Mm?”
“You know we care about you, right?”
You blink. “Obviously.” Natasha nearly chokes on her coffee. Wanda sighs. “What?” you ask.
“Nothing.”
“Why are you both looking at me like that?”
Neither answers. Because if they start that conversation at eight in the morning Natasha might genuinely lose her mind.
Natasha sighs again. “You wanna come to our room tonight? We're gonna have another movie night.”
You hum. “Maybe. What are you watching?”
Wanda smiles, sweet as sugar. “Anything you want, detka.”
Wanda calls you that often. It's Russian. You have no idea what she's saying. You can only assume it's something friendly.
“Jurassic Park?” you ask. It had been a favourite of yours since childhood.
“Seriously?” Wanda asks. She had been planning for something vaguely rom-com esque. Titanic, or Notting Hill or even The Princess Bride. But no, you want Jurassic Park.
Natasha sighs a little, smiling. This was the woman they both fell in love with. “Jurassic Park it is then.”
“We need snacks,” you tell them seriously. “Especially dinosaur shaped nuggets. It's important.”
Wanda and Natasha's room in the compound is dark. It's clear when you walk in that the lighting has been dimmed beyond what's reasonable, but a few candles light up the area around the coffee table. Clearly they'd already prepared for the movie before you'd even got there.
A fresh bouquet of roses sits on a cupboard at the side of the room, strategically placed to catch the perfect amount of light through the window, though the curtains where now shut. In the center of the coffee table is a large plate, covered by aluminium foil. Probably the Dino nuggets. Next to the plate is two smaller bowls, each containing sweets and chocolate, and one larger one that you can already see is heaped with steaming popcorn.
“Wanda? Nat?” you call, walking towards the couch.
“Coming!” a voice echoes from the bedroom, before the two women appear carrying a blanket and extra pillows. Somewhere in a kitchen-like area, a kettle clicks off.
“I'll finish the hot chocolate,” Natasha says quietly to Wanda, draping the blanket over the couch arm.
“I'm so excited. Thanks for inviting me!” you thank Wanda cheerfully as she places cushions carefully on the couch, murmuring something about 'again' and 'oblivious' under her breath.
Wanda claims the left side of the couch, while Natasha, returning with the hot chocolates, claims the right side. You slide carefully in between them, reaching over Natasha to pass the blanket over the three of you. Natasha forces her eyes away from the side of your face, almost too close for her heart to take.
“Are you ready for literally the best movie of your whole lives?” you ask, already leaning forward to claim a handful of dinosaur-shaped nuggets.
Natasha claims your free hand under the blankets, her thumb rubbing quietly over your knuckles, moving soothinly up and down with the rise and fall of the bones. “Mm. I trust you, it must be amazing.”
“It is. You'll love it.”
Wanda leans forward to grab one of the small bowls of chocolate and sweets, fingers moving through them to find what she's looking for: Love Hearts. She flips the sweet over from the sunglasses face to the words which read "BE MINE."
She smiles down at it, passing it to you just as the opening scene begins, the classic music playing as the fossil digsite appears onscreen. “Aw, Wands, I'm already yours. You guys are my best friends.”
Natasha's eye twitches, not that you notice. “Yeah. Best friends.”
Natasha's hand stops moving against yours. Not because of the movie. Because Wanda has just physically handed you a sweet that says BE MINE and somehow you've interpreted it as friendship. Again. Across the couch, Wanda looks ready to throw herself into the nearest volcano.
You remain blissfully unaware. "Oh!" you whisper excitedly as the T-Rex escapes. "This is the best part."
"Mm," Natasha replies absently.
Wanda reaches into the bowl again. Another Love Heart. This one reads KISS ME. Natasha watches with interest. Wanda places it directly into your hand.
You squint at it. "Oh." Hope sparks instantly in both women. You smile. "You want one too?"
Then you hand it to Natasha.Silence. Natasha stares at the sweet. Wanda stares at the ceiling.
You happily eat another dinosaur nugget. "Guys?" Neither answers. "Are you okay?"
"Fantastic," Natasha says flatly.
"Wonderful," Wanda agrees.
You find yourself leaning against Natasha halfway through the movie, her hand still rubbing circles across your knuckles, her other arm around your back. Wanda is leant against you too, her head tucked against your side, one arm resting around your waist.
“You're a comfy pillow, detka,” Wanda whispers quietly beneath the scream of Lex as a raptor snaps behind the door, only held shut by the weight of Alan and Ellie.
“Thanks. Nat's pretty comfy too.” Both women sigh a final time.
The movie ends around midnight. By then, Wanda has somehow ended up half asleep against your shoulder while Natasha's arm remains draped along the back of the couch behind you. The credits roll.
You stretch. "That was amazing."
"Mm."
"Told you."
________________________________________
Tony's parties are always big. Alcohol, dozens of people, and a pumping bass that rattles your bones. Dim lighting in the main room, expensive food and even more costly spirits. Chatter surrounds you, faces you recognise and faces you don't. Mostly faces you don't.
Your eyes search the crowds for any familiar face you could talk to, and finally your eyes find Maria Hill.
“Maria!” you call, approaching her. “Hey.”
“Hey, Y/N. I've been looking for you. I wanted to ask if you'd come for dinner with me sometime.”
“Maybe. Where at?” you ask.
Across the room, Natasha and Wanda finally find you, Natasha's eyes narrowing as she sees you talking to Maria. “Wands.”
“I know.”
The two women watch as Maria makes you laugh loudly at a comment, her hand frequently grazing yours. You only laugh louder, throwing your hair over your shoulder.
Natasha's jaw clenches tight, she'd probably break a tooth if she clenched it anymore. Wanda's hand was a stark white where it was balled into a fist, her nails leaving small cresents in her palm as Maria leans into you.
And more annoyingly? You don't step away. Infact, you seem to lean in as well, meeting Maria's lips halfway.
The room seems to freeze. Not for you. For Wanda and Natasha. Because after three years of flirting, three years of movie nights and hand-holding and buying your favourite snacks and looking at you like you hung the moon...Maria Hill gets a kiss. In under ten minutes.
"Nat."
"I saw."
"Tell me I imagined that,” Wanda says tightly.
"You did not."
Across the room, Maria is smiling. You're smiling too. Wanda briefly considers committing a crime.
“See you tomorrow?” Maria asks as she pulls away.
“Yeah. Tomorrow.” you repeat, watching her walk away. As you turn around, you freeze, caught under Wanda and Natasha's steely gaze. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Natasha replies. “What was that?”
“What?”
“With Maria,” Wanda adds, a sickly sweet smile across her lips.
“She asked me to dinner tomorrow, that's all,” you tell them truthfully.
“And?”
You tilt your head slightly. “And...I'm going?”
Natasha hums, pushing her tongue against her cheek to stop any...unsavoury words from coming out.
“Nat,” Wanda warns.
“You kissed her.”
“Was I... not meant to?” you ask.
Natasha actually closes her eyes. Wanda stares at you. You stare back. “I feel like I'm missing something.”
“You are missing several things,” Natasha replies.
“A lot of things,” Wanda agrees.
You frown. “Okay?”
“Y/N,” Wanda says carefully, like she's approaching a wounded animal. “Why did Maria kiss you?”
You blink. “Because she likes me?”
“Correct.”
“Okay.”
“And why are you going to dinner with her?” Natasha asks now.
“Because she likes me.”
“Right.”
You nod. Wanda waits. You wait. Natasha waits. Nothing happens. “Detka,” Wanda says weakly, “please tell me you're doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“The thing.” Natasha confirms.
“What thing?” you ask, genuinely confused.
“The—” Wanda gestures wildly between all three of you. “This!”
You look at Natasha for help. Natasha looks like she's aged ten years. “Y/N,” she says, voice unusually patient. “How many movie nights have we had?”
You think about it. “Lots?”
“How many times have we invited anyone else?”
“None?”
“Correct.”
Wanda points at herself. “Who buys your favourite snacks?”
“You.”
“Who remembers your coffee order?”
“You.”
“Who spent two hours searching three grocery stores because you said one specific brand of dinosaur nuggets tasted better?” Wanda continues.
“...you?”
“Who holds your hand every movie night?”
“Nat.”
Natasha points at herself now. “Who bought you flowers on your birthday?”
“You.”
“And Valentine's Day?”
“You.”
“And the random Tuesday in June?”
“You.” You pause. “The flowers was because they were pretty.”
Natasha physically pinches the bridge of her nose. “Y/N.”
“What?”
“The flowers were for you.”
“I know.”
“No.” Wanda's voice comes out strangled. “No, detka, I don't think you do.”
You look between them. Then back. Then between them again. Something slowly starts connecting. Very slowly. “Oh.”
The silence is deafening. “You are only just figuring that out?” Natasha asks.
“I gave you a sweet that said 'BE MINE!'” Wanda tells you.
“I THOUGHT YOU WERE SHARING!”
Wanda makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry.
“You handed me one that said 'KISS ME!'” you reply.
“You gave it to Natasha!” Wanda reminds you incredulously.
“I thought she wanted it!”
Natasha looks ready to launch herself out the nearest window.
“Oh my god.”
“Exactly,” Wanda says.
“Oh my god.”. you repeat again.
“Three years,” Natasha mutters.
You stare at them. Then a new realization hits. “Wait.” Both women look at you. “You like me?”
Wanda immediately softens. “Yeah, detka.”
“Very much,” Natasha adds quietly.
“Both of you?” The women nod. “That's a THING?” They nod again.
The jealousy suddenly makes sense. The flowers. The hand-holding. The pet names. The movie nights. The way they always saved you a seat between them. Your face burns. “Oh.”
Nobody speaks. The music from Tony's party thumps somewhere behind you, people laughing and talking around the room, but all you can hear is the sound of your own heartbeat. Wanda and Natasha are staring at you like they're waiting for a bomb to go off. Which, honestly, is fair. Because it kind of feels like one just did.
"You both like me," you say slowly.
"Yes," Wanda replies.
"Romantically."
"Very romantically," Natasha confirms.
You blink. "Together."
"Yes."
"At the same time."
"That's generally how this works, detka."
You stare at them. Wanda stares back. Natasha stares back. You stare some more. "Is that legal?"
Natasha actually chokes. Wanda covers her face with both hands. "What?" you ask.
"No, no," Natasha says between laughs. "Please explain your thought process."
"I didn't know three people could date."
"Well, they can."
"Oh." A pause. "Oh." Another pause. "Oh my god."
"That's the fourth time you've said that," Wanda points out.
"Because this is a lot of information!"
Natasha pinches the bridge of her nose. "We've been trying to tell you for years."
"I thought you were friendly."
"Friendly?" Wanda repeats.
"We bought you flowers!" Natasha adds.
"Friends buy flowers."
"On Valentine's Day!"
"I thought you were being supportive."
Natasha looks physically pained. "Detka, I held your hand through three entire movies."
"I thought you were affectionate."
"I kissed your forehead."
"I thought you were sleepy."
Wanda laughs so hard she nearly doubles over. Natasha points accusingly at you. "You sat between us every movie night."
"Because there was space."
"The candles?"
"I thought you liked candles."
"The roses?"
"I thought you liked flowers."
"The hot chocolate?"
"I thought you were being nice!"
"We were being nice!"
"Exactly!"
Wanda is openly crying with laughter now. "Nat," she wheezes. "She really had no idea."
"Clearly."
You look between them again. Then another thought occurs to you. "Wait."
The laughter dies immediately. Wanda straightens. Natasha straightens. "If Maria hadn't kissed me..." Neither woman answers. Your eyes widen. "You would've kept doing this forever."
Wanda opens her mouth. Closes it. Natasha sighs. "...possibly."
"Natasha!"
"What?" she asks. "You thought the Valentine's flowers were friendship flowers."
"There are friendship flowers!"
"Not twelve red roses!"
You groan loudly and cover your face. "Oh my god."
"There it is again," Wanda says.
"The flowers?"
"Flirting." Natasha tells you.
"The movie nights?"
"Flirting." She repeats.
"The hot chocolate?"
"Flirting." Wanda confirms.
"The dinosaur nuggets?"
Natasha shrugs. "Those were just dinosaur nuggets."
"THANK GOD." You sigh in relief. "Wait," you say suddenly.
Wanda and Natasha immediately tense. "Now what?"
You point between them. "So if you were flirting with me..."
"Yes?" Wanda asks cautiously.
"And you two are dating..."
"Yes?" Natasha echoes.
"And Maria was flirting with me..."
"...yes?"
You blink. "Do I flirt back?" The silence is immediate. Natasha stares. Wanda stares. You stare back. "I don't know how this works!" you defend.
Wanda makes a strangled noise. "You've never flirted with anyone?"
"I don't think so."
"You kissed Maria."
"That happened very fast."
Natasha laughs despite herself, rubbing a hand over her face. "Detka, do you want to go on a date with us?"
"Was that easier?" Wanda asks.
"Much."
"Good."
You think for a moment. Then another. Then another. Natasha starts looking nervous.Actually nervous. Which feels impossible. Wanda notices it too.
And suddenly your chest does something strange. A warm, fluttery feeling. One you've definitely felt before. Movie nights. Hot chocolate. Holding Natasha's hand. Listening to Wanda ramble about a book she liked. Watching them look for dinosaur nuggets because you'd mentioned them once. "Oh."
"There it is again," Natasha mutters.
"No, I think this one's important."
Wanda's expression softens immediately. "Yeah?"
Your face warms. "I think I like you too."
For a second neither woman moves. "Both of us?" Wanda asks.
"Yeah."
"Romantically?" Natasha asks.
“Yeah.”
Natasha laughs so hard she doubles over. Wanda is smiling now. The soft smile. The one reserved entirely for you. "You have no idea how long we've waited to hear that."
"Apparently three years."
"Three years and four months," Natasha corrects automatically.
You stare. "You counted?"
"I am deeply in love with you."
"That's slightly terrifying,” you admit.
Wanda reaches for your hand first. Gentle. Giving you every chance to pull away. You don't. Her fingers lace through yours. Natasha steps closer a second later.
"So..." you say.
"So?" Wanda replies.
"What happens now?"
Natasha and Wanda exchange a look. Then Wanda leans forward first. Slow enough for you to stop her. You don't.
Her lips brush yours softly. Warm. Sweet. Far less terrifying than you expected. When she pulls back, she's smiling. And then Natasha is there too, cupping your cheek gently before kissing you just as softly. Your brain promptly forgets how to function. "Oh."
Natasha groans. Wanda bursts out laughing. "Was that another important one?" Wanda asks.
You nod. "Definitely an important one."
Somewhere, Maria quietly hands Clint $20. “Told you they'd figure it out someday.”
tw: daddy and mommy/mama kinks, all the kinks are listed before so if you don’t like one, don’t read it! some are dark but not all of them!
cockwarming
she’d have you perched on top of her while she plays video games so she can have a warm, wet hole to fuck when she gets frustrated. she plays for hours filling you with load after load. eventually she’d have to gag you, your pathetic moans would be too loud and she doesn’t want anyone to know how beautiful you sound while you’re sitting on her cock
sometimes she’d use your mouth, you’d both be laying on the couch and she would move you to be face level with her crouch. she’d have you pull it out, sink your mouth onto it so that you’re comfortable not to move for a while. it turned your mind completely off, especially when she’d get too pent up and hold your face steady as she fucked it.
forced intox
forcing you to take hit after hit of the joint, until your loose and pliable in her lap. She’d be gentle with you of course, but you didn’t really know what was happening as she dipped her fingers into your panties and coaxed orgasm after orgasm out of you. she wouldn’t even get off that night, she’d watch a funny movie snd play with your pour, overworking pussy all night until you passed out, completely fucked out in her arms.
fear play
holding a gun up to your head, watching as you tremble under her, knowing she knows exactly how to use that thing. you’re tied to a chair, completely bound and unable to move. you’re babbling pleas for her to stop, for her to take the gun away, but she doesn’t listen. she drags the barrel down, pushing a strand of hair away from your face. she traces your cheekbone, then your lips.
“Open.”
you open your mouth, your lips shaking with fear as she pushed the barrel into your mouth.
“suck it good, babe. never know when my finger might slip.”
dollification
dressing you up in cute outfits, doing your hair just how she likes it. she just loves seeing you dressed up all cute. making sure to buy you outfit after outfit, more and more revealing until you’re just wearing lingerie around the house all day.
making sure to dress you herself, slipping it over your body, caressing your skin as she does so, telling you how beautiful you look all dressed up for her
forced intimacy
you’ve been having a rough adjustment to your new life with natasha. constantly fighting when all she wants to give you is love. she’d make you kiss her while she was fucking your cunt wide open, threatening to kill you if you didn’t. she’d make sure to tell you how much she loves you while you’re shaking underneath her, then forcing you to say it back in a convincing tone.
and of course afterwards, cuddles were required. you would try to pull away, but she wouldn’t let you. it’s not as if you were strong enough to push her away. she’d cuddle you, wrapping her arms around you and kissing your cheek.
breeding kink
“Imagine what’d you look like pregnant.” She’d whisper in your ear as she pounded into you. “All glowy and swollen.”
“Wans…” you trailed off throwing your head back onto her shoulder. She was holding you up from behind, her strap buried so deep inside of you it felt like you could feel it your throat. her hands stroked your stomach.
“I don’t even know why I’m asking, you’d let me do anything to you right? Anything for your mama?”
“Fuck—“ you whined your body trembling, you’d fall over if it wasn’t for her grip. “anything mama…”
“I know baby. I know. I’m gonna fill you up soon honey…”
probably make a part 2 of this…lmk if you have any headcannons
emily prentiss x fem!bau!reader ; reader goes on a fake date w/ morgan, jealousy, pining, kissing
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ w. a little angsty , a small make out sesh at the end (i can't write kissing but i love em ugh) wc. 2919
note ; if me and emily were a chocolate, we'd be em&em... hah, get it... (also first time writing for emily so apologies if she's a bit ooc!!)
“Hey Em, can I borrow your lipstick?”
“Huh?” Emily blinks, your question pulling her from her thoughts. She’s leaning against the sliver of wooden wall between two stalls, arms crossed and watching as you blink at her through the mirror. Your question had startled her so suddenly that she'd forgotten what she was thinking so intensely about.
“Oh–! yeah, here.” She pulls it from her pocket and her heart flutters from the combination of your hand brushing hers as she passes it to you and the small smile you give her before muttering a ‘thanks’. She nods bashfully, her lips parted slightly in the same manner as she steps back to lean against the wood. “Y– yeah.”
Her eyes loom across your back, the sliver of cleavage as you lean over the sink; they catch on the red spreading across your lips—the same as the one on hers. Your eyes flick up to her face, and she meets them through the mirror, watching as your brows knit together.
“You okay, Em?”
Gosh, that nickname.
She nods, “yeah. Why wouldn't I be?” Her arms cross again defensively, and you simply shrug. “Just making sure,” before focusing back on your lips, which she gladly joins you in. Her lips part again as she watches you get ready for your date.
Oh, that's right. Date.
Well, it's not an actual date. Just a ruse to lure the unsub the team’s been chasing for the past few days. Emily was actually the one to propose using a ruse to lure him, and you’d built on the idea, suggesting a fake date. And how Emily wished she could've volunteered to go with you without it being suspicious. Not that two girls can’t go on a date—she just didn't want to, couldn't, ruin all the effort she’d spent on hiding the massive crush she has on you. So instead Morgan gets to touch you and flirt with you and stare at you in that dress and red lipstick. Her red lipstick.
By the time she’d pulled herself from her silent wallowing you’d already packed everything up and are now standing in front of the door, hand resting on the handle and smiling at her. “You coming?”
She nods, pushing herself off the wooden partition. “I’m right behind you.”
A low whistle greets you as you step out of the bathroom. “Daamn, girl. I might have to take you out on a real date after this.” Morgan looks you up and down, chuckling. He himself was dressed up: crisp button up, dark blazer, he’d even put on a nicer watch, (presumably borrowed from Rossi). You let out a laugh, the soft, shy one that'd usually have Emily’s heart doing flips good enough for the Olympics, but instead made her chest ache just the slightest bit. It was childish, really. But just the thought of you dressed up and going out with someone as charming as Morgan, no matter how real it is, makes her coffee taste bitter no matter how much sugar she pours.
“Thank you, Morgan,” you smile at him. “You don't look half bad yourself.”
Before she starts confessing her feelings out of jealousy, or volunteering to go out with Morgan so you don't, or both, Emily slips past the two of you, whatever compliments he’s throwing at you now with that pearly white smile fading into background noise. She practically throws herself at the coffee machine, pouring every last drop into some generic paper coffee cup and adding enough sugar packets to make even Reid’s sweet tooth seem reasonable, which she downs like wine on a Friday night before she even reaches the car. Oh yeah—the best part about all of this is that she gets to go with you and watch from the security cameras.
The ride to the restaurant felt longer than it actually was. Luckily, Morgan sat in the front seat, but unluckily Emily was left to sit next to you—which she'd be excited about in any other scenario, except now she has to spend a 20 minute car ride trying not to stare at you while you laughed with Morgan about the couple-y things you’ll have to do.
Your perfume, which she usually loves, felt suffocating as it slowly filled the back seat and ate away at any breath she took.
She glanced at you, the street lamps flashing through the window illuminating you like a scene from a movie, and she realized how the red on your lips really suits you.
She felt childish, petulant, for getting so jealous over a silly little workplace crush. Maybe it's because she knows it's more likely you’d fall for Morgan than you would her, which means a lot considering he’s like a brother to you and you’d rather quit than date him. Or maybe she's just being overdramatic because she's been watching too many angsty lesbian movies lately, (which, to be honest, is most lesbian movies).
Now she's doing her best to neutralize the frown that's weighing down the corner of her lips as she watches Morgan scooch closer to you and wrap an arm around your waist through a computer screen. He doesn't even need to do all that to show that you're a couple! But she reminds herself again: it's not real, it's just a ruse.
Thankfully he backs away a little once the waiter comes.
However, a little later you lean in and whisper into his ear, “the bar. Blue button up.”
Emily hears through the mics hidden on the two of you, and she bites the inside of her cheek. Though, knowing that you’d leaned in to tell him about the case calmed her down a little. What doesn't calm her down is Morgan’s arm around your shoulders as you wait for your food. She wishes it was her doing that, wondering how warm your skin is under his touch, if you’d melt into it. Her heart selfishly aches a little. It's not real, she reminds herself again. And it's just some silly crush! Fortunately, as if the waiter was on her side, your food arrives, pulling him away from you and holding the cutlery rather than you.
After another torturous half hour of watching you two cozy up with each other, the team finally catches the unsub and ultimately puts an end to your date.
Emily heads back into the restaurant to talk to the staff, and when passing by your table on her way out, she spots a half empty glass stained with red on the rim. She pauses, her lips parting slightly as she thinks about yours. Just seeing a lip imprint on something meters away makes her cheeks warm. However she's pulled from these thoughts when a waiter picks up the glass, taking it from her sight. She smiles fondly to herself as she thinks about her crush on you rather than Morgan’s hand in yours as she walks out the restaurant. But when she steps out, she realizes it's becoming a pattern, since her second of relief is interrupted by the sight of Morgan’s jacket on you.
A breeze passes, brushing your hair across your face, although somehow it's not embarrassing like it is when it happens to Emily, rather captivating as it only worsens her feelings for you. She watches Morgan shiver at the breeze, his thin button up doing close to nothing to protect him from it, and oddly enough she wishes she was the one shivering, because that’d mean her jacket was wrapped around you.
You spot her standing in front of the restaurant doors, bulletproof vest still on, staring intently at something in your direction yet lost in thought. You excuse yourself and walk up to her with a mildly concerned smile.
“Hey. You okay?” You ask, again, and Emily turns to you. She blinks, then smiles, “yeah, of course I am.”
“You spaced out again.”
“I’m tired.”
“Sure,” you nod. “I’m surprised that half coffee, half sugar concoction earlier didn't wake you up.” Emily laughs bashfully, looking down and chipping the dark nail polish from her nails.
But then, you step forward and sigh, reaching for her shoulder. “You haven't even taken off your vest.” You nag as you undo the velcro, her breath catching in her throat when you reach for her waist. “I admire your caution, but the unsub’s not gonna get you from the police car.”
All she can muster when you step away from her is a muttered “right..”, and you hand her the vest back, fighting the urge to chase your touch when your fingers brush her hand again. “See you back at the hotel, Em. Make sure you get into a car before you zone out again and get left behind.” You laugh at your own joke and walk away, leaving a half-cognizant, speechless Emily still replaying how your hand felt against hers and the saccharine in your laugh.
However, much to her disappointment, you did not see her once you got back to the hotel, which led to her flopping onto her bed and helplessly thinking about you—how you looked especially good in that dress, how your smile seemed brighter tonight, how well that shade suited you and your lips.
Lipstick.
She sprung up, feeling her pocket only to find nothing inside then remembering, or rather, not remembering you giving it back. She can't help but smile a little, but quickly composes herself as she stands up and heads to her door; she feels like a teenage girl again, getting so giddy over an excuse to see her crush again.
When she knocked on your door she expected you to already have changed, so it was much to her surprise when you opened the door completely unchanged, minus Morgan’s jacket, fortunately. “Oh, hey Em!”
“Hey. Uhm,” however, just as she’s about to ask, your expression lights and you gasp. “Oh! I forgot to return your lipstick!” You turn around, then pause to turn and tell her to come in, before rushing to the dresser. Emily obeys, awkwardly standing in the middle of your hotel room while you rummage through your purse. When you pass her the golden tube of lipstick, you feel her icy hands brush your warm one.
“Your hands are freezing, Emily! And I’m the one in a dress that shows two-thirds of my skin.” You laugh as you turn back around to the mirror and start removing your jewelry.
“It looks good on you,” she says before she could stop herself, the words completely from her larynx rather than her brain. You turn to face her, a small blush creeping on your cheeks. “What?”
Blood rushes to her cheeks and the tips of ears as she finally registers what she just said.
“Oh! The– the lipstick, I mean!” She gulps before putting on a bashful smile, hoping to play it off. “Although, the dress does look good on you too.” She gestures at you, and you blink, before breaking out into a smile and returning a small “thanks.”
She nods, eyes looking everywhere but at you. She quickly shoves the lipstick in her pocket before picking at her nail polish again, a habit she doesn't even realize she's doing until she notices how often she finds herself repainting them. Your fingers mess with the hem of your dress, watching her cheeks grow rosier before glancing down at the floor, then up at her again.
An awkward silence fills the already thick air, and you just stand there, looking at each other. Then, out of nowhere, you ask for the nth time tonight,
“Are you alright, Emily?”
She blinks. “Yeah, why wouldn't I be?” The words almost feel true from the number of times she's said it tonight.
“Because..” you pause for a second, unsure if she’ll just brush it off again and walk away. “You’ve just been off tonight, Emily.”
Emily, not Em.
“You’re constantly spacing out, which isn't anything new, to be honest, you’re really ‘tired’ despite you chugging coffee like it's water, and you're just—” you sigh, your eyebrows knitting in genuine concern and frustration, though your voice remains soft. “You’ve just been acting weird tonight.”
“I—”
You wait for her to finish her sentence, but nothing follows. “I’m worried for you, Emily.” You cross your arms, then hesitate, “is it... something I did?” Her eyes widen, and she immediately steps forward, hands reaching out to hold yours but stopping right next to them and clenching into fists. “No, no! Why would you think that?” However, her panic isn't because she can't bear seeing you think about something unrealistic or self-deprecating, rather because what you said was completely, one-hundred percent true.
“Because you're only weird around me. You're quieter, you joke less. I’m a profiler, Em, I know when something’s off.”
She just stares at you with her lips parted, hands still hovering next to yours. What does she say? What can she say without embarrassing herself and ruining the friendship you’ve spent years building? She can't live with herself if she says the wrong thing.
You don't say anything more, don't urge her. You just look at her with wide, pleading eyes, concern knitting your eyebrows together in a way she just wants to reach out and undo. Her heart’s pounding in her ears, and she can practically feel the adrenaline rush through her body.
She contemplates, for just a second, that maybe she should just get it out there. End her suffering by creating more suffering for the future by just pouring her heart out.
Then, “Please,” you whisper. And it's like your small plea unraveled something in her. Suddenly, she doesn't care if you don't feel the same way, and sucks in a breath of encouragement.
“I like you. Like a lot. And I don't think I ever will, no matter how much you hate me after this. I just— every time I look at you my mind works a little bit slower, my cheeks feel so warm I might get heatstroke, and I just can't help but think about you in a way I fear you don't think about me in. And I—”
The next thing she knows is your hands are on her face and your lips are on hers. You pull away before she can even comprehend what just happened, your lips resting just an inch away from hers, and your body even closer. You look up at her eyes, and she lets out a shaky breath.
“Oh.”
You bite your lip to hold back the stupidly endearing grin growing and look at her with these doe eyes that make her legs feel like jelly.
Her cheeks are warm underneath your palms. You watch her eyes flick down to your lips, her tongue unconsciously darting out to wet her own. Her hands ghost over your waist, and you watch her look at you like she can't believe this is real. Honestly, you never thought she'd be this shy. Can't say you don't like it though. Finally, she leans in, pausing to let you step back if you want, but when she notices you lean forward instead she immediately closes the gap, nearly knocking the air out of you.
It’s rushed, but sweet. Your hands gently pressed against her face feel like an angel’s touch, and you can feel her cold hands sting your skin through the fabric, her fingers flexing against your waist like she still can't believe this is actually happening.
You can taste leftover coffee—extra sweet from her attempts to keep the (her) bitterness at bay—and faintly cigarettes, a habit of hers she swears she's giving up. Emily hums, tasting the expensive wine lingering on your lips.
You pull away for a second, muttering against her lips, “next time I borrow your lipstick, I should just put it on like this.” You press a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Get it straight from you.” Another to her cheek. “Save some lipstick, you know.”
Emily nods, impatiently chasing another kiss to your lips. You stand there for what feels like hours, completely entranced by the way her lips feel against yours. Not that either of you are complaining.
This time she pulls away, although reluctantly, for a much needed breath. Her half-lidded eyes immediately lock onto your lips, the flush on her cheeks deepening as she sees your (her) lipstick smudged at the edges.
“Like what you see?” You wiggle your eyebrows jokingly, but she just nods, replying with a serious “mhm.” You laugh, not depriving the woman of what she clearly wants anymore as you lean in again, but she stops you with a breathless confession. “I really, really like you.” Her eyes move to meet yours to show you how serious she is about this. “I don't want us to go to sleep tonight without knowing what we are.”
The way she stares at you makes your limbs feel like jelly, and you muster up a small nod as your heart pounded in your ears. Gosh, she's so attractive right now. Well, she's hot all the time, but right now, in your arms, she looks unreal. This all feels unreal. Your arms move to loosely wrap around her neck, and you feel yourself smiling as her grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly. “Is this your way of asking me out, Prentiss?” You say with a teasing tilt of your head.
“Is it working?” Her lips curl into a smug but absolutely smitten smile.
Chapter Summary: After a weekend that feels like you weren't fully there, it's finally your first day as an intern at Romanoff-Maximoff Global. Will the exhaustion catching up to you win first or will you get fired by the CEO herself before that?
Word Count: 8.7k
Warnings for this Chapter: depersonalization, past psychological trauma
A/N: Longer chapters (7.5k+) after this one are only going to be on AO3. Tumblr changes my format quite a lot and fixing it (especially with this longer chapter) is giving me eye strain 😅 For the longer ones, I'll still do a preview here and tag those that asked. Hopefully this is an okay compromise! Thank you guys for reading!
Series Masterlist
—
Muffled footsteps thud against the ceiling. Low chatter from the basement leaks through the metal vents. In the distance, people shout from one of the fraternity houses nearby. The world outside this room is alive. It’s almost midnight on a Friday. Everyone around your age has exciting plans carrying late into the night, but you lie in your bed, in the dark, alone.
Your tongue drags along the swollen muscle inside your cheek where you drew blood. The wound feels tender, warmer than the rest of your mouth. You press against it, forcing a blunt, radiating pain through your jaw. A condescending huff escapes you, aimed entirely at yourself.
You deserve this pain.
Memories of the interview with Wanda flood your head. You secured the internship, but the achievement feels hollow.
It feels like pity.
An ache wells in your chest, spreading to your throat until it tightens by the second. You grip the rough bedsheets beneath you as tightly as you can, ignoring the lingering pain in your fingers from how hard you squeezed your shirt earlier.
Even through the heavy cloud of exhaustion from the day, shame burns. How could you act like that? How could you let that ugly side of you show?
You release the sheets from your grip, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Stop wavering. Stop complaining. Just be…
“Perfect.”
Your mother’s voice finishes the thought for you.
Silence rings in the air. The vent rattles as the heat kicks on, but it feels like your parents' words are what swirl around the room, chilling the air. Maybe it’s the sheer fatigue of the day, but you can’t wave your hand and push them away tonight. They replay on a loop. Sharp words with jagged edges that tear your skin open, over and over. The strikes come too fast to heal.
You flinch.
Sudden shouting rises from the lower level. The couple downstairs are fighting again. It’s a noise you have grown used to, but tonight your brain stays on high alert, firing on all cylinders despite the exhaustion crushing your limbs.
You just want to sleep.
Lifting your arm, you press your forearm over your eyes as if the extra cover can protect you. But the shield is useless. You’re still trapped in this house.
You still have to go to the coffee shop in the morning. You still have to face your manager, handle the rush, and explain why you need to drop your weekday shifts. You still need to figure out what clothes are passable for a corporate office like Romanoff-Maximoff Global. You still need to calculate your rent, check your draining savings, and ration what to eat.
You still need to…
Pain shoots through your skull. There’s too much. And you have to do it all on your own.
The jagged words, the mistakes from today, and the endless checklist drag your mind into loops with no exit. It’s a carousel of failure that refuses to stop spinning. You squeeze your eyes shut until stars dance behind your lids.
Your hand forms into a tight fist. The air leaking from the vent is supposed to be warm, but your fingers are freezing. You never actually noticed how cold your hands always are.
Not until you felt the contrast of Wanda’s hand holding yours.
You just want to sleep.
—
You open your eyes with a start at the first ring of your alarm. It feels like you only just blinked. Did you sleep? You must have, considering you feel shockingly awake.
Your fingers squeeze into a fist, testing the muscle. The ache from last night is gone. You run your tongue over the bite inside your cheek. The skin is still raised, the deep indents from your teeth still sharp and noticeable, but no matter how hard you press, the pain doesn’t arrive.
Even the usual exhaustion in your limbs is missing. There’s no heavy ache, no weight holding them down, no desperate craving for a caffeine hit to fix your problems.
You swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your body moves with an ease you haven't experienced in two years. It’s an unfamiliar sensation. It should feel welcome. Instead, beneath it all, you feel completely numb.
Your feet slide into your slippers. Your body goes to work, moving through your morning routine without your permission.
Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Apply skincare.
You reach for the hairbrush automatically, dragging it through the tangles left by your pillow. Staring into the bathroom mirror, it doesn’t feel like you’re looking at yourself. It feels like you’re miles away, trapped behind a thick wall of glass. Despite the usual bloodshot strain being completely absent from your eyes, they look incredibly distant.
Your head turns away the moment your body deems your hair to be acceptable.
Dressing yourself feels like dressing a mannequin. You pull on your long-sleeve shirt and jeans then tie your sneakers. There’s no warmth in the fabric.
Smoothing a hand down the front of your shirt, your fingers stop over your heart. You press down to remind yourself you have a pulse, before your hand drops away.
You reach for your backpack leaning against the wooden desk. The straps slide over your shoulders. You open the bedroom door.
The hallway is dark as usual, the smell of stale weed lingering in the heavy air. Creaking footsteps echo from the basement stairs. Usually, your chest would tighten at the sound. Your heart would pound, your ears straining for the distinct weight of Matt’s shoes on the wood.
This morning, there’s nothing. No fear. No racing pulse.
Your feet simply carry you past the central staircase with quiet, even steps. You step out onto the porch, the front door clicking shut behind you. The crisp autumn breeze that usually bites at your skin feels like a ghost.
—
The warm lights of the coffee shop blend with the golden sunrise spreading across the floor. Steam from the espresso machine hisses into the air, clouding the shot glasses resting on top of the metal grid. The scent of burnt medium roast and chemical sanitizer from where your coworker scrubs the counter is overwhelming, but your nose barely registers the smell.
Your fingers move rapidly across the touch screen of the cash register. Ring up a large drip coffee. Tap the screen. Process the card. Swipe a paper cup from the stack, write the drink acronym on the side with a black marker, and slide it down the line.
"Next," you call out.
The word falls from your mouth like a pre-recorded audio file. Your voice is steady, polite, and easy.
A customer snaps at you because they forgot to order their latte with oat milk. Usually, your stomach would knot at the harsh tone. You would apologize immediately, your throat tightening as you rushed to fix the mistake even if they were technically wrong. Today, you just nod with understanding.
"We’ll make it again with oat milk."
You walk to the espresso bar and pull the carton from the fridge. Explaining the situation to your coworker feels like watching yourself from a distance. It’s an eerie sensation. The rehearsed voice is the exact same one you used when your parents invited people from church to your home, or when you were dragged to after-school programs.
So this is how people hear you. It’s pleasant. Confident. Soft enough to never sound commanding. It makes sense why your parents wanted you to speak this way. But somehow, it doesn’t sound like you at all.
You continue anyway.
You speak to the next customer. You share a laugh with a regular who always orders a mocha. Your lips curl, stopping exactly at the point where the smile looks just real enough. Even if it doesn’t feel like you—even if you’re just watching yourself follow a program forced into your skin—at least it doesn’t hurt. At least your head isn’t pounding, and it doesn’t feel like gravity is trying to pull you into the ground. At least your arms aren’t shaking just from lifting them. At least your stomach isn’t curling in on itself from the emptiness.
At least it feels like all the stressors in your life don’t exist. Everything is being done for you while you watch from deep inside your mind.
Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing for it to stay this way until you graduate university. It would be easier to live in a world completely free of pain and exhaustion.
But would that really be living? The thought forces its way into your cloudy mind before drifting away.
—
The day continues the same way even as the routine shifts.
Your manager at the coffee shop hadn’t exactly been receptive to the sudden change in schedule, but had agreed nonetheless. The tight grip of guilt never comes.
You return home, drop your bag, and change out of your work clothes into a t-shirt and sweatpants. The weekend always brings a different kind of labor. Some weeks it means a long trek to the grocery store to buy discounted frozen meals. Sometimes it means cleaning your room, despite how small the space is. Other times it means scrubbing the communal kitchen or bathroom.
This weekend requires studying and completing assignments.
Dead week starts Monday. Fortunately, the two major assignments due can be turned in online. Completing them now will clear your schedule for the internship, leaving the rest of the week free of classes to study until finals arrive the following week.
Everything after that could be figured out later.
You sit at your desk, bringing out your notebook and laptop and open the first assignment.
—
You close your laptop the second the final assignment uploads. There’s no time to celebrate the small victory. Your body is already moving, changing out of your sweatpants and into a crisp white button-down and black slacks required for your restaurant dinner shift.
The restaurant is a completely different beast than the morning coffee rush, but you navigate the crowded dining room with the same quiet detachment. You balance heavy trays of drinks on icy fingertips. You recite the evening specials with that same pleasant cadence.
When a table sends back their steak because it’s undercooked, you smile. You apologize for the mistake and offer to fix the problem like you’re reading a script. Carrying the plate to the kitchen, you explain the issue to the chef and return to the floor without a single flicker of irritation or fatigue.
Everything happens as though you’re a marionette on stage. Sharing conversation. Forcing laughs. Reciting a rehearsed story. The noise of clinking silverware, the bright glare of the kitchen lights in contrast to the dim dining room, the demanding voices of your tables—it all bounces off you as if you’re made of wood.
You survive Saturday night this way. The amount of sleep you get feels even shorter than the night before, but the harsh effects never strike you.
You survive your shifts on Sunday the same. You perform every task flawlessly, like a ghost floating through life. When you look back at the weekend, it doesn't feel like a memory. It feels like a movie you watched from the back of a dark theater.
It’s easier this way. You could live in this black-and-white movie.
But Sunday night arrives, and the biting air of your room finally registers.
—
You look through your drawers for suitable clothing for tomorrow morning. One of your roommates downstairs has friends over. The sudden spikes of laughter and raised voices feel like background noise to the mission at hand.
The white collared shirt you wore the past two days won’t work. Toward the end of your shift, a coworker accidentally spilled red wine on your right sleeve. The purple-red tinge is far too eye-catching to pass. The long-sleeve shirts you wear to your coffee shop shifts are too informal. Your t-shirts are out of the question—a cheap array of colors and old school shirts from middle and high school.
Your eyes turn to the candleholder on the wall. The spare collared shirt from the interview still hangs there along with the black skirt. It was easy to ignore this weekend. You were able to ignore all the problems looming over you. The deep wrinkles still remain across the left midsection.
Shaking hands. Erratic breathing. Fingers clutching fabric like a lifeline. The metallic taste of blood in your mouth.
Shame burns into your skin, melting into your bones. The interview. Wanda comforting you. Your manager’s disappointed look when you asked to change shifts. The guilt eats at you from the inside out. Suddenly, the room feels far too cold to bear.
You drop to the floor. The freezing wooden floorboards seep through your clothes, biting at your skin where they make contact. Pulling your knees tightly to your chest to conserve heat, you lower your head to your knees.
You blink rapidly in the darkness that you’ve created. It feels like you can’t stand. Your arms lock around your legs tighter, as if you can make yourself even smaller than you are right now.
But it’s impossible. You bring your feet closer to your body and tuck your hands between your knees.
Why is it only getting colder?
Your fingers intertwine with each other, a desperate grip as if to remind yourself that you’re still here, still with yourself. You look down at where the dim room light finds its way past your legs. Your hands are shaking, but it’s not from the cold.
The sound of laughter rings from downstairs again, followed by the sound of your own breathing. It’s coming far too fast. Your chest seizes, tight and suffocating.
Like it did in the bathroom on Friday.
Like it did during your interview with Wanda.
It’s scary. The negative thoughts, the spiral, feeling like you can’t take a breath.
But it never fully culminates.
Your fingers release each other and your arms drop, landing with a blunt thump on both sides of you. Your shoulders that were rigid and pulled up to your ears collapse. Your knees give way, your thighs and calves lying flat across the floorboards.
Only your head remains in place, hanging downward as you look at your shadow across the floorboards.
You flatten your right hand against the wood, forcing yourself upward. Your arm threatens to break under the weight of your racing thoughts and a body that refuses to move quickly. Reaching out, your fingers hover near the wrinkles on the hanging shirt.
Your breath quickens. You turn your head away. It feels like if you touch the fabric, the feelings from that day will return, snapping whatever thin string is holding you together.
The laughter downstairs pricks at your skin.
You take careful steps back to the drawers. Every movement is calculated, silent, as if there’s a monster in your room that you’re desperately trying to hide from. You try to slow your breathing, forcing the air to pass quieter through your teeth than before.
The bottom drawer opens with a hollow scrape.
You never open this drawer. Not once through your two years in community college. Tasteful shirts you wore to church appear beneath the dust. Most are hand-me-downs from your mother. A few she bought specifically to make a statement to the congregation.
Evidence that her daughter is put together. Something for the neighbors to be jealous of. Proof that she’s a better parent than everyone else.
You haven't seen these clothes in a long time, but somehow you know exactly where everything is placed.
Pulling out the top and holding it in front of you, you know it will work for tomorrow. It’s one you were complimented on many times before, though the fabric never actually made you feel good about yourself. The knit is soft against your fingertips.
The black cable-knit polo brings back a flood of memories with its ivory buttons on the front and white accents on the sleeves and bottom hem.
Your mother told you to feel grateful for it. She called it a status symbol. But you never wore it a single time unless she commanded it.
A stray breeze from the vent brushes past, and the faint scent of your mother’s perfume suddenly wafts around you. The fabric has been trapped in a dark drawer for two straight years, yet it still refuses to let you forget. The memory makes your head throb.
She used to spray that perfume everywhere. On her shirt, her neck, the car. Every ride filled the tight cabin with the scent of sharp floral alcohol and the heavy, musky cologne from your father. The combination always made you feel sick.
You close the drawer softly despite the heavy thudding in your head.
Rising from the floor, you force your eyes to the metal hanger on the candleholder. You remove the wrinkled white shirt, crumpling the thin fabric between your fingers before tossing it into your makeshift laundry basket. It lands right on top of the pile.
Carefully, you work the metal hanger through the neck of the black polo before hanging it up. The ivory buttons glint under the dim light of your room. You slide your skirt over the hanger so that it rests atop the shirt, trying to cover it, but the ivory refuses to hide itself.
You shove the wrinkled white shirt further down the pile of dirty clothes. The bits of white still show. Frustration wells in your chest, ready to burst at any moment.
“Only incompetent people lose their cool over simple things.”
Your father’s teaching echoes instantly, killing the anger before it can start. You force a harsh breath out through your nose before your shoulders slump again.
Turning the lights off, you kick off your slippers and lie in your bed. The room plunges into darkness. You stare upward, but the ceiling looks frayed, almost blurry at the edges. Your body feels rigid, the muscles of your arms and legs holding a tight tension you can’t seem to release. The scent of your mother’s perfume swirls in the air, making your thoughts muddled and your chest heavy.
You reach for your phone. The movement is almost painful against your stiff arm. The bright screen burns your eyes, forcing you to squint.
1:05 AM.
The internship starts at 8:00 AM. Waking up at 6:00 AM is the only way to be safe. It takes a full hour from the bus stop to get to the building. If I fall asleep now, at least I’ll get almost five hours of sleep, you calculate. It’s better than the usual four hours you get. You close your eyes, desperately needing the energy for tomorrow.
First day.
The words replay in your head, forcing your eyes to shoot open. You crane your neck to see the clothes hanging on the candleholder. Turning your head, you see your backpack resting against your desk, packed and zipped from earlier. You check the time again.
2:23 AM.
If I sleep now, I’ll get a little under four hours of sleep. You lie your head back against the pillow.
What if Wanda asks a question and you can't answer it? What if you get lightheaded again and trip? What if you make a mistake in front of everyone?
You check the time.
2:51 AM.
Your sister’s unanswered message. Your mother’s shirt. Your father’s harsh words. Your display in front of Wanda. Rent. Tuition. Food. First day.
You check the time.
3:15 AM.
They’re going to know I’m exhausted. If I sleep now…
—
The alarm blares through the room.
You sit up frantically, your hand scrambling across the mattress to find your phone and kill the noise. The alarm is silenced. The room plunges into sudden stillness, but your breaths come fast and shallow.
Checking the volume on the screen, you find it set to the same level as usual. Yet, it feels as though someone cranked the decibels up an additional hundred percent. The bright light of your screen forces your eyelids to close tightly from the pressure mounting.
Your eardrums throb with the phantom echo of the ringtone. Or maybe the pulsing rhythm originates inside your skull. Every single beat sends a wave of nausea directly to your stomach.
A cold sweat rushes over your skin. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth as your stomach violently heaves, but nothing comes up. Maybe you’re lucky that the only thing you consumed yesterday was a few scraps of dry bread during your shift.
That fact doesn’t register with your body. Your mouth waters and acid rises up your throat, forcing you to swallow it down repeatedly.
You swing your legs out of bed once it feels like your stomach has settled slightly. Your hand rests on your chest, pressing your palm down and rubbing side to side as if to coax your heart into a slower rhythm.
A granola bar sits atop your desk. Maybe eating it will make you feel better, you think, reaching a hand out toward it. The sudden thought of the dry texture on your tongue makes your stomach churn again. Your fingers drop away.
You take a single step toward your bedroom door.
Your leg folds completely beneath you, and it takes every ounce of your remaining strength to force your leg straight again. You reach for the brass doorknob, but your fingers swipe through empty air. Looking down at your feet, you realize you're standing entirely too far away.
The floorboards look like they’re vibrating beneath you.
You can do this.
The thought comes slowly, a heavy weight you have to drag directly out of the mud.
The bathroom door closes quietly, but the scrape of old wood against the frame pierces your ears.
Turning on the light, you finally raise your head to take in your appearance. A few sharp blinks force some moisture back into your eyes. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy, the delicate skin beneath them looking slightly bruised. You can see the effort your body is making just to keep itself upright in front of the glass. Your hair is disheveled, knotted from where your fingers gripped it during those short, fitful bursts of sleep.
Not today.
The thought slams down as you grip the cold porcelain sides of the sink.
Freezing water runs from the faucet. You force your already freezing hands directly into the stream, scrubbing your face repeatedly. Your palms press hard against your skin, rubbing as if the freezing water can wash away the dark circles and the red in your eyes. As if it can erase this far from perfect appearance.
Shame bubbles up as your fingers turn numb. This is your own fault.
The bristles of the hairbrush feel like needles against your scalp with every single pass. Every tug at a knot radiates a sharp, stinging heat across your head. It triggers an unbidden memory—your mother sitting you down in front of a mirror to brush your hair. Her movements only get rougher the moment the bristles hit a tangle, forcing the plastic teeth straight through the knot without warning.
You remember the desperate urge to cry. Yet, the sharp glare your mother would fix on you through the mirror would always force the tears right back down.
Her version of a perfect daughter doesn’t cry.
You turn the handle of the faucet, stopping the stream of water. You press your fingertips against the dark circles under your eyes. You’ll have to cover it with concealer.
—
You stand in front of the outfit you assembled last night. The comfort of your worn sleep t-shirt and sweatpants is forced off of you, leaving you exposed to the room. Your hand shakes as you remove the skirt and polo from the hangers. The skirt slides over your skin easily, though the deep chill of the house instantly creeps up your legs. The polo feels heavy against your fingers.
Sliding the shirt on, the luxurious knit feels scratchy against your sensitive skin and actively drags your shoulders down. You fasten the ivory buttons with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers, smoothing down the collar with a trembling palm. The phantom scent of sickening floral perfume and heavy cologne immediately surrounds you. Your throat constricts, but you force slow, breaths through your nose to keep the nausea back.
Heavy straps from your backpack dig deep into your shoulders. The front door clicks, then slams shut behind you with a deafening thud.
Walking toward the bus stop, you keep your head down as the pavement sways and shakes violently beneath your sneakers.
The low chatter inside the crowded bus hits your ears like physical pressure. It forces you to pull your backpack tightly against your chest, squeezing your eyes shut to block out the sea of faces. You lean your head against the window, the cool glass grounding you for a brief moment.
Then the bus ride begins. The heavy rumble of the engine and the constant friction of the tires against the pavement rattle your jaw, vibrating straight through your skull. Your teeth clench hard into the swollen muscle of your inner cheek.
Not today.
—
The building towers above you. The glass reflects the cold morning sunlight. Immovable and unyielding.
Your steps are labored as you walk up the stone staircase, each forcing a heavy sigh of effort. Your abdomen feels sore from the violent heaving that awaited you right when you woke up. Your thigh trembles as if you’re wearing through the last bit of energy you have.
The glass doors open when you step into range. The familiar synthetic scent of the lobby washes over you as you walk into the luxurious lobby.
You look up at the warm glow of the chandeliers high in the ceiling. The lights blur and sway in your vision. You force your gaze back level at the desks across the lobby. The panic you felt when you first walked into this lobby a few days ago worms its way into your tired mind.
Suddenly, it feels like you’ve been injected by ice. Your eyes widen and the distorted vision you’ve had all day clears. The edges of the room become crisp. The nausea evaporates. The dull, throbbing pressure behind your eyes vanishes, as if a tight band around your head was loosened. Your limbs suddenly feel weightless. The clatter of heels on marble and the low murmur of conversation drop away into distant static.
You feel entirely hollowed out, but perfectly still. Untouchable.
The trembling in your thigh stops. You roll your shoulders back, adjust the strap of your backpack with a steady hand, and take a deep breath. The exhaustion is gone. In its place is a crystal-clear emptiness. It’s different from the weekend where you felt like you were watching yourself from the sidelines.
You’re present.
It feels good.
The instructions from your onboarding email flash through your mind verbatim.
Precise steps carry you across the marble floor to the security desks. Your eyes meet the same receptionist from the day of the interview. You greet her with a warm, measured smile, stating your name and matching the exact check-in protocol given to you.
She blinks at you with wide eyes. Opening a drawer, she slides a black lanyard across the sleek desk.
“The card will be replaced once you get your photo taken,” she says, offering a small smile. “Have a good first day.”
You return the sentiment warmly before turning toward the elevators. The onboarding email directed you straight to the sixtieth floor. Stepping into the elevator, the expensive, clean scent of the air feels entirely different than before. Your head was a chaotic jumble of noise that day. Today, your mind feels remarkably clear.
The floor numbers rise on the digital display.
—
Mark’s familiar face greets you the exact moment the elevator doors slide open. A slight wave of relief washes through your chest that it’s him standing there instead of Wanda.
“Happy first day,” Mark says in his usual monotone voice. “I’ll be your supervisor for the duration of your internship.”
You give him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mark. It’s good to see a familiar face.”
He gives you a quick glance. “Follow me,” he says, his voice noticeably warmer.
He turns toward a vast array of desks sprawling across the open floor plan. Multiple monitors rest on every desk. Employees sit with their heads bowed, monitoring the market. Thankfully, the space isn't as dim as the fifty-second floor, though it lacks the blinding, sunlit brilliance of the C-suite penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the perimeter, letting morning light flood the room.
Hushed chatter and quiet whispers cover every square inch of the floor. Employees turn to look at you and Mark as you pass, their gazes brief and entirely uninterested before they drop back to their monitors. You’re at the absolute bottom of the food chain here.
Mark stops at a desk on the far left corner of the floor, right next to a junior analyst.
“This is Eli. It’s his first year as an analyst. When you’re not with me or working on tasks, you can ask him questions before coming to my office.” Eli nods at Mark before offering you a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you…?” Eli prompts.
You give him your name, your voice smooth and polite. Mark points to a structure directly behind your workstation.
“My office is right there. You are to come to my office for instructions every morning.” He turns a sharp look onto you, checking for compliance. “Okay,” you respond lightly.
Mark’s office is barely half the size of Wanda’s penthouse suite. The dark, one-way glass reflects your image right back to you. You look put together. In control.
A rapid tour of the surrounding departments follows. Down in Human Resources, you complete onboarding forms, review corporate policies, and stand against a white backdrop for your official badge photo. The coordinator promises the real badge will arrive by the end of the day. Walking back through the corridors, Mark introduces you to various team members who share brief stories about their own first days.
You smile along, tossing out pleasant laughs at all the right moments. The amusement never reaches your eyes.
Back at your desk, the technical setup begins. You log into the secure servers, configure your corporate email, and map out the specific financial softwares the firm relies on. Mark’s instructions stay sharp in your mind, tracking verbatim. You repeat the data back to him the second he prompts you.
You sit in your chair like a statue. Your shoulders are pulled back, your spine locked ramrod straight. Your eyes stay fixed on the display despite the busy movements around you. Other employees casually stretch their arms upward and twist their necks to relieve tension. You don’t move.
The moment Mark steps away into his private office, your lower lip vanishes between your teeth. You press down, squeezing just until the skin is about to break.
Your fingers slow against the keyboard. The clean, sharp gridlines of the financial software begin to blend together on the dual monitors. You try to blink away the sudden blurriness once, twice—each blink coming slower than the last—but your vision completely refuses to refocus.
Reaching out for your temporary ID badge resting on the desk, your own hand betrays you.
A tremor shakes your fingers when you try to lift the plastic card. To fight it, you dig one of the sharp plastic corners deep into your open palm.
Why? Everything was going so well.
Your hand continues to shake as if taunting you, a reminder that you can’t outrun this exhaustion forever. Goosebumps ripple across your bare arms, forcing you to pull your shoulders even higher to conserve whatever body heat you have left. The hushed chatter that felt like background static earlier now expands, surrounding you entirely.
Eli turns to look at you in your peripheral vision, an unmistakable look of concern crossing his features. Before he can speak, the entire floor goes dead silent.
Eli's head snaps toward the elevators to see what everyone is staring at. Your eyes follow his gaze, forcing your heavy eyelids open against the crushing urge to close them.
Wanda steps into view.
She’s wearing a crisp white blouse and tailored trousers. The outfit is simple, yet her quiet authority remains unmistakable. Her eyes slowly travel across the open floor plan before her sharp gaze locks directly onto yours.
You stare back at her, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to combat the growing dryness in your eyes.
Her eyebrows furrow slightly, a tiny movement as if she’s spotted something she dislikes.
You snap your gaze back to your monitors. She thinks this is too much for you already.
Your breaths come too fast, shallow and erratic. Trying to force them into a slower rhythm, you draw a deep breath through your nose. The mistake is instant. The phantom scent of that overwhelming, sickening floral perfume floods your senses all over again, making your jaw clench tight enough to ache. Your stomach twists into a violent knot.
Subconsciously, your hand rises to your hair. Your index finger and thumb drag along individual strands, smoothing them over before patting them down. Nothing on the screen registers anymore.
A light touch against your back suddenly forces your back straight.
The change is immediate. The scent of old perfume and heavy cologne vanishes into thin air. The comforting aroma of summer flowers and memories of warm August nights replace it. Your tight shoulders relax slightly. The air that felt completely frigid just moments earlier seems to rise a few degrees.
“This is unexpected. Did we have a meeting scheduled?” Mark's confused voice comes from directly behind your chair.
“No. I just thought it would be a good idea to visit the analyst floor,” Wanda responds smoothly. Her voice sounds crisp and professional, entirely different from the gentle tone she used during your interview. “It raises morale.”
You sneak a quick glance over your shoulder as they continue to converse. Wanda stands with her arms pulled behind her, the back of her hands resting against her lower back. Yet, the fingertips of her left hand press lightly against your upper back.
She hides the touch behind the long sleeve of her right arm.
She taps her index finger against your spine rhythmically, as if reminding you to turn back around.
Panic flares all over again. Now she thinks this is too much for you and that you can’t even pay attention. Your lower lip finds its way right back between your teeth, your jaw locking tight.
Wanda’s fingers remain steady on your back as the volume of her voice rises slightly, addressing the room.
“Remember to remind everyone that there are snacks on the counters on both sides,” Wanda says nonchalantly to Mark.
Her fingertips drag slowly against your back one last time before she pulls her hand away and walks down the aisle.
The air instantly chills the second her warmth leaves you.
A cautious glance follows Wanda’s path all the way until she enters the elevator. The doors slide shut, allowing you to finally release a heavy sigh. There’s no telling how many warnings Wanda will graciously grant you before you get fired. You don’t have the time to be eating snacks.
Squinting back at the monitors, you flatten your vision as if the forced focus will make the data readable. You try to familiarize your mind with the foreign software. It’s the only task Mark left you with since it’s only your first day, but your fingers stay hovered over the keyboard.
The keys remain untouched. It feels as though your brain is slowing down at a concerning, dangerous rate.
A brief blink turns heavy, your eyelids refusing to lift. The sudden sensation of your head sinking downward feels exactly like succumbing to temptation. Gravity drags you deeper, pulling you down into a dark, empty space of nothingness. Just rest.
Your head snaps up.
Your heart pounds violently against your ribs Your eyes frantically find the bottom corner of the monitor, searching for the digital clock.
It hasn’t even been a minute.
Your breathing slows down after a few moments. You try to tell yourself how stupid you’re being, but your brain rejects the thought. You don’t even have the energy to hate yourself right now.
Your eyelids drop. Your head sinks. You go under again.
Then you snap awake. Heavy, frantic breaths. A racing pulse. Your eyes dart around the room to see if anyone caught you.
The cycle repeats over and over, and you can’t stop it.
A tap on your shoulder breaks the cycle after five minutes.
Turning your head slowly, you find Cindy standing beside your desk. She’s smiling down at you softly. “Hi, it’s good to see you again,” she says quietly, as if she already knows the exact state you are in. “I was asked to bring you up for a meeting.”
Your pulse spikes. You’re getting fired.
“I…” you start weakly, clearing your throat. “I have to familiarize myself with the software. Mark said it’s my task for today.”
Cindy’s soft expression shifts, her mouth curving into a look of quiet sympathy. “Don’t worry about that. This takes precedence.”
Don’t worry because you won’t be coming back to this desk. That’s what she really means. You state the fact to yourself, your chest tightening as you prepare for the end.
Rising from the chair, you grab your backpack and pull the straps over your shoulder.
You slide the lanyard over your head, pulling down on the plastic card. The fabric tightens uncomfortably against the back of your neck. It’ll leave an indent. Cindy watches the entire process with a curious expression, but her soft smile returns the moment your eyes meet.
“Let’s go.”
She beckons you forward, looking back every few paces to ensure you’re keeping up. Your steps wobble beneath you, but you force your weight forward anyway.
The trip up the elevator is quiet and familiar. Relief washes through you that Cindy doesn’t attempt to make conversation. Your brain can’t process words quickly enough right now.
The bright C-suite penthouse floor feels entirely different than before. The sunlight is far too intense, blinding and painful. Your eyes drop to the floor, tracking your own careful steps right behind Cindy’s heels. The path is exactly the same, leading all the way to the right side of the floor.
Cindy stops just short of Wanda’s office door.
She stops at the door right beside it instead. Two sharp knocks echo through the hall before a smooth, raspy voice responds from inside.
“She can come in.”
Cindy opens the door and ushers you through the threshold. The heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, leaving you standing entirely alone just inside the executive office.
The rustle of shuffling papers fills the quiet room. Forcing your eyes up toward the sound, piercing green eyes lock directly onto yours.
Beautiful, you think briefly before she speaks up.
“Sit,” she says simply.
She points a manicured finger toward the chair directly in front of her desk. It’s the exact same design from Wanda’s office. Shaky steps carry you across the polished floor. You slip your backpack off your shoulders, resting the bag against the base of the seat.
The leather is soft against your thighs. The material immediately reminds you of Friday's interview. Except the person sitting across from you today is entirely different.
Your eyes naturally gravitate to the nameplate resting proudly on the front of the massive glass desk.
Natasha A. Romanoff. CEO.
You adjust your posture in the chair, sliding forward until you rest right on the edge of the seat. Pulling your shoulders back with effort, your spine straightens completely—as if your mother’s knee is digging straight into the small of your back.
Your hand reaches over to where the sleeve of the polo has folded, uncurling it and smoothing it down before resting your palm over your shoulder. It trembles beneath your touch from the exertion.
The quiet scratching of her pen against a document echoes through the office.
“Wanda spoke very highly of your interview on Friday,” Natasha says, her raspy voice flat and calm.
That’s a lie, you think tiredly.
“Thank you, Ms. Romanoff,” you respond. The soft cadence of your voice falters toward the end of the sentence, a quiet slip that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You squeeze your shoulder tighter.
Natasha caps her pen and leans back in her chair. Her green eyes lock onto yours, heavy and unblinking. Her gaze drifts briefly down to your shoulder, where you keep your posture rigid and impossibly still.
“However,” Natasha continues, her tone dropping into something noticeably colder. “That doesn’t seem to be reflected today.”
Your throat constricts tightly. Wanda told her. You wet your dry lips before responding, your mind racing for a single acceptable answer that will save you.
“It won’t happen again,” you promise. You force your voice to hold completely steady. “Please. Give me another chance to prove myself.”
The intense sunlight shining into the office forces your eyes to squint slightly. You don’t waver, holding her gaze even as a fresh wave of dizziness threatens to blur the room.
She rises from her chair elegantly, walking around the perimeter of the glass desk.
Stopping directly in front of your seat, she leans her lower back against the edge of the glass. Her frame blocks the sunlight coming in through the windows, casting a shadow over your face. Your eyes can finally open completely. She wears a similar outfit to Wanda, except her tailored blouse is a light blue. The white heels make her look even taller from your position in the chair.
You crane your neck upward to maintain eye contact, desperately clinging to some semblance of competence.
The bright morning light shines right behind her, catching the strands of her hair until it looks like a fiery halo around her head. It would be mesmerizing if you weren’t about to be fired by the CEO herself.
Her lips pull into a thin line as she scans you, as if she's calculating something in her mind. Under her heavy scrutiny, an intense urge to cover yourself and hide away wells up. You know you must look terrible right now.
She lets out an exasperated sigh before walking past your chair.
The scent of your polo that’s been following you all day is instantly replaced by a wave of fresh pine and clean mint. The new aroma clears your mind slightly, though your torso still shakes from the sheer exertion of holding your posture straight.
A sharp, cold sensation presses against the side of your neck, jolting you completely out of your thoughts.
A low huff of laughter sounds from behind you, and a plastic water bottle comes into view in front of your face. She sets the bottle firmly into your free hand before walking back around to rest against the edge of the desk once again.
“Drink,” she says flatly. It doesn’t feel like she’s asking.
Bringing your other hand down from your shoulder, you try to hide the tremor shaking your wrists. Your fingers feel completely weak against the ridges of the bottle cap as you try to twist it. Your fingers slip off from the inadequate pressure.
Don't fail now.
You try a second time, forcing every ounce of your remaining strength straight into your fingertips. A small step sounds on the floorboards right in front of you the exact second the plastic seal finally cracks open.
You look up to see Natasha taking a step back, leaning back against the glass desk casually. She nods at you as if urging you.
The plastic ridges of the opening feel dull against your lips, but the cool sensation of the water moving down your throat is heavenly. You hadn’t realized just how dry your throat actually was.
You stop yourself the second you notice Natasha watching you, your arm lowering the bottle down against your thigh.
“Keep drinking,” she commands bluntly. “I can’t have an employee pass out from dehydration.”
You bring the opening back to your lips, swallowing the rest of the water much slower than before. So it’s just to make sure you're not a liability, you realize while looking down. There’s barely anything left in the plastic container by the time you finish.
“If you continued the way you were on the sixtieth floor, you would have been reprimanded by Mark,” Natasha states sharply once you’re finished. “Maybe even fired on the spot.”
Your eyes drop down to your sneakers, the swaying floorboards finally stopping. “I… I know. I’m sorry,” you apologize weakly. “I’ll do extra work to make up for it. Please. I won’t ask for another chance after this.”
Looking up at her, you try to hold her gaze with pleading eyes.
Her eyes lose their hard edge for a split second before sharpening once again.
“I don’t need you to do extra work,” Natasha says, her voice returning to a cold, businesslike clip. “I need you to do the work you’re assigned, and do it well without finding the material so boring that you fall asleep.”
A sharp breath hitches in your throat. This is it. She’s about to fire you.
“Go back to your desk and finish the task you were assigned.”
She’s already walking around the perimeter of her desk to sit back down in her plush chair when your eyes lift in shock.
Why isn’t she firing you? You literally slept on the job.
You stare at her with disbelief written all over your face.
She meets your eyes languidly, raising an eyebrow. “Are you not going to follow that instruction either?”
Jumping up from the seat, you clumsily slip your backpack over your shoulders. A sudden wave of lightheadedness makes your knees wobble, but you blink away the black dots in your vision. You turn toward the exit, your hand reaching for the handle.
“I won’t waste the chance you’re giving me,” you say, your voice tight but urgent. “I’m sorry again and thank you so much.”
You pull the heavy oak door open and walk out into the bright corridor before you can hear another word.
—
Eli is away from his desk when you arrive back on the floor. Everything remains exactly as you left it, except for a small plastic packet resting right next to your keyboard.
Placing your backpack against the base of the chair, you sit down and pick up the object. The weight feels instantly familiar in your palm. Flipping the packet around, your eyes land on the colorful branding of a fruit snack.
It's the same ones Kate would always carry in her bag at school.
You shake your head despite it feeling like it's throwing your brain around in your skull.
The top corner is already slightly torn, as if someone deliberately pre-cut the plastic to make it easier to open.
The sudden sound of Eli settling back into his rolling chair makes you look up. “Did you give this to me?” you ask, holding the small packet up for him to see.
His eyebrows furrow. “No, that wasn’t me. That definitely wasn’t here earlier.” He offers you a small, easy smile. “Lucky you,” he says, turning his attention back to his monitor.
Staring down at the plastic, you slide your thumb into the pre-torn notch and rip the wrapper open the rest of the way. The cut helps immensely against the waning strength in your fingers. You pop a single strawberry gummy into your mouth, chewing slowly. It tastes familiar
The lingering memory of the warmth in Wanda’s office washes over you. You had been too out of it at the time to look at the packet carefully, but the shapes of the gummies and the fruity flavor are the same.
Your rigid posture finally droops a bit, the tension draining from your spine.
Halfway through the packet, the violent shaking in your hand begins to subside. The sugar works through your system, clearing the thick fog in your mind and easing the painful, hollow ache in your stomach. Though, the exhaustion still hangs heavily over your body, refusing to let go.
“Oh, sweet.” Eli’s voice rings out from beside you. “They put the snack basket closer to us.”
Turning around in your seat, you look at the space between Mark’s office and the neighboring manager’s door. A new table has been placed directly in the center of the walkway. Massive baskets filled with an array of snacks rest proudly atop the wood.
Eli slides out of his chair, grabbing a package of cookies from the basket before turning back to you with a grin. “Lucky us.”
You give him a wide grin back. It’s been a long time since you smiled like this.
Friday was emotionally draining. The weekend was caught somewhere in a blur between a dream and a nightmare, and Sunday night dragged up memories you hoped to keep buried forever. This morning brought a rollercoaster of feeling entirely at your lowest point.
But you made it to the office safely. You didn’t get fired.
Now, the sweet grape flavor of the fruit snack permeates your mouth, chasing away the distant taste of acid.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice holding a quiet trace of wonder. “I guess we are lucky.”
—
The sky holds a deep red-orange hue as the sun sets slowly outside the windows. Only forty-five minutes remain until your workday is officially scheduled to end. A majority of the analysts on the floor have staggered schedules. Many of them left for home an hour ago. Eli was called into a late meeting, leaving you entirely alone at your workstation.
You memorized and navigated the different software systems multiple times, ensuring you can answer any unexpected questions. Your torso leans heavily against the front of the desk. The fruit snack packet you consumed hours ago granted just enough sugar to complete your assigned task today.
Looking around the quiet floor, you log into your university portal and pull up a set of lecture slides. Finals are coming in the blink of an eye. Your eyes scan the text, your hand writing notes in the notebook you brought from home.
Fifteen minutes pass before your hand begins to move slower. Your head drops inch by inch, drawing closer to the surface of the desk.
A cool breeze passes through the walkway. Pulling your arms closer to your chest, you rest your forearms against the wood. Your head follows, resting flat atop your arms.
Just five minutes, you reason with yourself hazily. The assigned work is completely finished, after all.
—
“...wanted her to take care of herself,” a raspy voice sounds faintly through your consciousness like a dream.
“You always wrap your words around spikes. Just admit that you were worried,” a sweet, slightly accented voice follows.
“Says the one who left her a treat without a single word,” bites back the first voice.
“Mmm…” you murmur into your sleeves, fighting weakly through the thick layer of sleepiness.
Silence follows for a moment. Something is gently draped over your shoulders, and the sharp, comforting scent of pine trees and mint instantly surrounds you. The intense warmth lulls your body, dragging you right back to the brink of sleep.
A hand rests lightly on the back of your head. Careful, gentle fingers run through your hair, untangling the knots without a single hint of roughness.
“Sleep a little longer,” the second voice whispers lightly against the dark.
The soft aroma of jasmine mixes perfectly with the pine.
“Okay,” you mumble tiredly. Your consciousness leaves you completely, enveloped by the comforting mixture of scents protecting you from the cold room.
—
A/N: Sorry for how long this chapter is! When I committed to this series I promised myself I wouldn't take any shortcuts when talking about mental health and trauma. And I really wanted to talk about the stuff that often happens after anxiety attacks because it isn't mentioned enough. Like the insomnia even though you're so tired, the dissociation, adrenaline induced clarity, and the crash from not addressing the problem. Hopefully the softness towards the end rounded out the heaviness? :D (Let me know if there are any mistakes, I tried to edit, but there's always a chance I miss something)
I really appreciate your guys' thoughtful comments here on each chapter. I hope the change with the chapters doesn't bother you guys too much 😅
summary: one drink turns into several. you accuse a very patient stranger of kidnapping you. unfortunately, she’s your wife.
tags/warnings: established relationship, married couple, drunk reader, funny drunk, chaos night out, protective Nat, Wanda is TIRED, accidental flirting, domestic fluff,reader has no survival instincts.
author's note: hi 🤍 i’m supposed to be studying for my exam on thursday (as i said, supposed), but somehow this turned into me projecting my inability to drink responsibly onto reader. that one’s on me.
Wanda being done with everyone and Natasha having infinite patience felt inevitable.
english isn’t my first language, so please be kind.
i’d love to hear what you think, comments always make my day.
You’re halfway through putting on your jacket when Natasha looks up from the couch.
“You’re not wearing heels.” she notes.
You freeze mid-zip. Slowly turn. “Why does that sound like an accusation?”
“It’s an observation,” she says calmly. Too calmly. “When you don’t wear heels, you drink more.”
“That is fake data.”
Natasha smiles like she has spreadsheets.
You narrow your eyes. “You cannot possibly have—”
“I have charts,” she says. “Trends. A very upsetting bar graph.”
You laugh, walking back toward her. “I am going out for one drink.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Two,” you amend. “Max.”
Nat stands, steps into your space, and fixes your collar with unnecessary precision. “Text me when you’re done,” she says. “I’ll pick you up.”
“I can Uber.”
“Absolutely not,” she says. “I’m picking you up.”
You grin. “You’re obsessed with me.”
“You're my wife, so yes.” she agrees easily.
You lean in, kiss her—soft at first, familiar, then deeper because she hums against your mouth and her hand slides to your waist like it belongs there. Because it does.
She pulls back just enough to murmur, “Behave.”
You smile sweetly. “Never.”
Two hours later, the bar is loud, sticky, and absolutely not designed for the amount of chaos currently occurring inside it.
Everyone said just one round.
Everyone lied.
One drink becomes two. Two becomes celebratory. Wanda is sipping slower than everyone else, Maria is already laughing too loud, and Carol has decided tonight is a physical challenge night.
“Carol,” Wanda says, blinking slowly. “Why are you on the floor?”
“For pride…” Carol says, already lowering herself.
“I can do twenty push-ups!” Carol announces.
A group of random men at the next table perk up immediately.
“I’ll do thirty.” one of them says.
Carol cracks her knuckles. “Count me in.”
You’re half-slouched on the couch, cheering with full confidence and zero balance.
You clap weakly from the couch. “GO MUSCLE LADY!”
“FIVE—” Carol shouts.
Wanda? absolutely done.
She’s seated at the table, nursing the same drink she’s had for an hour, eyes glazed with the resigned patience of someone babysitting a disaster.
You’re on your third—fourth?—drink, perched dramatically on a barstool, telling a bartender a very emotional story about how your wife once reorganized the entire spice rack alphabetically and you’ve never recovered.
“And she smiled,” you whisper, hand over heart. “Like it was normal.”
The bartender nods solemnly. “That’s terrifying.”
“It was hot.” you correct. “But terrifying.”
Then, across the room, Wanda watches you stand on a chair to cheer Carol on.
“Ten! Eleven! Twelve! CAROL YOU’RE A NATIONAL TREASURE—”
Carol collapses onto the floor, laughing. The men look like they might pass out.
Wanda sighs, pulls out her phone.
Natasha is halfway through paperwork when her phone rings.
She answers immediately. “Is she okay?”
Wanda doesn’t bother with greetings. “Well…she’s not hurt.”
“Wanda...”
“She is, however, extremely drunk.”
Nat exhales through her nose. “Where are you?”
She gives the address.
“I’m on my way.”
“She says she’s married,” Wanda adds.
Nat pauses. “…Yes.”
“And that she’s waiting for her wife.”
Nat closes her eyes. “I’ll be there in ten.”
You’re mid-sentence—something about proposing to your wife again because she deserves it—when Wanda touches your arm.
“She’s coming.”
You blink. “Who?”
“Wife.” Wanda says flatly.
“No,” you say, shaking your head. “My wife.”
“Yes,” Wanda replies. “That one.”
You frown. “You’re confusing me.”
“I know.”
Wanda glances at the door, then at you.
“Okay. Show’s over.”
Natasha walks in.
Nat laughs the second she sees you.
“Oh, you’re funny drunk,” she murmurs. “I forgot about this version.”
You spot her immediately. You always do.
Your face lights up like she personally invented electricity.
“Ooooh,” you breathe. “She’s pretty.”
Nat steps closer. “Hey, baby. Ready to go home?”
You recoil like she’s crossed a line.
“Absolutely not,” you say. “I’m married.”
“Yes,” Nat replies patiently. “To me.”
You gasp.
“Nonono,” you say, shaking your head. “My wife is hot.”
Nat smirks. “Correct.”
“And intimidating,” you add. “And she would never approach me like this.”
Wanda points at Nat. “That’s literally her.”
You shake your head. “Nonono. Don’t confuse me. She’s blonde.”
Nat’s smile turns wicked. “You’re married to a redhead.”
You lean closer, squinting harder. “That is exactly what a stranger would say.”
She sighs fondly. “You’re impossible.”
“I will scream.” you warn.
Before you can react, she grabs you—efficient, practiced—and hoists you over her shoulder like you weigh nothing.
Maria chokes on her drink.
Wanda laughs so hard she has to grab the counter.
Someone whistles.
“HEY—” you protest, dangling upside down. “Put me DOWN. I don’t KNOW you.”
Nat pats your leg. “Relax.”
“I’M BEING KIDNAPPED.” you announce to the room. “BY A… VERY ATTRACTIVE WOMAN.”
“Your wife.” Wanda says.
“I will be reporting this,” you insist. “To my wife!”
Nat starts walking toward the door, unfazed.
You squeal.
“HEY—” you smack her back weakly. “Wanda! WANDA I’M BEING TAKEN.”
Nat gives your ass a firm pat. “Behave.”
You gasp. Loudly. “SHE TOUCHED ME.”
“That's my ass,” Nat says calmly. “I’m allowed.”
“She’s gonna be so mad,” you continue. “She doesn’t like strangers touching me like that.”
Nat adjusts you higher on her shoulder. “She’ll survive.”
“I don’t know that.” you argue, upside down.
Carol waves happily from the floor. “Bye!”
The car ride home is… a lot.
You’re slouched in the passenger seat, gazing at Natasha like she hung the moon.
“You drive so well,” you say.
“Thank you.”
“You’re very strong.”
“I know.”
Five minutes pass.
Then you turn your head.
“…You’re very pretty,” you say thoughtfully.
Nat smiles without looking over. “Drink your water.”
“And your arms,” you continue. “They’re… disrespectful.”
She laughs softly. “Careful.”
You lean close, lowering your voice like it’s confidential.
“If I wasn’t married,” you say, “I would absolutely flirt with you.”
“Oh?” Nat glances at you.
“Yes. But I’m a faithful woman.”
“Good to know.”
You lean closer. “Are you single.”
She laughs. “No.”
“That’s a shame,” you say sadly. “My wife would hate you.”
Nat glances at you. “Why?”
“Because I’m flirting with you.”
You suddenly freeze. Eyes widening.
“Oh my God.”
Nat raises an eyebrow. “What.”
“I cheated,” you whisper.
She blinks. “You did not.”
“I emotionally cheated,” you insist. “With… you.”
Nat bites her lip, trying not to laugh. “Baby…”
You clutch your chest. “She’s going to be devastated.”
“I think she’ll survive.”
“No,” you say solemnly. “She loves me.”
Nat reaches over, laces her fingers with yours. “I love you.”
You stare at her hand. At her face.
“…Wait.”
The realization hits you like a freight train.
“Oh.”
She smiles gently. “Hi.”
“You’re my wife.”
“Yes.”
“I flirted with you.”
“Yes.”
You think for a moment. “That’s okay then.”
Nat laughs so hard she has to pull over.
At home, she changes you into comfy clothes while you narrate everything.
“These are my pants,” you inform her. “They are very soft.”
“I know,” she says. “I bought them.”
You pause. “…You’re incredible.”
She tucks you into bed.
You immediately sit up. “Wait...”
“What?”
“You still haven’t proven you’re my wife.”
Nat arches an eyebrow. “How would you like me to do that?”
You think hard. Way too hard.
“…Show me your scar.”
She lifts her shirt just enough to reveal it.
You gasp. “MY WIFE.”
She smiles. “Sleep.”
Morning comes with consequences.
Your head is pounding. The light is offensive. Your mouth tastes like regret.
Nat is already awake, sipping coffee, watching you with entirely too much amusement.
You groan. “Why are you smiling?”
“You told a stranger you’d report me to your wife.”
You bury your face in the pillow. “Did you… did you carry me.”
“Yes.”
“And then?...”
She smirks. “I patted your ass.”
Your eyes fly open.
“You did WHAT??????”
She leans down, kisses you slow and smug. “You didn’t complain.”
I don't like the clarification that most likely no one died during the fire. Let Lenore unintentionally kill in the name of love. It would add some drama and spice.
(especially if she had said outright she didn't really care about potential victims, because these maids and butlers treated her like a wild animal they had to keep an eye on so why should she care when they don't)
It's not exactly a bad thing, but it feels like lowering the stakes and trying to justify Lenore at the last moment even though none of the readers blamed her.
Yes, she wanted to be free and save Annabel, and wasn't it logical in her situation to want it too desperately to think about the safety of her jailors? There's a big difference between wanting them dead and not worrying if something happens to them because there are more important priorities.
I don't need her to be a heartless killer, I was completely satisfied when this question remained open: maybe someone died in the fire, maybe not. That's not the point, the point is that Lenore was willing to take any risk to escape. Any risk.
At the end of the first season, we had "Lenore is ready to burn the whole world to the ground and risk innocent people to get to Annabel and even though it terrifies Annabel, she's charmed by that because no one has ever done something like this for her before." But now its more like "Lenore waited an extra month to keep the staff she doesn't like safe thus risking losing time because by the time Leo arrived Annabel could have already let someone beat her at chess". I wonder why we like the first option more huh.
In Nevermore, Lenore wasn't willing to kill Montresor even though, as far as she knows, he's a violent sadist and a threat that won't stop. She also wasn’t willing to put Annabel above the people she’s met for three Doritos until she was on the verge of losing her. And that’s only if we believe she’s truly willing to set the Misfists aside once she wakes up
I think what this does is reaffirm something that, until just a few episodes ago, was merely a possible interpretation: no, Lenore in life and Lenore in Nevermore are not diametrically different people. What this is doing is hitting us with the realization that we’ve swallowed the same idealized vision of Lenore that Annabel has gobbled up with jam. Because just as Lenore in Nevermore is unwilling to sacrifice the world for Annabel, she is certainly not willing to do so in life
And that’s what I find interesting about this going in that direction, it means not only that "Annabel’s Lenore" isn’t coming back, but that she’s a person who never existed. Which leads me to wonder if Lenore just let her believe that person existed without realizing it, or if she actively sold her this charade of a partner who would do anything for her when really the only thing she was willing to sacrifice was something Lenore doesn’t consider important: herself
Summary: You’re tracing the nails of Natasha’s middle and ring fingers, trying to figure out why she keeps them so short. You think it's a mistake. She looks like she's about to lose her mind.
Word Count: 4.6k
Warnings/Tags: fluff, mutual yearning, very suggestive, handholding
Minors DNI (just in case)
—
You round the corner of the training wing, the squeak of your sneakers echoing through the quiet hallway. Like clockwork, Natasha is there, leaning against the wall by the elevator. She’s dressed down in a soft, navy hoodie, looking more like a civilian than the deadly Black Widow.
At the sound of your approach, she looks up, her lips curving into her signature smirk. There’s a glint in her eyes that feels heavy, almost expectant, as she pushes off the wall. Before you even reach her side, she silently extends her hand toward you—an open invitation she’s been offering more and more lately.
It’s a quiet, domestic gesture that still catches you off guard. As you slip your hand into hers, feeling the familiar warmth of her palm, you can’t help but marvel at how much your relationship has changed. She always insists on walking you back to your quarters, joking that you’d get lost without her, but the way she holds onto you feels like more than just a guide.
It’s a dizzying contrast to the woman you met months ago. Sometimes, when she squeezes your hand or offers you a warm smile, you still see the ghost of the cold mask she wore the day you first met.
The memory of that mission is still sharp. Your team had been chosen as backup for the Avengers—a standard data retrieval with too many variables. You were assigned to follow the infamous Black Widow. Back then, "Natasha" didn't exist. She was just a shadow in tactical gear, one of S.H.I.E.L.D’s greatest assets.
You had tried to bridge the gap during the transport, offering a polite, "Hi—"
"Just follow orders and stay out of my way," she’d snapped. She hadn't even looked at you, her eyes fixed on her gear, dismissing your entire existence with a single breath.
Yikes, you had thought, adjusting the holsters on your leg. So much for getting along.
The jet had touched down shortly after, and the mission began before you could even blink. Natasha was the leader and you quietly followed her as the team cleared the area. That is, until the variables S.H.I.E.L.D ignored came screaming into play. A hidden pressure plate triggered an explosion that buckled the hallway you were scouting, the ceiling groaned as it began to rain concrete.
Without a second though, you grabbed the back of Natasha’s tactical suit and lunged forward, clearing the collapse just as the hallway crumbled into a wall of stone behind you. You stood there for a heartbeat in the settling dust, breathing heavily, only for the silence to be shattered by the thud of combat boots.
Enemy agents swarmed the room from the far end. In the chaos of the crossfire, a stray bullet tore through Natasha’s thigh. You saw her try to take a step only for her to stumble and was forced to one knee.
You didn't think twice. You stepped in front of her, planting your feet and returning fire with focused precision. You didn't stop until the last enemy fell, leaving the room in a ringing, heavy silence.
Dropping your weapon to the side, you immediately knelt in the dust, ripping a pack of gauze from your med-kit. You pressed it firmly against her wound, but you felt her rough, tactical glove catch your wrists, trying to shove your hands away.
You met her piercing green eyes with a glare of your own. “Stop,” you commanded, your voice labored but steady. “I’m already holding pressure.”
She was dangerously pale, her breath coming out ragged. Even wounded, she tried to sharpen her gaze into something lethal. “I didn’t need you to protect me,” she hissed, her fingers digging into your skin. “Don’t try to act like a hero.”
“Isn’t that how you try to act every day?” you bit back. Then, you let your voice soften, your thumb brushing unintentionally against the edge of her glove. “I don’t need to be a hero, and I wasn't trying to be. But if me playing hero is what kept you alive today, then that’s fine. You can be mad at me later—right now, you’re going to let me treat your injury.”
Natasha opened her mouth to argue, but the fight seemed to drain out of her. A heavy sigh escaped her instead. She scanned your face, her green eyes searching for something, before finally dropping her gaze.
She reached for her own med-kit just as you reached out to stop her. She brushed your hand away with a roll of her eyes, but the movement lacked its previous bite. “Fine, 'Hero.' Keep pressure on my leg since you’re so insistent.”
Before you could respond, she reached her hand toward your neck. You jolted as a sharp rush of pain flared from your throat. You hadn't even realized a bullet had grazed you, missing your carotid artery by a terrifyingly small margin.
“Let me take care of your wounds at least,” she murmured. You tried to flinch away from the sting, but she caught your chin, her fingers surprisingly gentle as she held you in place. “Stay still, will you?” she asked, her voice tinged with irritability, though her eyes were uncharacteristically soft as she watched the blood seeping through the gauze.
She was looking at the wound as if she were seeing a ghost.
“Thank you,” she whispered, so low you almost missed it. “For protecting me.”
Your eyes widened. You could tell by the slight tremor in her touch that she wasn’t used to being the one who needed shielding. Her expression was becoming unsure, so you didn’t let her sit in the feeling for long.
“No problem at all, Miss Widow,” you teased, a playful lilt returning to your voice. “Happy to be your hero today.”
You let out a breathless laugh, the movement caused her hand to shift against your skin. Natasha met your eyes with a perfectly deadpan stare, though the warmth in her gaze was unmistakable.
“I so want to take that back,” she said flatly, her eyes lingering on your neck for a second too long.
The moment of quiet was shattered as Captain America burst through the rubble, his shield clearing the path for the rest of the team. In the chaos of extraction, you were pulled in separate directions. You were shuffled onto a transport jet where medics worked on your neck, while Natasha was rushed ahead—her blood loss had been significant, her face a ghostly shade of pale as they lifted her onto a gurney.
By the time you landed at the Tower, she was already gone. You spent the next few hours in the medbay getting stitched up, feeling a strange hollowness now that the adrenaline had faded. Thankfully, your team had emerged with nothing more than a few bumps and bruises, but your mind kept drifting back to the slight rasp of Natasha’s voice when she thanked you
You figured that was it. You were on different levels. She was an Avenger and you were merely a team leader for the backup team. You’d go back to your separate lives and meet the next time the Avengers required assistance.
You didn't expect to see her again so soon.
A few days later, as you exited the training room after a light workout, you froze. Leaning against the wall beside the door was Natasha. She looked better—her color had returned—but she was propped up by a crutch under her arm, the wrapping surrounding her leg visible under the fabric of her sweatpants.
A relieved smile touched your lips before you could stop it. “I don’t think you should be training, Miss Widow,” you said, your voice warm.
“Just Natasha is fine,” she replied, though her voice lacked its usual bite, sounding more like she was trying—and failing—to be exasperated with you. She shifted her weight on the crutch, her green eyes scanning the fresh stitches on your neck. Her gaze softened, just for a fraction of a second, before she looked away.
“I’m not here to train. I was just... passing by the wing after getting cleared to leave. I’m off missions for a few weeks.” She cleared her throat, gesturing vaguely toward the residential hallway. “I’ll walk you back to your room. Since I’m already here.”
You knew the residential floor was in the opposite direction of the medbay, and there was absolutely no way she just happened to have passed by this area. You felt like there was more to it but you didn't want to press her.
“I would’ve been so lonely on that five-minute walk by myself,” you teased, your eyes filled with a playful mirth. “Though I will say, I’ll be walking. It’ll be more of a hobble for you.”
She let out a dry, short laugh. “Shut up and keep your pace down, Hero.”
That was months ago. Now, there are no crutches or excuses—just Natasha. She’s become someone you look forward to seeing every day. Even though you were just friends, you couldn't help but feel like there was something more bubbling under the surface.
As you walk, your thumb finds its way across the back of her hand. Her skin always feels a little cool, a sharp contrast to yours, which always seems to run warm. She responds by squeezing your hand more firmly, and when you steal a glance at her, she’s wearing a tiny, private smile. She keeps her gaze on the hallway, guiding the two of you until you finally reach your door.
Your heart sinks a little when you see the metal nameplate. The walk is always too short, and the thought of letting go already feels like a loss.
The first time she reached for your hand, it had caught you completely off guard. Now, it’s just a part of the day—a quiet ritual that leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy, your heart doing a strange little flutter every time.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she mumbles. She sounds a little bummed, like she’s just as unready for the walk to end as you are. “Same time?”
“Tomorrow,” you promise softly.
You honestly wonder how she manages to find the time for this every day. You wonder if she’d ever do this for anyone else, but the way she looks at you—as if you’re the only person in the entire building worth her attention—makes you believe this is just for you.
She slowly starts to pull away, her fingertips sliding across your palm and down the length of your fingers, dragging out the contact until the very last second. She waits until you’ve stepped inside and turned back toward her to give her one last smile before she finally heads off, her steps light with a subtle, happy bounce that says more than she ever could.
—
It starts gradually—the need to feel her more. She invites you to watch a movie with the Avengers, whom you thankfully have a good relationship with. She leads you to the couch, letting you sit first before sinking down so close that you can feel the heat of her thigh against yours. She turns to you, her gentle gaze meeting yours for a second, before she turns back toward the screen as the movie begins.
You find yourself tuned into her every move. You feel her tense during the suspenseful scenes and relax during the quiet ones. Those little tells her body gives—the glimpses she gives you—send a rush of warmth through you. Eventually, you can’t help but watch her instead of the screen.
Without really thinking about it, you reach for her hand where it rests on her thigh. You intertwine your fingers in that familiar way, the ritual you usually save for after your workouts. Your hands are both a little rough from training, but in this moment, all you can feel is the overwhelming softness she brings to your life.
You look down at your joined hands, your fingertips dragging across her palm. You find a small scab that has formed there and rub it gently before your fingers drift down to the underside of her wrist. The skin there is pale, and you can faintly see the blue-green veins underneath.
An injury brought you together, but you won't let it happen again. You promise that to yourself as you trace the veins that travel from her wrist to her palm.
Suddenly, Natasha’s hand envelopes yours, stopping your movements. You look up to find her already staring at you, her eyes unbearably tender.
“You know…” she whispers, her voice low over the sound of the movie, “that’s the first time you’ve held my hand first.”
Your lips curve into a playful, soft smile—the kind you save just for her. “I didn’t realize you were keeping track.”
Your voice matches her quiet whisper, but the happiness in your tone is obvious.
“I wasn’t,” she whispers back, stubbornly turning her head to face the screen again.
“Mhmm,” you murmur. You intertwine your fingers with hers again, your thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles into the back of her hand.
As you watch her, you notice the tips of her ears turning a faint, tell-tale pink. You smile to yourself, leaning back into the cushions. She’s acting tough, but you catch her glancing your way throughout the rest of the movie, her hand squeezing yours just a little tighter every time.
—
A member of your team went against orders during a base raid today, and the fallout was messy. Thankfully, the injuries were minimal, though you’re currently sporting a jagged cut above your eyebrow. You haven't even had time to reach the medbay before the other team leader, John, corners you in the hall.
He’s relentless, getting right in your face and shouting. You try to resolve it calmly, but he doesn't seem to care. Your apology is just noise to him. His hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, his fingers digging in so hard you know they'll leave bruises. You try to wrench your arm free, but the exhaustion from the mission has sapped all your strength.
When he finally lets go, it’s not because he’s finished. You look up to find Natasha standing there, her eyes filled with a terrifying, steady fire. She steps directly in front of you, her hand immediately finding your wrist. She caresses the skin where the bruises are already starting to bloom, her touch a stark contrast to the cold stare she’s leveling at John.
She points a finger at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The temperature in the hallway seems to drop twenty degrees. She sounds like ice, yet she continues to stroke your wrist with her thumb, a secret pocket of warmth meant only for you. John starts stuttering out excuses that don't make sense, and you feel Natasha’s hand tense against yours. She’s ready to tear him apart.
You wrap your hand around her index finger, squeezing lightly—a quiet warning to dial it back. Her shoulders drop a fraction, but she isn't done.
“There’s a proper procedure for everything,” she snaps, her voice like a whip. “You think you can just—”
She falters when you lean forward, resting your forehead right between her shoulder blades. It’s a bold move, and you feel the way her breath hitches. Her voice loses its edge, sounding much weaker than it did a second ago. “You can... explain yourself later. Go.”
John doesn't need to be told twice. He scampers off, looking genuinely terrified.
Natasha turns to face you, a slight pout on her lips and an annoyed look in her eyes. “I was defending you, you know,” she says, sounding disappointed. “Until you distracted me.”
“I distracted you?” you ask innocently. “I just wanted to be closer to you.” You smile sweetly at her.
She tries to glare at you, but she can’t quite hold it against your smile. She sighs, looking like she knows she’s already lost. She reaches up, her thumb brushing gently over the cut above your eyebrow.
“Let’s get this checked out,” she says softly. She interlocks her fingers with yours, leading you toward the medbay. She doesn't let go once—not even while the doctor is putting in the stitches.
—
You sit directly behind Natasha in the conference room as Steve goes over the mission details. The stakes are high and the intel is thin—exactly the kind of unknown that makes your skin crawl. You’ll be on Natasha’s team again, which usually brings you relief, but the variables are stacking up. HYDRA is suspected of developing a massive explosive, and S.H.I.E.L.D needs the data destroyed yesterday.
The anxiety starts to settle in your chest. Without realizing it, you dig your nail into your palm, only stopping when a sharp sting of pain tells you you’ve drawn blood. Your hands won't stay still.
You’re trapped in your own head when you feel something warm tap against the top of your thigh. You recognize the weight immediately. Natasha’s hand rests there, palm up, even as she keeps her eyes fixed on the formations Steve is displaying.
You place your hand in hers. The moment your palms press together, your heart rate starts to slow. You catch a glimpse of those blue-green veins on her wrist, and the promise you made to yourself echoes in your mind. Never again.
You relax into your chair, your fingertips tapping against hers in a rhythm only the two of you know. You catch the slight curve of her lips—a move so imperceptible no one else in the room would notice. But you always have your eyes on her.
Her fingertips wiggle against yours, as if she’s playing a game, and you respond by squeezing her hand lightly. It still surprises you how much strength is hidden in her thin fingers. You let go just enough to trap her middle finger between your thumb and index finger. You begin to drag them up and down, feeling the ridges of her skin and rubbing your thumb against the smooth surface of her nail.
You get lost in the motion, alternating between her middle and ring fingers. You trace the calluses in a repetitive, slow, up-and-down stroke.
A minute passes before you feel Natasha’s hand suddenly tense. Her fingers curl, trapping yours tightly against her palm. She turns around in her chair, and your breath catches. Her cheeks are flushed, and her usual composure is gone.
“Are you messing with me?” she whispers. Even in a whisper, you can hear the breathlessness in her voice.
“What do you mean?” you whisper back, tilting your head. You were just playing with her hand like you always do to stay calm.
She gives you a hard, searching stare. Like she’s looking for some kind of hidden agenda, but after seeing the genuine cluelessness in your eyes, she lets out a heavy sigh.
“Do you not like it?” you murmur, your voice dipping into something sad.
The tips of her ears turn a deep, vivid red. She looks like she’s fighting an internal battle, finally covering her face with her free hand.
“No…” she mumbles through her fingers. “You can continue.”
You smile happily at her as she turns back to the front with a low, frustrated groan.
—
You kept your promise, though you can sense Natasha still feels a flicker of guilt. She keeps glancing at the white bandage wrapped around your bicep while she speaks to one of Tony’s business partners. The mission was successful against all odds, so Tony is hosting a victory party—though you suspect he would’ve found any excuse to throw one.
You and Natasha are seated at the bar, finally taking a breather after greeting team members and guests. She looks beautiful in her grey dress. The fabric hugs her curves perfectly, and in the dim lounge lighting, she looks almost ethereal.
You reach out, resting your hand against her waist. You feel the subtle flex of her abdomen under your fingertips as she turns toward you. Without missing a beat in her conversation, she reaches up and hooks a finger under the strap of your navy dress, sliding it back onto your shoulder where it had slipped.
Then, instead of pulling away, she drops her hand back down and covers yours, pinning your palm firmly against her waist.
It’s a possessive, quiet gesture. She continues talking to the guest, but her thumb starts to stroke the back of your hand, holding you there as if she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go. Being this close to her—feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress—makes that familiar flutter in your chest turn into heavy, quick beats.
You watch her profile as she continues to speak. The polite smiles and practiced pleasantries she gives the room are a stark contrast to the deep, late-night conversations you share, or the private smiles she saves just for you. Between the adrenaline of the mission and the noise of the crowd, you can feel your social battery starting to wane. You’re just grateful that Natasha always seems to notice. She effortlessly shifts the focus of the conversation to herself whenever you start to go quiet.
Needing to feel her groundedness, you gently pull her hand from her waist and rest it on the wooden bartop. You cover it with both of yours, pressing your palms against the front and back of her hand. It always makes you feel better, as if simply touching her can transfer her calm strength directly to you.
You glance down at her hand, noticing the neat nail polish she’s applied. The dark red color shines softly in the low, amber light of the lounge. They look perfect—sleek and sharp, just like her. Yet, the ends are rounded out, giving them a subtle softness that also feels just like the woman she is when the world isn't watching.
You find yourself tracing the shape of her nails, your thumb brushing over her knuckles as you get lost in the repetitive, soothing motion. To anyone else, you’re just a pair of friends sitting at the bar. But to you, this is the only place in the room that feels like home.
You pause, your fingertip hovering. Something feels different.
You trace the tip of your index finger across the tops of her nails again, more carefully this time. There is no question about it. The nails on her ring and middle fingers are shorter—filed down significantly more than the others.
Did she accidentally trim them too short? you wonder. You continue to drag your fingertip across the top ridge of those two specific nails, the texture smooth and consistent. Something tells you it isn’t a mistake, though. Natasha does everything with intention. She doesn't just slip up with a nail file.
You drag your fingertip across even slower, feeling how perfectly rounded they are. It’s as if she took extra care to make sure there wasn't a single jagged edge left. Maybe they broke during the mission and she had no choice but to even them out, you tell yourself, nodding slightly as if that answer finally makes sense.
Satisfied with your theory, you bring her middle and ring fingers together, trapping them against your palm. You run your fingertip over both nails at once, over and over, lost in the repetitive sensation.
You’re so focused on the task that you don’t notice the way Natasha has gone completely still. The guest she was talking to is still halfway through a sentence, but Natasha isn't even pretending to listen anymore. Her hand is trembling in yours, and her breath is coming out in shallow, shaky hitches that make the fabric of her dress flutter.
She turns sharply to you, her pupils dilating the second they meet your eyes, the green barely visible. They hold a heat you thought you’d imagined before, but seeing them now—raw and unhidden—you realize this isn’t the first time she's looked at you this way. She looks completely wrecked.
She leans in, her face so close that her breath fans against your ear. “You’re testing me, aren’t you?”
Her voice is low, breathless, and heavy. The heat of her words makes a shiver race down your spine, pinning you to the barstool. You don't pull away. Instead, you rest your head lightly against hers.
“Testing?” you ask, your voice laced with genuine confusion.
She tilts her head, her lips so close that a slight upward tilt of your chin would bring them together. “Yes, testing. I let you get away with it during the mission briefing, but there’s no way you don't know what you’re doing.”
She presses the tips of those two specific fingers against your palm, stroking them downward. She repeats the motion, her gaze unwavering and intense.
“I just noticed they were shorter,” you murmur back, your heart hammering. “I was just wondering why. Is that... not okay?”
She lets out a ragged sigh against your lips. “You’re driving me crazy.”
Before you can get another word out, she presses her fingers harder into your palm, curling them slightly. “You really want to know why they’re shorter?” she asks, the hunger in her eyes finally spilling over.
You feel the heat radiating between you, the specific points where her fingertips are pressed into your skin beginning to sweat. You know there’s a deeper meaning to her words—something you’re right on the edge of understanding—but all you can focus on is the sheer weight of her desire. It’s intoxicating.
“Tell me why,” you breathe against her lips.
You hear her sharp intake of breath before she finally lets it go. Her lips meet yours as if she couldn't wait a single second longer. They move with an unrestrained, desperate hunger, her free hand coming up to cup your jaw and hold you in place. She’s all heat and when she lightly bites your bottom lip, a jolt of pure electricity leaves you breathless.
She pulls back just enough to look at you, both of your ragged breaths the only sound in the small space between you. Her eyes are dark, focused, and entirely yours. She leans in, her lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“I’ll show you why,” she whispers, her voice a low, raspy promise.
She interlocks her fingers with yours, tugging you toward the elevator with a purposeful stride. And she shows you why—over and over—all night long.
—
You wake to the soft, ticklish sensation of Natasha running her fingertips over your spine. Opening your eyes takes a bit of effort, and the first thing you see is the scattered evidence of last night. A collection of deep hickeys you left blooming just above her collarbone.
You reach out, pressing your thumb gently against the one with the darkest hue. Natasha flinches slightly, a small intake of breath catching in her throat, but she doesn't pull away. You look up to meet her eyes, finding them filled with a soft surprise that quickly melts into pure affection.
“This means you’re mine, you know,” you murmur, your voice still scratchy and deep from last night’s activities.
She smiles down at you, the corners of her eyes crinkling in that way they only do for you. She doesn't say a word. Instead, she reaches under the tangled sheets, her hand finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. She presses firmly against a mark she left there, making you jolt.
“And this means you’re mine,” she teases, her voice a low hum.
Her expression softens as she leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that feels a lot like love. She pulls back just a fraction, a playful glint returning to her gaze as she looks at your hand resting near her heart.
“So…” she drawls out, her nails stroking your palm. “Were they short enough for you?”
—
What was supposed to be a 1-2k word short fic about something that happened at the bar last week turned into double the length because I started to think, "but how did they meet tho?" Then I figured I should make it a bit cutesy for all the cutie patootie readers. So yeah, this is how it ended up 😂 Hope you enjoyed it! Feedback is always appreciated :)
SA/N: My work schedule finally stabilized post earnings season and instead of resting up, I decided to watch an animated video on the entire history of Rome at 2 a.m then went down the rabbit hole and watched the history of Greece. Hope your guys' weekend has been well spent as well.
Trapped in a malfunctioning elevator and convinced you are about to fall to your death, panic is all you have left. That was until a rather pretty firefighter forced her way in.
Warning : brief injury, mention of panic attack (Nat makes it feel better)...
⧗ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐀𝐎𝟑
The elevator had been making that, somewhat weird, noise all week.
You had first noticed it on Tuesday, an ugly metallic groan between floors, like something inside it was grinding itself to pieces. It echoed in your bones and made you clench your teeth together in a reaction you could not quite shake nor hide. By Wednesday, you noticed that the lights flickered faintly every time the lift passed the eighteenth floor.
You had meant to report it.
You really had.
Now you were very aware that you had, in fact, not.
The elevator jolted violently somewhere between what you thought were the twenty-first and twenty-second floors, and then it stopped completely.
Not a gentle stop, no, that would have been too nice. A brutal fucking lurch, mind you.
The kind that happened so abruptly it completely stole the air from your lungs and made your body lose its axis. You gasped, grabbing blindly for the handrail in the confined space, a cry of pain escaping your lips as your ankle twisted beneath you at the same moment the lights went out...
Pain shot up your leg.
"Shit-"
Stupid, stupid heels, stupid job. And most of all, fucking stupid elevator.
For half-second, there was only silence in the box you were trapped in. Heavy silence and the blood rushing in your ears before it raced south to warm up your ankle.
Then the cables screamed. The entire lift dipped a terrifying inch, maybe more - metal screeching against metal, and your body slammed into the mirrored wall behind you, the impact knocking a strangled cry from your throat.
"Oh my God," you whispered, widening eyes darting around in the dark. "Oh my God, oh my God-"
The emergency lights flickered on, bathing the small space in a sickly red glow.
Your hands were already shaking. You sucked in a deep breath before lunging for the control panel, hitting the red button in clouded panic. Door open. A soft, broken whimper slipped out as heat bloomed around your ankle, sharp and throbbing.
You exhaled hard, eyes narrowing as you hit the alarm button. Alarm, alarm, alarm again. You pressed it so hard your fingertip hurt.
Nothing.
The alarm gave a weak, frankly pathetic buzz that died almost instantly.
"Hello?" Your voice cracked as you leaned toward the speaker anyway. "Hello?! Can anybody hear me? I-I’m stuck, I-"
The elevator answered with another grinding groan before it slowly - so slowly it felt like moving in slow-motion - shifted again. Lower, just a tiny, insignificant fraction, but it was enough. Enough for your brain to supply the images: snapping cables, freefall, the box crumpling like a soda can when it hit the bottom.
With you inside it.
All because you refused to come to work early to climb up twenty-five flights of stairs.
Your knees gave out before you even realized it was happening, you slid down the mirrored wall, your back dragging against the cold surface until you hit the floor. You brought your injured ankle closer, only now realizing just how much it was burning. You were probably not going to be able to walk out of there - if the doors accepted to open again one day, that was.
Oh, God.
You did not like small spaces.
You did not like not being in control.
You definitely did not like the sound of metal giving up.
"It’s fine," you muttered to yourself, breath coming too fast. "It’s fine. Elevators don’t just-"
The car dropped another inch.
You screamed, hoping if you were loud enough whatever Gods there were out there would come and get you out of here themselves.
⧗
Natasha Romanoff had been halfway through her second coffee at their usual café when the call came in.
Elevator malfunction in a building downtown with presumably one occupant trapped. Structural concerns.
She was already on her feet before the dispatcher finished.
"Alright, let’s move," Clint muttered, tossing his cup in the trash and dragging a hand through his hair. "Too early for this kind of bullshit."
The engine roared to life, their sirens cutting through the late afternoon traffic as they cut across the streets.
Natasha stood in the back of the truck, one hand braced against the rail, the other clenched tight at her side. Her jaw was set hard enough to ache. Elevator calls were unpredictable, they could go either way - minor inconvenience or catastrophic failure. She sure hoped it was not the latest. However, the words structural concerns made something cold coil in her stomach.
They pulled up in under seven minutes, fortunately they were not far from the building when they received the call.
Natasha was out of the truck before it had fully stopped.
A small crowd had gathered outside the building, tension thick in the air. She scanned them once, before zeroing in on the man pacing near the entrance.
The building manager looked pale, sweating through his shirt.
"It’s stuck between floors," he rushed out as she approached. "We think twenty-one and twenty-two. We tried resetting the system, but it’s not responding. And we h-heard-" His voice wavered. "Someone said they heard it drop."
Natasha’s expression did not change, but something in her eyes went sharper - dangerously so - as she recognized the situation for what it was.
"How many people are inside?"
"One. I-I think."
"You think?" Natasha scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "Name?"
"I-I don’t know?"
She shook her head, of course he did not, why would he know anything useful? Natasha was already turning away from him, biting down the inside of her cheek to keep herself from screaming at him.
"Team’s arriving in ten." Clint said, jogging up to reach her side.
Natasha let out a short breath, pinching the bridge of her nose for half a second as she forced herself to think rationally.
Ten minutes.
Yeah, no.
Her gaze snapped back to the building, already calculating distances, access points, worst-case scenarios.
"That’s too fucking long. I’m not waiting."
Clint exhaled, looking at her as if he already knew the end of the story.
"Nat-"
"I’m going." She cut him off, already heading inside.
⧗
Inside the elevator, you were crying now.
Quiet and panicked tears that refused to stop, slipping endlessly down your cheeks no matter how hard you tried to steady your breathing. Your chest hitched in uneven rhythms, every inhale too sharp, every exhale too shallow.
As if it was not bad luck enough already, you had discovered your so-called waterproof mascara was not as waterproof as the bold words on the package made it sound to be. You had dark streaks smudged beneath your eyes, sticky and uneven, making your reflection in the mirrored wall look... ridiculous, or pathetic. Or both.
You looked like an actress trying too hard to win an award for a drama.
And then there was your last straw; your damn phone. Because you had also discovered that you had no service inside this creepy box. Because, of course there was not. You had tried 911 anyway - once, twice or maybe five times - but each attempt failed before it even began, before you could hope. No signal, no lifeline, nothing.
The red emergency light was still on, though. Making everything inside feel smaller, the walls too close, the ceiling too low. And the air hotter, thin, like every ragged breath you took was not quite enough to fill your aching lungs. And just for that, you were grateful for being the only one here. You could not imagine panicking like this in front of someone else. Or even being stuck for God knew how long in here with someone else.
Especially that creepy Dylan guy who could not take a hint to save his life. So, yeah... you supposed the situation could be worse.
Another groan tore through the walls as soon as you finished your thought.
God, you really should learn to hold your tongue.
It was the third in under five minutes, you had been counting.
Your hands flew up to your ears, palms pressing hard as you squeezed your eyes shut, as if you could block it out, as if ignoring it might somehow make it all stop.
"I don’t want to die," you whispered to no one, to yourself, to whatever Gods out there that must have heard you by now but seemingly decided to do nothing about your case. "Please, please, I don’t want to die."
Your voice sounded so small to your own ears, like it did not even matter. And then, there was a sudden metallic clang echoing from above. As if answering you, finally.
Your hands slipped from your ears, hovering uselessly in the air as your brows pulled together, confusion cutting through the panic.
Another clang, louder this time.
And then... voices? Were you hearing voices? If that was true, they were definitely muffled, distant and barely distinguishable. Though you were not quite sure you had not started imagining things. That was what the brain was supposed to do, right? Hallucinate something comforting when reality became too much?
Your head snapped up at another sound, your heart beating with newfound hope.
"Hello!?" You shouted, scrambling to your feet as best as you could, a sharp whimper escaping when your ankle screamed in protest. You clung to the handrail, leaning heavily against the mirrored wall, slowly sinking back into a sitting position. "I-I’m in here! Please! Anyone?"
Something heavy thudded against the top of the elevator.
Then a voice. You were sure of it this time. It was clear and calm and authoritative.
"Fire department! We hear you."
The sob that tore out of you was immediate and uncontrollable. Your hand flew to your mouth, pressing hard as if you could somehow contain the sound, but it shook through your whole body anyway.
"We’re going to get you out," the voice continued. A beacon in the chaos. A lighthouse in the fog. "I need you to step back from the doors."
"I-I am!" Your voice cracked badly, but you stumbled back as much as your ankle allowed, deciding to ignore the new noise coming from the elevator.
Tools met metal then. A harsh, grating sound filled the air as something outside strained against the doors. The entire elevator creaked in protest, a deep and very unsettling groan vibrating through the walls.
You watched, unable to look away, as the doors jerked before you felt the elevator shift under your feet.
The elevator fucking moved beneath your feet.
"No, no, no-" You choked, panic surging back as you slid down the wall again, your body refusing to stay upright.
"Hey!"
The voice was closer now. Right outside. Your head snapped up from where you thought the person was, lips pressed into a tight line.
"Stay with me. What’s your name?"
For a second, you forgot how to speak.
You swallowed hard, whispering it back in a shaky tone.
"I’m Natasha. I need you to look at me when I get this open. Can you do that for me?"
You nodded frantically before realizing she could not see you as she called out your name to make sure you were listening.
"Yes-yes, I can do that." You finally breathed.
A sharp grunt echoed from the other side.
Then suddenly a gloved hand appeared, forcing its way between the doors.
You held your breath as the gap widened, one inch first.
Then two. The metal shrieked in protest like it was alive, like it was fighting her every step of the way.
But then, you saw her.
First, her arm - muscles straining, veins taut beneath sweat-dusted skin, shiny bicep flexing hard as she forced the doors apart manually.
Then her shoulder, the short black sleeve of her shirt covering most of it, stretching tight.
Then her face.
The red emergency light behind you clashed with the brighter hallway lights spilling in from outside, casting her in something almost unreal. The glow caught on the edges of her helmet, creating a halo effect that made her look-
Not real. Not human, at least.
You had been asking for a God all this time when you should have prayed for an angel.
A streak of red hair clung to her cheek, damp with sweat, and her green eyes locked onto yours with sharp, unwavering focus.
"Hey, you’re okay." She said, as if it were fact, her lips offering you a small yet gentle smile.
The doors opened wider, revealing the misalignment - the elevator sitting a good foot below the hallway floor.
Natasha’s gaze assessed the inside in seconds.
"Alright. It’s stable," she called over her shoulder to someone you could not see before nodding at whatever answer she received. Then her gaze softened as it returned to you. "Can you walk?"
You tried, but the second you put weight on your ankle, pain exploded up your leg, sharp enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
You gasped, shaking your head, your hands gripping the bar tighter.
"I-I don’t think so. My ankle, I-"
You expected frustration, maybe impatience. Anything of that range. But Natasha just nodded once, quick and decisive as she shifted closer.
"It’s okay. That’s alright," her voice lowered slightly before she braced one boot against the frame and forced the doors wider with a low, controlled exhale. "We’ll adjust."
Behind her, you could hear someone securing something metal against the frame above. More clanging. More tools. The elevator trembled faintly and you flinched.
Her eyes snapped back to yours instantly.
"Hey," she said, firmer this time. "Stay with me. It’s secured from the top. It’s not going anywhere, alright?"
You searched her face for a lie or at least doubt but did not find any. Just certainty.
Natasha adjusted her footing, one boot planted firmly on the hallway floor, the other testing the edge of the elevator.
"I’m coming in," she warned, her tone turning serious again. "It might shake a little when I transfer my weight. That’s normal, you do not need to panic."
Normal...
You almost wanted to laugh at how fragile that word sounded. But you nodded anyway, your throat tight, your eyes locked on her like she was the only stable thing left in the world.
Your gaze caught on a strange, almost irrelevant detail - the glint of light along her left ear. Multiple piercings, small pieces of metal catching the hallway light. Your brain latched onto that stupid detail even through the panic you could feel rising.
Behind her, you caught a glimpse of movement - her colleague stepping in, rope in hand. He clipped it to her harness with practiced ease, giving her shoulder a firm, reassuring tap.
She did not look back.
The elevator dipped half an inch the moment she slid through the gap with controlled precision. You gasped, hands flying to the wall.
Natasha did not even flinch, she simply moved like she trusted it - like she understood the language of metal and tension and load-bearing structures better than fear ever could. She crouched in front of you immediately, one of her gloved hands finding your arm without hesitation.
Up close, she was even more unfairly breathtaking. A thin sheen of sweat clung to her temple. A faint smudge of grease near her jaw. Her green eyes were sharp, assessing but warm.
Your entire world narrowed to green.
"Hi." She said quietly, her lips twitching into the faintest smirk that made you weak in the knees.
Your brain short-circuited.
Great.
Of all the moments.
Of all the possible moments.
You had to be a gay disaster right now. Of course. And get caught while checking her out.
You let out a shaky, hysterical half-laugh - still reeling from seeing her entering your space so easily.
"Hi."
Before you could utter another word, another distant metallic groan echoed through the shaft, low and threatening.
Natasha’s jaw tightened slightly.
"Alright. We’re going to lift you out," she said, focus snapping back into place. "As you can see the car is about a foot low, so I’ll boost you up to Clint - that guy over there. He’ll grab you, and I’ll be right behind. Got any questions?"
You shook your head quickly, instinctively shifting closer to her as the elevator creaked again, your breath catching.
"We’re not falling," Natasha murmured, her hoarse voice wrapping around your ears. "I’ve got you. All I need is for you to wrap your arms around my shoulders. Can you do that?"
The certainty in her tone did something to your spiraling mind.
You scooted closer and circled your arms around her neck. You tried not to wince too much as she carefully slipped one very muscular arm carefully behind your back and the other under your knees before lifting you effortlessly. Like you weighed nothing at all.
The elevator trembled faintly as she stood, but she adjusted without hesitation, her stance shifting in tiny, precise movements - like balance was something she negotiated with gravity every single day.
You looked at her, suddenly hyper-aware of the proximity. The strength coiled in her arms. The heat of her body through her clothes. The steadiness of her breathing compared to your own chaotic one.
"Oh God-" You choked as the car trembled all around you, your fingertips digging into the fabric of her shirt.
"Shh, it’s okay. I would not be in here with you if it wasn’t secure," she said steadily, her hot breath ghosting your cheek as she turned, bracing her back against one wall and her boot against the other to give herself leverage. "I don’t gamble with old elevators."
You swallowed hard, your eyes flicking nervously around as the walls creaked.
"That probably doesn’t sound as... comforting as you want it to be..."
A soft huff of amusement brushed your ear, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine, the hair at the back of your neck raising in consequence.
"Okay, then I don’t gamble with pretty girls I’m rescuing," she corrected, chuckling faintly at the openly shocked look you gave her. "Alright," she added, like she had not just short-circuited your brain entirely, again. "It might feel like it’s moving like crazy, okay?"
"Okay..." You grumbled weakly, not liking her last words very much.
"Clint!" She called upward, her voice snapping back into command. "I’ve got her, we’re moving."
A man’s face appeared at the gap, giving you both a quick thumbs-up.
"Copy that."
"On three..." She murmured to you, but mostly to herself.
And then she was moving. Natasha bent slightly, grounding her stance - then pushed upward with controlled, explosive strength.
You cried out - not from pain, but from the sudden motion of everything. And then hands grabbed you under the arms.
"You’re good." The man, Clint, reassured you as he hauled you onto the hallway floor.
The second you were clear of the elevator, your body sagged in relief. The carpet felt like heaven beneath your palms.
You twisted immediately, panic snapping back just as fast.
"Natas-"
The elevator shifted again just as she grabbed the frame to pull herself up.
There was a loud, ugly snap from somewhere above. You froze, lips parting. Everything inside you went cold.
Natasha did not panic, she surged upward in one fluid movement, boots scraping harshly against the metal as she hauled herself through the gap.
The elevator dropped five inches the moment her weight cleared it.
A collective gasp rippled from both you and Clint. You stared at the open shaft, your heart pounding violently in your chest.
A second later, Natasha rolled onto her back beside you, her breathing heavier now, not uncontrolled, but very real as she took off her helmet. For the first time, you could actually see the adrenaline in her eyes.
Clint let out a low whistle, patting her shoulder as he helped her out of the harness.
Natasha pushed herself up, completely ignoring him, her eyes already on you.
"You okay?"
You nodded numbly before a sudden, illogical anger spread through your veins.
"You said it wouldn’t do that!" You exclaimed, smacking her arm.
Her eyebrow lifted, surprise flickering briefly across her face - ignoring Clint’s snort behind her as he walked away.
"Actually," Natasha replied, far too calm for your liking. "I said it would not collapse with you in it, not that it would not move at all..." She said, lips threatening to pull into a smirk that she forced herself to contain - like she knew exactly how close she was to getting hit again.
"Oh my God." You groaned into your hands, dragging your hands over your face, fingers pressing hard into your hairline.
But the second you felt your throat closing in again, something in you shattered completely. And then, before you realized it, you were shaking uncontrollably. The adrenaline you had been running on for what felt like hours disappeared from your system all at once, leaving nothing behind to hold you together.
Your hands started shaking, then your arms, then everything.
Natasha was immediately on her knees in front of you, tugging off her gloves as she reached for your forearms.
"Hey-hey. Stay with me."
You could not stop crying.
You tried to speak, you really did, but nothing came out except broken gasps that refused to form words.
Her warm hands closed around your wrists, warm and firm, her thumbs pressing gently but insistently against your pulse points.
"Breathe with me," she instructed gently. "In."
You tried. Failed a few times, but she did not lose patience. She shifted closer, close enough that you could feel the heat of her, close enough that her presence alone started to anchor you, almost close enough to press her forehead lightly to yours.
"Come on, I know you can do it. In," she repeated before taking a slow, deliberate breath - deep enough that you could see it, feel it. "And out."
Your body followed the rhythm instinctively before your mind could catch up.
In.
Out.
In-
Out...
The world slowly stopped spinning quite so violently. The noise faded. The impossible tightness in your chest loosened just enough for air to finally, generously reach your lungs.
And suddenly you were made very aware that you were half in her lap. Very aware that your hands were fisted in the front of her shirt.
"I-I really thought I was going to die..." You whispered, voice hoarse and fragile.
Her thumbs brushed under your eyes, wiping away tears and smeared mascara.
"Well, clearly you didn’t." She said quietly.
Your laugh came out wet and shaky.
"That’s... that’s because you’re apparently made of steel."
One corner of her mouth lifted.
"Sometimes I wish."
You huffed something that might have been a watery chuckle.
Your face crumpled again as the last of the adrenaline drained out of you, leaving you raw and exposed. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed your face into her shoulder, your arms wrapping around her.
You felt Natasha freeze for half a second before her arms came around you as well. Firm and protective.
"It’s alright. I’ve got you." She repeated softly.
You were still trembling, a faint tremor running through your body. If you had not been so close perhaps she would not have even noticed it. But she was close and she did notice.
"It’s over now. You’re safe." She murmured, shifting a little closer on her knees. Slowly, hesitantly, one of her hands came up to rest against the back of your head.
You pulled back once your brain caught up with the realization of just how close you suddenly were, your entire face heating up with embarrassment.
"Sorry-I just, you saved-"
"No, no," she said quietly, shaking her head. "It’s okay. Really. I get it."
There was an awkward pause before you realized her hand was still on you. She seemed to realize it too as she withdrew, clearing her throat slightly.
"I’m... I should probably check your ankle?"
You nodded, wiping at your face in a completely useless attempt to fix or even hide the damage.
"Sorry," you muttered. "I’m not usually this... dramatic?"
A corner of her mouth twitched as she shot you a knowing look.
"You weren’t. But even if you were, you were trapped in a failing elevator. So... I think you’re allowed," she replied, shifting to your extended leg. "I always preferred stairs, you know."
Her hands were surprisingly gentle as she examined your ankle. You hissed when she pressed along the outer bone.
"Yeah," she murmured. "That’s tender."
Her thumb brushed lightly over the area before she leaned back.
"Looks like a sprain. Maybe a mild one. You’re lucky."
Lucky.
You almost laughed in disbelief again.
Natasha glanced toward the stairwell where two more firefighters were coordinating with the building manager.
"Medics are downstairs," Clint called over. "Stairwells all clear."
Natasha looked back at you, assessing as she pursed her lips.
"Alright," she said, decisive again. "You’re not putting weight on that."
You blinked.
"I can hop-"
"Nope."
Before you could argue further, she slid one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees again, lifting you as if you weighed nothing at all just like she previously did.
Another startled sound left you, hands instinctively flying to her shoulders.
"Natasha-"
"Relax..." She said smoothly, adjusting you against her chest.
"You don’t have to carry me all the way," you muttered, acutely aware of how solid she felt under your hands. And how steady she was. Which was a very welcomed thing after the situation you experienced. "I can... hobble... or something."
She snorted softly as she began the descent.
"Well, I think you already had your elevator moment. Let’s not add 'faceplanting down the stairs' to today’s crazy résumé."
Your lips parted in offended disbelief.
"Yeah," she said dryly. "You’ve done enough dramatic for one afternoon."
You actually gasped this time.
"Excuse me-"
"The screaming?"
"I was falling!"
"You dropped an inch."
"An inch is a lot when you think you’re about to die!"
That earned you a low, amused hum, deep enough that you felt it vibrate through her chest where you were pressed against her.
God. This was unfair.
She took the steps steadily, controlled, one at a time. Her grip never faltered, not even slightly - which was also very much unfair. You looked up at her face, catching her eyes flickering over yours before lingering. There was a beat where you hesitated, eyebrows furrowing slightly at the seemingly amused look on her face, your cheeks warming up under the attention.
"...What?" You asked warily, narrowing your eyes slightly.
There was a pause, followed by a flicker of mischief in her green eyes.
"Nothing."
"Natasha."
She exhaled slowly through her nose, like she was actively trying not to laugh.
"You look like a raccoon."
You stared at her, blinking in confusion.
"I-what...?"
She nodded solemnly, tipping her chin toward your face.
"Mascara situation. It’s... everywhere, very feral, very committed."
You stared at her, scandalized.
"I almost died and you’re bullying me?"
"I’m not bullying you," she replied gravely, adjusting you slightly higher in her arms. "I’m appreciating the aesthetic. You fully committed to the smoky eye look."
A choked sound escaped you, half laugh, half disbelief, as you tried to glare at her. Your lips betrayed you first, twitching at the corners despite your best effort.
She caught it instantly.
"There it is..." She murmured.
"I hate you." You muttered, though your voice wobbled with a laugh.
"Kinda doubt that."
You could not help but smile at her, shaking your head before awkwardly wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks.
"Better," she said quietly. "That’s better."
You rolled your eyes, though there was no heat behind the action.
"You’re unbelievable."
"Meh, I’ve been called worse."
The stairwell echoed with distant voices and the steady rhythm of boots on concrete, but in the space between you, everything felt... quieter. You bit down your lip, really wishing you were not imagining things.
Now that the panic had ebbed, you found yourself studying her properly.
Freckles scattered beneath a sheen of sweat. A faint cut near her brow. Green eyes that had locked onto yours like you mattered the second those devilish doors opened.
"Am I heavy?" You asked suddenly.
Natasha scoffed, giving your face a clear once over.
"I lift people twice your size in full gear."
"Oh," you said, pretending to consider her words. "So I’m light like... what? A backpack?"
She tilted her head slightly, as if genuinely thinking it through.
"Mhm... More like an angry kitten."
You gasped, smacking her shoulder.
"Raccoon and kitten? Pick a species, Natasha."
"Raccoon aesthetic," she corrected smoothly. "Kitten attitude."
You were fully smiling now.
It felt strange - how easily she could pull you out of that spiral without even really knowing you. Like she had simply decided fear did not get to win today.
She reached the final flight, the soft afternoon light filtering up faintly from the lobby below. Sirens flashing through the glass doors.
You hesitate, talking yourself out of saying what you wanted to, but when will you ever get the chance to if not now?
"Alright, I have to ask... Do I at least look like a cute raccoon?" You asked quietly after a full minute of convincing yourself to finally get the words out.
Natasha did not hesitate, her lips offering you a charming smile.
"Oh, the cutest I’ve ever rescued, for sure."
Your stomach flipped in a way that did not resemble anything you experienced in the elevators.
The lobby doors burst open as you finally stepped out into the open air. The cool breeze hit your face and you inhaled sharply - you had not realized how badly you needed that until your lungs filled with it. It was perhaps the first full breath that did not feel like borrowed oxygen.
Paramedics hurried forward with a stretcher, voices overlapping as they approached. But Natasha did not set you down immediately.
"Possible ankle sprain. No loss of consciousness. Minor shock." She reported, her tone shifting seamlessly back to professional as her eyes flicked to one of the medics who nodded at her.
"We’ll take it from here."
You tightened your grip on Natasha for half a second longer than necessary. She looked down at you again, something unreadable flickering in her expression now that the urgency was over. She crouched, lowering you carefully onto the stretcher, hands lingering at your waist just long enough to make your pulse jump.
The sudden loss of contact felt... noticeable.
She stepped back as the medics started examining your ankle, asking questions.
You answered automatically but your attention never really left her, your eyes neither.
Natasha ran a hand through her slightly disheveled red hair, pushing it back from her face as the wind picked up. The adrenaline was still humming under her skin, you could see it in the way her jaw was set too tight, her fingers almost buzzing with restless energy. But she was already shifting back into that composed, controlled version of herself. She spoke briefly with Clint, answering a question from someone else. And suddenly, the thought of her just... walking away felt unbearable. And unfair.
"Natasha?"
She turned immediately at your voice, brows lifting.
You swallowed, heart hammering for an entirely different reason now.
"Yeah?"
Your throat felt tight again, but not from fear.
"Thank you. Truly," the words were simple, too small compared to what she had done, but you meant them with everything in you. "Thank you for saving my life."
Her teasing edge from earlier left her completely.
For a moment, she did not look like the confident firefighter who had climbed into a failing elevator without hesitation. She just looked like a woman who had been very, very scared of being too late.
"You’re welcome, just... doing my job." She said quietly, smiling at you as she reached for your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Your heart did that stupid thing again.
One of the medics cleared her throat nearby, smiling sheepishly as she interrupted the... moment.
"We’re going to transport her for X-rays."
Natasha nodded absently, not pulling her hand away until she absolutely had to, her eyes staying on yours.
"You’ll be okay?" She asked.
You hesitated, biting down your lips. Then, before you could overthink it-
"...Will you visit the hospital raccoon?"
Her mouth curved slowly, something warm and amused - and dare you say even relief - settling into her expression.
"I’ll make sure to bring waterproof mascara recommendations."
You scoffed, swatting her hand away playfully. She smiled at you, watching as the stretcher you were on reached the ambulance doors.
"You’re safe now." She whispered, winking at you.
And the way she had said it, certain like a promise made you unable to not smile back. You believed her completely.
Hope you enjoyed this silly fic!🤭
Actually working on a longer fic (series) right now but I had this idea for a while so here it is!!
See you - hopefully - soon :))
Chapter Summary: It's interview day and nothing is going right. With your final round interviewer being someone you would never have expected, will you be able to hold it together?
Word Count: 7.5k
Warnings/Tags for This Chapter: Describes an anxiety attack, unsafe living environment, past psychological abuse, hurt/comfort
Series Masterlist AO3
—
You lean your back against the counter in front of the espresso machine, glancing down, the digital calendar glares back at you.
Romanoff-Maximoff Global.
It was the last company you expected to hear back from—if you even factored them into your reality at all. You vividly remembered the moment you submitted that application. It had been a desperate Hail Mary thrown into a sea of listings, a wild shot at the most prestigious entity in the corporate world. As a leading consulting and venture capital firm, their name was a household fixture, synonymous with an elite, gatekept world of wealth. The firm was notorious for its fiercely guarded internship cohorts and a grueling, multi-stage interview process designed to break lesser candidates.
The very same interview you were just offered.
You tap your finger against the side of your phone, going through all the logistics in your mind before the morning rush begins. The available dates only have morning openings, ninety minutes. Meaning, it’ll be a two-stage interview. You’ll have to cut one of your shifts at the coffee shop short, or call out altogether. It isn’t something you can exactly afford. Getting the internship is the only way it’ll be worth the loss in wages.
You glance up at the sound of the door chime.
A student walks into the shop, a backpack slung over her shoulder and her phone pressed to her ear. “Mom, am I supposed to separate my clothes by color when I do my laundry?” The student looks up, giving your coworker an apologetic smile. “At least darks and lights? Okay, cool. Love you.” She hangs up and begins ordering.
Watching her, you remember having to figure everything out entirely on your own. Three burnt eggs. A load of laundry destroyed. Smacking your printer until it finally worked. Even down to securing your very first part-time job.
A notification flashes across the top of your screen, breaking your train of thought.
Your older sister.
Hey, you haven’t texted me back in a while. Do you not love me anymore? Haha, call me soon.
You open your text history with her. The last time you messaged her was three months ago, a brief note assuring her that everything is going well. You scroll backward, tracing the conversation history to the earliest saved messages. The gaps of time between your responses grow longer and longer the further down you scroll.
Do you not love me anymore?
It isn't her fault she doesn't know. You silently left that day, and the only explanation you gave her was that you were excited to start school. If there’s a feeling greater than love, then that’s what you feel for your sister. It’s a love that makes you willing to sacrifice anything for her—even yourself. It’s the very love that made you accept becoming a marionette for years, until you had no choice but to finally break away.
Now, you are still trying to stand, desperately trying to figure out who you are now that the strings are cut. And it’s because you love her so much that you can’t talk to her. So instead, you don't respond, simply so you won't have to continue to lie to her.
You move your screen back to the digital calendar and choose the earliest date before you can think twice. Two days from now. Friday. Somehow, the message from your sister reminds you of exactly why you’re here.
Your coworker hands you the customer's order, and the morning rush begins.
—
The remainder of Wednesday brings back-to-back classes, paired with heavy assignments due for both the following Monday. Your sister’s message lingers with you throughout your restaurant shift, dragging memories in its wake as you set plates down at customers' tables. The imperceptible shaking of your hands is becoming increasingly harder to ignore. You don’t know if it’s from the interview looming, or from the fact that you’ve fixed your hair for what feels like a hundred times today.
On Thursday, you finally ask one of your coworkers at the coffee shop to cover the latter half of your Friday shift. Guilt creeps in at the inconvenience you’re bestowing upon them, but this is your only chance. If you don’t secure this internship now, you’ll be forced to repeat this entire exhausting cycle next term, only to possibly face the exact same uncertain results.
University is exhausting, work is exhausting, and the panic rising in your chest is debilitating.
You glance at the time—half past eleven. You close your laptop. The amount of studying you’ve done is far from sufficient, especially with final exams around the corner, but you know you’re going to need all the rest you can get.
Possible interview questions replay endlessly in your mind as you check to make sure everything is prepared for tomorrow.
Tell me about yourself. There isn’t much to say.
A black skirt you save for special occasions and one of your clean white collared shirts hang meticulously from the metal candleholder. You don’t have any other clothes that would pass for professional wear.
What are your greatest strengths? I can manage to function on four hours of sleep.
Your wallet, notebook, and keys are packed securely inside your backpack.
What are your greatest weaknesses? So many.
Your phone sits on its charger, and a single granola bar rests on your desk, waiting to hold you over for the day ahead.
You turn off the light, and the room plunges into sudden darkness. Sitting at the edge of your bed, you feel the hard mattress digging into your thighs. Only the ugly parts of you come to mind. Answers no hiring manager would ever want to hear.
But deep down, you already know the truth. Despite the terror, despite the total lack of preparation, the practiced image of you will save you. It always does. The phantom strings still holding your spine taut will pull, and your confident, charismatic smile will appear on command. Your voice will alter into that perfect, magnetic cadence you were taught makes you more attractive. You’ll say whatever you need to say to get exactly what you want.
It’s the only thing ingrained into you for years.
You hate that you’re this way. You despise how easily the mask slips on.
You lay back, your head finally resting against the pillow, praying that everything goes well tomorrow.
—
You wake up ten minutes before your alarm goes off, the light of your screen harsh against the darkness of your room. You let out a tired groan. You could sleep for ten more minutes, but waking up a second time will feel even worse.
Ten extra minutes to get ready, I guess. You try to be positive.
And you definitely needed them. The bags under your eyes are prominent, and it takes you far too long to finally make the decision to dab concealer beneath them. One of your shorter front strands has a mind of its own, refusing to stay down even after you use product.
You bite your lip in frustration as you rush back into your room to change into a t-shirt, since you didn’t have the time to do laundry. Your jeans hang too loosely around your waist, forcing you to use the one and only belt you own.
It feels like all your last-minute preparations are going to waste as a sudden realization hits you. You won’t be able to hang your interview clothes in the backroom of the coffee house. The heavy smell of espresso and whatever else lingers in the air will seep right into the fabric.
You take the skirt and shirt off their hangers, folding them meticulously before placing them carefully at the bottom of your backpack. Pulling your keys out, you shrug your jacket over your shoulders and grab your phone off the bed. You rush to close your door and lock it while slinging the heavy backpack over your shoulder.
It feels like your brain is trying to leave your skull with the way it throbs with every breath you take.
The sound of someone entering through the front door makes you pause.
“Oh hey, I’m lucky to catch you. Heading out?” Matt’s voice echoes from the entrance.
He must’ve just finished his shift.
You twist the doorknob twice, making sure it is truly locked, before letting yourself fully come into view.
You greet him with a close-lipped smile. “Hey, good morning. Yeah, I’m in a real rush.” You step toward the front door, but he makes no move to get out of your way.
“I’m sure you can spare a minute," he says, staring down at you with an easy smile. "Do you want to hang out later?”
Nothing is going right this morning.
“I’m sorry, I probably can’t. I have classes and work later.” You try to ease your arm past him, reaching carefully for the front door handle.
His smile drops for a split second before returning. He glances down at your arm, looking almost amused by your effort to bypass him. “No problem. See you later.”
You open the heavy door and push past him into the crisp morning air. Turning back just before the frame clicks shut, you offer a tiny concession. “See you,” you respond, forcing an apologetic look to your face.
The door closes before you can see his reaction. Not that you have the time. You’re already sprinting toward the bus stop.
You manage to catch the bus just in time. Your head aches violently at the sudden rise in your heart rate, your pulse drumming in your ears.
It’s barely five minutes into the bus ride to the coffee shop when you realize you forgot your granola bar.
—
You make an extra effort to greet customers brightly and carry conversations with them as you prepare their drinks. It feels like the only thing that can ease the guilt of leaving your shift early. Hopefully, seeing the extra tips left in the jar will make the impending loss in your paycheck a bit more bearable.
Behind every warm greeting and polite laugh, the interview looms heavily in your mind as the hours tick away. Finally, it’s time to clock out. The extra espresso shot you added to your americano—meant to carry you through the morning—feels like it was tainted by your worst enemies.
Instead of feeling energized, you feel sluggish. Your brain feels like it’s processing everything slower than it usually does on four hours of sleep. The intense caffeine kick that normally eases your headaches only makes your skull pound, to the point that if you pressed a fingertip to your temple, you’re certain you would feel it violently pulsing.
You grab your backpack from the breakroom and carry it into the cramped bathroom. Zipping it open, you find your belongings completely shifted. The cover of your notebook bears fresh indentations from where your keys knocked against it during your walk. Your interview clothes, which you placed so meticulously at the bottom, are slightly unfolded and bunched to one side.
Your back presses against the bathroom door as you hug your backpack tight against your chest. You slide down the frame, the cold wood doing nothing to pull you out of your own mind. It’s only when you’re sitting flat on the floor, your backpack pressed tightly between your torso and your legs, that you feel the first real emotion flicker through the numbness.
“So stupid,” you whisper to yourself, over and over again.
Because what did you honestly think was going to happen by stuffing your clothes down there? Your right leg bounces uncontrollably against your arm. You rest your elbows heavily on your knees to stop the trembling, before burying your face in your hands, running your fingers through your hair and gripping it tightly.
You release your hair before it can no longer be salvaged. Strands hang in every direction in your peripheral vision from where your tight grip pulled them from the elastic.
You dislike yourself even more for worrying about your hair at a time like this.
Reaching back, you pull the tie completely free. Shorter strands fall loosely against your cheeks, blocking your vision from anything that isn't directly in front of you. You pull your interview clothes out of the backpack, unfolding them fully.
Wrinkled.
You suck in a sharp breath, biting your lip harshly as you force yourself to stand up off the floor. You hang your backpack from the coat hook and drape the clothes carefully over the top.
Your hands tremble as you unbuckle your belt and unbutton your jeans. It feels like all your strength is actively leaving your body as you push them down and fold them. You’re operating entirely on autopilot. Your t-shirt follows. It takes two agonizing tries on every single button before your collared shirt is finally closed and tucked neatly into the waistband of your skirt.
You risk a glance at the mirror. Then instantly wish you hadn’t.
Blood seeps from your bottom lip where your teeth must’ve punctured it earlier. The fabric of your shirt is noticeably wrinkled on the left side. Strands of your hair are raised in some areas, while entirely flat in others.
A complete wreck. That’s the only description for the reflection staring back at you.
Swiping your tongue over your bottom lip, you barely even feel the sting. Your right hand rises subconsciously, beginning to smooth over the creases on your side. Somehow, it feels less like a fix, and more like your body is desperately trying to comfort you because your mind simply won’t.
Combing your fingers through your hair, you let your nails drag against your scalp to remind yourself that you cannot afford to do this right now. The rigid tension in your shoulders drops, but it brings no relief. Instead, it’s replaced by a profound exhaustion, leaving you feeling as though you’ve just survived a violent war with your own mind.
Reaching into your backpack, you pull out your phone, expecting at least half an hour to have passed. You’re already mentally bracing yourself for a mad dash to the bus stop, preparing for the forty-five minute trip into the city.
It’s only been seven minutes.
You zip up your backpack before slinging it over your shoulder. Glancing in the mirror one last time, you can’t help but feel like you look especially hollow today. Fragile.
Suddenly, you can feel a ghost of a tight grip on your shoulder, fingernails digging deep beneath your collarbone.
“Smile. People are watching.”
The corners of your lips curve upward as if being pulled by invisible strings. Turning back toward the exit, you find the metal door handle cold against your palm.
You hope to leave this weak side of you behind in the bathroom before the interview begins.
—
You settle into the bus seat, hugging your backpack against you like a shield. The contrast between your first early morning transit and the subsequent, mid-day rides has never bothered you. This one is louder, more packed, with strangers constantly pressed close on all sides. Sometimes it’s impossible to find a seat, so perhaps you’re lucky today.
Except for the woman to your right, whose shoulder digs directly into yours as she talks loudly on her phone. You can’t help but wince when she raises her voice at whoever is on the other end. Apparently, they forgot to set an appointment for her.
You hug your backpack even closer to your chest when she waves her arm in sheer frustration. It’s a terrifyingly familiar sight. Loud voices. Placing blame. Disappointed expressions.
You were fortunate that you had never been struck.
It would blemish your skin, after all.
Keep it together, you remind yourself the moment you begin to deeply retreat within yourself.
The woman doesn’t get off at the next stop. Instead, more people pack themselves onto the bus, and the ride only grows louder. The hard plastic of the seat digs into your back. The walls of the vehicle feel like they’re closing in on you, trapping you in a symphony of shouting voices and shifting bodies.
Please, keep it together, you plead with yourself as the bus continues its grueling journey into the city.
—
You squeeze past the passengers standing tightly in the aisle and turn toward the bus driver, offering a grateful smile that you know falls flat with how tired your eyes feel. The driver gives you a brief once-over before shooting an encouraging smile back at you. Stepping off the bus, you walk down the plaza stairs with shaky, uneven steps.
It feels like everything has been completely out to get you today. Even yourself.
But you need this. This internship. To graduate. To get a stable job in the future. Because that’s the entire point, right?
You force your chin up, refusing to let yourself waver as you look toward the towering monolith of reflective glass and steel ahead.
The Romanoff-Maximoff Global building is the tallest structure in the city. It’s entirely fitting for the headquarters of a financial giant. Craning your neck upward, you can barely make out the massive corporate sign displayed proudly on the dark glass of the upper levels.
You take one deep, steadying breath before walking up the wide stone steps toward the grand entrance. The heavy glass doors slide open automatically when you step within range, and a rush of cool, synthetic-smelling air immediately wraps around you. Walking inside, it feels far more like stepping into a high-end luxury hotel than an office building.
The polished white marble floors perfectly reflect the warm light pouring down from the crystal chandeliers above, blending with the natural sunlight cutting through the massive windows to make the lobby feel impossibly bright. Resting areas are abundant, filled with long, plush couches and elegant armchairs. Perfectly arranged fresh flowers sit in heavy vases atop a multitude of pristine coffee and accent tables.
It’s a room you have no business being in.
You scan the sprawling lobby ahead, where a row of people in tasteful, high-end professional wear are seated at sleek desks, intensely focused on whatever tasks they are working on. Your eyes jump anxiously from side to side before you quickly pull up the email on your phone to anchor yourself.
Check in at the front desk.
There are seven of them.
You grip the strap of your backpack resting on your shoulder. Your thoughts race at the possibility of walking up to one of the desks and getting the entirely wrong person. That would be your first memory at this company.
Your heart rate jumps at the thought, sending pangs of pain to your head, but you’re saved when one of the women working at one of the desks calls you forward.
The sound of your sneakers against the marble echo throughout the lobby and it feels like everyone is watching you, waiting for you to slip up. But when you look up, everyone still has their heads down, doing their jobs.
“How can I help you?” the woman asks before you’re even fully at the desk.
“Um.” You scramble to open the email again before stepping the rest of the way and turning the screen toward her. “I have an interview today. It’s in twenty minutes.”
She stares at your phone screen with an impassive expression, glancing up for a brief second. Her fingers tap a few keys on the keyboard, her eyes scanning the monitor before she looks back at you.
“Take the glass elevators on your left to the fifty-second floor,” she says, sliding a sleek black security card across the desk. “The financial planning and analysis manager is expecting you.”
You take the card, your fingers brushing against the cool plastic. You nod a thank you, but she’s already looking back down at her own screen.
Turning toward the left side of the lobby, you look at the rows of elevators. The black card feels heavy in your palm. You run your finger against the edge of it, letting the dull plastic dig into your fingertip.
The elevator doors open instantly after you tap the card against the scanner. Pressing the metal button for the fifty-second floor, you finally lean against the railing. The doors close, and the numbers on the digital screen rise alongside the elevator. You take a deep breath, holding it tightly, then finally release it.
With every exhale, you try to push out all the things that have gone wrong today. Waking up before your alarm was annoying. Matt being the first person you saw was inconvenient. The coffee shop shift completely burned through your social battery. Your breakdown in the bathroom left you listless. The loud, cramped bus ride overwhelmed you.
At least you have a little under twenty minutes to get your head on straight.
The elevator doors slide open, and you’re greeted by a stoic man dressed in a sharp suit.
“Are you my ten o’clock interview?” he asks bluntly.
“Yes,” you respond, the word coming out almost like a question.
He gestures to his left, beckoning you forward. “Great. We can start now since you’re already here. Follow me.”
You breathe in sharply. You’re not ready. But you can’t find it in yourself to ask for more time.
He begins walking down a long grey hallway without looking back once as you trail behind him. His strides are long, and it takes whatever remaining energy you have just to keep pace.
The fifty-second floor feels like the exact opposite of the lobby. Dark wallpaper, dim lighting, and an eerie silence hangs over the space. Stopping at a white door, he opens it and ushers you inside.
The room fits the grim aesthetic of the rest of the floor, but the complete lack of windows makes it feel more like an interrogation room. He takes a seat at a desk against the far wall before pointing to the single chair in front of him.
“Sit down.”
“I’m Mark. The FP&A manager. I’ll be conducting your interview today.” He glances down at the papers resting on his desk. Before you can introduce yourself, he has already begun.
“Walk me through what a $10 depreciation does to financial statements, assuming a 25% tax rate.”
Your brain doesn't even pause to process the sudden prompt. Instead, the ingrained image within you activates. The strings snap your posture a fraction tighter, and the practiced, effortless warmth floods into your expression on command. You block the exhaustion, the pounding headache, and the hollow ache in your stomach behind a glass wall you know will break eventually.
It just can’t be today.
You need to be perfect.
When you speak, your voice slides perfectly into that clear, confident cadence you were taught to use.
“Assuming a 25% tax rate, a $10 depreciation expense reduces net income by $7.50,” you begin smoothly, your lips holding a charming smile. “This increases ending cash by $2.50 on the cash flow statement, balancing the assets and equity sides of the balance sheet down by $7.50.”
Mark holds your gaze for a moment before continuing. “Good,” he says with a faint smile. “Let’s continue.”
—
You stare at the white door Mark has just exited through. The prompts and questions had been endless, one popping up right after the other the exact second you finished answering, leaving absolutely no room for rest.
“Walk me through how the Income Statement, Balance Sheet, and Cash Flow Statement are connected.”
“How do interest rates affect a company's borrowing costs?”
“What is EBITDA, and why do we use it?”
You let out a shaky breath. The smile melts from your face, and your eyes drift closed.
The last forty-five minutes saturate into your body. Your shoulders drop completely, as if they can no longer hold themselves up against the weight of the day. The moment your eyes shut, it feels like the windowless room is spinning as a severe wave of lightheadedness sets in.
One more interview, you reason with yourself, the thought a desperate plea to convince your own body not to give up just yet.
But it’s as if your body knows you’re lying. It knows that after this, you will have to take the bus back to your university, walk to class, followed by another lecture, and then face your restaurant shift tonight. It isn't just this interview.
You fight against your own limbs to force your shoulders upright. Your eyes snap open at the sound of voices right outside the room. The words are muffled behind the thick wood, but it sounds like a casual back-and-forth. You easily catch the confused inflection in Mark's tone.
The door opens suddenly. You wipe the tired expression off your face instantly, replacing it with an easy smile. Turning around, you see Mark standing beside a shorter woman.
“Hi,” the woman greets you warmly. “I’m Cindy. I’ll be taking you to the next round of the interview.”
Mark stares down at her with squinted eyes before turning his gaze to you and offering a brief nod.
“Hello,” you respond as you stand up, grabbing your backpack off the floor and sliding the straps over your shoulders. Your legs wobble slightly under the sudden pressure of your weight. Forcing your posture straight, you nod politely at him. “Thank you for the interview today.”
He gives you a small smile before you walk out the door and follow Cindy down the dimly lit hallway. She taps a gold colored card against the scanner and the elevator doors slide open. She gestures for you to enter before she steps besides you and presses the button labeled C.
She turns to you with an encouraging smile. “Don’t be nervous.” She pauses, tilting her head slightly. “Though, I have to admit, I’ve never seen an undergraduate internship interview take place on the C-suite floor.”
Huh?
C-suite… that can’t be right. Anybody studying anything within the business major knows exactly what the C-suite is.
The highest-ranking senior executives in the entire corporation.
You glance up at the screen displaying the floor numbers. They just keep rising. It feels like the elevator is moving significantly faster than it did on your trip to the fifty-second floor.
The elevator stops smoothly and the doors slide open, revealing an open floor plan flooded with light from towering skylights above. You have to squint, adjusting your eyes from the stark dimness of the previous floor.
Stepping forward behind Cindy, you scan the area. The floor is made of polished dark wood that looks spotless. The center holds multiple plush couches where you assume high-value investors and shareholders sit while waiting for appointments. A long counter rests on the right, the top crafted from white marble with light wood detailing the cabinet space beneath. A high-end coffee machine sits on the surface, surrounded by neatly arranged pods and endless amenities. Chips, cookies, fruit.
Your stomach caves in on itself at the sheer sight of the food.
It’s just as quiet up here as it was on the fifty-second floor, but somehow it doesn’t hold the same eerie atmosphere. Instead, with the sunlight streaming down and the rich aroma of coffee in the air, you feel your shoulders naturally settling.
Massive executive offices line the far wall, each room looking at least ten times the size of your bedroom. Your view inside is completely blocked by heavy wooden frames and dark, one-way glass.
Cindy leads you to the office furthest to the right. You trail closely behind, still craning your head to absorb the pure opulence of the floor. Opening the door, she gestures for you to go inside.
“Have a seat right in the chair in front of the desk. Your interviewer will be coming in shortly.”
She gives you a warm smile that you mirror instantly out of habit, before she steps back and closes the heavy door with a soft thud.
You can’t help but look around the bright office. The left wall holds two massive bookcases lined with a vast array of books, their spines varying in every color. The right wall features a shelf filled with small decorative pieces and jewelry. The brilliant gold and silver of the rings lined across the wooden shelf reflect the sunlight streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk.
Taking a few paces forward, you reach the single armchair in front of the desk. Slipping your backpack off your shoulders, you place it securely against the base of the chair. As you sit down, the high-end leather feels soft and accommodating against the bare skin beneath your thighs.
You take a deep breath in. Somehow, the room smells exactly how a warm summer night feels. The aroma envelopes you completely—the scent of flowers that bloom in the peak of July and sun-warmed concrete. Even the temperature of the office feels absolutely perfect against your cold, shivering skin.
It’s the first time you’ve felt genuinely comfortable all day.
You finally glance at the desk in front of you. It’s crafted from a dark, rich wood that you can tell is of exceptionally high quality without even touching it. A computer monitor rests to the left, the screen faced entirely away from you. Papers scatter the surface in a way that looks messy, but strictly organized at the same time. A picture frame made of light wood sits at the far right of the desk. The noticeably worn edges of the frame make you believe that the owner must pick it up often.
Your gaze drifts to the elegant nameplate resting right in front of the picture frame.
Wanda D. Maximoff. CFO.
What—
The door opens before you can even fully register the situation you are in. It feels like your body is creaking when you turn almost robotically to look behind you.
You’ve seen her in countless business articles before. She’s one half of the power couple who built one of the most successful companies in the world. Wanda stands in front of you, wearing an elegant navy blazer and a matching long skirt. Crisp black heels make her look even more imposing, if that’s even possible.
She’s even more gorgeous in person.
The heavy door closes slowly behind her. She turns toward you fully, offering a slight tilt of her head and a soft smile. Her sharp green eyes shine against the ambient sunlight, and somehow, the whole room feels instantly brighter.
The distinct shade of her eyes looks almost too familiar. But before you can think further, Wanda starts to speak.
“Well, hello there,” she says lightly, walking directly toward her desk. Her blazer lightly brushes your shoulder as she passes, and the rich scent of summer flowers fills the air.
It feels like you’re in a complete trance as you watch her take a seat in her leather desk chair, which matches the dark shade of the wood. You’re finally snapped out of it when she rests her elbow on the surface, placing her chin in her palm and tilting her head. She offers you an almost teasing smile.
What are you doing? you chastise yourself internally.
You clear your throat, instantly digging for the assured voice programmed deep within you.
“Hi, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” You stand up, extending your hand to offer a firm handshake, exactly like you were taught to do in school.
She stops you with a slight raise of her hand before you are even halfway out of your seat, her smile remaining entirely unchanged. “No need for that. Please, sit comfortably.”
Biting the inside of your mouth, you sink back down into the soft leather. Your outstretched hand finds its way to your left side, nervously smoothing over the slight wrinkles that still remain on your shirt. This is absolutely nothing like the clinical mock interviews you practiced in class.
Wanda glances down at one of the papers resting on her desk before her sharp green eyes lock onto yours once again.
“So,” she begins, her tone smooth and entirely unbothered. “You’re not qualified for this internship.”
You freeze.
Then why—
“Then why are you here?” she asks, sounding almost amused as she cuts right through your internal panic. “Well,” she muses, looking up toward the skylight in thought. She meets your eyes once again. “I like to look at the whole picture.”
“I…” you start, your voice noticeably wavering.
Stop it, you fight with yourself internally, forcing your posture rigidly upright.
“I know I’m not qualified,” you state clearly, the rehearsed confidence taking over. “But I can adapt quickly. I know how to read financial models. I’m proficient in Excel. I know how to do market research.”
You pause when her expression morphs from an amused smirk into a softer, quieter smile. It’s an expression that completely cuts through your ramble.
“I know. You did extremely well in your interview with Mark,” she says slowly. “Perfect, even.”
You breathe out a quiet sigh of relief at that, but your mind is still swirling.
Then why am I here? you wonder again.
Wanda glances down to where your hand still rests over the wrinkled fabric of your shirt. You widen your palm to cover the creases entirely, hoping she doesn’t see how disheveled you feel.
The corner of her lip pulls upward. Her gaze doesn’t move from your hand.
“Tell me about yourself.” Her tone is completely relaxed, but it doesn’t stop the sudden spike in your pulse.
You take a slow breath in before beginning. “I’m currently a junior in university, majoring in finance. I do well in my classes. I balance going to school and working part-time jobs. I learn quickly, and I know I can adapt to working here,” you finish in a poised tone.
“I see,” she says, sounding almost lost in thought. Her gaze shifts, tracking up to focus directly on your bottom lip. You desperately hope it’s healed by now. “What are your greatest strengths?”
The raw truth from last night echoes bitterly in your head: I can manage to function on four hours of sleep.
Instead, you let the script speak for you. “I take instruction well and turn that into results.”
“Mhm.” She nods as if she was expecting that exact response. Finally, she looks up to meet your eyes again. “And your greatest weaknesses?”
So many.
“Sometimes I get too focused on what I’m doing and don’t see what’s around me,” you respond, offering an almost self-deprecating smile.
“And do you balance going to school and working well?”
You move your gaze downward, staring at the scattered papers on her desk. “Yes,” you say quietly, the smile on your lips wobbling slightly at the edges.
The silence in the air hangs incredibly heavy. You force your eyes upward at the total lack of a response. It feels like she’s staring right past you. As if she’s reading your mind.
“What are your hobbies?”
Your mind blanks. What does this have to do with anything?
Your mouth opens, but instead of a quick, tailored answer, your breath comes out erratically. You grip your side tightly, the fabric of your shirt wrinkling further beneath your fingers, but you can’t stop yourself. Maybe it’s the accumulated stress of the interview. The extra shot of caffeine earlier. Seeing Matt. The lost wages from cutting your shift short. The woman’s loud, angry voice on the bus. The months of surviving on four to five hours of sleep. Your stomach twisting painfully in on itself from the complete emptiness.
It feels like you can no longer quell the overwhelming waves of anxiety that you are usually so good at hiding from others.
Because what are your hobbies? Why can’t you think of a single thing?
Your face twitches in sudden pain. You unclench your jaw, realizing your teeth have bitten right through the muscle of your cheek. Blood spreads over your tongue. You barely register the metallic taste.
This is a question you should be able to answer easily.
It feels like the office walls are closing in, the sunlight that had been so bright dimming slowly.
You barely process the sound of a drawer opening.
The remaining light in your vision dims entirely as a shadow encompasses you. A warm hand envelopes your own, the heat of her palm pressing over the fingers you have clutching so tightly against your shirt. You tilt your head up slightly, your vision clearing just enough to see Wanda standing directly in front of you, her red hair curtained softly around her face. Her eyes look almost apologetic as she gently uncurls your stiff fingers from the wrinkled fabric.
The faint sound of plastic crinkling fills the quiet air as she places something small into your palm that she is holding open. You look down blankly to find a small fruit snack packet resting on your palm.
The exact kind you used to eat when you were a kid. A time before there were expectations.
She wraps your fingers gently around the packet, the pointed corners of the plastic digging slightly into your skin.
“I’m sorry, darling,” she murmurs, her tone genuinely apologetic. There’s a faint accent in her voice that you can’t quite put your finger on. “That was a mean question.”
You shake your head slightly. You’re the one who’s overreacting to a simple icebreaker.
She grips your hand lightly, her thumb rubbing over your knuckles with an expression that looks almost disapproving. “Let’s take a break.” She releases your hand, stepping back just a fraction. “Eat the fruit snack. It always makes me feel better.” She gives you a soft, reassuring smile.
Now that her warmth isn’t anchoring you, the tremor in your hands is completely noticeable. You bring your other hand up to the corner of the plastic, trying to tear it, but your fingers refuse to cooperate.
Why are you failing at absolutely everything today?
The packet is gently removed from your hand before you can spiral any further. You glance up to find Wanda opening it for you, widening the plastic seam to make it easier for your fingers to reach inside. She hands it back to you with a reassuring smile.
“There we go,” she says softly. “These are always hard to open.”
You reach inside, pinching a grape-shaped gummy between your thumb and index finger before popping it into your mouth. You chew slowly, letting the soft elasticity ground you against the spinning room, though the candy remains completely flavorless on your tongue.
Wanda crouches down directly in front of you, resting her elbow on her knee and looking up at your face with a gentle smile. You quickly reach back into the plastic packet for another piece to avoid her locked gaze—an orange one this time. With every chew and swallow you manage, Wanda gives an almost imperceptible nod of approval.
By the time you reach the very last gummy, a strawberry, you can finally taste the sweet, fruity flavor. It’s heavily mixed with a sharp, lingering metallic taste. The throbbing pain in your inner cheek grows with every remaining bite, and the fingers you used to grip your shirt earlier ache intensely from how tightly you held them. The only sound in the office is the steady, quiet rhythm of your own breathing alongside Wanda’s.
You can see the sunlight in the room clearly again. But it also shines a harsh light on how you just behaved.
You quickly place the empty wrapper on your skirt before reaching to smooth down the left side of your shirt. Harsh lines from where it was in your clutches refuse to flatten completely, even as you run your hand down the fabric repeatedly. You let out a breath of frustration.
Giving up, you run your fingers through your hair, trying to find some semblance of the image you are meant to portray. You sit up rigidly once again, squaring your shoulders. Finally, you steal a glance at Wanda, who is still crouched in front of you.
She looks troubled as she watches you. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and her lips are set in a faint frown.
It's your fault.
You clear your throat. It feels like you haven't spoken in hours, even though you know it’s only been minutes.
“Let’s continue.” The confident edge in your voice is marred by a weak rasp that you try desperately to ignore.
Wanda gives you a long, unreadable stare before rising. It’s almost impressive that she was able to crouch like that in high heels.
“Okay,” she whispers, almost to herself. “Let’s continue.”
She walks around her desk before sitting back down, leaning back in her chair and observing you closely. “Why do you want to work at our company?”
You close your eyes briefly before opening them, keeping the heavy, panicked emotions at bay behind the fractured glass wall that is now messily covered in tape.
“I want to work at this company because…”
—
The remainder of the interview goes exactly as planned. There are no more curveball questions. Every prompt is strictly about the job or the firm. The questions are standard. Easy to answer.
But you know you aren't going to be offered the position. You won't get it because instead of the pristine image you were trained to portray, you had accidentally been yourself.
You’re left with Wanda’s final words before exiting her office.
“We’ll call you if you get the position.”
If you had done well, you feel like they would’ve given it to you right then. Or at least, Wanda wouldn’t have sounded so deeply conflicted.
At least you got to meet her, you think, desperately trying to find a single silver lining. You could only hope to carry yourself with the elegance and poise that she did.
A cold breeze hits the bare skin of your legs, snapping you back to reality. You look up, realizing you are standing on campus, and open the heavy door to the building of your first class.
You let out a slow sigh as you enter the crowded lecture room. You’ll have to repeat this entire exhausting cycle again next term.
—
You feel completely hollow as you step out of the restaurant breakroom, tying your apron tightly around your waist. Today has felt like twenty-five hours. And every single one of those hours was designed solely to drain you of what little energy you had left.
Angie appears right in front of you. You almost want to turn on your heel and walk away, because right now, your raw emotions can’t handle anyone being genuinely nice to you. But you can never ignore Angie—not when she’s been so good to you.
“Sweetie!” she calls out excitedly. “There was a last-minute reservation, and they specifically requested to sit in whatever section you’re assigned to.”
Maybe it’s one of the regular customers I had a longer conversation with, you think, trying to match her energy.
You nod at her, forcing an easy smile onto your face at her excitement.
“Get out there,” she says brightly, grabbing your shoulders and steering you directly toward the dining room doors. “I have you in section five. They’re already here, waiting for you.” She gives you a playful push forward.
You walk to the service bar and wash your hands thoroughly before turning around. Scanning the dimly lit dining room, you notice it’s hardly full yet. Most of the standard reservations won't arrive for another ten minutes. You take measured steps toward your section, mentally preparing to muster up a bright, welcoming smile.
Maybe the fruit snack actually helped. Your head isn’t pounding nearly as violently as it did before the interview.
You reach the corner booth where the ambient lighting is the dimmest. You are just about to greet the couple in front of you when you catch a terrifyingly familiar voice.
“Told you, Nat.” Wanda is leaning exceptionally close to her companion, whispering into her ear as if sharing a private secret.
The image is too familiar. The memory of those vibrant green eyes from a week ago flashes violently through your mind.
Nat? you think, your thoughts instantly racing.
Natasha Romanoff. The other half of the power couple. The CEO of Romanoff-Maximoff Global.
You meet her sharp eyes, which are already watching your approach closely.
“Yes, moya lyubov, you were right,” Natasha says, her gaze never wavering from your face.
You turn your head as Wanda sits upright. You desperately want to find somewhere to hide—anywhere no one will ever find you—after coming face-to-face with the exact person who just witnessed you at your absolute worst.
“Can I get the wine list, darling?” Wanda asks, offering you a bright smile.
The slight wrinkle of her nose as she smiles at you makes you pause, forcing yourself to finally get it together.
“Of course,” you respond politely, already turning on your heel to escape this deeply awkward situation.
“And darling?” Wanda calls out after you.
You turn back around, forcing a grimace that you desperately hope passes for a polite smile.
“We’ll see you at the office on Monday.”
—
A/N: I really wanted the first interaction to be with Natasha because I've never written for Wanda before and wanted to stall it as long as possible 😂 but even though this is fiction, I couldn't rationalize why the CEO would be interviewing a possible intern. The CFO interviewing was already a stretch. Hopefully I wrote Wanda okay! Feedback is always appreciated 🥰
Also, thank you guys again for the feedback and interest on the first chapter 😊 it made writing the second chapter fun and something I looked forward to.
To the person in asks saying i love AO3 more for posting this chapter there hours earlier: NOT TRUE. i forgot i had a prior engagement when i was making this draft 😂
Story Summary: After moving to New York, a collision while cycling sends you flying into the lives of Wanda Maximoff and her wife, Natasha Romanoff. Together, they teach you a new way of belonging and being loved.
Chapter Summary: An unexpected discovery derails your day — and potentially paves the way for a new understanding.
Word count: 6.2k
Featuring: slow burn, emerging D/s dynamics, mommy kink, praise kink, copious pet names, reader being incredibly naive, Wanda being a little shit, Natasha attempting to keep her wife in line, Kate being Kate, and some behind the scenes action (unbeknownst to reader).
A/N: Thank you so much for your patience. Life has been... eventful to say the least. But I'm back, and I promise that I intend to continue (and eventually complete) this story.
Thank you to @dandelion-writes for beta-reading this chapter and providing such helpful feedback and wise insights. Their writing is amazing and truly inspires me, so please check it out here and at @dandeliongirl on ao3.
I really hope you enjoy this chapter.
In the morning you decide to start off the day with a show of independence, carrying your laundry basket down the stairs with your one available arm. A brief break is needed on the ground floor, but after flexing your left wrist a little you continue down to the basement, where you turn into the pantry and place your sheets in the washing machine. You choose a detergent and pour it, plus a tiny bit of fabric conditioner which smells like Wanda, into the drawer. Then you turn the dial to a hot cycle and start it with a press of a button. It feels like a win to do all this with one arm, and you smile at the washing machine before turning around and spotting Natasha watching you. She is dressed in comfortable clothing: a loose t-shirt and black joggers. It’s not her usual early morning training gear, so you wonder if she might be having a rest day.
Natasha greets you with a good morning, and you repeat her words back with a shy smile. She looks at the washing machine but doesn’t comment, which you’re grateful for. It’s nice to just exist sometimes, without asking permission and getting help for everything.
“You’re looking very awake,” Natasha observes, and you shrug in reply.
“I had a good sleep,” you say casually. “And besides, I want to make the most of today.”
She nods at that, in an approving sort of way.
“Wanda has a hot yoga class at ten. I was planning to make us all breakfast so we can eat at eight, and then have a chill morning until she’s back. We could go out for a walk too, if you like?”
“That sounds good,” you agree, trying to contain your joy to just a smile, rather than a full body bounce of excitement.
“Cool.” Natasha grins at you. “Do you want to help me with breakfast?”
Naturally, you nod your agreement. So you follow her up the stairs to the kitchen, where you happily follow every instruction she gives with a single clumsy hand, topped up by lots of enthusiasm.
When Wanda enters the kitchen, she finds you mixing pancake batter, your left hand producing such lopsided strokes that it makes the unsupported bowl wobble. She steps in behind you, places her left hand on your waist, and wraps her right arm around you to hold the bowl still.
“There,” she whispers, and something in your chest flutters.
“Thank you, Wanda,” you murmur, blushing as you tilt your head to see her. “Did you sleep okay?”
“I did, thank you, sweetheart.”
Her smile, combined with a light squeeze of your side, makes you feel warmer still. You turn back to the batter and start to mix again, trying to be more graceful this time. It’s a lot easier with Wanda holding the bowl steady. She’s making up for your incapacitated arm, like together you make two halves of one whole. You feel her body pressed against you, and you wonder what it must be like to have someone who chooses to be in your life forever. Someone who’s always there to help you, always there to see what you need and support you in the best way. You take a deep breath in, inhaling the subtle scent of Wanda which is starting to feel so familiar and comfortable now. She smells clean and soft, and slightly floral. You could breathe in this smell, this feeling, all day.
But then the batter is smooth, and the pan is warm, and breakfast can’t be stalled any longer. Wanda steps away to start setting the table, and Natasha slides the bowl towards the stovetop, before handing you a ladle.
“Are you sure?” you ask, the tone of your voice betraying your concern — you’re not sure if you can do a good enough job with only your left hand.
Natasha smiles.
“I’m sure,” she asserts, opening a cupboard and pulling out a bottle of maple syrup. “Besides, the first one’s always a bit strange, so no pressure.”
“My mum used to say that about my older brother,” you blurt out, grinning with the memory as you begin to ladle one scoop of batter into the pan. “The first pancake. She was just joking, but it always made me feel better to remember it when he was mean to me.”
“Don’t tell my sister that,” Natasha replies, her eyes twinkling. “Yelena would love that one. Though she’d call me the first blini, of course. That’s what we call them, where I’m from.”
“When did you come to America?”
Natasha’s hand pauses for a fraction of a second, hovering over the jar of honey before her fingers finally grasp it and take it down from the cupboard.
“Sorry,” you backtrack quickly, “you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”
“It’s okay,” Natasha says quietly. She’s looking down at the honey with a sad kind of focus. Then she turns and gives you a gentle smile. “Yelena and I came over here when we were very young. We had a good few years here, before we had to go back to Russia.”
She holds your gaze, which makes you think that it might be okay to ask another question.
“How old were you when you had to go back?”
“Eleven,” Natasha replies, and her expression darkens a little. “Yelena was just six.”
“That must have been really hard.” You frown sympathetically, imagining the turmoil of moving at such a young age. It’s hard enough to do in your twenties, you think.
Natasha nods, but doesn’t respond. Her half-smile suggests that there’s a lot more to her story, which she’s not ready to share with you. Respecting the silent line in the sand, you turn back to the pan, and use the handle to lift and turn the surface to spread the batter into a sort-of circle.
Wanda steps in beside you again, placing her hand on the small of your back.
“That looks good,” she murmurs, her thumb rubbing a gentle circle over your spine. “I’ll get you a spatula.”
When her hand leaves you, your eyes follow her. Watching as she reaches for the drawer, slides it open, and removes a black silicone spatula. You carry on watching her as she returns, gazing unashamedly as if she can’t see you staring.
Wanda tilts her head as she takes you in, smiling at you like you’re something precious.
“Oh myšička…” she whispers, placing the spatula on the counter then reaching out with both hands. One strokes your hair behind your ear, and the other cups your cheek. She doesn’t say anything else… she just lets her words hang. You wonder what she’s thinking, and what she thinks of you, and your utter devotion to her. There’s no way of knowing, but you’re sure it’s not bad, at least. She wouldn’t be touching you this gently, or smiling at you this sweetly, if she didn’t find it at least a little endearing.
“Time to flip, I think,” she whispers, directing her eyes to the pan. You turn to see that the pancake has begun to crisp around the edges. It does need to be flipped. But flipping it will require using the spatula, and that will require moving, and losing Wanda’s hands and attention.
You’d let the whole world burn, and you with it, just to feel her warmth a little longer.
Wanda moves first, letting go of you to take the spatula with her right hand. But as she reaches it towards the pan, her left hand wraps around your waist again, catching the fabric of your t-shirt in such a way that her fingertips end up underneath, curling into your skin.
You can barely breathe as she slides the spatula under the pancake and flips it over. The sizzling heat of the pan seems to rise and catch on your cheeks. You feel hot, and slightly damp, like the steam is congealing on your skin.
Her fingernails graze your waist, scratching lightly in a way which makes you shiver and melt into her body alongside yours. Your head leans without permission, until it rests against her shoulder. All the while you watch the pancake cooking, the spatula hovering above the pan like she’s ready to remove it at any moment.
Your mind begins to wander, imagining her abandoning the spatula and pulling you into a proper hug. You can almost feel the ghost of her lips on your forehead, and hear the whisper of her sweetest words… Myšička. My darling. Little one. Baby.
It takes a while for your brain to catch up to your body, and realise what these thoughts are doing to you. When it registers, you feel a flood of shame and embarrassment. Why are you letting yourself develop these feelings for a married woman? And, worst of all… why are you fixating on the times when she treats you like you’re something tiny, something young? That’s weird, right? Being turned on by mere comfort and care?
You wriggle a little in her hold, suddenly wanting to escape.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Wanda asks, her face full of concern.
“Uh-huh,” you squeak, finding yourself unable to meet her eye. “I just… I need to pee.”
She releases her hand from your waist, moving it up to smooth down the back of your hair.
“That’s alright, malinké dievčatko. You go, and I’ll carry on with the pancakes.”
You nod vigorously and dart away, avoiding Natasha’s curious gaze as you pass her at the dining table.
In the bathroom you try your best to clean away the evidence of your irreverent feelings. A part of you knows that you can’t really help it, and it’s natural to have feelings for these beautiful women who are kind to you… but at the same time, it feels so wrong and shameful for your body to be responding in this way. All you can hope is that they haven’t noticed the depth of your feelings.
—————
When you return to the kitchen, Natasha has taken over at the pan, and Wanda is pouring juice into glasses on the table. You hover at the table, wondering what to do.
“Sit, darling,” Wanda instructs. “We’re just about ready, anyway.”
You nod and follow her direction, sitting down so you are facing the kitchen and can watch them bustling about. Natasha already has a stack of pancakes on a plate, and Wanda moves to swap that plate with another, before carrying the completed pancakes to the table.
“You two can start,” Natasha calls out. “I’ll use up the batter and join you in a bit.”
So you do, with a little help from Wanda to chop up some banana and add it to the puddle of maple syrup you created with a sloppy squeeze of the bottle. She makes up her own too, with yogurt and blueberries, before intervening with a gentle laugh when she sees you struggle to carve the pancake with just one hand and a fork.
“Here,” she says, reaching over and cutting your pancake into bite-sized pieces. “This should help, miláčik.”
“Thanks,” you murmur, feeling embarrassed at her help, even though it’s perfectly reasonable to need it right now. The simple act of cutting up your food makes you feel smaller, and not necessarily in a bad way. Maybe that’s where the embarrassment is actually coming from. The realisation that you like it when she helps you like this, and not just because of the mere convenience.
Wanda helps a lot, through the meal. Natasha helps too, but her assistance feels a little less… charged? She passes over the things you need with a smile, and opens lids and pours out more juice when you empty your glass. But Wanda cuts up your pancakes, and tucks your hair behind your ear, and keeps asking if you have everything you need. Once, when Natasha goes to get the second plate of pancakes out from the oven, Wanda grabs your napkin the second you clumsily miss your mouth with a yogurt-laden spoon. Your heart seems to stop for a moment as she lifts up the napkin with a raised eyebrow and a wry smile.
“You’ve got yourself a little messy, myšička,” she comments, and you think you might melt into the chair. “Let me get it for you.”
She wipes it away slowly, her hand lingering there as she stares into your transfixed eyes. When she removes the napkin, it takes you a few seconds to realise that your mouth is hanging slightly open. You close it quickly, looking away as you feel the blood rush to your cheeks — in tandem with a dangerous heat gathering in your lower stomach.
“There,” Wanda says silkily, placing the napkin back on the table with one slow, elegant movement, “all clean now.”
It’s not true, though. If anything, you now feel more unclean than ever.
You concentrate on eating from then on, avoiding meeting Wanda’s eyes, and trying to focus on Natasha’s easygoing conversation instead. She’s suggesting ideas for the afternoon, which you nod along to, smiling through the burning sensation in your body. Wanda seems completely unaffected by the moment, leading you to believe that this intensity you feel must be purely in your head. It’s just you, reading into her care. You must find a way to control it better.
After breakfast, the three of you tidy up before Wanda takes you upstairs to help you get changed. You count in your head to distract yourself as she assists you, scared to allow any feelings back to the fore. It’s quick, and she heads off to her room after to get changed for her hot yoga class.
When she leaves home, you can’t help but feel a little relieved. At least while she’s gone you should be able to sort yourself out, and ensure this afternoon unfolds without any more inappropriate feelings. Perhaps if you and Natasha go out for a walk, that will help. Some fresh air might cool you off. Maybe.
Unfortunately, Natasha suggests you wait until the washing is done before going out. That way, she explains, the two of you can hang it up outside and give it enough time to dry before bringing it back in at the end of the day. So you both head downstairs after Wanda’s departure, and on your suggestion, Natasha turns on her playstation and starts to play a puzzle game again. You watch her for a bit before taking your phone out of your pocket and scrolling mindlessly through Instagram for a while. Kate has found your profile and sent you a request, so you accept it, follow her back, then scan through her profile briefly. The bizarre mix of things she has posted — a random assortment of high-quality sports photos and blurry memes — makes you smile. It’s very Kate.
It doesn’t take long before she sends you a meme directly — it’s a photo of an online conversation, in which someone asks the other how old they are, to which the other responds “old enough to be your mother” — which then prompts the original person to change the chat background to a sickly mix of pink and love hearts.
Kate’s caption: Found a copy of your chat with Wanda!!!
You try not to groan.
Pretty sure she’s not actually old enough to be my mum, you reply.
It’s the wrong thing to say… Kate immediately reacts to your message with a side-eye emoji.
Old enough to be a mommy though, Kate replies.
I told you — she’s not my sugar mommy Kate, you reply, adding an eye-rolling emoji for good measure. It’s just silly banter, you think. But still, it hits a nerve somehow.
You do know that’s not the only type of mommy, right?
You stare at her message, confused. It takes a minute, maybe, before you type out a reply.
Wdym?
You see that Kate has read your message, but she doesn’t reply. You wonder if she’s leaving you to figure it out yourself. You’re just about to give up when she sends you a link.
Read this tonight, she tells you. And if you want, we can talk about it tomorrow. If not, we can never talk about it again, okay?
You hesitate, looking at the link with a sense of trepidation. There’s no obvious sign of where it might lead or what it might reveal to you. All you know is that Kate has seen something, and seems to think this might help you. Should you look at it now? Or save it for tonight, like she suggested?
You’re teetering on the brink of clicking the link when the washing machine beeps to signal the end of the cycle, saving you from your decision. You tuck your phone back in your pocket, rather relieved at the distraction, and you stand up to sort the laundry.
“Do you need a hand?” Natasha asks, shifting on the sofa and readying herself to move. You shake your head.
“No thanks — I’ll manage.”
She nods at that, and turns back to the screen to continue playing. So you make your way over to the pantry, where you place the basket on the floor ready to collect your washing. It only takes one tug to bring the mass of sheets tumbling out. Amongst the heap, you spot a flash of unexpected grey.
Your heart skips a beat, then resumes with a resounding thud. The blood pumps fast around your body then, surging adrenaline through your veins and making your fingers tremble as you reach out. You know that something is wrong, even before you lift the layer of fabric and find her.
Sodden and dishevelled, her fur dark from the drowning.
Bluebell.
The feelings catch up so quick, congealing in your throat and gathering in your lashes. The trembling escalates to a full body convulsion which starts in your chest, constricting your lungs. You can’t seem to breathe.
Natasha’s presence behind you feels dangerous when you’re teetering on the emotional brink. So you spin around on the spot and dart towards the stairs, almost tripping over your own feet as you struggle to coordinate your wobbly legs.
Natasha calls your name but you don’t even process it until you’re halfway to your room. From there, it’s harder to see the stairs as you ascend. Your vision is blurred by an onslaught of tears, which stream out with every gasping breath.
When you reach your room, you close the door behind you and practically dive onto the bed, barely feeling the spike of pain in your shoulder at the sudden movement. You lay down on your right side, tucking your knees up to your chest and feeling the full scale of your panic finally register.
She’s ruined, and it’s all your stupid fault. You shouldn’t have brought her here. Hell, you shouldn’t even have her, or care about her at all. You’re too old for this, too old to cling to a stuffed toy and give it a name and a sentimental value.
But it hurts all the same. It hurts so bad that you can’t even think of anything else at all. There’s just a potent, poisonous mix of grief and shame.
This rabbit isn’t a toy from your childhood, but it’s no less special. In some ways, she is more special, because you chose her. One day in a shop, already fully grown, you found her on a shelf and felt this primal pull. She just fit perfectly in your cupped hands, conveying a weight beyond her meagre mass. You couldn’t bring yourself to put her back on the shelf — the mere thought made you feel terribly sad. So you brought her to the counter and garbled an imaginary explanation to the woman at the counter — your little cousin’s birthday; she loved rabbits; she’d be so delighted — all the while feeling the subtle sweat of your deceit.
There were so many things you had left behind in your move, but Bluebell was one of the first things you packed. Hidden amongst your clothing, but wrapped so intentionally in a cashmere jumper. Precious cargo.
If only you had washed the jumper on high heat instead.
Minutes go by, and Natasha doesn’t come. Why doesn’t she come? Is she embarrassed? Disgusted?
You sort of want her to come, even though you’re covered in snot and tears. You should be able to handle this alone, but you can’t. Bluebell drowning is too big of a problem, and you’re too small to solve it right now. You just need someone to take over, to take charge and tell you that everything is going to be okay.
Perhaps she is disgusted by your melodramatic display of emotion. Or maybe she has found the rabbit, and is weirded out that you have this toy, and that it means this much to you.
Why do I have it? you wonder bitterly. Why am I so stupid and childish? What is wrong with me?
You cry until there doesn’t seem to be any moisture left in your body. Everything just feels very heavy and slightly cold, though you don’t even have the energy to draw the covers over your shivering skin.
—————
Time goes by with a low level-ache, like the loneliness is pressing down and forming its own bruise. You’re so consumed by the dull and desolate feeling that you don’t even hear the door open. You just smell her, a moment before you feel her warmth enveloping you and the touch of her arms as she places a hand on your back and strokes your hair from behind. Her gentle voice tickles in your ear as she leans over and whispers that she’s here, and that it’s okay. Then she presses her lips on your still-damp cheek, gifting you a soft kiss atop the tear-stains.
Wanda.
Her kindness wakes something up inside, and you summon just enough energy to sit up. Then you try to tell her about Bluebell, but all that comes out of your mouth is a strangled sob.
“It’s okay sweetheart,” Wanda reassures as she pulls you in for a hug, “you don’t need to explain. Naty has already told me.”
Somehow, more tears leak out from your eyes at this, dripping onto her shoulder and dampening the fabric of her sweater.
“Naty is sorting it out now, darling. Bluebell will be okay.”
“Promise?” you whimper, lifting your head to look at her and assess how confident she appears. Wanda’s nose scrunches a little as she cups your damp cheek in her hand. You lean into the touch, her smooth skin feeling gently cooling against your red hot, frantic face.
“I promise, baby. Bluebell will be all better very soon, and Naty will bring her back to you.”
Your eyes keep on producing tears, but your breathing begins to slow as a small measure of hope trickles through your bloodstream.
Maybe Bluebell will be okay. Maybe Naty will fix her up. Naty is clever, after all. She will know what to do.
You duck your head and curl up into Wanda’s arms once again, resting your forehead on her shoulder. She holds you with a slight squeeze, showing she’s happy to have you there.
“That’s it, myšička,” she whispers gently, rubbing small circles on your spine. “Keep taking slow breaths for me. Good girl.”
So you let her hold you and ease you into comfort. It takes a while because there’s still so much uncertainty. Perhaps you won’t be truly calm until you see Bluebell and learn just how catastrophic your mistake really was.
You hear the door open, and your breath catches. You don’t try to wriggle out of Wanda’s arms or hide your tears. You just wait, frozen in place.
Slowly, carefully, the bed sinks beside you.
A hand reaches over your body and balances something small and grey on your knee.
Bluebell.
She looks okay. A little bedraggled, perhaps, but intact.
Wanda opens her arms to allow you more freedom, and slowly you move your left hand from beneath your chin and reach out to touch your rabbit. She’s dry, and a little warm to the touch. Her fur doesn’t feel quite the same, but it’s still soft. Just a bit unkempt, like she’s weathered a storm.
“She’s… okay?” you whisper, more to yourself than anything.
“I think so,” Natasha says quietly. “Though I never saw her before, so you can tell better than me.”
You look up into Natasha’s eyes. She looks a little worried as she stares down at you, like she’s unsure how to treat you right now. That uncertainty makes you feel a little off kilter, like you’re doing something wrong. Maybe something shows in your body language, because Wanda places her arm around you again. It goes a little way to grounding you.
“I got some of the water out and then I used a hairdryer.” Natasha runs her fingers through her hair as she speaks, looking between you and Wanda in turn. “Maybe a comb would help even out the fur now that it’s dry?”
“That’s a good idea,” Wanda replies smoothly, giving your side a gentle squeeze. “We’ll find a comb for you, myšička. That should help Bluebell look her best again.”
You nod slightly, feeling the slight lumps where Bluebell’s fur has become a little matted. A comb might bring it back a bit, you think. Maybe she still won’t be the same, but at least she didn’t need stitches. You remember a beanie dinosaur from your childhood which needed neck surgery after a girl at your nursery grabbed its head and refused to let go. Your mum had done a good job of stitching it up, but it still had an ugly scar which cemented your resentment. At least that wasn’t the case here. With some careful grooming, Bluebell might at least visually look the same as before, even if she wasn’t the same to touch.
“Thank you.” It comes out small but genuine, and you look up to Natasha to emphasise your gratitude. She smiles in return, but it’s a little brief.
“I’ll leave you two in peace for a bit,” she murmurs, and she starts to walk towards the door. You watch her go, your lip wobbling with some undetermined feeling. Before you can analyse it, Wanda gently shushes you and cups the back of your head to encourage it to lean on her shoulder once more. You hear the door closing, but Wanda’s soothing words distract you.
“You must be exhausted, little one. How about you lie down for a little while, and try to sleep off some of these big feelings, hm?”
It makes sense, what she’s suggesting. You do feel completely wiped out from the shock and the crying. So you murmur your assent and let her shift her weight to ease the both of you down onto the bed. She untangles her arm as you slide down, making sure your head rests on the pillow. Then she reaches for a blanket and tucks it over your limp body, making sure the top of it sits just below Bluebell, who is still clutched tightly in your left hand.
“Can you stay?” you ask suddenly, surprising even yourself with the request. It’s silly, and you feel your cheeks warming, but you don’t take it back. For some reason, you want to know that she’ll be here when you fall asleep, and when you wake. The idea of waking up alone and having to descend the stairs to find them seems horrifying right now.
“Of course,” Wanda says, smiling so genuinely that you feel many layers of relief. “When you fall asleep, I’ll nip into the library to grab a book, and then I’ll read on the armchair just there until you wake.”
You glance across at the chair beside the chest of drawers, consider, then nod. That seems okay.
You half expect her to move to the chair already, but she stays on the bed with you, albeit sitting beside your supine form. She reaches out and gently strokes your hair, and you’re struck with the memory of that night when Natasha hummed a song under her breath to lull you back to sleep. She had seemed so calm and content then, in stark contrast to her cautious and almost reluctant presence in the room just before. You’re trying to find the words to verbalise this to Wanda, when she starts to shake her head with an almost pitying smile.
“I can see you worrying again, miláčik. But now is not the time for those grown-up worries. Now is the time for you to rest and relax. Can you do that for me?”
You blink up at her, feeling something shift inside you. Like a weighted blanket being draped over your brain — everything seems to still. She looks even more beautiful and wise from this angle, smiling down at you with such dedicated attention and care. You trust her to know what is best for you. So you breathe out your worries about Natasha’s doubt and reserve, and you nod.
“Good girl,” Wanda praises, and she leans down to kiss your forehead, her lips lingering a moment longer than usual. Something blooms in your chest; a dazzling but peaceful feeling, like silent fireworks.
She’s staying, but sitting up like that makes her seem so far away. You let go of Bluebell and lift your hand without thinking, trying to wordlessly signal what you want: her to be closer. Your fingers grasp at the fabric of her jumper, and take gentle hold. Not pulling, just pleading with your eyes.
If anything, Wanda seems delighted by this. You can see the deepening of her smile as she takes in your clinging and breathes in a long, appreciative breath.
“Oh darling. You just really want to be looked after right now, hm?”
You do, desperately. Every moment that she spends with you like this, cherishing and caring for you, feels so vital and fulfilling in a way you can’t explain. It’s like something you’ve been missing all this time, without even knowing. An invisible void which her kindness and comfort is able to fill.
Wanda shuffles her body down to lie beside you, her head resting on the next pillow, her face turned towards yours.
“You’re safe, pusinka, okay?” she whispers, lifting her left hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. “I’m here, and I’m not going to leave you.”
You believe her, from your ears to your brain to your bones. The trust is so deep that you feel your eyelids closing, and your grip loosening on Wanda’s jumper. She shifts beside you but you don’t look, you just feel the soft fur of Bluebell being placed against your open fingers. They tangle into the matted hairs and twitch slightly to stroke them as your consciousness begins to drift.
You must start dreaming then, because you hear her voice as if on the horizon.
Mommy loves you, myšička.
—————
Wanda is still there, as promised, when you wake. As soon as your eyes open you sit up to look for her, and feel the threat of panic dissipating when you spot her on the armchair, looking up from her book to smile at you. You manage a small, sheepish smile in return, before lying back down to allow yourself to wake up fully. Everything feels a little fuzzy, still. You’ve moved on and moved away from how you felt before the nap, but that feeling is still within reach, still within memory. You could swiftly slide back there, if you’re not careful. And you’re not sure if you’re scared or intrigued by that thought.
Wanda remains quiet, allowing you to sit up again in your own time. When you do, she continues reading for a few seconds — perhaps finishing the sentence — before looking up again with an encouraging smile.
“How long was I asleep for?” you ask, fidgeting with Bluebell under the blanket which is still draped over your legs.
“Just under an hour,” Wanda answers softly. “You seemed peaceful.”
You nod, frowning a little as you consider. Yes, you did sleep well. You don’t remember any dreams — apart from imagining Wanda saying that thing, likely invented as a result of your conversation with Kate — but you do feel much better now. Though you can also sense a wave of shame brewing in the background.
“You stayed,” you state quietly, thinking aloud more than anything. Wanda nods.
“Of course, moje dievčatko.”
You’re caught between thanking her and apologising — both seem necessary, though you can’t figure out which is more pressing. Maybe the conundrum shows in your face, because Wanda stands up, places her book on the armchair, then moves across to perch on the edge of the bed beside you. She places her hand on your back, stroking softly, patiently waiting for you to talk again.
“Thank you for staying,” you whisper after a while. Wanda smiles, and uses her other hand to gently squeeze your knee, which is propped up beneath the blanket.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Do you feel better now?”
You manage a small nod, trying to swallow down the guilt which bubbles in your throat.
“Those were pretty big feelings you were having. No wonder you were tired.”
Her assessment makes your emotions wobble once more. She’s right; your emotions were vast and utterly disproportionate to the mundanity of the situation. The only logical one really was Natasha, removing herself from the situation as soon as she could, probably hoping you would finally regulate yourself like you ought to, grown adult that you are.
“I’m sorry,” you eventually stammer out, looking up at Wanda through watery eyes.
“You have nothing to apologise for, little love. Nothing at all.”
“But Natasha…”
“…is Natasha.” Wanda fixes you with a serious look, taking both your cheeks in her hands as if to ensure that her words go in. “Darling, Naty had a very difficult upbringing. When she was a child, she was taught not to express emotions or empathy. She has both in multitudes, but she doesn’t always know how to show them.” She pauses, like she’s allowing time for you to process this. Then she continues, her words softer now, more careful. “Natasha cares about you a lot, myšička. She just doesn’t feel safe to show it in the same way that I do.”
Her words make sense, but you still feel like there are things being left unsaid. A hidden subtext which you can’t quite see; an additional meaning which Wanda perhaps assumes you can understand. How do you even ask for clarity, when you’re not sure what it is which you’re missing?
“When I came home, I found Natasha gently drying Bluebell with the hairdryer,” Wanda tells you, watching your reaction. “She knew straight away how much Bluebell meant to you, and she wanted to fix her for you.”
“You didn’t tell her?” you ask, surprised. When Natasha returned with Bluebell, you just assumed that Wanda must have conveyed your strange attachment to this toy shortly after she arrived in the suitcase.
“No, sweetheart — I didn’t tell her. Bluebell belongs to you, and I know how precious she is. I wouldn’t share that with anyone without your permission.”
“It’s weird though,” you whisper, shifting your feet closer to your centre and tucking your limbs into a tighter ball. Bluebell is held under your knees, hidden beneath body and blanket. “I’m too old…”
“Adults are allowed comfort too,” Wanda interrupts gently. “Besides, I don’t think its weird. I think the softness you show is beautiful and brave.”
Soft, you think, feeling Bluebell’s fur between your fingers. The word settles in your head, seeming extra meaningful in this moment.
“That’s how I’ve been feeling sometimes,” you tell her slowly, discovering the words only as they come out of your mouth. “Soft.”
Wanda nods slightly, smiling in a quietly reassuring way.
“That’s okay,” she replies, her voice extra gentle. “You can be soft around us, myšička.”
Wanda seems to understand, even though it doesn’t even make much sense to you yet. She’s so readily accepting in fact, that you wonder whether she has seen this — whatever this is — in you even before you did. That’s a little scary. But Wanda isn’t scary, and she seems so calm right now that surely there can’t be anything too wrong about this feeling, and her understanding of it.
You look into her eyes and she looks back into yours.
It’s like you’re in a bubble. Inside, with her, it’s warm and safe. But you can just about see through it, to the real world beyond, which makes more sense in it’s banality and brutality. Somewhere out there is the link Kate sent you, scratching at the edge of your bubble, creating an itch on the inside.
In the back of your mind, you know that this bubble will burst. But for now, you simply suppress that notion and burrow deeper, tucking your head onto Wanda’s shoulder and hearing the rhythmic thumping of her heartbeat in her neck, pulsing against your flushed cheek.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think, it will help motivate me to write more 🥹
Tip Jar: I have started a ko-fi account because a few people asked about it. Please don't feel obliged to give anything, and if you do feel so inclined, please don't put yourself out. If I can get even one free hot drink in a cafe to help fuel my writing I will be so taken aback and grateful. https://ko-fi.com/whisperofaflame
Taglist: (comment below if you'd like to be added to this/if I've missed a previous request!) @nessheartnat ; @valerie-lexi ; @redheadsinmybed ; @electric-guillotines ; @naominanuq ; @alpalpym ; @dreaming-potato ; @snowazul ; @deathbylesbianwitches ; @queen-of-chaotic-surprises ; @loverluzer ; @methealt ; @theslutoflasignora ; @godhatesgoodgirls ; @absolutelyregal ; @ciaoooooo111 ; @marvel-posts ; @twentyonetornmyheart ; @mamaslostlittlebunny ; @sevikasoneandonlywife ; @yelldontwhisper
Story Summary: After moving to New York, a collision while cycling sends you flying into the lives of Wanda Maximoff and her wife, Natasha Romanoff. Together, they teach you a new way of belonging and being loved.
Chapter Summary: After a tragic incident, Natasha does what she can to make things better.
Word count: 2.7k
Featuring: slow burn, emerging D/s dynamics, mommy kink, praise kink, copious pet names, reader being incredibly naive, Natasha being a secret softie, Wanda being a menace.
A/N: I'm so excited to finally release another b-side! This one is dedicated to @xenaizogie for being my first supporter on ko-fi. Her kind tip meant I could have a free mocha in the cafe while writing this afternoon! Many thanks for your generosity ♡
Natasha was already awake when she heard the soft padding of your feet, crossing the landing and passing their bedroom door. She put down her book quietly, careful not to rouse Wanda before her Sunday alarm, then tiptoed out of the room to find you.
You had already descended the stairs by the time she closed the door behind her. So she followed slowly, not wanting to startle you at this early hour.
Natasha gave a cursory look around the ground floor, but was unsurprised to only see Mayakovsky, lying by the patio door with his eyes closed and tail lightly flicking. She had fed him already, then slipped back into bed to read. Sundays were her slow days, and while she tried to enjoy them, she wasn’t upset to have been drawn out by another early bird.
Descending again, she reached the basement floor, where she spotted movement in the utility room. There you were: crouching in front of the washing machine and pushing a bundle of sheets into the drum with your one hand. You rocked a little on your tiptoes with the movement, like a little rabbit getting ready to leap.
Natasha carefully drew closer, watching you stand up, close the door, then look in the cupboard. You found a detergent and poured it in the drawer, then replaced it back in the cupboard. Then your fingers hovered, selecting another bottle. You opened the lid and lifted it up to your nose, breathing in the scent. She could see just enough of your profile to spot your lips lifting into a contented smile.
Natasha recognised the fabric conditioner as the one Wanda liked to use on her clothes. The realisation made her heart ache a little, as she watched you pout it in the drawer, return it to its place, then start the cycle.
Then you turned, and Natasha didn’t have to plan the smile she gave you. It just broke out when she saw how you lit up at the sight of her. Your genuine delight to see her tugged at Natasha’s lips and made her return your smile with such warmth that even her own cheeks felt aglow.
Natasha recruited you to help with breakfast, and couldn’t help but continue smiling at the way you listened to her instructions with such avid attention. Something about you seemed extra endearing to her today — though perhaps she was still on the post-sex high. Yes, Natasha thought, as she noticed your tongue sticking out slightly as you focussed on mixing the batter and felt her feelings fizzle, that must be it. She ought to be careful today: careful not to cross any lines — or let Wanda run away with her desires. After three days of barely touching, they had both been a little feral yesterday. It was lucky you hadn’t noticed, lucky you hadn’t put the pieces together.
Or maybe not lucky — maybe it was just your nature.
Pilates and laundry day. What a sweet, naive little girl you truly were.
Natasha caught herself with a frown.
Exactly that, she thought, kicking herself internally. That’s exactly the sort of thought you shouldn’t be having.
Feral was certainly the word. And if Natasha felt like that, then Wanda must surely be feeling even less contained.
It didn’t take long for her theory to be proven true. Wanda walked in while you were mixing, and immediately gravitated to you and wrapped her arm around your back. Natasha could see her wife’s almost dreamlike smile. She was definitely still on a high. No wonder, really, given the orgasms Natasha had pulled out from her yesterday. They hadn’t had sex quite that charged in a while. It had been electric. And it seemed to sizzle still.
Wanda moved away to set the table before Natasha felt obliged to intervene. So she walked over to you and handed over a ladle, entrusting you with the job of making the first blini. You seemed nervous, and she reassured you. That triggered a conversation, with you sharing a memory, then asking about her own.
It surprised Natasha that she didn’t immediately shut down when you asked about her childhood. Usually it was a topic which she avoided at all costs, employing a range of tactics to evade. Wanda was the only person, beyond the people who experienced it with her, who knew. The pain was very private, difficult to explain and share. But somehow, she found that she wanted to answer you, wanted to bestow the same trust and fragility in you, which you so sweetly offered to them.
So she told you a little; how she and Yelena had moved first to the States, then back to their homeland. How young they had been.
Then her throat closed up, and she was glad that you didn’t ask any more, and glad that Wanda stepped in to support you with the blini. It gave Natasha a moment to turn away, a moment to compose herself and bury the memories once more.
She cared about you enough to offer a glimpse. That meant something. Even if she had to close up the shutters and lock them tightly after that brief release.
Natasha took some deep breaths, staring down at the dining table and straightening the utensils to be perfectly parallel.
Then you swept past, and her brain caught up just enough to process the words she had heard in the background before you moved to leave.
She watched you go, trying to interpret the look she had seen on your face as you passed her and accidentally caught her eye. Once you had disappeared down the stairs, Natasha turned to her wife.
“What happened?”
The guilty look on Wanda’s face was enough to cement her suspicions, but she waited for the explanation all the same.
“I’m not sure… I was touching her waist. Nothing inappropriate — she just got flustered, I think.”
“Wanda…”
“I know, I know. I’ll calm it down, my love. I promise.”
“You’d better,” Natasha growled, stepping in and trying not to smile, “or I’ll have to think of a more… effective lesson.”
Wanda’s face flooded with colour and she let out a little moan as Natasha grabbed her by the hips, manoeuvred her around and then pinned her against the kitchen island.
“You’re playing with fire,” Natasha whispered directly into Wanda’s ear.
“I know,” Wanda replied, throwing her head back and allowing her hair to dangle and shine in the morning light. Natasha stared at the pale, enticing skin of Wanda’s neck, and swallowed down the desire to mark it with her teeth.
Instead, she did the only thing which always proved effective in managing her wife’s impulsive behaviour. She stepped away, and smirked when she heard Wanda’s disappointed moan.
“Behave,” Natasha intoned, before turning around and taking over at the stove.
It took a few moments before Wanda’s breathing calmed down behind her; those long shaky breaths were audible to Natasha’s keen ears, even amongst the sounds of the kitchen.. Natasha’s heart was still beating fast too, but she’d trained for years to conceal how she felt inside. It came in handy sometimes. Not that it was in any way worth what the honing of those skills had cost.
She lost herself in making blini after blini for a while, seeking the perfect circle and the most golden colour. A stack gathered on a plate beside the pan, and Natasha lost track of how long it took before you returned. When she heard your shuffling footsteps, it was like Wanda had read her mind; she directed you to sit, just as Natasha had been thinking to instruct. Then Wanda swapped the filled plate for another, giving her wife a quick kiss of greeting. Natasha smirked at the pan, knowing this was Wanda’s attempt to make her forget their little disagreement before. They knew each other so well — too well to get anything past each other.
Breakfast went by with many caring interventions from Wanda, none of which quite crossed the line to deserve a look from her wife. There was plausible deniability for all of it: you truly couldn’t manage to cut your food up with one hand, and it was tricky to reach things on your right side. The help was warranted, certainly. But the comment Natasha heard when she went to get the second plate from the oven… that was pushing it. Even if you couldn’t sense the undertones, Natasha certainly understood what Wanda was insinuating. Messy, indeed.
When Natasha returned to the table, she gave Wanda a single, meaningful look, letting her know that the comment had been heard. Both you and Wanda seemed to avoid each other’s gazes from that point, making Natasha wonder whether you had perhaps noticed something, after all. So she tried to distract from it, talking about the day to come, and enthusiastically adding toppings to her next helping. Slowly, you brightened, and by the time everyone had finished eating, you seemed your usual buoyant self: eagerly helping to clear the table, and smiling happily between them.
Natasha started loading the dishwasher while Wanda took you up the stairs to get changed. She hoped nothing more would happen. Hopefully the threat in the kitchen, and the look at the table, had been enough to quell Wanda’s thrill-seeking.
You seemed lucid enough when you came back downstairs and joined Natasha on the sofa. Wanda poked her head in a few minutes later and bid the two of you goodbye with a mere wave and a smile — far more appropriate. Overall, things seemed to be improving. You seemed more settled, and Wanda was slowly becoming more responsive to reminders about her decorum.
It was all going so well. Natasha played a video game, while you curled up in the opposite corner of the sofa, scrolling on your phone and then tapping away at the screen, seemingly messaging someone. Possibly your new friend?
The washing machine beeped, and you sprang up. Natasha offered to help, but didn’t push when you declined. It was important that you had some freedom and independence. Especially when your injury — and sometimes Wanda’s approach — limited your options in that realm.
In her periphery, Natasha could see you placing down a basket, then crouching down at the washing machine and opening the door. You kept moving as expected, pulling stuff out the machine — when suddenly all movement stopped. Natasha paused her game and turned her head a few degrees, so she could see you more clearly, without staring front on.
You seemed frozen, staring at the basket. Then the freeze began to thaw into a tremble — and Natasha knew that something was wrong, even before you stood up and began to run. Her instincts were so jumbled — should she call after you? Follow? Wait?
She was beginning to notice that your feelings seemed to bring out her own in a terrifying, uncontrolled way. The slightest hint of your panic registered in her chest, like a mirror. And she seemed to lose herself and any sense of what to do when you were like this.
Wanda always knew what to do to help in the moment. But Wanda always lived in the moment, never thinking about consequences. Natasha couldn’t let go of strategising and weighing up odds. It was her automatic nature, and usually felt so easy. But with you? She just couldn’t predict it; she couldn’t see the future with any clarity at all.
It scared her.
At a loss of what to do, she resorted to basics.
When in doubt, assess. Take stock.
She stood up, and walked over to the washing machine. Something there had spooked you, had made you run away. What on earth could it be? A spider? A stain?
Natasha carefully lifted layers of fabric until she felt something strange between her fingers. Something heavy, furry, and soaking wet. She unearthed it and stared at the dark grey, dripping object. It had long floppy ears, glassy black eyes and a black stitched nose and smile. A little rabbit. No doubt this was the cause of your upset: an unexpected stowaway, not meant for the washing machine.
Natasha stood up, still staring at the soft toy. For a few seconds, she felt a flickering in her brain as the memory fought to resurface.
Ohio.
Yelena.
A pink pony.
Natasha’s legs began to wobble, and she slid to the floor before she could fall.
She remembered now, how Yelena had run to grab the toy before they left in such a hurry. Eleven year-old Natasha — older, harder — had grabbed a photo. But little Yela had grasped onto that pink stuffed creature, just as tightly as Natasha clung to her sister, trying to protect her from the world.
What became of that pony? Was she ripped away from Yelena, just as the two of them were ripped apart that day?
Something wet trickled down Natasha’s cheek.
Wanda would tell her that it wasn’t weak to feel.
Feelings hurt, though.
Natasha allowed herself a minute to cry. She timed it, counting out the seconds in her head and keeping note of the four tears which trickled down in that time. Enough.
She stood up, holding the rabbit in one hand as she found a dry towel to swaddle it in. Then she moved back to the sofa, picked her phone up off the coffee table, and began to investigate.
How to dry a stuffed toy after washing.
Of all the things in her search history, this had to be the biggest, oddest outlier.
She read through various pages and discussion threads, absorbing information like a sponge. Then she followed the most reliable instructions: pressing out the water with paper towels, trying not to twist or squeeze too much. She worked on one bit at a time, starting with the ears, which were lined with a pretty blue floral fabric. Then she worked on the head, which seemed terribly fragile, wobbling on the body as if the washing machine had broken its neck. The head took a while to do safely. Then the arms, and the legs, and the squishy tummy and fluffy tail. It took a lot of paper towels, which gathered in a mound of moisture on the table. Then she used the soft hand towel, repeating the same process. After that came the hairdryer, blowing from a few inches away, on the lowest setting.
She wondered, all the while, how you must be feeling upstairs all alone. Were you crying? Sleeping? Curled up in a hopeless ball?
There was no point going up to see you, not until she had resolved it. What comfort could she give if your rabbit was ruined? Just say sorry? Surely that wouldn’t be enough. Would it be appropriate, in that situation, to offer to buy another? Or would that be offensive somehow, suggesting it was replaceable?
No; better that I am here, Natasha thought. This I can do.
Natasha’s capacity for precision and patience paid off at this point; it was a long process. She wouldn’t be doing it for just anyone, or anything. But it was clear how much the rabbit meant to you. And as she dried it, she realised quietly that this must mean that you meant quite a lot to her already too.
“Hello!”
Natasha turned to find Wanda, her smile slowly shifting to confusion and then concern as she took in the scene. Natasha, alone, drying a stuffed toy.
“She put her sheets on to wash this morning,” Natasha explained, “and when she took them out… well, she was very upset. She ran upstairs, and I found this in the basket.”
“Oh dear,” Wanda sighed, her face crumpling. “Poor thing.”
Natasha merely nodded, then turned back to the hairdryer, continuing with her mission.
“Have you been up to see her?” Wanda asked, making Natasha turn back.
“No. I’ve been trying to dry the rabbit.”
Wanda looked a little exasperated, which surprised her.
“What?”
“How long has she been up there, Nat?”
“I’m not sure… maybe an hour or so?” Natasha checked her watch. “Ah. Okay, almost two hours.”
“Oh my god… I love you, my darling — but you are so very Russian sometimes.”
“What is that supposed to…?”
“Never mind. I’ll go up, you carry on resurrecting the rabbit.”
“Right.” Natasha frowned. “Was I supposed to go up?”
Wanda laughed lightly, then approached and gave Natasha a kiss.
“Next time, yes,” she said, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Sympathy, then solutions, my love.”
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think, it will help motivate me to write more 🥹
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Summary: Your quiet suburb route has been traded for one in the city. Manhattan. From cozy moderate homes, to the Avengers Tower. You find yourself falling for the resident redhead. You see her multiple times a week, but you can’t help but wonder: Why is she ordering so much?
Natasha looks around her room where five jellyfish lamps stare at her in judgement. Will she finally gather the courage to ask you out before her living space resembles an aquarium gift shop?
Word count: 9.4k
Tags/Warnings: fluff, yearning, Natasha falls first and harder, puns
---
You look up to see the gorgeous skyscraper towering over you, an enormous “A” is displayed proudly on the side, barely visible from below.
You eyes drift back to what’s in front of you. The lobby can be seen through the glass doors, its decor sleek and clearly expensive. The hologram behind the reception desk exhibits scenes from the Battle of New York before ending with, “Welcome to the Avengers Tower”.
You take a deep breath in. Last week you had been delivering mail in the suburbs. Chatting with parents whose kids had just left for school, watching dogs run around front yards, and enjoying the quiet that came with not being in the city.
Now, you’re in the heart of New York. Manhattan. How did I get here? you wonder while exhaling.
Your boss had told you about the route change a few days prior. One of your fellow postal workers was retiring unexpectedly, causing a shift in everyone's routes. Yours just happened to be the most dramatic.
From having a route that mostly consisted of calm residential roads and sleepy avenues, to busy city streets and the honking of cabs every other minute. You were mostly delivering directly to companies now. The security was tight, but nothing like what you were experiencing at the moment.
The blue light of a scanner runs up and down your body before you hear a polite, but robotic voice above you.
“Y/N Y/L/N, you are now in the system as the mail courier. No threat detected from the packages or mail. You are free to continue into the lobby. The front desk is just ahead of you.”
You look around, searching for the source of the voice.
“I am J.A.R.V.I.S. A software created by Mr. Stark.”
You decide not to question it, pressing your bag more securely against you while a package is under your other arm. You start taking steps towards the front desk while looking around the lobby. There’s waiting areas to your left and right with comfortable looking armchairs and couches. A small coffee kiosk can be seen near the front desk, where the barista is making drinks for employees passing through. You can feel the warmth of the sunlight coming through the floor to ceiling windows.
You arrive at the front desk where the receptionist greets you with a smile.
“Hi, I’m here to drop off some mail as well as a package,” you say, smiling back. You place the package on the counter while pulling out a stack of mail and handing it to her.
“Of course,” she responds, reaching for the mail. Her eyes scan the package before pointing to the label. “This package is a restricted delivery and needs to be signed by Mr. Rogers directly. I’ll call him to come down to sign off.”
You hadn’t been expecting to meet one of the Avengers, having forgotten about the restricted delivery in the chaos of the route change.
“He’ll be down in just a moment,” she says kindly before turning to sort the mail.
You pull out your tablet from your bag, finding the necessary documents while you wait for him to arrive.
You look up when you hear the chime of the elevator arriving. Out arrives a nervous looking Steve Rogers.
Taller than he looks on TV, you note casually.
He walks over to the front desk where you’re giving him a little wave.
“Hello, nice to meet you. I have a package that needs your signature before handing it off. I’m going to need to see your ID,” you say with a professional smile.
He looks at you, eyes wide, before pulling out his wallet and handing you his ID.
You give it a once over, glancing down at the photo before looking back at him.
He observes you quietly before saying, “I don’t mean to sound arrogant or anything, but most people would recognize me. I haven’t had someone ask to see my identification since 1943.”
You look up at him before giving him a small smile. “It’s not that I don’t know who you are Mr. Rogers, I just like doing my job well,” you say while handing back his ID.
He looks impressed as you turn your tablet around towards him.
“I’m going to need you to go through these pages and initial and sign where indicated. Also, since whatever you ordered is at a certain value, you’re going to need to sign some additional pages that you can pull up afterwards then press confirm to indicate that the package was handed off to you directly.” You extend the tablet pen to him.
Steve squints at the screen as if that would somehow give him the knowledge of how the technology works. He gives you a shy smile. “Do you mind if I call someone? It’s my first time having ordered something and J.A.R.V.I.S basically did everything for me.”
“Not at all,” you respond good-naturedly.
He turns to the desk to ask the receptionist to call someone that you don’t catch. She agrees enthusiastically while looking him over.
“Did I mention I’ve only been out of the ice for a few years?” he asks, a little embarrassed.
“You didn’t, but the 1943 comment made this unsurprising,” you say with a teasing tone. “No worries Mr. Rogers, I’ve never been frozen but I still don’t understand how bluetooth works,” you say while laughing.
He gives you an appreciative smile before laughing with you.
—
Natasha steps into the elevator and presses the button for the lobby. She sighs, this wasn’t her first time having to help Steve with technology. After a few moments the elevator doors open to the sunlit lobby. She can hear Steve speaking excitedly to someone.
“I still don’t trust it,” he says.
“I know right? Online banking is kind of crazy if you think about it,” you agree.
Natasha steps into the lobby to see you and Steve mid conversation. You look as sweet as your voice sounds, nodding at something Steve says when you notice her.
The sunlight makes your eyes shimmer as you regard her.
“I think your friend is here,” you say to Steve.
He turns around and smiles at Natasha. “Thanks for coming down, Nat. I can’t quite decipher what I’m supposed to do with this.” He hands her the tablet and pen.
She looks over the pages before responding, “I’m used to this by now you dinosaur, no need to thank me.”
She hears you giggle and feels a flutter in her chest, choosing to ignore it and continue to go through the pages, signing and initialing for Steve before handing it back to you.
You take it back gently. “Thank you for your help,” you say to her appreciatively.
“Problem—I mean, no problem,” she corrects quickly.
Steve gives her a look.
You smile at her before turning to Steve. “It was nice talking to you today Mr. Rogers but I have to go take care of some more deliveries.”
“Please, just call me Steve,” he says before pausing for a moment. “I just realized I never asked for your name.”
“No worries at all. I’m Y/N. I’m taking over this route so we might be seeing each other more often if you order more things to be delivered. Hopefully next time you won’t need backup,” you say teasingly.
“No promises,” he says with a chuckle. “It was nice to meet you, Y/N. Good luck with the rest of the deliveries.”
Natasha watches as you store the tablet back into your bag.
“It was nice to meet you too, Steve.” You turn to Natasha. “Have a great rest of your day, Ms. Romanoff.”
You give her a bright smile and she feels her brain freeze. She watches as you walk to the lobby doors and exit.
“So she did know who I am,” she says to Steve after a moment.
“She knew who I was too. Still checked my ID and everything. I like that she doesn’t treat us any differently,” Steve says thoughtfully before turning to her with a mischievous grin. “So, what was that?”
“What was what?” she responds with a straight face.
“I’ve never heard you stumble over your words in all the time that I’ve known you.”
“Maybe you haven’t known me long enough then.”
“Whatever you say, Romanoff,” Steve responds with a knowing smile.
She doesn’t catch it—eyes looking towards the doors that you just exited from.
—
It’s a week later when Natasha sees you again. She’s sitting at the kitchen counter with Steve while eating lunch.
“Captain Rogers, you’re needed in the lobby to sign for a package,” says J.A.R.V.I.S through the kitchen speaker.
Her thoughts drift to you. It had been a while since she met someone outside of the team that talked to them like they were just ordinary people. While Steve was welcoming to others, he generally kept a distance. With you, he was talking as though you two had known each other for a long time.
There was something about you that felt so open that was rare to find nowadays. Like you didn’t have anything to hide.
The complete opposite of me, she thinks bitterly.
She hears the scrape of the chair as Steve moves to stand. She stands as well.
“I’ll go with you. Since you don’t know how to use the tablet and all,” she says nonchalantly.
Steve looks at her amused. “I’m sure that’s why,” he says while walking to the elevator with her following closely behind him. He presses the button for the lobby.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks defensively.
“Oh, nothing at all,” Steve says with a teasing lilt. “Couldn’t help but notice the great Black Widow getting flustered while we were talking to Y/N.”
“I did not get flustered.”
“So you’re saying you didn’t fully pause when she told you to have a good day?”
“There may have been a pause but I did not get—” The elevator doors open with a quiet chime.
Her words come to a halt when you come into view. You’re wearing your uniform, a blue collared shirt and grey slacks—something most people wouldn’t look twice at, but in Natasha’s eyes it’s like there’s a spotlight on you.
You’re looking outside at a dog passing by with its owner, a soft smile on your face. Natasha feels the same flutter in her chest that she did when she first heard you giggle. This time, she couldn’t ignore it. The feeling of her heart racing and the warmth she felt in her chest betraying her and forcing her to acknowledge it.
She was enchanted by you. Even after only exchanging a few words.
“Definitely didn’t get flustered,” Steve says with a smirk, walking past her to you.
She follows after him, glaring at his back. She wipes the glare off her face the moment you turn to them, noticing their arrival.
“We meet again,” you say with a charming smile. “I thought you said you wouldn’t need backup the next time, not that that’s a bad thing.”
“Well, I didn’t. She—" Natasha jabs Steve in the back with precision, so quick your eyes don’t catch the action. He hunches over in pain.
“Yeah, unfortunately this antique needs a little more time to get his bearings in this day and age,” she says casually, looking at her nails.
“Clearly. I mean Steve, I know you’re technically like 90 years old but you have the super soldier serum in you. You shouldn’t be having that bad of back pain,” you say with amusement in your eyes. You hand Natasha your tablet and pen. “I assume you’ll be signing for him again?”
She accepts the tablet and pen from you. “Yeah, we’ll have to teach him another day.”
Steve glares at Natasha, but decides to let it go when he sees the way she’s looking at you.
“I’m going to head up because it looks like you’ve got it taken care of. I need to lay down for a bit,” Steve says while rubbing his back.
Natasha shoots him a panicked glance, but he meets her eyes with a steady look that screams ‘You’ve got this’.
You watch the exchange with a clueless smile on your face. “I hope you feel better, Steve. Take care of yourself.”
“Sorry we couldn’t chat today. I’ll see you another time, Y/N,” Steve says while walking to the elevator.
She’s left alone with you. Her heart begins to beat faster as she tries to focus on initialing and signing the documents even with her hand shaking from the nerves.
She notices you watching her hand as she writes. She strives to use her best handwriting, finding the lines come out unsteady regardless. It feels like an eternity before she completes all the pages. You haven’t said a word, just observing as she finishes.
Am I too intimidating? She thinks to herself, disappointed. Maybe you would’ve preferred if Steve had stayed. You seem to have fun talking to him.
You meet her eyes as she hands you the tablet and pen back before looking down again to where your fingertips overlap.
“I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful your hands are. When you write your hand moves so gracefully. It’s really pretty to watch,” you say sincerely, albeit a bit shy. You take the tablet and pen fully into your hand before storing them in your bag.
She looks at you in disbelief. Beautiful?
Bloodstained, maybe. Lethal, always. Her hands had never known any other description.
Did you not know what she’s done with these hands? All the lives she’s taken? She wonders to herself. There’s no way you didn’t. The files were public, everyone had seen them.
You look nervous that you’ve offended her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No one has ever said that to me before,” she says softly before you can finish your apology. “I don’t think I deserve that compliment, but thank you.”
“Why do you think that?” you ask gently.
Natasha looks down at her hands, unable to meet your eyes. She rubs the callouses on her palm and fingers that she’s gotten from how frequently she handles her handgun. A constant reminder that she’s battle hardened. Far from beautiful.
Her head lifts to meet your eyes. Your gaze is so soft and she can’t find the strength to meet it straight on, choosing to avert her eyes. You’re too kind, too untainted for someone like her to even face.
She lifts her hand, her palm facing you. “You don’t know what I’ve done with these hands,” she pauses. “Well I guess you do, everything is out there,” she says with a resigned smile.
“I do,” you agree softly.
“Then you know these hands aren’t beautiful. They’re covered in the blood of people whose lives I took and that won’t go away no matter how many times I wash them.” She doesn’t know why she’s telling you this, someone she basically just met. Something about you felt safe. Like she could entrust parts of herself that she didn’t want the world to see and you wouldn’t look away.
She feels your hand touch hers, delicately, like you didn’t want to scare her away. Your fingertips trace the callouses and cuts on her hand. She finally meets your eyes, the softness in your expression still remains even after what she had said. Somehow, she felt like you were looking at a version of her that she didn’t see in herself.
“You’re Natasha Romanoff aren’t you?” you ask suddenly.
“Huh?” You manage to catch her off guard. “I mean—well, yes.”
“The same Natasha Romanoff who protected New York and effectively the world?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t—”
“Doesn’t change the past right?” you cut in smoothly. “I know. We can’t change the past. The lives can’t be brought back and the hurt can’t be taken away.”
Her eyes drop, she’s about to lower her hand when she feels you interlock her fingers with yours. You won’t let her run away.
“Everyone says the past doesn’t define you. I agree with that, but that wording makes it seem like it's easy to accept. The past did define you. You sit with what you did and you accept the guilt that comes with it. Saying, 'the past doesn’t define you' after doing something terrible is just a free pass people allow themselves. It’s what you do after your actions that define you” You take a deep breath, bringing your connected hands down and swinging them side to side. It brings her a sense of comfort.
“Did you continue to do what you did in the past? Have the same goals you did when you were in the KGB?”
She shakes her head, unable to speak.
“I won’t act like I know everything, because I don’t. Far from it. The actions that I’ve seen speak volumes about you. Someone who’s brave and selfless enough to protect others who can’t protect themselves.” You stop swinging your hands. She looks up to see you smiling softly at her. “We can do a lot of good, so much that it’s overflowing. It still won’t wash away the bad and that can feel helpless. What we can do though—is forgive ourselves bit by bit everyday and walk, feeling a little lighter in the process.”
She squeezes your hand tightly, feeling transparent in front of you. The heaviness that she’s always carried in her shoulders is still prevalent, but being here with you and hearing your words, she felt a fraction lighter.
She feels your hand loosen, your eyes widening.
“I’m so sorry if I overstepped, Ms. Romanoff. I know I don’t know you personally, I just felt like—”
“No,” she says with a small smile. A genuine one. “I needed that. More than you may realize. Also, just Natasha is fine.”
You release a sigh of relief before smiling back at her. “Well, I’m glad something came out of my ramble.” You let go of her hand, grabbing the package addressed to Steve before handing it to her. “I’m sorry but I have to take care of the rest of the deliveries.”
“I—yeah, of course,” she stumbles out. Why was she about to ask you to stay?
“See you, Natasha,” you say softly, a smile gracing your lips.
“See you,” she responds just as softly. She gazes at your retreating figure until you’re fully out of sight.
She looks down at the package, releasing one of her hands so only one is supporting it. She can still feel the sensation of you swinging her hand side to side and the calm it brought her. She replays your words, each one felt like they were starting the healing process of the wounds buried deep in her heart.
She brings her palm to her lips, pressing them to where your fingertips had touched. She wants to learn the version of herself that you see.
I want to see you again, she thinks while closing her eyes.
—
Why did I say all that? you think to yourself in horror, hands covering your face. You had just come back to your apartment after finishing all the deliveries. The secondhand embarrassment finally set in from your actions earlier today.
You can feel the heat radiating off your cheeks.
There was something about her expression that drew the words out of you. You couldn’t stand how she looked like she had already given up on herself. That she was irredeemable. That she was still a ruthless killer. When you looked at her, all you could see was the gentleness in her eyes when she met your gaze. Not the cold stare of someone who didn’t care about others.
You meant every word you said, but even though she claimed that it was needed, you couldn’t help but feel like you had intruded.
You release a heavy sigh, dragging your hands down your face. You peer down at your fingertips, the same ones that had traced the cuts and hardened skin of her hand. You still found them beautiful. When you held her hand, you could feel the steady warmth that radiated from it. The hands of someone that fought tooth and nail to survive. How could you not find that beautiful?
You bring your fingertips to your lips, the warmth of them mimicking the warmth you felt from her hand, but not quite as comforting. You don’t know why, but you feel connected to her.
I hope it’s not awkward when we see each other next you think to yourself before turning to make dinner.
—
Natasha expected to be able to see you in a week or maybe even a few days with how frequently the guys ordered things. It had been two weeks.
She had even resorted to waiting in the lobby for when you would drop off mail, only to have been told by the receptionist that you either just left or had come when she was in training. It was driving her crazy.
She didn’t even know what she wanted to say to you—just that she wanted to see you with that look that made her feel like she was worth something.
Which is what led her to stomping into the common room where Steve, Tony, and Clint are watching a movie together.
Tony looks behind to where she’s standing, arms crossed. “You gonna pay for the floor you’re stomping all over?”
“Why haven’t you guys ordered anything?” she asks, ignoring his question altogether.
Tony and Clint exchange glances of confusion.
“What’s it matter to you?” Clint asks.
“Answer the question.” She stares them both down. Steve stays facing the TV, trying to hide his laughter so he doesn’t face the brunt of her irritation.
“I mean, I don’t know. Just haven’t needed anything recently,” Tony says with a shrug.
“Same here. Usually just get stuff delivered to home,” Clint responds after, squinting at her. He observes her, noticing the pout she’s trying to hide behind the annoyance.
“So, we answered your question. Now answer mine. Why do you care?” Tony raises a brow, waiting for her answer.
“I don’t care,” she tries to say confidently, failing as her voice trails off towards the end.
“Clearly you do,” Tony quips back.
“I said I—”
“Nat,” Steve cuts in, deciding to help her out. “If there's something you need, why don’t you order it?”
Her eyes widen. She had been so sure that one of the guys would order something that it didn't occur to her that she could speed up the process herself.
When it comes to you it feels like her brain turns to mush. Unable to think at the capacity that she normally can.
She looks up to give Steve an appreciative smile. He’s already looking at her with a knowing one. She turns around and heads back to her room.
“Wait, that’s it? You just needed to order something? Even grandpa here can do that!” Tony yells down the hallway.
“Let her be, Tony,” Steve says while patting his shoulder.
Tony grumbles under his breath, turning back to continue the movie.
Clint continues to stare down the hallway to where she had retreated. He had never seen her act so irrationally before.
Something’s up, he thinks before turning to the TV while grabbing a handful of popcorn.
—
You step into the lobby of the Avengers Tower looking down at the package in your hands.
“Natasha Romanoff”. You’d be seeing her again for the first time since your last conversation two and a half weeks ago.
You cross the distance of the lobby to the front desk, letting the receptionist know to call her down.
The receptionist confirms that she’s on her way and you feel your heart rate pick up. You’re not sure if it’s from nerves or excitement. Maybe something in between.
The elevator arrives at the lobby floor, the doors opening—and there she is. She's wearing black jeans, a white shirt, and a brown leather jacket. And she’s entirely out of breath.
She walks over to you while trying to steady her breathing.
“Did you run a mile to get here?” you joke, noticing your heart rate hasn’t slowed, rather the opposite.
“Something like that,” she says between breaths.
“Are you in a rush? I can see you’re all dressed up. Let me just get the tablet ready so you can—”
“No,” she says, her answer a little too fast and loud. “I’m not in a rush at all. This is my only plan for today.”
You tilt your head, glancing at her outfit. “Are you sure? You look dressed to go somewhere.”
“I ran to change when I heard—” she pauses, eyes widening for a split second. “When I heard that my plans got moved up,” she corrects quickly.
“I thought you said this was your only plan,” you ask, confused by the contradiction.
“I misspoke,” she says, her lips curling into an easy smile that makes it hard to focus.
“Oh, I see. For a moment I thought maybe you dressed up for me,” you say with a grin, tilting your head.
She mutters something, looking momentarily annoyed with herself. Her expression shifts when she meets your eyes. The soft gaze from your last encounter finds its way back onto her face.
“You look cute today,” she says, her voice sounding confident. Though, for a moment, you swear you hear a shake in her voice.
You look down at your outfit. “My work uniform?”
“Yes.”
“Do you say that to all the postal workers?”
“No. Just you,” she says softly. A light dusting of pink on her cheeks.
Maybe you had missed the blush on her cheeks from her rushing earlier.
“That’s the first time I’ve heard that,” you say with a genuine smile. “Thank you, I really needed that.”
You really did. It had been a long day of ignored greetings or curt replies. Talking to Natasha felt like a breath of fresh air.
You take out your tablet and pen, unlocking it before handing them to her. She begins the task of signing and initialing, taking her time, reading over each page twice. You can feel her eyes on you every so often but every time you look to meet them, she’s studying the pages carefully.
Am I imagining things? you wonder to yourself as she finally signs the last page.
She hands you the tablet with the pen on top, you reach to grab it, your fingertips touching hers. You tug gently but she doesn’t let go, looking up in confusion only to find her watching you with soft focus. Captivated.
Your eyes drift to the glimpse of emerald in her eyes as if magnetized, her pupils dilated. The gentle curve of her nose. The fullness of her lips that are curled into a faint smile.
The heavy thud of footsteps in the lobby cuts through the stillness of the moment. She lets go abruptly, startled, as if she were in a trance. You quickly claim the tablet, tucking it into your bag as your heart begins to beat wildly.
“I have to go finish the rest of the deliveries," you say, your voice steadier than you feel.
Her hand twitches. “I understand,” she says quietly, her voice barely a whisper, before meeting your eyes with a bright smile. “See you, Y/N.”
“See you, Natasha.” You give her a small, lingering smile before turning away, heading to the lobby doors.
Once outside, your hand settles over your heart, its rhythm wild but recognizable. When you move your hand to your face, your knuckles graze your cheek—the heat radiating there is unmistakable.
You bite your lower lip trying to suppress the smile threatening to bloom across your face. You realize now that the rush you felt when she stepped out of the elevator wasn’t just a passing feeling. It’s a crush.
—
Natasha smiles down at the package in her hands as the elevator quietly makes its way up to the common room.
She doesn’t even remember what she ordered, randomly picking items in the decoration section and setting them to expedited shipping. Having Tony’s card definitely had some perks.
The doors slide open to Clint’s scrutinizing face.
“What’d you order that’s got you so happy?”
“Nothing,” she says, expression turning neutral.
“Nothing? Could’ve sworn I just saw you smiling at that,” he says, while pointing to the package.
“Must’ve been mistaken. Might need to get your eyes checked.”
He gives her a deadpan stare. “Yeah, I of all people need to get my eyes checked.”
She ignores him and starts heading towards her room.
“Something’s got you acting weird and I have a feeling it has to do with that,” Clint calls after her, nodding his head at the package. “You know I’m going to figure it out eventually. May as well just tell me now.”
“Nothing to tell,” she responds nonchalantly, pulling the package closer to her chest.
“Whatever you say,” Clint says with a mischievous smirk on his face. He turns, walking the opposite way.
Am I acting differently? she wonders to herself, the door to her room shutting behind her.
She carefully places the package on the floor, tearing through the duct tape with her pocketknife and removing the packing.
She stares down at the object. A neon-blue lamp in the shape of a jellyfish. She looks around the rest of the room which is a paradise of neutral tones.
She reaches for the lamp, ready to discard it but her hand stops. While you didn’t buy it for her, you brought it to her. She continues staring at the lamp that she doesn’t find particularly flattering before making a decision.
She places it on her coffee table, fully in view. Its neon blue stands out in contrast to the grey and beige decor around her room. It’s ridiculous looking, but she finds herself smiling at it. It makes her think of you.
—
A month passes with her seeing you three to four times a week. Ten to fifteen minute encounters that Natasha treasures every second of. She hasn’t found the courage to ask to see you outside of these package pickups, finding every time she opens her mouth ready to ask, something else entirely comes out.
She recalls her most recent encounter with you when she was about to ask you to grab coffee with her.
“So, what do you do outside of work?” Natasha had asked.
You looked up in thought. “I usually just relax at home, maybe meet friends. How about you?”
“I work out,” she blurted. The words out before she could filter them, trying to sound impressive. She felt her face heat up, realizing how it sounded like she was showing off.
You looked at her with a smirk, eyes glimmering with mischief. “I could tell.”
Her thoughts were stolen away by your smile and she ended up forgetting to ask you.
Now, she looks around her room. Five neon-blue jellyfish lamps sit on her coffee table in a circle, like a neon cult. A lobster corkscrew rests on her kitchen island, its googly eyes looking at her unblinking. Next to it is a white and black shark-shaped bottle opener. An array of marine life magnets with silly puns that she doesn’t even find funny cover the front of her refrigerator,
Her gaze drops to her feet, where a pair of bright orange fish-shaped slippers await her. She doesn’t even like the color orange. She doesn’t even particularly like fish.
She doesn’t dare look past the bedroom door where she knew more useless marine themed decor was.
At this rate her room would look like an aquarium gift shop—all because she couldn’t gather the courage to ask you out for coffee.
It felt like every time you smiled at her, or laughed, or honestly just spoke, she couldn’t think straight. Instead of forming a plan to ask you out, she just kept ordering more things. Clearly in the marine themed decor section that she must’ve selected when she was ordering with one thought in mind—to see you.
She looks around the room once more, the neon-blue glow of the jellyfish lamps reflecting in her eyes, and softly smiles to herself.
She was a fool for you.
—
You feel a flutter in your chest the moment you enter the lobby. A month ago you couldn’t have imagined having a full conversation with Natasha. In the beginning it was only polite greetings and silent, loaded glances. Now, the two of you talked about everything and nothing at the same time—whatever you could fit into fifteen minutes. Sometimes twenty when she “needed extra time to read the documents” she’d seen at least a dozen times.
You want more time with her. Definitely more than fifteen minutes—but even then you don’t think that would be enough.
Which is what has led you to today where you’ve promised yourself that you’ll ask her to meet outside of these deliveries.
You and the receptionist had become well acquainted, having the smooth routine of greeting one another before she called upstairs. No matter whose name was on the box, Natasha would be the one to show up, having somehow become the authorized agent for all the Avengers.
Today, however, was different.
“Agent Barton will be down in a moment to sign for Agent Romanoff’s package.”
You turn to her, eyes wide. She’s already shifted her attention to sorting through the stack of mail you brought.
You’ve heard about Clint a few times from Natasha. Mostly about him teasing her or playing pranks on her. She always sounded irritated when mentioning him, but you’d caught the glimmer of amusement in her eyes. She never said the words “best friend,” but you knew that’s exactly what he was.
You hear the chime of the elevator signaling his arrival.
You’d seen Clint on TV before, but in person he was magnitudes more intimidating. He was already observing you with a sharp gaze.
He walks towards you with confident steps before stopping in front of you. He looks you up and down, as if sizing you up. You’re mind blanks on what to say.
“So,” Clint says, his voice carrying amusement. “You’re the one who’s been keeping Natasha busy.”
You snap out of it quickly. “I think it’s actually the other way around,” you say with a smile.
He tilts his head, a small, knowing smile gracing his features. You remember Natasha mentioning this smile before, the one that always ticks her off because it's like he knows a secret you’re not aware of.
“Is that so?” he says, eyes glinting. “Funny, because she’s halfway across the world on a mission, and the first message I get from her isn’t ‘I’m okay’ or ‘Target acquired.’ It’s a two-paragraph text stressing the importance of me receiving this package.”
He takes a step closer, his smile widening. “She was very specific, even saying it twice, that I’m supposed to let you know that she really wanted to see you today but the mission came unexpectedly. She’s usually pretty focused on her missions, even cracking a joke gets me a glare. For you, though? She’s distracted.”
You feel the heat creeping up your neck. You understand what Natasha meant by teasing. But then his words sink in. Distracted. On a mission.
You meet his eyes, the embarrassment replaced by worry. “Can you tell her that it’s okay? And that I wanted to see her too? She needs to focus or she might get hurt.”
Clint looks surprised for a moment. He observes you, seeing the genuine concern for Natasha. His smile returns. This time it's soft. Real. “I’ll let her know,” he promises.
You pull out your tablet and pen, pulling up the documents before handing them to him.
He begins the task of signing and initialing, occasionally peering at you with a thoughtful gaze. His expression slowly shifts as he gets closer to completing the pages. He looks as though he’s figured something out.
He hands you back the tablet with the pen on top, exchanging it with the package in your hands.
“It was a pleasure meeting you. Mind if I ask for your name?” Clint asks with a mischievous smile.
“My name is Y/N,“ you answer with a genuine smile. “I already know you’re Clint. Natasha’s best friend.”
Clint looks down, affection flickers across his features before he expertly brushes them away.
“I’ll make sure to tell Natasha what you said—especially the part about you wanting to see her,” Clint says with a playful grin. “Have a good rest of your day, Y/N.”
“You too, Clint. It was really nice to meet you as well,” you say, offering a small wave before he turns and heads towards the elevator with the package under his arm.
You take a deep breath. You hadn’t been expecting to meet someone so important to Natasha, and it surprised you how much his approval mattered to you.
The disappointment of not getting to ask her out today still lingered but was muted by the fact that even though she was halfway across the world, on a mission, she was still thinking of you.
Be safe, you pray silently, stepping outside into the sun.
—
Clint walks down the hallway to Natasha’s room, grabbing his phone from his back pocket with his free hand. He leans against the wall near her room to type out a quick message to her.
Package secured, he sends.
The reply came in almost an instant. And?
And what? It’s a box, Clint types back. Y/N seems nice, though.
Shut up. Did you tell her what I said? What did she say?
Yes, yes. I told her. She said she wanted to see you too but that you should focus on your mission. She was worried that you being distracted would get you hurt, Clint watches the typing bubbles appear the second he sends the last text.
She said she wanted to see me?
Clint rolls his eyes at the screen. Yes. I’ll leave the package in your room.
He powers off the phone before he can see her reply—a frantic Wait!
He opens the door to her room, him being the only other person authorized to enter. He almost drops the package when he sees her living space. The neon-blue circle of jellyfish lamps serves as a welcome sign, sitting proudly on the coffee table.
“Oh my God, Natasha,” Clint mutters, his exasperation giving way to unbridled laughter at the realization. “You’re a total idiot.”
—
Natasha sneezes quietly, trying not to blow her position. Either the Siberian chill was finally getting to her or someone was talking about her.
She scopes the outside of the base, noting that there’s only two guards standing at the front.
Simple in and out, she thinks to herself confidently. Should be home by the end of the day.
Her thoughts drift to Clint’s text. You wanted to see her, too. She feels warmth bloom in her chest, a welcome feeling from the snow around her.
She shakes her head, trying to get back into focus. The fastest way to see you again would be completing the mission. She turns the safety off her handgun and begins stealthily making her way towards the base.—
So much for a simple in and out, Natasha thinks, her breath ragged.
She’s covered in dust and gun powder, the sleek black of her suit looking grey from debris. Stinging cuts cover her arms and legs—blood trickles down a cut on her cheek that she couldn’t even remember getting.
The mission had gone on for an additional two days, every possible variable coming out of the woodworks. Double the amount of soldiers than reported, the signal jammer breaking, her Widow’s Bites malfunctioning.
She sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion. She puts the Quinjet into autopilot, seeing that she’d be arriving in New York by noon.
She moves with practiced efficiency to the medkit, rummaging through it to find antiseptic and bandaging before working on her wounds. The time passes by slowly. Only the sound of rushing wind from how fast the Quinjet slices through the sky.
You wanted to see her, too.
She leans her head against the wall, her eyes fluttering shut. She falls asleep—her dreams filled with you smiling, welcoming her back home.
—
Natasha wakes to the sound of the Quinjet landing. She stretches her limbs, feeling every muscle ache from overexertion.
She gathers her gear before releasing the cargo door, squinting her eyes as the sunlight floods the hangar. It’s a sharp contrast to the dimness of the base in Siberia.
She was finally home.
The hallways are quiet as she enters, finding that the common room is empty as well. The silence feels welcome after how chaotic her past few days had been. She’s just beginning to savor the stillness before she’s startled by a voice.
“Agent Romanoff, you’re needed in the lobby to sign for a package,” J.A.R.V.I.S politely informs her.
She runs. Not caring about how exhausted she feels, the grime on her skin, the cuts stinging with every movement—her thoughts only on you.
She presses the button for the lobby repeatedly, impatient. Her heart starts racing as she watches the floor numbers tick down on the screen at an agonizingly slow pace. Finally, the doors slide open.
You’re already looking at the door as if you were counting the seconds yourself.
Natasha takes several hurried strides towards you, stopping when she sees your expression.
Your face is filled with concern, eyes darting to the different injuries she has while taking in her appearance. You reach forward, hand gently touching her hair that looks muted compared to its normal vibrant red.
Your hand moves to her cheek, fingertips tracing over the edges of the bandage she had placed haphazardly.
She feels her heart skip a beat. This was the first time you had reached for her since your first real conversation—the first time you’ve touched since your fingertips overlapped on the tablet. Your hand cups her face, your eyes scanning, searching for any hidden injuries.
She reaches up, her fingers curling over yours to anchor you to her. She leans her head into your palm, letting out a deep breath that she had been holding since the mission started.
That finally draws your gaze to hers.
“I wanted to see you,” she whispers, her voice raspy from exhaustion.
“I heard,” you whisper back, thumb stroking her cheek. “I didn’t realize how much brighter my days are with you until you weren’t here.”
She feels her breath stutter. Her heart aches with overwhelming adoration, more intense than any injury she had sustained on the mission.
“I heard you wanted to see me, too,” she says quietly, eyes searching yours.
“Clint told you?” you ask. When she confirms with a small nod, you offer a soft smile. “I did. I still do.”
“Even though I’m right here?” she asks, tilting her head in confusion.
“Mhm,” you murmur, stepping closer. “It’s not enough.”
She gazes down at you, eyes softening as she realizes exactly what you mean. The fifteen minutes weren’t enough. She wants hours with you. Days. But even then, she doesn’t think it’d be enough.
Suddenly, her eyes widen. She remembers the letter—the one she’d stayed up all night writing before the mission. She pulls her hand back from over yours, unzipping her pocket to pull out the envelope that was now crumpled and stained from her mission.
She hesitates, looking at the battered envelope. She’s about to put it back, deciding to rewrite the letter, but you reach out, hand covering hers before she has a chance.
“Is that for me?” you ask, eyes dropping to where your name is neatly written at the front of the envelope.
Natasha looks down, embarrassed but not able to turn back now. “Yes,” she murmurs, her voice uncharacteristically shy as she hands it to you.
The envelope is sealed with an octopus sticker, which you carefully unpeel, keeping it intact. You open the crumpled letter, the corners of the paper adorned by starfish.
She watches you nervously as you read the letter, shifting her weight side to side. She had chickened out while writing it, deciding to take you on a tour of the tower next time you came. She wasn’t sure yet if she could keep her composure for over fifteen minutes with you.
She sees your eyes twinkle as you reach the end, gazing up at her. “It’s going to have to be a pretty quick tour you know?”
“Consider it a practice date,” she says smoothly. She gives herself a mental pat on the back.
“Oh?” you say playfully, brow raised. “So, when’s the real one?”
She feels heat creep its way to the tips of her ears. “One thing at a time,” she responds, feigning confidence.
“Oh, of course,” you say with a teasing smile that gives her butterflies.
She watches as you carefully refold the letter, sliding it gingerly back into the envelope before sealing it with the sticker. You tuck it in your bag before grabbing the tablet and pen, unlocking it and handing them to her.
Natasha keeps her head down, trying to calm her racing heart as she goes through the pages.
How was she going to make this tour interesting? she wonders to herself.
—
As promised, you’re being led by Natasha through the hallways as she speeds through the paperwork on the tablet, the new package secured under her arm.
She’s dressed casually today, jeans and an oversized hoodie— a reminder that you’re in her home. She points out little details here and there but she always looks back at you with a small incredulous smile, like she can’t believe you’re here.
“And this is the floor my room is on,” she says, leading you into the common room. “I told everyone to go away for half an hour. You don’t have to worry about anyone showing up.”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” you say softly while looking around the luxurious room.
“I know,” she says quietly, looking down shyly. “But I would. I just want it to be us.” She hands you the tablet, before contemplating something.
“There isn’t really anything else to see, at least that you’re authorized to. Do you want to see my room?” Her eyes widen when she realizes how that sounds, cheeks flushing. “I mean—nevermind. We can just go back down to the lobby. I know you don’t have much time left.”
You watch her with amusement as she rambles. She finally meets your eyes when she hears you trying and failing not to laugh.
“I’d love to see your room,” you say between breathless laughs.
She gives you a little glare before leading you to her door. Her hand pauses over the handle.
“You know, maybe we should just go back to the lobby.”
“Even though we’re already right here?” you ask with innocent eyes. “Can I please see?”
You’re curious about how she decorates her room and how it matches her personality.
She looks at you wanting to say no, before relenting. Her hand hovers over the doorhandle, before sighing and opening it, she holds the door open for you. You step inside expecting something sleek and minimalist.
Instead, your eyes are drawn to a summoning circle of neon-blue jellyfish lamps. Your gaze naturally drifts to the massive red beanbag in the corner—clearly shaped like a crab. On the kitchen island, a lobster corkscrew lays as if it belongs there, its googly eyes somehow found its way to the door, staring at you.
You take a hesitant step further into the room. Your foot bumps something soft. You look down to see a pair of bright orange fish-shaped slippers.
You look around the room again, finding new marine themed decor on every pass. You turn to Natasha who has been silent, hand still on the door handle, looking like she’s frozen in place.
You can’t help the bright smile that blooms across your face.
It’s adorable—so out of character from the “deadly assassin” that everyone else sees. You can’t help but giggle to yourself when you picture the image of her sitting on the beanbag, wearing her fish slippers.
“It’s very… unique,” you say through your laughter.
“You don’t have to force yourself to compliment it,” she mutters, her face red with embarrassment.
“I’m not!” you exclaim, genuinely charmed. “What did the others think of it?”
“You’re the only other person besides Clint who’s seen it,” she says, finally releasing her hand from the handle and closing the door. “I don’t let people into my space easily.”
The weight of the admission settles between you, but before you can respond, the sound of a ringtone comes from her bedroom.
“I’m sorry, let me answer that real quick. It’s my work phone,” she says regretfully.
“No problem,” you respond with an easy smile.
She walks away to take the call as you continue taking in her living space. You notice the same paper she’d written her letter resting on the kitchen island next to a shark-shaped bottle opener.
You pull out a pen from your bag, scribbling a note for her to find later. You finish just as she returns.
She looks down at her watch, disappointment crossing her features. “Is it time to go?” she asks, her voice small.
“Yeah, unfortunately,” you murmur, feeling the weight of the goodbye looming.
She leads you out of her room, back to the elevators. The doors slide open, and she follows you to the lobby doors as if she’s trying to steal every last second. You turn to give her one last smile before heading out but you feel her fingers curl around your hand before you can take a step.
“See you next time?” she asks, her eyes searching yours.
“Of course,” you respond, feeling your heart swell with affection. You give her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze before she lets go.
You walk out the door, a wide, unstoppable smile stretching across your face. You’re already counting the hours until the next delivery— and for her to read your note.
—
Natasha walks back into her room with light steps, matching the lightness she feels in her heart. She’s replaying her interactions with you when the letter paper on the kitchen island catches her trained eyes.
That’s not how they were positioned before, she notes. Her tactical instincts come to the surface as she scans the room but sees nothing else out of place.
She takes careful steps forward, seeing the top paper has been written on. She leans over the counter to read it:
Natasha,
I’m shore glad we ended up meeting and that I got to have a glimpse of you outside of these deliveries. You octopi my thoughts all day and I want to spend more time with you. Let minnow when you’d be free for a date next time we see each other.
-Y/N
Natasha lets out a breathless laugh as she lets her forehead drop to the cool marble of the island. She reads the note over and over.
A wave of embarrassment washes over at the realization that you truly think she has a deep passion for marine life—enough to curate her entire room around it. She looks around, taking in the proof of how much she’s become a fool for you, finding the embarrassment dissipates.
Because at least now she knows you feel the same way. She reaches for her pen to write you a response.
—
The ambiance of the lobby felt familiar to you now. The city that had once felt intimidating and overwhelming was now a place that you felt grateful for.
Because this is where you met her.
It’s been a few days since your “practice date”. The arrival of a package for her finally in your arms. The receptionist catches your eye, nodding at you with a small, knowing smile when you tilt the label towards her.
It’s only a few minutes before you hear the chime of the elevator. Natasha steps out hurriedly, wearing a simple white blouse and loose fitting black pants. It’s simple, elegant, but to you, she’s shining.
She reaches you in a few long strides, and before you can say anything, she places an envelope on top of the box. You tilt your head, freeing one of your hands to take it as she moves the box and places it onto a nearby table to give you her full attention.
She nods at you to read it. You open the envelope, a seahorse sticker guarding it this time, and pull out the letter. You unfold it, taking in her messy handwriting:
Y/N,
Everytime I see you, you make my heart swim a little faster. My life is better with you by my tide and I can’t imagine being without you in the future. I feel like we mermaid for each other. Water you doing next Friday?
-Natasha
P.S. Look up.
You raise your eyes to see her gazing at you with undeniable affection.
“I know I kind of said it in the letter, but I want you to hear it from me personally,” she says, her voice steady and full of determination. “I like you. I think I’ve liked you from the very first moment we met, and I don’t want to waste another second not being with you.”
You bite your lip trying to hide the wide smile threatening to spread across your face. Your eyes filled with joy. “You misspelled something here,” you murmur, voice full of adoration as you point to a spot on the starfish-adorned paper.
Natasha’s confident expression vanishes, transforming into a horrified one. She leans in close, her shoulder brushing yours as her eyes track where your finger is pointing.
“Where?” she asks, her voice frantic. “I checked it so many—”
You turn your head, catching her lips. You feel her stiffen for a split-second before returning the kiss with desperation, melting into you. You pull back an inch, giving her one last peck when her lips chase after you.
“I like you too,” you say breathlessly, forehead resting against hers. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a long time.”
“Me too,” she murmurs. “So… about next Friday?”
“I’m free,” you respond. You pull a sticky note from your bag, scribbling your phone number on it and pressing it into her hand. “I’ll see you next Friday.”
You pull her into a deep kiss before finally stepping away and turning towards the glass doors.
You walk out into the New York sun, feeling giddy. Behind you, the best spy in the world stares after you with a dazed, hopeless smile on her face.
—
The Friday of the date
You and Natasha turn a corner in the aquarium, a massive, glowing jellyfish display coming into view.
“Natasha, look!” you exclaim, expecting her to be excited. Instead, she’s looking at you, completely captivated.
“Natasha,” you say, bumping her with your shoulder. “The jellyfish. They’re right there.”
“Mhm,” she murmurs, barely sparing a glance at them.
You stop, looking at her in confusion. “Aren’t they your favorite? You have like five lamps in the shape of them.”
She stiffens, her eyes widening as if she’s just been caught. “Oh,” she pauses, her voice going up an octave. “Yes. Of course they’re my favorite. Very… jelly-like.”
You squint at her before realization dawns on you, a breathless laugh escaping. “Oh my God. You don’t even like marine life that much, do you? I should’ve known when you barely looked at a single exhibit we passed by.”
Natasha glances at the wall of jellyfish, trying to hide her face that is reddening by the second.
“So… you wanted to see me that bad, huh?” you tease, your voice carrying a playful lilt that is betrayed by the pure, unfiltered adoration in your eyes.
“Please, don't," she groans while covering face with her hands, her red cheeks still peeking between the cracks of her fingers.
“I won’t, I won’t,” you agree with a bright smile.
She sighs, knowing that she’ll be hearing about this for the rest of your lives together but she can’t stop the smile that spreads across her face at the thought. Together.
Because now, you and her were a “shore” thing.
---
Well number 3 down. Was practicing dialogue a bit in this one so, feedback is always appreciated! I learned that you have to use 3 of these "-" suckers in Docs to be an em dash. The more you know 😌
Secret A/N: Y'know when you're in a meeting with all department leaders including C-suites and you decide to take a big sip of water and the initial bit of water goes down the wrong way so you start coughing. But you can't take a big cough that would help clear it from your throat because the remaining water is still in your mouth and you'd spit take it. You also can't swallow it because well, you're coughing. So then you have to just wait for it to pass as your colleagues/friends try to hide their laughs. Just me? aight.
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