AN: this is MY canonical end to Season 2 and I will not be accepting any other reality. I didn’t realize how much I loved this woman until I started writing this and now here we are.
Spoilers for season 2 of the Pitt!
“Hey honey what’s-“
“I need you to come get me,” she said, cutting you off. You could hear it in her strained voice. She’d been crying. You instantly stood up from the couch you definitely hadn’t fallen asleep on while waiting for her to get home. You knew being an attending at any ER was tough, and hours were never really set in stone. You also knew she wouldn’t be one to cut corners, getting as many patients helped as possible.
“Are you okay?” you asked quickly, slipping on your shoes as you tried to balance the phone between your shoulder and ear, “I thought today was going good…”. She’d texted you a few times during the few breaks she allowed herself. She was taking over for the current attending while he was on sabbatical. Based on her texts, Dr. Robinavitch sounded like he had unrealistic expectations and kept treating her like a medical student. It was driving her crazy. She’d been a damn doctor in Afghanistan with Médecins Sans Frontières, why was he questioning her every call. You hadn’t heard from her in a while though, you just assumed it’d gotten busy, it was the night of the Fourth of July after all.
The line was silent but I could hear the booms of fireworks in the background of her end. “I had two seizures today,” she eventually said softly, voice hitching. You paused, hand on the doorknob. It’d been nearly a year since her last seizures. Right after you two had started dating. You had joked they’d stopped because she had you around now, but you knew it was because of the Keppra she’d started taking.
“Are you okay?” you repeated as you pushed out the door and jogged to your car in the driveway, anxiety already surging through you. It was quiet again and you could hear a soft sniffle on the other end.
“No,” she admitted before choking out a cry, “I’m stuck here at the top of the stupid parking garage because I don’t want to have another seizure while I’m driving-“ she said before devolving into more sobs.
“Shh, shh, honey it’s okay just stay where you are I’ll be there in twenty okay?” you tried to assure her, pulling up her location on your FindMy app.
Her crying subsided a little, “okay, thank you,”. You could hear her parking the car again and cursing under her breath. You refused to hang up, even though you two weren’t saying anything.
Twenty five minutes later you saw her car, parked amongst the other PTMC employees. You slammed on the brakes behind her Volvo and jumped out seconds after parking yours.
The driver’s side was empty. Your heart pattered as you spun, frantically searching for her.
“Baran? Fuck, baby where are you?” you whisper shouted as you started speed walking between cars, head on a swivel. Then you heard it.
Sniffling coming from the stairwell. You nearly tripped over her sitting on the stairs, hands wrenched deep in her curly hair, back shuddering with each sob under her tank top. Instantly you crouched beside her wrapping your arms around her, humming any sweet nothing and platitude that you could think of to calm her down. Slowly her hands left her hair and wrapped around your arms, pulling herself closer into you.
“H-hes going to tell them I’m not fit to work,” she choked out, “I asked for help and he said- he said I wasn’t capable,”. You let out a sigh as you tightened your grip on her, sinking beside her on the stairwell.
“You are very capable baby, you are the smartest person I’ve ever known, and you’re so good at helping people,” you mused softly as you rubbed your thumb along her spine, her head resting on your shoulder now, “this- was a bad day,” you softly conceded, “and we’ll figure out what to do next tomorrow, but right now you just worked like, a fifteen hour shift, and I need to take care of you,”. That garnered a soft chuckle from her, which made her stray curls tickle against your neck. You’d always loved that you were able to make her laugh. Such a beautiful rare noise.
In the distance a firework went off, snapping you out of your daze. “Let's get you home honey. We can get shitty Chinese take out and lay outside and watch fireworks,” you said, gently pressing a kiss to her temple, “and you can tell me all about your new co-workers because they sound like a fucking handful,”. She chuckled again and turned her head, staring up at you with those big brown eyes that had stopped you in your tracks the first time you saw her.
“You just like the drama, babe,” she harmlessly accused.
“Mm, guilty,” you smirked before standing up, not letting go of her waist, pressing your lips to hers once she’d gotten up beside you. The tension in her shoulders and back dropped for a second before she pulled back, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.
“Don’t let me fall asleep in the car, I’m starving,” she murmured, voice still wavering, but better than before on the phone.
“Not a chance honey, I need you awake for tonight,” you crookedly grinned as you led her to the car, thumb brushing her hip steadily. She stifled back a laugh as she got into the passenger side. “I’ve got it from her doc, you’re off the clock,” you insisted as you rested a hand on her thigh, feeling like you had to keep a hold on her, like she might disappear otherwise. She wrapped her hand over yours as she leaned her head against the window, the two of you quietly watching the colorful array of fireworks dance across the windshield as you drove back, quickly detouring to the local Chinese food restaurant.
At home, you held the dumplings hostage until she changed into sweats and one of your old college shirts. She complained the whole way down the hall, but still did it. You took the chance to press kisses onto her shoulders and back, trying to take the stress of the day away.
Outside was muggy, but you were stubborn, and laid out a blanket and some candles. Almost romantic. You two sat beside each other, knees knocking against each other with every movement.
“So…you said the night attending asked you out for drinks, think he’d pay for your girlfriend too?” you asked with a shit-eating grin.
“You’re in trouble,” Baran warned, but she was already smiling as she pulled your face down to hers.
Tags: ex!reader, injuries (reader has a fractured rib), unresolved tension, probable medical inaccuracies (i tried my best), v brief non sexual nudity, mild angst, softness (it’s there, trust), they're still in love your honor!
Summary: You end up in the ED with none other than your ex-wife as your physician. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
Word count: 2.9k
It seemed inevitable. Not because you're particularly accident-prone, but because you're not usually in the universe's good graces, and if your ex-wife happened to be working at the closest emergency department to your home—well, then, you'll just so happen to be delivered right to her doorstep. That's the way of things. Distance tries to separate you—it puts up a mighty fight—but eventually, one way or another, you'll chase Baran. Baran will chase you.
It's a loop you've come to rely on.
You sit yourself in the seventh circle of hell, get your vitals checked, get sent back to the waiting room, follow a young nurse into a fluorescent-lighted maze, behind a curtain, and onto a bed—all without seeing her. But you know you will, sure as the sharp throb that echoes in your chest. Some delusional part of you thinks you can feel her, distantly, moving from room to room, skirting the space around you without her feeling it.
"A doctor will be with you in a minute." The nurse tells you. She props up the gurney so you can sit upright.
You nod as you lean back into it, managing a smile through the pain. It's already hard enough to breathe without the uncomfortably sharp smell of disinfectant, just barely blanketing the rusty scent of blood underneath.
You've always hated that smell. Hated how it clung to her curls, how you'd find it burrowed deep under her skin long after she'd leave the wretched place.
Really, you hated all of it. But mostly how it called to her. How she couldn't stop herself from answering.
The curtains swish open, stirring air. You lift your head, unable to stop the twitch in your mouth when your eyes find hers.
Bingo.
Baran's eyes widen, just the smallest bit, then dip down to comb over you. You feel every inch of her assessment as if her hands were prodding here and there, searching for wrongness she could fix.
"This is Y/N L/N." The nurse announces. "Came in for pain at the ribs, some trouble breathing."
Baran's gaze snaps back to yours. She blinks. You blink back.
The doctor beside her gives her a sideways glance before she steps up to your bedside. "Hi, Miss L/N." She smiles. "This is my attending, Doctor Al-Hashimi. I'm Student Doctor Javadi. We'll need to take a look at your lungs, if that's okay."
You nod, pulling yourself straighter as she unwinds the stethoscope from around her neck. Discomfort prickles your skin, the kind that follows a heavy, prolonged stare. Your eyes dart to the figure still looming at the foot of your bed.
Baran clears her throat. You just barely catch the short breath she takes in, steadying herself. "Have you suffered a blow to the chest? A fall, maybe, or an—"
"I fell." You say shortly. Her head tilts, eyes sharpening.
The silence grows. You reluctantly go on.
"I was going down the stairs, my son's toys were everywhere. I slipped. Landed on my chest."
"Take a deep breath for me, please."
You take one and wince, the inhale cutting off midway through. Pain flares in your side, a sharp throb that lingers even after you breathe out. It beats white-hot. The med student apologizes, but she prods for another one, the metal of her stethoscope cold as she shifts its position on your chest. Your fingers curl into a fist.
"Anything to break the fall?"
You shake your head, your voice coming out wheezy. "It happened fast."
"No absent breath sounds." She says, leaning back. Baran's nod is stiff.
"You'll need to check the area."
The med student turns to you. "Can I lift up your shirt?"
You do it yourself. The cold air of the ED is a small relief against your skin.
"Where does it hurt?"
You don't know if it's the roaring in your ears, but Baran's voice is dulled. Softened. You don't look at her as you gesture to your side, careful not to touch the sore area. It doesn't matter anyway. The girl does it for you, feeling gently along your abdomen until her fingers find the spot.
Your breath hitches. "Faint swelling," she murmurs, "…around the seventh rib… Let me know if you feel any tenderness." She hardly presses, but the pain responds anyway, too loud, too hot.
You inhale sharply.
"Stop." Baran's voice rings out. The girl snaps back on her heels, her hands raised. You sag back onto the gurney, letting your shirt down as Baran clears her throat and nods at the med student. "That's enough for us to know it's at least fractured." Her gaze shifts to you, not unkind. "We'll need to take you for an X-ray."
"Fun," you rasp. "Lead the way."
"I'll get you a gown." The nurse pipes up. The med student follows her out, saying something about coming back when the scan is done.
The curtain swishes closed around them, leaving you alone with your ex-wife. She hasn't moved from her spot—still rooted to the foot of your bed with her arms crossed, like she's standing guard. There's tension along her shoulders. The familiar glaze of concern in her eyes.
Silence crowds, but you don't have the stomach for it.
"Hello." You say tiredly, a headache starting to pulse at your temples. This is not how you wanted today to go.
She seems to unfreeze with that one word. Arms dropping, she clasps them behind her back and takes two steps closer to your bedside. Her voice loses its edge. "How bad is the pain?"
"It's fine." You mumble.
She gives you a look.
"A seven," you relent. "…and a half."
A small fissure blooms on her face, faint cracks rippling through her composure. She sucks in a deep breath—quite mean to do in front of you, if you're honest—and swallows, her mouth set.
"Usually, for rib fractures, there's nothing we can do except prescribe medication. Your scan will tell us more, however the fracture will likely heal on its own. Extreme cases require surgery, but otherwise it's ice packs and rest—no heavy lifting, no lying down."
"Okay." You say blankly. "Good to know."
She continues as if you haven't spoken. "I can have them give you a shot of—"
"No." You shake your head. "No shots."
You have too much shit to do already. You'd planned on making use of your son's absence by getting the house in order, running the errands you've been putting off for weeks—but of course, of course, you had to end up here. The last thing you need is to have some medication messing with your head, slowing you down further.
Baran lets out a breath, her hands curling around the rails of the gurney. "The effect won't last long. Clearly, you're uncomfortable. You might as well take something while you're here." You stay silent, and she pushes, knuckles poking sharp through her skin. "Karim is with my parents, there's no reason why you should be refusing—"
The sigh is out of your mouth before you can stop it. "I have shit to do, Baran." You snap.
"How exactly do you suppose you're going to do anything if you can't even take a full breath on your own? What's so important, anyway?" Her eyes blaze. "Laundry?"
The curtain swishes open.
"Oh—" The nurse shrinks back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
Baran lets go of your bed as if she'd been burned. Her eyes are still blazing as she turns and forces a smile, stiffer than the hand she lays on the nurse's shoulder. "Thank you, Emma." She says, deliberately even. "Please let me know when you get the result back."
She leaves without sparing you a glance.
-
You know the Pitt is notorious for its horrendous waiting times, but you still hadn't expected to wait an entire hour for the result of a simple X-ray. Hell, the actual scan itself had taken mere minutes.
You perk up when the curtain swishes open again, but Baran doesn't make for the laptop screen against the wall. Instead she approaches your bedside, a glass jar in one hand and a cup of tea in another.
"I don't suppose you've eaten." It's not phrased as a question. You hate that it's not, because she knows, and she's right. "The cafeteria food is terrible." She continues without waiting for your answer, her tone peevish. "Here."
You're not above accepting her offerings. The tea smells like the kind she used to make at home, minted and sweet. Its steam works up a lump in your throat.
It hurts, seeing her. It always does. Whether you've fought or not, whether you're civil or not. Just her presence is hard to swallow down. You still haven't gotten used to the distance, miles of oceans between you, no matter how physically close you are.
It's ridiculous. You've lived most of your life without her, and yet a decade and some have ruined you for the unforeseeable future.
The tea scalds your tongue. Baran is notably gentler as she sets the jar down on the bed along with a tissue-wrapped spoon. Overnight oats, if you had to guess.
"Thanks," you mutter.
She inclines her head in a nod and perches on the arm of the chair next to your bed. "I'm sorry you've had to wait so long. There's a holdup with the X-rays."
"I didn't expect to get special treatment." You give her a tight-lipped smile. She doesn't return it until you say, "This place seriously sucks, though."
"Yes, well." Her laugh is more of a huffed breath. "We're unfortunately not the most punctual." She frowns down at her hands for just a second before she looks back up at you. Her eyes dip to your gown.
"Do you need help getting that off?"
"I'm good."
Not.
She stands. "Baran."
"Button downs will be easier to wear," she says, reaching for your folded clothes. You'd managed your pants on your own, but you couldn't untie the gown without your vision flashing white. "Anything you don't have to pull over your head. At least for the first two weeks."
"Noted," you say, "but I can—"
"Can you stop," she breathes, fingers bunched in your shirt, "being so goddamn stubborn?"
Her eyes are always mesmerizing when she's angry. They darken several impossible shades, turn into shards of glassy obsidian.
You drain the last of your tea, hand her the cup, and silently lean forward. Her exhaled breath hits the shell of your ear, low and desperately trying to stay controlled. You feel her finger hook into the messy bow at your back. Feel her tug it loose.
You peel the gown away. It's a scratchy, awful thing; you toss it further down the bed, quietly grateful as you turn back to Baran and take your bra from her.
"This could count as harassment, you know." You meet her eyes, hold the cups to your chest.
She only raises a brow.
It's enough to make you flush, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. Her hands are warm as they fasten your bra. The brush of her fingers nearly makes you shiver, but you hold it, force your shoulders back to keep the tingle from running down your spine.
And if goosebumps rise up on your flesh—well, the ED is cold. Your skin is sensitive. Baran's hands smell like sanitizer, harsh and clinical as she stretches out the collar of your shirt, helps you fit your head in. There's a brief flash of pain when you have to guide your arm through a sleeve, but it dissipates as you fully shrug the shirt on. You don't care to attribute it to the way her fingers linger on your abdomen, gently splayed over your side. They stay there even after you settle, fully clothed.
"Baran." You murmur, your heart kicking faster. Her head is ducked, eyes on your torso where her thumb draws circles.
"It will be…difficult to get around," she says, still looking down, "for a few days. The meds will only get you so far. You shouldn't overexert yourself."
"I won't."
"You could stay." The words are soft from her mouth, nearly mumbled. Baran doesn't mumble. "With me. Until it gets better."
She's looking at you now. You almost wish she isn't.
"Because that won't fuck with Karim's head."
Her lips thin.
"You're hurt."
"I can manage."
"Karim can stay with my parents. They won't mind, they never do—"
"And when do you get home, Baran?" You wonder.
She doesn't shy away from your eyes. "At least you'd have someone."
"I don't need someone." Your throat is unbearably scratchy. Your attempt at a laugh doesn't ease the ache—worsens it, actually, right where your pulse beats. "Jesus, you make it seem like I'm dying. I'll be fine."
Your conviction weakens with that last word, crumbling beneath Baran's gaze. Even years down the line, you could never quite get used to the intensity of it. She has warm, kind eyes—bottomless, all-consuming eyes; you've drowned in their depths, been warmed by their heat and burned from their fire.
Baran is unsmiling as she reaches for your face. She cradles your jaw in her hand—that rough, soft hand, antiseptic and long-washed lotion, cuticle oil rubbed around her short, clean nails, a freckle at the base of her wrist. Your breath hitches, comes out shaky through your nose.
You may be stubborn, but you're also unbearably weak. She's like a big, tender bruise imprinted onto your flesh. Just the press of a thumb—and you give, mouth open, gasping. It's been years, and the bruise hasn't healed. It hasn't shrunk. Sometimes you think it's only gotten bigger.
"Please." She says quietly.
Somewhere, beyond the curtains, you hear someone yell, "I need an attending!"
Relief and dread spread through you in equal measure.
You lean away from your ex-wife, tilt your head to the source of the sound. "That's you."
-
The med student comes back alone. You feel bad for not remembering her name.
"It's just a simple hairline fracture, so you won't be needing surgery or anything. Just ice it a few times a day for twenty minutes or so and make sure to rest, definitely don't lift anything heavy or do hardcore exercises."
You smile. "Got it."
She says a bunch of other things, only a few of which filter through. You thank her, pocket your prescription, and speed-walk out of the emergency room. You really almost make it, only three steps from the door when she calls your name.
And you, stupid you—you turn.
"Oh. Good," you blurt out before she can say anything. You take out her jar from your purse—emptied, the spoon rattling inside—and shove it into her hands. "Thanks for this, by the way. It was good. Didn't expect the chocolate."
"It balances out the acidity of the yogurt," she says, almost automatically as she takes the jar from you. It registers on her too late; she gives her head a small shake, a move that's, unfortunately, never stopped being endearing. "You have your prescription?"
"Yep," you answer, trying not to prickle. "We've got aspirin at home, so." You shrug, making room for a frazzled looking woman to pass through.
Baran nods. "Can I…" She pushes her shoulders back, the slightest bit. "Is it okay if I escort you out?"
You blink. "Sure," you say, too drained to argue.
She nods again. Holds the door open for you. You walk through, and despite your shallower breaths, you still smell the traces of coconut from her curl cream—the same one you'd lathered on your hands, raked through her hair when she'd be too tired to do it herself.
You rub a rough hand into your eyes, pressing hard enough to hurt, and make for the parking lot.
"Wait a minute—" Baran's shoes crunch on the gravel. "Did you drive?" She demands.
You let your hand fall. "Calling an ambulance seemed overkill." You say dryly.
Her face grows disbelieving. God, you wish she wouldn't do that, wish she'd stop caring, just stop it Baran, stop it, stop it, stop—
"I'll—"
"You'll what?" You murmur, pulling out your keys. "Take me home?"
She can't step out. You both know she can't.
"Call someone." She pleads. You can hear the underlying shake in her voice, you can feel it rattling your bones. She takes your hand, traps the car keys in your palm. "As your physician, I can't—Y/N, you shouldn't. You'll hurt yourself."
You let out a throbbing breath. Jesus, you just want it all to end. This day, this stupid distance between you that never seems to lessen, never seems to widen, never does anything but hurt. "There's no one to call, Baran," you say quietly. "I made it here, I can make it back."
She shakes her head. The sun catches in her curls, threads along her highlights and sets them on fire. You want them around your fingers. You want everything to go back to the way it was, but the closest you can do is say okay when she says she'll order you a car, because can you even say no? She's pulling the keys from your grip, her pleas warm against your face; she's saying azizam, azizam, come inside, I'll wait with you, and you feel your bones crumble and your resolve die and you do what you could never stop yourself from doing.
You follow her where she goes.
Hi, thank you so much for your support on my first Baran fic! If you liked this one, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging to lmk!! I'd love to know what you thought <3
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who notices your patient's hand on your arm from across the department and is immediately bothered by it. Even moreso when you don't pull away because you're too focused on the task at hand.
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who has never considered herself a jealous person, but something about this particular patients attention on you gets under her skin.
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who is painfully aware that she's feeling this way because of her own rules. She was the one who insisted your relationship remain private at work. Logical at the time, but unbearable now that she has no leg to stand on, no claim to you while someone else is touching you.
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who finds herself trailing after you the next time she sees you heading toward that patient's bay, even when it's not her case. And when you have the nerve to look surprised, she coolly reminds you that she is the attending on shift and is therefore responsible for patient oversight.
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who immediately regrets it, because up close the flirting is even worse. Your patient is throwing you lingering looks and words filled with implications and hope and completely ignoring Baran's presence at all.
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who has to physically reign herself in when the patient touches you again as she thanks you.
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who does something both impulsive and deeply uncharacteristic when she moves to pass by you, both hands settling on either side of your waist to hold you steady, leaning just close enough to mumble "excuse me, Eshgham" in acknowledgement.
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who feels you go still in surprise beneath her hand and has to force herself not to smile triumphantly.
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who notices the patient taking notice of the change in the air, her smile faltering on her face as she looks between the two of you.
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who does not wait for you out in the hallway as she exits the curtain. By the time you follow her out, she’s already halfway down the hallway, every inch of her back to the composed attending everyone knows.
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who doesn’t say another word to you as she leaves you blushing and stunned at her total 180 - which of course is when you notice Dana watching from the nurses’ station over the rim of her glasses.
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who has apparently not been nearly as discreet as she thought, because Dana’s expression is pure knew it, topped off with an eyebrow arched high enough to be felt from across the department.
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who says nothing about it afterward and offers no explanation, because she doesn’t need to. The message was received, loud and clear. And the permanent smirk on her face for the rest of the shift tells you that you’ll be getting a very firm reminder of who you belong to later at home.
Jealous!Baran Al-Hashimi who knows you won’t be allowing another patient to touch you like that after tonight, when your body is sore and her handprints are permanently seared into your skin.
“You are so pretty,” you say, singular and simple and full of adoration.
“You’re drunk,” Baran counters, taking you in, the haziness of your eyes, the sheen of sweat on your brow, how deliciously warm and soft you look. But it’s moments like these that Baran feels the weight of the ring box heavy in her work locker — the only place she thinks you won’t find it.
You’re out for drinks with some of the night shift crew, but you can’t stop texting and calling your girlfriend.
Notes: some tooth-rotting fluff to offset the angst that is to come with other fics. alcohol, hurt/comfort, minor anxiety attack, neurodivergent reader, sexting, masturbation
Baran hears the ping of two text messages from the end table, but it isn’t your text tone, so she ignores it. It’s a Thursday night, and she’s curled up on the couch with a blanket and a memoir she’s been meaning to read for a while, a mug of tea close by.
The house is emptier than usual. Baran’s son is with his dad for the weekend, and you’re at a bar with Shen and Ellis. The three of you try to go out semi-regularly. First it was to blow off steam with fellow “night crawlers” — a name Baran found distasteful but liked the way you said it low in her ear. But then Shen and Ellis started dropping by for dinner, and Baran was grabbing lunch with Shen without you, and before any of you realized it you’d all become friends.
Still, going out is more your thing, and Baran rarely drinks, so she gave you a lingering kiss goodbye and told you to be safe and have fun.
Your text tone sounds in the quiet living room, and Baran sets down her book, reaching over to grab her phone. You usually send her a selfie or two when she’s not out with you, something Baran always looks forward to. Reading the texts on her lock screen, however, draws a frown.
9:24 pm
John Shen: I fucked up
9:25 pm
John Shen: It’s probably fine
9:28 pm
Azizam: do you still love me?
Worry and irritation well in Baran in equal measures. She taps the call button, feeling you probably need to hear the answer in your ear and not from a screen.
9:29 pm
Outgoing call: Azizam
Call declined.
Baran’s worry grows, and her fingers fly. As an emergency medicine doctor, she’s adept at remaining measured and logical in almost any situation, but when it comes to you or her son, something much more urgent and primal fights for dominance.
9:29 pm
You: You know I love and adore you very much.
You: Is everything OK?
9:30 pm
Azizam: can’t talk they’re playing party in the usa
9:30 pm
You: And that’s more important than finding out if I still love you?
9:31 pm
Azizam: needed to hype myself up in case
This does not ease Baran’s worry. She knows you know, on some level, this is silly. If Baran were ever going to say something so devastating — and she had no plans to — she wouldn’t do it over text while you’re at a bar. But you are in your head enough to type it out and send it, which twists in Baran’s gut.
9:31 pm
You: Please call me when your song is over, so you can hear me say it.
Azizam reacted with: ❤️
Baran opens her thread with Shen, her irritation now simmering into something resembling a rubber band pulled taut right at his head.
9:31 pm
You: Are you the reason my girlfriend is asking me whether I still love her?
9:33 pm
John Shen: Shit
9:34 pm
Incoming call: Azizam
“Am I being needy?” are your first words to her, nearly shouted over the club music blasting through the earpiece.
Baran takes the phone an inch away from her ear, blinking, a weary hum catching in her throat. She’s not a fan. And neither are you — too chaotic and overstimulating. Probably Shen’s choice in venue tonight.
There have been times that Baran’s had to keep a steady, grounding hand on the nape of your neck and another on your knee to keep it from bouncing. You’re a good sport — always wanting to be supportive of Shen’s favorite spots, a quality she loves about you — but there are nights the two of you just go home. And in the quiet car, you hide your overwhelmed and embarrassed tears in the window as Baran rubs the top of your thigh.
It’s something you perceive as a contradiction to how cool and collected you are as an emergency medicine doctor. Baran recognizes it as rooted in control because she too needs it in certain ways to feel safe. You’re a skilled physician — you expect all possible scenarios, and you’re prepared for each one. You know how to mentor because you know how residents work, what they need, how they learn. It’s all planned and logical and built from years of experience and practice. Outside of work, things are more unpredictable. And loud crowds are one of your more sensitive spots. You’re ashamed of it, but Baran has never once made you feel that way.
You sound anxious and unsure on the phone. Baran takes a breath and settles deeper into the couch. She wishes she were there with you.
“Honey, where is this coming from?” she asks softly, carefully.
“That’s not a no.”
Baran presses her lips together. We’re not doing logic tonight, she sees.
“Asking me one time if I love you does not make you needy. But it does make me worry,” she says with so much love and gentleness. It seems to break through to you.
“I’m just anxiety spiraling,” you groan, the sounds of the club getting a degree quieter. Baran frowns and circles her fingers soothingly around her forearm, imagining it’s yours.
“Walk me through it.”
Talking through your thought process doesn’t always make you see a situation more clearly, but it’s the best Baran can do so far away.
“It’s stupid. This club is too loud. It’s crowded, and I’m hot, and I’m, like, trying not to make the walls close in by taking shots. And I just…is me being on nights hurting us? Are we okay? I feel like you’ve been distant lately, and —”
“Azizam, pause. Take a breath,” Baran cuts you off, firm but tender. It’s exactly what she suspected was happening, minus taking shots to quell a panic attack, which is something she’ll address in more depth with you later. “If I weren’t happy with any aspect of our relationship, I would tell you. You’ve never had to guess how I’m feeling. That’s still true.”
Baran pauses, listening, but you’re quiet, and she thinks there may be something hot clawing up your throat. So she just breathes evenly on the phone with you, and when she thinks you’re okay, she speaks.
“I love you. More than words.”
“I love you,” you sigh, the tension gone from your voice. There’s her girl. A small smile tugs at Baran, and she’s itching to hug you and kiss your skin where your neck meets your shoulder.
“Are you satisfied?” she teases lightly.
“Can you say it again?”
Baran smiles lazily, chewing her lip. She likes when you ask for what you need.
“Kheyli dooset daram. I love you very much. With all my heart.”
“Mmm. Okay, I’m satisfied,” you hum happily, and Baran’s heart swells.
“Enjoy the rest of your night, drink water, call me if you need me, and come home to me soon.”
“I love you so much.”
When you end the call, Baran takes a deep breath and opens her texts with Shen.
9:41 pm
You: What the fuck did you say to her?
9:43 pm
John Shen: She was saying how she wants to feel closer to you since you’re on opposite shifts, and I told her not to stress it. Everyone goes through rough patches
9:44 pm
You: Are you kidding me?
You: What would possess you to say that?
Especially in a place already known to make you anxious, Baran thinks.
9:45 pm
John Shen: Like I said, I fucked up
John Shen: I wanted her off the trail!
John Shen: 💍💍💍
Baran laughs humorlessly, shaking her head as she types, a scoff under her breath.
9:45 pm
You: ???
You: She wasn’t ON the trail.
9:55 pm
John Shen: I thought you were planning something or whatever??
9:56 pm
You: Yes, and I would prefer she not think I’m breaking up with her when it happens.
Baran told Shen she’s planning to propose specifically so that he could tell her if you started to suspect — not for him to actively make you think Baran is harboring ill will toward you. Most of your shifts were together, so he saw you more than most. He would have a fairly accurate read on your mindset.
You and Baran have talked about your future together several times, and you’re both on the same page. A proposal wouldn’t be unexpected, but Baran wanted it to be a surprise. She didn’t want you coming home one day already knowing. None of this, of course, stops Baran from being terrified you’ll say no. She loves you so much it hurts sometimes, and she cannot imagine doing the rest of this life without you. And asking you to marry her puts that all on the line.
Baran takes a breath and tosses her phone to the other side of the couch. She tries to focus back on her book with little success and wonders if she should get Ellis involved to run interference on Shen. No, that would be an even worse idea.
Her phone pings, and she grabs it.
10:02 pm
John Shen: Well, she seems fine now
Baran rolls her eyes and stands up. She needs a long, steamy shower.
10:35 pm
Azizam: parker is being disgusting
Azizam: she knows i’m yearning and she’s being cruel by making out with someone right in front of me
Baran sees the text when she’s doing her skincare routine and chuckles, the mirror still fogged up. She finishes rubbing lotion into her leg before replying.
10:42 pm
You: I highly doubt it’s malicious, my love.
You: You’re yearning?
You get cute when you’re drunk, clingy and sweet. A little too loud, a little chaotic, but you always come back to Baran and give her the softest, most pathetic eyes as your hand slides places it shouldn’t be in public and you kiss her cheek and her ear until Baran shivers and pulls you reluctantly away.
Your next text comes through as Baran settles on top of the covers, resolved to stay up a while longer and wait for you. She doesn’t always, but you’re dipping into a neediness Baran can never resist.
10:47 pm
Azizam: can you send me a pic of your lips?
10:47 pm
You: No?
10:47 pm
Azizam: pretty pretty please, sweetie
10:48 pm
You: You have many, many pictures of me on your phone.
10:49 pm
Azizam: i want your lips
Azizam: i want to kiss you
Baran’s stomach flips, and when it settles, there’s heat swirling low in her core. She licks her lips, sitting up in bed.
10:49 pm
Outgoing Facetime: Azizam
As soon as the call connects, Baran sees your flushed, grinning cheeks as they come closer to the screen. You give it several exaggerated, smacking kisses before pulling your phone back a respectable distance. Baran hums, a lovesick smile on her face, eyes hooded.
“You know, you can come home and kiss me yourself,” she says, lolling her head to the side as she watches you.
“You are so pretty,” you say, singular and simple and full of adoration.
“You’re drunk,” Baran counters, taking you in, the haziness of your eyes, the sheen of sweat on your brow, how deliciously warm and soft you look. But it’s moments like these that Baran feels the weight of the ring box heavy in her work locker — the only place she thinks you won’t find it.
“Am not. Still true, though.” There’s a slight slide to your words that you clearly don’t hear. You frown. “Did you shower without me?”
Baran’s hair is damp, and her skin is glowing with various oils and creams that you always tell her smell wonderful right before you dip your nose into the skin behind her ear, lips skating. And the only thing Baran can think about is how she wants you in her arms.
“It’s almost 11 pm, azizam. Yes, I showered without you.”
“Baby, no!” You look urgently devastated, a dramatic groan leaving your lips, petulant in a way you only are when you’re disinhibited. Like when you match her son’s early morning grumbles over a healthy breakfast instead of pancakes, Baran shouldn’t, but she finds it endearing.
You love showering with Baran — for more than just the obvious reasons. There’s something reverent in the way you often insist on taking a soapy washcloth to Baran’s body, trailing over her curves as you pull her close and leave delicate kisses to her shoulder. Or, you just watch her with the most loving, steady eyes. And when she lets you wash her hair, you dig expert fingers into her scalp, and she always leans back into you, humming contentedly. You don’t even have to touch her, and Baran has never felt more worshipped than when she’s naked with you.
Before Baran can tell you she’ll shower again if it’ll wipe away that sad puppy dog look, Ellis is sliding up next to you.
“You are bringing down the energy in this whole fucking club,” she accuses playfully, wrapping an arm around you and squeezing. “B, no offense, but your girlfriend is kind of codependent and sappy when she’s drunk.”
“I am not drunk!” you insist, looking at Ellis, who raises her brow and glances between you and Baran as if looking for backup.
“You are, eshgham,” Baran agrees easily. Ellis grabs the phone from your hand.
“Byeee!” she grins at Baran. The call ends.
Both Ellis and Shen have an ease to them that she doesn’t see in the day shift. They have their flaws — both a little too unsympathetic in the ED for Baran’s taste — but they have firm boundaries and shed their work personas like snakes each morning, something she respects. And around the dinner table, they’re funny and easy to be around, and Baran knows you’re in good hands.
11:02 pm
Azizam: [image attached]
It’s a photo of you, Ellis, and Shen in a new, quieter looking bar. Shen is sipping something fruity looking, waving at the camera. You’re grinning, and Ellis is holding up two stiff-looking drinks. Baran knows without a doubt you’re going to be hungover tomorrow, all grumpy and far away and disheveled. Good thing Baran enjoys taking care of you.
You reacted with: ❤️
11:07 pm
Parker Ellis: [video attached]
Parker Ellis: down bad
It’s a short clip of you talking animatedly with Shen. Ellis zooms in on your face and then pans down to your hand, where your phone is open to a selfie of the two of you curled up on the couch last month.
Baran feels her heart swell and contract in her chest, and she pulls up the same photo on her camera roll. She’s molded into your side under a blanket, her head tucked under your chin, her hand around the back of your neck. And you’re smiling like you just won the lottery.
11:21 pm
Azizam: i need you so bad right now
Baran’s scrolling through instagram, missing you next to her, when the notification appears. She smirks, wondering when you’d finally start getting like this.
11:22 pm
You: Oh?
11:23 pm
Azizam: fuck
Azizam: what are u wearing?
Baran rolls onto her back, sighing, hair splayed out. She can picture you, breathing measured, maybe pressing your thighs together. Feeling hot and desperate thinking about her. And Baran loves making you ache.
But you’re also out with friends, and Ellis has already ragged on you for being clingy twice tonight. Do you really want to do this right now?
11:24 pm
You: Shorts and your t-shirt.
11:24 pm
Azizam: looking at a pic of ur neck rn
11:25 pm
Azizam: fuck you. sext me for real
Baran raises her brow and settles deeper into the bed, one hand skating over her belly absently. She knows what photo you’re probably looking at. It’s innocent enough. Baran wasn’t paying attention, smiling and craning her neck to look behind her at a dinner party. If she let you, she knows you’d leave dark marks up the length of her every chance you get. It does something maddening and insatiable to you. Baran, of course, uses this to her advantage.
11:27 pm
You: You want me to tell you my fingers are on my neck, wishing it was your mouth?
You: Running over my chest.
You: Up my inner thigh.
11:27 pm
Azizam: yes
Azizam: are they?
They are. Dancing and light but enough to start setting Baran’s nerves on fire. She spreads her thighs and slides her fingers down over her underwear.
11:27 pm
You: Maybe.
11:28 pm
Azizam: show me
Azizam: need your mouth on me
Baran hums. One hand slides under her shirt — your shirt — lazily, teasing a nipple that pebbles too easily. Her breath catches, and clarity descends on her. You’re out with friends. You deserve to enjoy it — while staying in the present moment.
11:31 pm
You: You should focus on Parker and John. You’ll have me all to yourself when you get home.
11:32 pm
Azizam: [image attached]
It’s a photo of you in a bathroom stall. Your hand is holding up your shirt and bra against your sternum, chest exposed to the air. Your nipples are hard, and Baran’s lips part, her previous text completely wiped from her memory. On instinct or some base need, her fingers slide under the elastic of her underwear. Of course she’s wet.
11:33 pm
You: Baby…
You: You are so fucking gorgeous.
She stares at the photo, jaw slack. What she wouldn’t give to have her hands on your breasts, your nipple in her mouth right now. Baran’s fingers circle her clit, gathering wetness, working herself up as easily and thoughtlessly as breathing.
11:35 pm
Azizam: thinking about u
Azizam: [image attached]
Baran moans. It’s a photo of your hand in the low bathroom lighting. A stringy slickness connects your middle two fingers. She can practically taste you on her tongue, feel how your hand would grip her hair, feel the way your hips would rock into her mouth. And she can feel that familiar tension coiling in her, her muscles tensing.
11:36 pm
You: Oh, sweetheart.
You: That wet and desperate just from thinking about me?
You: I’d get on my knees for you right there in the stall.
You don’t reply right away, and Baran has a sinking suspicion you got pulled away from your phone. She groans, closing her eyes and feeling unfairly frustrated and horny. She should stop, wait for you like you have to wait for her. But you’ll be too drunk for her to fuck you when you get home, and you’re going to throw yourself at her anyway. And she’ll feel less pent up and guilty about it if she’s not hot and bothered when you walk through the door. So, Baran stares at the photo of your fingers and slides two inside of herself.
Her phone pings again when she’s sweaty and twitching and catching her breath, fingers slick as they rest on her stomach, careful not to touch the sheets.
11:44 pm
Parker Ellis: stop engaging with her!!!! you’re intruding on girls night
Parker Ellis: whore
Baran groans and closes her eyes briefly, embarrassed and just about fed up with Ellis and Shen. She just wants her baby in bed with her.
11:49 pm
You: Inappropriate. I am an attending.
12:03 am
Parker Ellis: rolling my eyes rn
Parker Ellis: not My attending
Parker Ellis: don’t be bitter. bar bathrooms are gross. i’m saving her from a yeast infection
Baran decides to ignore that and pointedly not think about what Ellis interrupted you doing.
12:06 am
You: Isn’t John with you?
12:08 am
Parker Ellis: he’s one of the girls
Baran is drifting between waking and sleep when her phone pings and jolts her out of it, her face smashed into a pillow and her bedside lamp still on. She swallows and drags her phone to her face.
12:39 am
Azizam: Parker found me texting :(
Azizam: we’re at a new bar
Azizam: need you to fuck me slow to this song on repeat btw. it was on the radio
Azizam: [Spotify Link] Southland by Lindsay Lou
This wakes Baran up a little, and she’s selfishly happy to know you didn’t get too far in the bathroom. She opens the link and listens as she replies.
12:44 am
You: Noted, baby.
You: Are you drinking water?
12:45 am
Azizam: i’m not a pussy
12:45 am
You: If you want me to go down on you when you get home, you’d better be drinking water.
It’s a ruse, and Baran thinks you know it, but your response is cute.
12:45 am
Azizam: on it boss
Baran is woken up from a deeper sleep to another ping. The song you sent is still playing softly on repeat, and you stop it. Baran can see why it turns you on and already has plans on how she’s going to fuck you to it.
1:21 am
Azizam: r u sure ur ok that m on nights?
The spelling and insecurity in your text tells Baran you have not, in fact, been drinking water. She exhales slowly, an unfair sort of annoyance twinging in her sleepy mind. Not at you, with whom she’s never truly annoyed. It took a long time — some unlearning and careful assurances — for you to be so raw and honest with Baran about your more prickly anxieties. And she took that vulnerability very seriously. No, Baran’s just tired, impatient you’re not with her, and feeling a little needy herself.
1:24 am
You: Yes. But if you want to talk more about it in the morning we can.
1:25 am
Azizam: what if u stat reesnting me
1:25 am
You: Do you resent me for being on day shift?
1:25 am
Azizam: no
Baran rubs her eye and yawns. You’re drunk, and she’s half asleep, and she doesn’t see the point in either of you pursuing such a delicate subject any further.
1:26 am
You: I love you.
1:26 am
Azizam: I LOV Y
Baran smiles, her eyes dry. You’re easily distracted. Giving up on sleep until you’re home, she goes back to scrolling on social media, too tired to pick her book back up.
1:47 am
Incoming Facetime: Azizam
“Baran!” you smile.
“Hi, honey,” Baran coos, her voice raspy and low, her head resting on her bent arm over the pillow. If you were more clear-headed, you would have started fawning over it. Despite how tired she is, Baran loves that you want to talk to her so much while you’re drunk and away from her. It sparks something fond and possessive in her.
“Would you love me if I were a worm?” You’re definitely slurring now.
“What?” Baran is caught off guard.
“If I turned into a worm, would you still love me? Shen said I should ask you.”
She opens and closes her mouth, unsure what that even means, when a familiar voice drifts to her ears, the equally familiar face following quickly into view.
“Dude, you can’t just leave me at the bar. You’re supposed to be my wingman.”
“Dr. Santos?” Baran asks incredulously, shocked into formality. She’s wearing smoky makeup and a swooping top and talking to you with the ease of good friends — a connection Baran is sure just happened tonight.
“Oh, shit,” Trinity hisses, ducking out of view. You blink at Santos, confused, and she slowly, sheepishly returns to the camera. “Hi Dr. Al-Hashimi.”
More awake now, Baran raises an eyebrow.
“How’s your 102-degree fever?” she asks humorlessly, sitting halfway up to offer herself some semblance of authority as she reprimands her resident while laying in bed at two in the morning.
“Better, yeah,” she winces, and you laugh suddenly.
“You didn’t tell me you called out sick,” you blurt, and Trinity glares at you.
“I didn’t want you telling my boss I’m here,” she accuses, motioning to your phone.
“So, you thought I’d go home to my future wife and not tell Baran I saw you and Whittaker at the gay bar?”
Baran’s ears ring, something sharp and hot shooting through her. She remembers the first time she brought up marriage to you, you were watching Bridesmaids together. You’re a few years younger than Baran, and unlike her, you’d never been married before. You didn’t have a kid to think about. Though, you loved Baran’s son dearly, and she loved that you loved him — and that he loved you back.
Have you ever thought about it? Marriage? She asked carefully as your head lay in her lap, and she played absently with your hair. Your fingers stilled on Baran’s thigh, and in the few seconds of silence, Baran thought she might throw up.
Are you asking? You murmured, turning to look up at Baran with unreadable, sparkling eyes.
Yes, she said easily, and then blinked, understanding too late what you meant. I mean, yes, I’m asking if you’ve —
Yes, you cut her off. With the right person. Yes.
She can’t believe she ever for one second doubted you might say yes if she got down on one knee. Baran shouldn’t have then, and she certainly doesn’t now that you’d called her your future wife. The shock quickly melts to a steady warmth that seems to blossom throughout her entire body, an easy sureness she knows is there for good.
“You’re really fucking irritating,” Trinity says to you emphatically, working her jaw, but she knows this situation is her own fault, so there’s no real bite to it. It brings Baran back to the present.
“Whittaker’s there, too?” she drawls, knowing Dennis is definitely on the schedule tomorrow.
“Ooooo, Dr. Santos, you are in so much fucking trouble. I gotta go, babe,” you say, pressing your fingers to your lips and then the camera before the call ends. Truth be told, Baran isn’t really irritated, but she can’t let Trinity know that.
She looks back down at your contact card, a soft, sweet photo of you greeting her. A wave of affection sweeps over her so intensely it knocks the breath from her. Her future wife. Baran swallows down the lump of emotions building in her and focuses on texting you.
1:52 am
You: Be safe. Make good choices. Come home soon. I love you.
1:52 am
Azizam: 😍❤️👅🐱
Baran lays back down, setting her phone by her head and staring at your contact photo like a lovesick teenage girl. She doesn’t wake up this time when Shen’s text comes through.
2:09 am
John Shen: ETA 20 min
John Shen: BTW, I think she’s onto you
Baran is stirred awake by the bed dipping next to her and quiet curses. A groggy noise rumbles in her chest, her limbs too heavy to move, her eyelids like lead.
“Back to sleep, honey,” you whisper, your words coming out a little slurred still, unsteady as you crawl toward her on the soft mattress.
Baran forces herself to turn over, another incoherent, almost whiny noise rising in her. She licks her lips and swallows, her eyes blinking open to see you settle next to her in a t-shirt and underwear.
“Azizam,” Baran mumbles happily, and you grin, leaning over to kiss her.
Instinctually, Baran fists the front of your shirt and drags you closer, her other arm wrapping around your shoulders. Your lips slide against hers, both of you uncoordinated and sloppy from alcohol and sleep but content in it. The thick, sweet smell of the bar lingers on you, along with the faint familiar tang of your sweat, and your tongue dips between Baran’s lips. She moans faintly, and you scoot closer so you can intertwine your legs, your hips pressing into hers.
“I drank water,” you breathe against her mouth, sliding your kisses to her jaw and her neck, wet and open. Baran sighs, more awake now, her core muscles twitching. One thing that really gets Baran going is sleepy sex, and you are definitely using this to your advantage. She remembers her faux promise to you and smiles, tangling a hand in your hair.
“Sleep, eshgham. We have three days together. Just you and me,” she sighs, tilting her chin to limit your access to her neck. You hum softly, dipping your face to her shoulder.
“Dooset daram,” you mumble into Baran’s skin. You know a few phrases in Farsi now, but according to you, this is the most essential, the one you learned first. And every time you say it, it makes Baran weak in the knees.
Her hand tightens in your hair, and she kisses your head, holding you firmly against her. She can feel you drifting off to sleep already, muscles relaxing, breathing even. And Baran feels that stubborn tightness in her throat again now that she finally has you in her arms.
She hadn’t known exactly when she was going to do it, waiting for the perfect time to present itself. This weekend. She’s going to propose to you this weekend.
Summary: Part 4 to Detecting Love. Lying to the person who can visually confirm that you’re lying is already a losing battle, but it’s one Natasha has no choice but to face now.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Warnings: fluff, light angst
Words: 5145
There are all sorts of lies. And Natasha Romanoff knows them all.
White lies. The harmless kind that is told to protect someone’s feelings.
Like when you smile after tasting her cooking and say, “It’s good,” even though she can’t bring herself to swallow a single bite.
Then there are lies of omission. The kind that withholds details to avoid trouble.
Like when you tried to hide the fact that you were in a fight—one that robbed you of color in your vision and rendered your lie-detecting power unavailable for the time being.
Now, seated beside you in the med bay, Natasha is facing yet another kind of lie.
Minimization. The kind where someone downplays what they’re feeling, hoping no one will notice.
“I think we should go home,” you murmur, already trying to sit up from the medical bed. “I’m not feeling so great. Probably something I ate earlier.”
Natasha presses a hand to your shoulder, firmly pushing you back down without even looking up from the screen of the tablet in her other hand.
“You mean the lunch I made for you?” she reminds you with a challenging glance.
Your mouth opens, then shuts again when you realize your mistake, before quickly attempting a pivot.
“What I meant is that I’ve been run-down with tons of paperwork and interviews recently.” You give a small shrug. “Maybe it’s better if we reschedule.”
Natasha arches a brow at your excuse, the corners of her mouth twitching in amusement.
“If you’re not feeling well, then it’s a good thing we’re already in the med bay, isn’t it?”
You huff a sigh, your expression softening into something caught between a pout and genuine unease.
“Seriously, Natasha. I’m fine waiting for my vision to return to normal on its own.”
Even though that’s what you’re saying now, she’s not buying it—not when she remembers the nights you’ve spent in quiet frustration and the moments you get upset with yourself when you can’t see the truth in people anymore.
“That’s not what you said last night,” she says with a pointed look.
Your expression shifts into a teasing grin as you reach for her hand and interlace your fingers with hers before pressing a light kiss to her knuckles.
“Funny, I don’t remember much talking last night.”
Natasha huffs and rolls her eyes, but the faint smirk playing at her lips betrays her amusement as she remembers the night before. You weren’t lying about the not talking much part. The two of you were pretty much preoccupied with other intimate matters than that.
Before her mind can drift to such thoughts and distract her, Natasha returns her attention to the tablet in her hand with your vitals just as the med bay doors slide open.
Dr. Cho enters, wheeling a cart with an unsettling number of syringes and needles on its surface.
“Ready for the procedure?” she asks cheerfully.
Your grip on Natasha’s hand tightens instantly. Panic flashes across your face as you glance between her and the tray.
“She’s going to poke my eyes?!”
Natasha leans in, squeezing your hand in reassurance.
“No, she’s not,” Natasha reassures, having already gone through the details of the procedure multiple times with the doctor. “Right?”
Dr. Cho chuckles softly as she lifts one of the syringes, tapping the side gently with her finger.
“These are just sedatives—to keep you relaxed. It’ll be painless and over before you know it.”
You study her face closely, eyes narrowed in futile observation. Then you sigh in resignation.
“I can’t tell if she’s lying or not,” you admit dejectedly.
Natasha lets out a quiet laugh as she stands to give the doctor room.
“She’s not. And after this, you’ll be able to see that for yourself again.”
Before she can move away completely, you tug her hand gently, enough to hold her there a moment longer.
“Will you be there when I wake up?”
Natasha’s gaze softens. She leans down and brushes a kiss against your lips. Her voice drops to a whisper.
“I will. I promise.”
Even without your powers, you know she’s telling the truth.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The soft beeping of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room as Natasha waits beside your bed.
According to Dr. Cho, the procedure went smoothly. Better than expected, even.
But you’d been so anxious, so much so that you kept nervously glancing around the room when you were supposed to keep your eyes still. In the end, the doctor had opted to administer a slightly higher dose of sedative to keep you calm and relaxed.
“She’ll sleep it off soon,” Dr. Cho had said. “But she might be a little loopy when she wakes up.”
Natasha had only nodded, settling in her chair with your hand cradled in hers, thumb idly brushing across your knuckles as she waited.
She’s scrolling through the diagnostic chart on the tablet when she hears your voice.
“Your eyes are pretty.”
Her head snaps up, gaze finding yours.
You’re awake but barely, and your head is now turned toward her, eyes still half-lidded and unfocused, a dazed sort of warmth flickering across your face.
Before she can even respond, you go on in a dreamy murmur, your words slow and slurred.
“They remind me of my girlfriend’s…” A lovesick smile tugs at your lips as your gaze drifts to the ceiling. “She’s really pretty.”
Natasha blinks as she processes your words, caught between amusement and exasperation when she realizes what’s happening. A quiet huff escapes her chest as she sets the tablet aside, deciding to go along with your current delirious state so that you won’t be too startled at where you are.
“Is she now?” she asks.
You nod with an almost childlike seriousness, brows furrowing like you’re trying to communicate something very important.
“The prettiest,” you declare, turning back to look at her with all the dramatic intensity your sedated brain can muster.
Natasha props her elbow on the armrest, resting her chin in her palm as she humors you.
“Prettier than me?” she teases.
Your expression shifts into a contemplative frown, and you study her face with squinting scrutiny now. Your eyes drift down to her joined hand in yours.
For a moment, she thinks you’ve figured it out. She can practically see the gears turning behind your slow blinks.
But instead of clarity, you let out a sigh of heartfelt conflict and pull your hand from hers.
“You’re pretty too…but I already have a girlfriend,” you murmur gravely. “And she gets jealous easily.”
Natasha lets out a scoff, arms folding across her chest.
“I don’t get jealous,” she mutters under her breath.
You don’t seem to hear her—or maybe you do, and you’re just too distracted to piece together her words with who she is.
“She’s so cute when she’s jealous,” you add with another dreamy sigh.
That makes Natasha pause.
She tries to stay annoyed, but your doped-up voice saying she’s cute is enough to send warmth crawling up her neck. Her lips twitch against her will, but she still holds onto the pretense of indifference.
You shift slightly on the bed, fingers twitching before reaching out toward her in a clumsy beckoning motion.
“Can I tell you a secret?” you whisper.
Natasha’s brow lifts, curious, but she knows you’re not in the right state to be talking about such things.
“You probably shouldn’t until the medicine’s out of your system.”
But your expression doesn’t waver. If anything, you lean closer conspiratorially, as if the medical bay were full of spies waiting to eavesdrop.
“You see, I…,” you pause, blinking slowly as you gather your thoughts. “I want to ask her to marry me,” you finish in a soft whisper.
Natasha stills, her amused grin dropping from her face in surprise. For a moment, all sound drains from the room. Her heart, her thoughts, everything, stopping in time as your words hang suspended in the air.
She stares at you, stunned, while you blink heavily, struggling to stay awake.
You raise a finger to your lips, shushing her lightly, adding, “But don’t tell her yet, okay?”
And just like that, your eyes flutter closed again.
Silence lingers in your absence, interrupted only by the rhythmic hum of machines.
Natasha still hasn’t moved.
She exhales slowly, trying to make sense of the sudden weight pressing down on her chest. Your words replay over and over, as if her brain refuses to let them go.
You want to marry her.
You want to marry her.
And now she has to pretend she doesn’t know.
Just then, the med bay doors hiss open. Dr. Cho steps in, clipboard in hand, scanning for your face for any signs of activity.
“Has our patient woken up yet?”
Natasha jolts from her shock, looking between you and the doctor.
“I…she…” she starts, but the words get tangled in her throat.
Dr. Cho lifts a curious brow at the normally unshakeable Black Widow, wondering what’s gotten someone like her stumbling over her words.
“Everything alright?”
Natasha exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand across her face before letting it fall. Her eyes land back on you—peacefully asleep, utterly unaware of the emotional grenade you just lobbed at her heart.
“I’m fine,” she mutters. “Totally fine.”
But she knows she’s not.
Because she may be a world-class liar…but when it comes to you, pretending she doesn’t know what you just told her might be the hardest mission yet.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The road home stretches ahead in a quiet ribbon of asphalt, streetlights bleeding soft gold into the darkness. The city is mostly asleep, and the car hums steadily beneath her.
Natasha keeps her eyes forward even though she can feel your gaze like a physical thing, sharp and curious at the side of her face.
“You’re being awfully quiet,” you say at last, voice light but edged with interest.
Natasha exhales a small, controlled laugh, letting it sound casual as she adjusts her grip on the steering wheel.
“I should say the same about you,” she replies smoothly. “You’re pretty calm for someone who just got color back in their vision.”
You hum, thoughtful, like you’re turning something over in your mind. Then you shift in your seat, fully turning toward her.
“Tell me a lie.”
Her eyes flick to you before she can stop herself.
“What?”
You lean across the center console, resting your cheek against your knuckles, expression open and almost hopeful.
“I want to test my powers,” you explain. “Just once. Lie to me, Romanoff.”
The request is simple. Innocent.
Natasha’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Of all the lies she ever told—of all the identities she’s worn, all the truths she’s buried—this is the moment her mind goes blank. Because the only lie that matters right now is the one she’s already telling.
That she doesn’t know you want to marry her.
She keeps her tone light, eyes back on the road.
“Can’t you test it on yourself? Say…I don’t know. That you hate my cooking,” she deflects.
You laugh softly, shaking your head.
“That wouldn’t work.”
She risks a glance at you then, expecting mischief. Instead, she finds affection.
“Unfortunately,” you add, “that’s not a lie.”
Your smile is gentle as you settle back into your seat, gaze drifting forward again.
“I love your cooking.”
Natasha scoffs, but the corner of her mouth gives her away, lifting despite herself.
“You have a death wish,” she murmurs.
“If it’s by your hands,” you reply easily, lifting your palms as if you’re weighing the thought, “I’d die happy.”
Your eyes flick downward for a quiet, instinctive check. You turn your hands slightly, watching the space around them. You wait for the familiar flare of red. The telltale burn of dishonesty.
Nothing appears.
“Yep,” you murmur to yourself, lips curving as you glance back at her. “Happy.”
Natasha doesn’t see what you were looking for, but she notices the certainty in your voice. And that, somehow, makes her chest tighten more than any red aura ever could.
After a beat, she speaks again, quieter this time.
“Do you remember anything from when you woke up the first time?”
You pause, brows knitting slightly as you search your memory. Then you shake your head.
“Not really. Why? Did I embarrass myself?”
Natasha’s lips part, then close. For a moment, the words sit right there.
You said you wanted to marry me.
And suddenly she’s not a master spy or an Avenger. She’s simply a woman standing on emotional thin ice.
Natasha clears her throat.
“You called me pretty,” she says instead, adding a light laugh to soften the mood.
You turn fully toward her again, eyes dragging deliberately over her face. Slow. Appreciative. Almost reverent.
“If anything,” you say with mock seriousness, “delirious me undersold it. You’re drop-dead gorgeous.”
Natasha smirks, recognizing the look in your eyes—the one that usually ends with gravity forgotten and furniture rendered optional.
She reaches over and nudges your chin forward with a finger.
“No,” she warns. “I’m driving.”
You catch her wrist before she can pull back, pressing a kiss into her palm, then lingering at the pulse beneath her skin.
“Don’t tell me an Avenger can’t handle a little distraction.”
Her lips press together in focus as she keeps driving, posture rigid with restraint. She’s handled worse. She can wait.
Even as your free hand settles on her thigh in a light, absent-minded touch, tracing idle patterns that aren’t innocent at all.
The light ahead turns yellow.
The car rolls to a stop.
The instant it does, the gear shifts into park, and Natasha’s hand is in your hair, fingers curling at the nape of your neck as she pulls you across the console and into her.
The kiss is deep and unhesitating, controlled only in how thoroughly it steals your breath.
You gasp, and she takes advantage of it.
By the time the light cycles green again and then yellow once more, you’re panting softly against her lips. She pulls back just far enough to smirk.
“Who’s distracted now?”
Your eyes are dark and unmistakably alive with both desire and something sharper.
“Pull over,” you murmur, hand sliding higher on her thigh. “You can’t tell me you’re not tempted.”
Natasha licks her lips without meaning to, shifting just enough to give you room, then catches herself.
“I’m not,” she says evenly. All of her training and skills keep her voice steady and confident. An honest answer to anyone else who heard her.
Your gaze locks onto hers. Then drifts to something around her body. A knowing smile curves your mouth as you lean in close, voice low.
“Liar.”
You brush a feather-light kiss against her lips.
“Pull over, Natasha.”
She doesn’t argue. The car turns down a secluded road, disappearing into the quiet.
At least now you know. Your powers are back.
And Natasha has never been more afraid of what you might see next.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha wakes to the sharp clang of metal on metal, followed almost immediately by a muttered curse that sounds very familiar.
Her eyes flutter open.
Her hand drifts instinctively across the mattress, palm spreading over cool sheets where your warmth should be. The empty space alone tells her everything she needs to know.
You’re in the kitchen.
It’s not always like this. Most mornings, when one of you stays over, the two of you wake tangled together, limbs heavy and reluctant to part, lingering in bed until duty or alarms drag you back into the world. Those mornings are rare, stolen things, and Natasha treasures them more than she lets herself admit.
She pushes herself upright against the headboard, the sounds from the kitchen continuing with another clatter, another quiet curse.
Her gaze drifts to the empty space beside her, and her thoughts follow.
What would it be like to wake up like this every day? Not as a guest. Not as someone passing through. But as your wife.
The thought settles deeper than she expects, warm and dangerous all at once.
She exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over her face.
You want to marry her.
The words surface uninvited, looping endlessly in her mind since last night. Since the med bay. Since your sedated confession slipped free without defenses or filters.
Natasha groans quietly into her palm.
If only she knew when.
If she knew how long she’d have to pretend—how long she’d need to carefully measure her reactions, her words, her expressions around the one person who can see lies as easily as color.
She can’t bring it up. She won’t. Not after what your last engagement did to you. She refuses to be the one who reopens scars or turns something precious into pressure. You have to be the one to make the next move in the relationship.
Which leaves her here—awake, alone, and holding a secret she was never meant to have.
With a sigh, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and heads toward the kitchen.
She stops short when she arrives. The counter is full.
Plates. Bowls. A spread of breakfast that borders on excessive—eggs, fruit, toast, things she knows took time and effort, and far more patience than you usually have this early in the morning.
A quiet tsk comes from the sink as you finish drying a pan. You glance over your shoulder and freeze when you spot her.
“Damn it,” you mutter, lips pulling into a small pout. “Did I wake you?”
Natasha huffs a soft laugh, folding her arms loosely.
“You did. Though I probably would’ve woken up anyway when you weren’t next to me.”
You grin immediately, crossing the kitchen to stand opposite her.
“Miss me that much?”
She rolls her eyes, but it’s half-hearted, and the smile betrays her.
“Nope.”
Your eyes linger on her a second longer than usual. The corners of your mouth lift, confident and unmistakably pleased.
“Liar.”
Natasha doesn’t even bother denying it. Instead, she takes a seat on the barstool, gesturing toward the spread in front of her.
“What’s the occasion?” she asks.
You’ve cooked for her before, but never like this.
You round the counter and stop between her knees, hands settling easily at her hips.
“Part of it,” you say softly, “is to thank you. For taking care of me. Before, during, and after the procedure.”
You lean in, brushing a gentle kiss against her mouth.
“I especially enjoyed the after part,” you murmur, a smirk in your voice.
Natasha’s lips curve.
“Did you?” she asks. “Which part?”
You hum thoughtfully, your hands sliding innocently along her thighs.
“Do you want a recap?”
She scoffs and pushes at your shoulder, though not very hard.
“Easy,” she warns. “You just had a procedure. Don’t get too excited.”
You sigh dramatically but comply, one hand leaving her thigh to catch her left hand instead. Your fingers lace with hers, thumb brushing slow, soothing strokes over her knuckles.
“But that’s not the main reason,” you say, tone shifting, lighter teasing giving way to something sincere.
Natasha’s breath stills.
You meet her eyes.
Her heart kicks hard against her ribs.
Is this it?
“Happy anniversary,” you say, smiling. “To the first time I met you.”
“Oh,” Natasha breathes out, caught off guard.
You tilt your head, amused.
“Oh? That doesn’t sound too good.”
“No—no,” she waves a hand quickly. “It’s just…I wasn’t expecting that.”
“What were you expecting?” you ask, genuine curiosity in your voice.
“I—” She hesitates.
She can’t say it. But she can’t lie either.
So instead, she turns slightly toward the counter, breaking eye contact.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says lightly. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
She feels your gaze linger on the side of her face, searching for some explanation before you finally relent and move to grab a plate.
The moment passes. But the tension doesn’t.
And Natasha knows it’s only a matter of time before your eyes and your power start noticing more than she can hide.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
What is the best way to avoid being discovered? For someone like Natasha, the answer is simple.
Distance.
You can’t uncover the truth if you don’t have the chance to look for it.
She knows your schedules down to the minute, from your habits to your usual track patterns at the Compound. It isn’t difficult to adjust hers just enough so your paths don’t cross as often. A briefing here. An extra training session there. Volunteering for missions she would’ve otherwise passed on.
You don’t question it. Your texts stay warm and unassuming.
Busy today?
Miss you.
Be safe.
And Natasha answers just enough to keep things normal. At least, she hopes it looks that way.
I brought you some coffee.
Natasha pauses mid-step in the lobby, eyes dropping to her phone. Her thumb hovers over the screen as she debates it. She could stop by your office, grab the coffee, thank you, and leave. In and out. No time for you to notice the hesitation, the restraint, the way she’s constantly measuring herself now.
Before she can reply, another message pops up.
Look up.
She lifts her gaze just in time to see you standing by the front desk, coffee cup already in hand, watching her with that familiar, warm smile.
“Well,” you say as she approaches, voice light, teasing. “Hey there, stranger. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
You lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek before handing her the cup.
Natasha forces a small laugh as she takes it. “Thanks.”
She takes a sip immediately, grateful for the excuse to look away and gather herself.
“Been busy,” she says evenly. “Missions. Briefings.”
You nod, accepting the explanation easily enough, and then tilt your head toward the elevators.
“Do you want to walk me to my office?”
The question lands heavier than it should. Natasha hesitates. Yes, she wants to. God, yes. But every second with you is a risk now. She doesn’t know which answer will light up red in your vision. Wanting you too much or wanting to protect the secret.
Your expression shifts when she doesn’t answer right away. Concern edges into your voice as you reach out, fingers brushing her arm.
“Hey. You okay?”
The worst question you could’ve asked. She’s not sure which answer would even be correct for that one.
Before she can respond, chaos erupts at the front entrance.
A shout and then the thud of a body hitting the floor.
Natasha snaps to attention as the guard is shoved aside, sliding across the ground, and a man storms into the lobby.
She recognizes him instantly. The one from the file. The one who attacked you. Her eyes lock onto the gun in his hand. She steps in front of you without thinking.
Behind her, she hears your voice.
“Call security,” you tell the receptionist.
“I’m standing right here,” Natasha mutters.
“Yeah, I don’t like that fact either,” you reply, leaning in beside her. Your hand slides to her waist as you try to pull her back. She doesn’t move. “We both know he’s not here for you.”
As you said, the man’s gaze snaps to you the second he spots you.
“You,” he snarls.
You sigh softly behind her. “Told you.”
“Now is not the time,” Natasha mutters, shifting her stance, making sure you stay behind her.
He lifts the gun, careless and angry, and begins to speak loudly.
“I kept wondering how you always knew,” he says. “How you were always one step ahead. So I did some digging.”
Natasha feels your grip tighten on her arm.
“Imagine my surprise,” he continues, grinning, “when I found out about your little power.”
“That’s enough,” Natasha snaps, stepping forward. “You’re not going to win here.”
“Oh, I know,” he says easily. “I just wanted everyone else to know.”
He turns, sweeping his gaze across the lobby at his former colleagues.
“She’s been tricking you all. Her power tells her when you’re lying.”
The room stills as heads turn and whispers emerge. Natasha recognizes the looks instantly. Fear and suspicion at the revelation of someone they thought they had trusted.
“That’s right,” the man laughs. “She’s been judging you from the start.”
His carelessness brings an opening, and that’s when Natasha moves. She lunges, sliding across the polished floor, grabbing his arm and flipping him hard onto his back. The gun skids away as she pins him down with her knee, forearm pressed to his throat.
“I said,” she hisses, “that’s enough.”
He groans, but still manages to look past her. At you.
“You had no right to judge me,” he spits. “You’re the biggest liar of all.”
Natasha’s jaw tightens as she follows his gaze. Slowly, she looks back over her shoulder.
You don’t react at first. No anger. No rebuttal. You just stand there, perfectly still, eyes locked on the man before they drift outward. Across the lobby. Across the people who had been working beside you moments ago.
Agents. Analysts. Staff who laughed with you in passing, trusted you with clearance and conversations and quiet truths.
And Natasha knows what you see.
She knows because she’s seen that look before. Suspicion. Fear. Doubt. Flickering at the edges of people’s silhouettes as their thoughts settle into something dangerous. Their expressions have shifted, guarded now, careful in a way Natasha knows all too well. The kind of distance people put up when trust cracks but hasn’t shattered yet.
You swallow, subtle but visible, like something inside you just sank.
Because you don’t need your power to know what they’re thinking.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Once she’s made sure the man is fully restrained and escorted away, Natasha doesn’t linger in the lobby. The adrenaline fades too quickly, leaving something colder in its place.
You’d told her you were fine before you left, away from the lingering stares and whispers. But she knows better than to take that at face value.
Her steps slow as she reaches your floor. She hesitates outside your office, fingers tightening around the fabric of the hoodie draped over her arm. It still smells faintly like your soap from the last time you borrowed it. Like home, in a way she hasn’t let herself think about too deeply.
She knocks softly, almost tentatively.
“Come in,” you say. Your voice is quieter than usual.
She opens the door and finds you standing near your desk, posture stiff, gaze lifted like you were bracing for something worse than her. When you realize it’s Natasha, your shoulders loosen almost immediately, tension bleeding out of you in a way you don’t bother hiding.
“I brought you my hoodie,” she says, holding it up like an offering. A comfort she doesn’t quite know how else to give.
You smile, a little tired, but real nonetheless.
“Thanks,” you say. “Though the AC unit broke in here, so it might actually be too warm.”
Her expression falters, eyes dropping as she fidgets with the hood.
“But,” you add quickly, stepping forward, “I appreciate the thought.”
You take it from her gently, set it on the desk, then lean back against it. You’re close enough now that she can see the strain you didn’t show anyone else.
Natasha exhales and decides she can’t keep skirting around it.
“Listen,” she begins, carefully. “Don’t take what that man said to heart. Everyone was just… shocked. They’ll come around.”
You let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking your head.
“I’ll be fine, Natasha. Really. This isn’t new.”
That makes her pause.
You shrug, as if explaining something mundane.
“It complicates my job, sure. But it doesn’t make it impossible. People will just be more careful around me now.”
You fold your arms, studying her gently.
“Kind of like how you are.”
Natasha stiffens. Her eyes widen, breath catching before she can stop it.
“You really think I wouldn’t notice?” you add softly, not accusatory, just honest. There’s a tired affection in your smile. “You’ve been avoiding me. Watching what you say.”
“I’m sor—”
“Hey.” You lift a hand, stopping her. “You don’t need to apologize. I get it. You need time to adjust to my powers being back. That’s totally understandable.”
Her hands curl at her sides. That’s not it. She’s never been afraid of your powers. But how could she explain the truth?
You look away briefly, jaw tightening before you speak again.
“I guess being with you made me forget,” you admit quietly, “that most people have something they need to hide.”
Something in Natasha snaps at your words.
“I want to marry you!” The words burst out before she can stop them.
Her hand flies to her mouth at the same moment your eyes widen in shock.
Silence crashes down between you.
Natasha squeezes her eyes shut, groaning softly.
“Damn it.”
When she opens them again, you’re still staring, processing her words in stunned silence.
“You told me,” she says, voice steadying despite herself. “When you were still under the effects of the sedatives. You said you wanted to marry me, and that it was a secret.”
Your breath leaves you slowly as you listen to her.
“So I was trying,” she continues, “to pretend I didn’t know. To not let you see that I did.”
“Oh,” you say, the word quiet as it settles in your chest.
Natasha winces slightly. “Oh?” she repeats, forcing a small, uncertain smile. “That doesn’t sound too great.”
For a heartbeat, the tension lingers, fragile and taut.
Then you laugh. It’s soft and unguarded. The sound slips out of you like relief, and it catches Natasha off guard completely. She feels her shoulders loosen without meaning to, the brace she’d been holding finally easing as she realizes whatever this moment is, it isn’t breaking you.
“Hold on,” you say, lifting a hand. “I need to check something.”
You look down at your palms, take a steady breath.
“I hate your cooking.” A beat passes before you nod to yourself. “Yep. Powers are working.” Then you look up at her, your eyes bright, smile wide and unmistakably real.
“So,” you say, excitement breaking through everything else, “it’s true. You do want to marry me.”
Natasha rolls her eyes at your antics, but she can’t hide her grin.
“Yes,” she says. “I want to marry you.”
You don’t hesitate. You cross the space between you and cup her face in your hands, kissing her with all the certainty you’d been holding back. Natasha melts into it instantly, her hands coming up to hold your wrists like she needs the contact to ground herself.
When you finally pull back, you stay close, forehead resting against hers.
“I love you, Natasha Romanoff.”
She smiles, brushing her lips against yours.
“I love you too.”
And that will never be a lie.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: currently recovering from a cold but managed to finish this one. thank you for reading!
For natasha, you could do one where she finally lets reader help her after a particularly hard mission. It could be an injury or just being soft with her and letting her feel that (it’s totally up to you) big fluff and cuddles and affirmations, the works yenno?
-🐋
So sorry this took me so long!
Don't Joke Tonight
Pairing: Natasha x Fem Reader
________________
The knock wasn’t playful.
That was the first thing you noticed.
Normally when Natasha showed up at your door, it came with a smirk. A raised brow. A low, “You busy?” that absolutely did not mean conversation.
Tonight it was quiet.
Three slow knocks.
You opened the door and immediately felt it, something off.
She wasn’t bleeding badly. Just a shallow cut near her temple and a rip at her side. Nothing catastrophic.
But her eyes weren’t sharp.
They were distant.
“Hey, assassin,” you said automatically, leaning on the doorframe. “Miss me already?”
Usually that earned you a lazy grin.
Tonight she just looked at you.
“…Can I stay?” she asked.
Your teasing died instantly.
“Yeah,” you said, softer. “Yeah, come in.”
She stepped inside without another word. No swagger. No deliberate brushing of shoulders. No low comment about how you look better in her bed than she does.
She just stood there in your living room like she wasn’t sure what to do next.
You shut the door slowly.
“What happened?”
She shrugged, too quick. “Mission.”
“That’s not an answer.”
A pause.
Then, quietly, “It got messy.”
She swayed slightly like she didn’t realize she was doing it.
You moved without thinking, hands landing gently at her waist.
She went still.
Not defensive.
Just… aware.
“You’re shaking,” you murmured.
“I’m not.”
She absolutely was.
Her jaw clenched, like she hated that you noticed.
“Sit,” you said gently.
She didn’t argue.
That alone told you how bad it was.
You guided her to your couch, kneeling in front of her to examine the cut at her temple.
“It’s nothing,” she said automatically.
“Shh.”
She watched you while you cleaned it. Not in that heated way she usually did when you were this close.
This was different.
Her eyes tracked your face like she was grounding herself in it.
“You’re quieter than usual,” you murmured.
She hesitated.
“I miscalculated,” she said finally.
You glanced up. “Meaning?”
“I didn’t see someone in the building.”
Your chest tightened.
“A civilian,” she clarified. “He ran when he heard the gunshot. I didn’t expect it.”
Your hand slowed.
“He’s fine,” she added quickly. “But for a second I thought…”
She stopped.
Thought what?
You didn’t push.
Instead, you reached up and brushed your thumb gently along her cheek, just beneath the cut.
She leaned into it.
Barely.
But she did.
“You don’t have to be alone after missions,” you said quietly.
“I’m not alone,” she deflected.
“You know what I mean.”
Silence stretched.
Her hands slid down to your hips, familiar territory, muscle memory from all those nights that started with flirting and ended tangled in sheets.
But this time her grip wasn’t possessive.
It was anchoring.
“I don’t want to go back to my room,” she admitted.
The vulnerability in that simple statement hit harder than anything else tonight.
“Then don’t.”
Her thumbs pressed into your sides, subtle pressure like she was making sure you were solid.
“You’re not going to make a joke?” she asked softly.
You understood immediately.
Usually you would. You’d tease her for being clingy. Tell her she was getting soft. Make it easy.
But tonight she didn’t want easy.
“Not tonight,” you said.
Her breath left her slowly.
You stood and took her hand.
“Come on.”
She followed you to your bedroom without the usual tension crackling between you. No playful tugging. No whispered promises.
Just quiet.
You sat on the bed and gently pulled her down with you.
She hesitated for half a second, like she wasn’t sure she deserved comfort that didn’t have a price.
Then she crawled into your space.
Not on top of you.
Not straddling your lap like usual.
She lay on her side and tucked herself against you, face pressed into your shoulder.
It stole the air from your lungs.
Her arms slid around your waist slowly, cautiously, like she expected you to push her off.
You didn’t.
You wrapped your arms around her immediately.
She exhaled.
A shaky sound she tried to hide.
“You’re okay,” you murmured into her hair.
“I know.”
But her fingers tightened in your shirt anyway.
“You did what you had to.”
“I know.”
Her voice was softer now. Less controlled.
Your hand moved to the back of her neck, thumb tracing slow circles through her hair.
She melted under it.
Actually melted.
“I don’t like when it gets loud,” she admitted quietly.
You paused. “Loud?”
“Too many variables. Too much chaos.” A swallow. “I prefer control.”
That made sense.
“You had it,” you said gently. “You came back.”
Her grip tightened.
“I always come back to you.”
The words slipped out like they weren’t meant to.
You went very still.
“…Yeah?”
She didn’t answer.
Just pressed her face closer into your shoulder, like she could hide there.
Your heart was racing now for an entirely different reason.
Her leg slid between yours, not suggestive, just instinctively seeking warmth. Seeking contact.
“Stay,” she murmured.
“I’m right here.”
“No,” she said, voice muffled. “Don’t move. Just… stay like this.”
You tightened your hold around her.
Her breathing started evening out slowly, but every so often her fingers would twitch like she was reliving something.
So you kept talking quietly.
“You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She didn’t argue.
Didn’t deflect.
Just held you tighter.
After a long moment, she tilted her head up slightly.
Her eyes weren’t sharp anymore.
They were tired.
Soft.
“You don’t have to let me stay,” she said quietly. “This isn’t part of our… arrangement.”
There it was.
The hook-up boundary.
The thing you both pretended kept it simple.
You brushed her hair back from her forehead.
“Maybe I don’t want it to be just that.”
Her breath caught.
“You’re shaken,” she warned softly.
“I’m serious.”
She searched your face like she was trying to detect a lie.
“Don’t say things you’ll regret in the morning,” she murmured.
“I won’t.”
Silence.
Then, slowly, she leaned up and kissed you.
Not heated.
Not hungry.
Soft.
Slow.
Careful.
Like she was afraid to break something fragile between you.
You kissed her back just as gently, hand cradling her jaw.
When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours.
“You feel different tonight,” she whispered.
“Good different?”
Her lips brushed yours again, almost absentminded.
Natasha has her phone tucked between her shoulder and ear while she moves around the kitchen, scooping coffee into the machine with the quiet efficiency that comes from years of routine. The apartment is warm with late afternoon light, sunlight stretching in long amber strips across the counter while Natasha half-listens to the voice on the other end of the line — the kind of half-listening that still catches everything, because she is constitutionally incapable of not paying attention.
"—I'm just saying she handled it," Clint is saying casually. "Wasn't pretty, but it worked."
Natasha pauses mid-motion.
The scoop hovers above the coffee filter.
"Handled what?"
There's a silence just long enough for Natasha to realize Clint has already said too much. She can practically hear him calculating whether he can walk it back.
He can't.
"…You didn't know?" he asks.
Natasha slowly sets the scoop down.
"Know what, Clint." It isn't a question. It's a warning wrapped in a very thin layer of patience.
He exhales like someone who has just stepped directly into a bear trap they built themselves.
"Well. Your wife decided to make a jump during extraction."
Natasha's expression doesn't change.
Not a single muscle moves.
That's always the tell.
"What kind of jump."
"Across a building."
"How far."
Another pause. Clint clearly weighing whether honesty or self-preservation wins.
"…Twelve stories down if she missed."
The kitchen goes completely still.
For a long moment Natasha says absolutely nothing. Her fingers rest against the counter, knuckles whitening incrementally as the image assembles itself whether she wants it to or not — you on a rooftop edge somewhere, wind pulling at your hair, measuring the distance between buildings with your eyes like physics is something that applies to other people. Like gravity is negotiable.
Like your life is a variable she isn't constantly, quietly, terrifyingly aware of.
The call ends a minute later, and the coffee never gets made.
By the time the apartment door opens that evening, Natasha has been on the couch for over an hour.
She hasn't moved. Hasn't turned a light on. The sun finished setting without her noticing, and she's been sitting in the slow crawl of dusk with her elbows on her knees and her hands loosely clasped, staring at the middle distance while that image — your image, you on that ledge — refuses to dissolve no matter how many times she tries to replace it with something else.
The sound of the door cuts through it.
You step inside like any other night. Keys dropped on the side table. Bag dropped near the wall. The easy, unhurried movements of someone coming home without any particular awareness that anything is wrong.
Natasha doesn't move.
"You want to explain something to me?"
You stop.
She's visible now that your eyes have adjusted — still and sharp in the low light of the apartment, leaning forward on the couch with her elbows braced on her knees and her green eyes fixed on you in a way that makes the room feel slightly smaller.
That look. You know that look.
You exhale slowly through your nose.
"…Clint called."
"Of course he did."
"You jumped a building."
You shrug out of your jacket, your expression shifting immediately into something flat and defensive — that look you get when you've already decided you aren't wrong.
"He talks too much."
Natasha stands.
The movement is smooth and controlled, the kind of precise, coiled motion that means she is already angry and already managing it, which is somehow worse than if she'd just snapped.
"You crossed a twelve-story gap without backup."
"It worked."
"That's not the point."
"Nat—"
"You could have been killed." The words come out quiet and even and absolutely final.
And that's when you really dig in.
"And you've never taken risks?" you fire back. "That's rich, coming from you of all people."
"That's different."
"Oh, because you're Natasha Romanoff?"
"Because I always tell you when something is dangerous."
"You interrogated Clint about my mission."
"He called me because he was worried."
"Well I wasn't."
Natasha laughs once — sharp, humorless, the kind of laugh that means she's past the point of finding anything funny.
"That," she says, "is the entire problem."
The argument escalates the way arguments between two people who are both trained operatives always do — fast, precise, and deeply, stubbornly personal. You both know the other's pressure points. Neither of you is particularly gifted at backing down.
"You don't get to act like I'm reckless," you snap. "Half the field decisions you've made in your career make that jump look like a leisurely stroll."
"And I come home."
"So did I."
"That was luck—"
"That was skill, Natasha, and you know it—"
"Skill doesn't cancel out a twelve-story drop—"
"I calculated the jump—"
"You guessed—"
"I'm still standing here!"
"I know." Her voice cracks slightly on it. Just barely. Just enough.
Silence snaps the room in half.
You both breathe for a moment. Natasha turns away, jaw tight, one hand pressed briefly to her forehead. She's fighting something she hasn't let you see clearly yet — and that's what's making the whole thing worse.
"I'm not doing this right now," she says, voice lower now. Controlled again.
You spread your hands.
"Of course you're not."
"Because if I keep talking," she says quietly, already moving toward the hallway, "I'm going to say something I'll regret."
The office door closes.
Not slammed. Worse — precise. Deliberate.
The apartment settles into silence.
-
The next two hours become a strange, exhausting domestic cold war.
Natasha deals with her feelings the way she deals with most things — by doing something with her hands and her body and her considerable self-discipline. Dishes get washed that were already clean. The counters are wiped twice. Laundry that didn't need folding gets folded with the kind of rigid, surgical precision that belongs in a military briefing, not a linen closet.
She moves through the apartment like a contained storm wearing the skin of a routine.
You sit on the couch and try to ignore it. You scroll your phone. You turn the TV on. Turn it off. Put it on again. Watch nothing for twenty minutes before giving up entirely and staring at the ceiling while the silence stretches between the two of you like something physical.
Eventually you hear the click of her office door.
The soft lamp light. The quiet keyboard sounds that stop when you reach the doorway.
You lean against the frame.
She's at her desk with her laptop open and her reading glasses low on her nose, her hair loose and slightly disheveled from where she's been running her hand through it. The glow from the screen catches the angles of her face — the sharp line of her jaw, the slight furrow between her brows. She looks tired. Not the physical kind.
She hears you. Doesn't look up.
"Nat."
She exhales. Removes her glasses. Presses her fingers briefly to her eyes.
"I'm tired," she says. "I don't want to fight anymore tonight."
You push off the doorframe.
"Then don't."
"I'm working."
"You're hiding."
One eyebrow lifts above a very pointed look.
"Call it what you want."
You cross the room slowly, watching her watch you with that cautious, unreadable expression she deploys when she isn't sure what you're about to do. You stop beside the desk.
She tilts her chin up slightly.
"What are you doing?"
You don't answer.
Instead — slowly, deliberately, with perfect casualness — you hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt.
And lift.
Just a flash. A single moment of bare skin and the soft curve of your chest before the fabric drops again, as if you'd done nothing at all. As if it had been completely accidental.
It was not accidental.
Natasha goes absolutely still.
The silence in the office becomes a different kind of silence.
Her eyes drop.
Come back up.
Drop again.
For a long moment she doesn't move at all. Doesn't breathe, as far as you can tell.
"…Did you just—"
"Maybe."
She stares at you.
"You're not wearing a bra."
You tilt your head.
"Observant."
Natasha drags both hands slowly down her face, the picture of a woman trying very hard to be irritated and finding the capacity for it slipping away from her at considerable speed. She lowers her hands. Her gaze drifts downward again, slower this time, like she's given up pretending she isn't looking.
She closes the laptop.
Click.
She leans back in her chair, studying you the way she studies a tactical problem — carefully, thoroughly, like she's mapping every angle.
"I was very prepared to stay angry at you tonight," she says. Her voice has changed. Lower now. Quieter.
"I know."
"I had a whole plan."
"Mm."
"Righteous silence. Maybe some pointed comments over breakfast." She pauses. "I was looking forward to it."
You smile.
Just slightly.
"And now?"
Natasha stands.
The motion is slow and deliberate — unfolding from the chair with the unhurried grace that's simply how she exists in a body, every movement aware of itself. She steps around the desk and stops directly in front of you. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off her skin. Close enough that when she breathes, you can see it.
Her eyes drop again. Linger.
Come back up to find yours.
"You weaponized the fact that you're not wearing a bra," she says softly.
"Strategic deployment."
"That's not how conflict resolution works."
"Seems to be working."
Her gaze dips one more time — slower now, deliberate, not even trying to disguise it. When she looks back up there's a very specific quality to her expression. Something that has quietly, completely won out over everything else that was there an hour ago.
"You're very proud of yourself."
"A little."
She reaches out and settles one hand on your waist — fingers curling through the fabric of your shirt, thumb pressing a slow, warm line along your side. The touch is soft. Exploratory. Like she's remembering the shape of you after a day that almost made her question whether she'd get to.
That's the thing underneath all of it, you realize.
That's what the argument was really about.
"Nat." Your voice is softer now too.
Her thumb traces another line along your side. Slower.
"You scared me," she says quietly. Just that. Simple and honest, stripped of all the anger that surrounded it for the past two hours. "I don't—" She stops. Starts again. "When Clint said rooftop, my brain filled in the rest before he even finished the sentence."
You reach up and touch her jaw. Turn her face up toward yours.
"I know."
"I can't—" Her jaw tightens. "I cannot walk through what I walk through every day if I'm also walking through the thought of losing you."
"You're not going to."
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you." You hold her gaze. "But I came home."
Something in her expression shifts. Breaks a little at the edges. She exhales through her nose, and then her forehead drops forward to press against yours, and for a moment you just breathe together in the low lamplight of her office.
"I hate that you're right," she murmurs.
"I know."
"And I'm still mad at you."
"I know that too."
Her hand on your waist tightens — pulling you closer, the distance between you narrowing until there's nothing left of it. Her other hand comes up and slides along your jaw, tilting your face, and when she kisses you it's slow and deep and carries the weight of everything the argument was really made of.
Relief. Fear. Love. The particular, aching terror of having something you can't afford to lose.
When she finally pulls back, she keeps her forehead against yours.
"We still need to talk about the rooftop."
"Later."
Picking up from where the tension peaks — here's a spicier continuation:
Her thumb drags slowly along your cheekbone, and then her hand slides back into your hair instead — fingers curling at the nape of your neck with a grip that's gentle and possessive at exactly the same time.
"Much later," she agrees.
And then she kisses you again.
This one is different.
The first one was relief. This one is something else entirely — slower and more deliberate, her mouth moving against yours with the kind of unhurried, focused attention she gives to things she intends to take her time with. Her hand tightens in your hair just slightly. Enough to tilt your head back. Enough to make the angle exactly what she wants it to be.
You make a soft sound against her mouth.
Natasha pulls back just far enough to look at you — flushed, slightly breathless, her green eyes darker now and fixed on yours with an intensity that does something immediate to your nervous system.
"You thought flashing me would fix this," she says quietly.
"Didn't it?"
Her gaze drops to your mouth.
"It redirected it."
She walks you backward.
Slowly. One step, then another, until your back finds the wall of her office and Natasha steps into the space in front of you — one hand braced beside your head, the other still loose at your waist, close enough that you can feel every breath she takes.
She doesn't touch you.
Not yet.
That's deliberate too.
"You know what I've been thinking about," she says, very low, "for the past 5 minutes while I was trying to be very mature and process my emotions?"
"Tell me..."
She leans in. Her mouth brushes just below your ear, barely contact, just the warmth of her breath against your skin.
"Taking this shirt off you."
Your breath catches.
Her lips press softly beneath your jaw. Once. Twice. Working their way down the line of your throat with unhurried, devastating patience, and you feel her smile slightly against your skin when your head tips back against the wall.
"Natasha—"
"Mm?"
"You're doing that on purpose."
"Yes." No hesitation. Her mouth finds the curve of your neck and lingers. "Consider it payback for the flash."
"That's not—" Your train of thought dissolves as her teeth graze lightly. "—fair."
"I never said I was fair."
Her hand at your waist slides beneath the hem of your shirt — warm palm flat against your skin, fingers spreading slowly across your stomach like she's relearning the map of you. You feel her exhale against your throat when she realizes, again, that there's nothing between her hand and your skin but fabric she can push out of the way whenever she decides to.
"You really weren't wearing a bra," she murmurs. Faintly amused. Mostly something else.
"I really wasn't."
She lifts her head and looks at you.
Hair slightly messed from her hands. Mouth bitten red. The wall solid at your back and Natasha Romanoff between you and the rest of the room, looking at you like you are the most aggravating and wanted thing she has ever seen.
"Take it off," she says quietly.
Not a question.
You reach for the hem.
Her hands are there first.
She strips the shirt over your head in one slow, smooth pull and drops it somewhere behind her without looking, and then she just — looks at you. Standing in the warm lamplight with her eyes moving over you like she's cataloguing something precious. Like she's been waiting all evening for exactly this and isn't in any hurry now that she has it.
Her hands settle at your waist again. Thumbs tracing the soft skin just above the waistband of your jeans.
"I was so angry at you," she says softly.
"I know."
"I'm still angry at you." Her thumb presses a slow circle into your hip. "It's just — coexisting with other things right now."
You reach up and curl your fingers into the front of her shirt.
"Then let those other things win for a while."
Something shifts in her expression.
She steps in fully — no space left between you now, the warmth of her body pressed against yours — and kisses you hard enough that you feel it down to your knees. One hand splayed across your bare back, pulling you in. The other sliding up into your hair, tilting your head exactly where she wants it. The wall is solid behind you and Natasha is solid in front of you and you stop thinking about anything else entirely.
When she finally breaks the kiss you're both breathing harder. She presses her lips once, twice more, softer — like she can't quite stop — before resting her forehead against yours in the dark.
"Bedroom," she says.
"Finally."
She laughs — a real one this time, low and warm — and takes your hand.
Can you do one where Natasha is your girlfriend. You randomly get it in your head one day that you’re not good enough for Natasha. Nat gets a call one night to come pick you up, because you’re absolutely hammered somewhere (which is extra concerning, because you normally don’t drink). Nat gets you home and takes care of your sad drunken self, asking you “why did you drink so much baby?”. And you just kind of fall apart, telling her how you’re not good enough (maybe some insecurities/childhood trauma type stuff resurfaces a bit?). Natasha makes you feel better and is all cute and shit idk lol
Favourite
Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader
[A/N] Had a super productive day the day before I left and managed to write three fics!! Love that for me 😂 Thank you for the request my lovely, this is so cute 😘 Hope you all enjoy! ❤️
Natasha sees your name flash up on her phone and she smiles, picking up immediately “Hey baby… Missing me?”
“Hello. Is this Natasha?”
Natasha sits up at the sound of a stranger’s voice. Who the Hell has your phone and why? Her mind races through a million possibilities before the stranger continues “I’m here with Y/N; she said you were her girlfriend. She’s uh… She’s had quite a lot to drink and I didn’t want to let her go home on her own. Do you think you could come pick her up?”
Before the stranger has even finished Natasha’s pulled on her leather jacket, hunting around for her car keys “Yeah, yeah, of course. Just let me know where you are, I’m on my way.”
The woman gives Natasha the name of a bar across town and then she hangs up the phone, rushing out to her car. Why were you out getting drunk by yourself? That wasn’t like you at all. Natasha was the one who drank, no matter the occasion whereas you’d sometimes have one glass of wine and then stop. You weren’t one for hard spirits and you’d told Natasha previously you didn’t like getting drunk. Admittedly Natasha had been a little worried about you lately. You’ve always been quieter and more reserved than her, that’s what she’d loved about you. Last time you’d hung out though you’d been even quieter than usual, brushing off Natasha's concerns.
It takes Natasha about twenty minutes to make it to the bar and she finds you outside with a woman. You’re sobbing while this woman keeps her arm around you, trying to keep you upright. Natasha runs over, taking you into her own arms “Thanks for looking after her and for calling me. I’ll get her home.”
“I didn’t realise when she said Natasha she meant- Anyway, it was no problem. Hope she’s okay.”
Natasha looks down at you, your arms now wrapped around her waist as you cry loudly into her chest. She kisses the top of your head, rocking you back and forth “It’s okay… It’s okay, I’ve got you…”
You’re in no state to be moved right now so Natasha just holds you, whispering gentle reassurances. Every time someone glances in your direction she fixes them with a hard glare and they quickly look away, scurrying off. Natasha runs her fingers through your hair, kissing your forehead until your tears eventually subside and then she guides you back to the car, settling you into the passenger’s seat.
She turns up the radio in the car, letting you look out the window, hoping that’ll stop you from feeling sick. You hadn’t mentioned it but then you hadn’t said a word yet. Natasha’s never seen you drunk before, she has no idea what to expect. At one point you do gag so Natasha quickly pulls the car over but you take several deep breaths and then mumble that you’re okay so Natasha keeps driving until you get back to her place.
Natasha has her own apartment and she’s proud of it. At first the space had overwhelmed her a little but with your help she’d managed to decorate it in a way that pleased her. She was pretty minimalist, but she did love photos and pictures so you’d helped her pick out some of her favourites, frame them and then hang them up. It’s the first place that has ever truly felt like home to Natasha, even more so when you’re there with her.
Once you’re inside she sits down on her couch, pulling you into her lap and kissing your forehead “What happened baby? Why did you drink so much?”
“I’m sad,” You tell her, your eyes still teary.
“Why are you so sad? Who’s upset my baby girl?”
Natasha never speaks like this in front of anyone else but she knows how much you love when she softens her voice and calls you cute pet names. For you, she’d do anything. You’re her biggest weakness.
You cry harder so Natasha kisses the top of her head, waiting patiently for you to tell her the problem. She knows you’ve been feeling a bit of stress at work so she assumes it’s that. There’s always something worrying you and stressing you out – you both have a long standing joke that you wouldn’t be able to handle Nat’s job, you’d fall apart from the pressure. Natasha never undermines how stressful your own work can be though, letting you blow off steam whenever you come round, rubbing your feet as you complain about your difficult customers and your workload.
“I’m not good enough for you!” You suddenly burst, sobbing harder.
Natasha frowns, taken aback by your words “What? Who told you that?”
“Nobody I just know I’m not,” You whine. “You’re cool and brave and- And- And I’m a wimp and ugly and-”
“Hey, you’re not ugly!” Natasha insists, her hand cupping your cheek. “And you’re not a wimp. Or any other negative thing you’re about to say about yourself.”
“You could date literally anyone, why did you settle for me?”
“I didn’t settle for anything. I love you, you know I love you,” Natasha kisses your tear-stained cheek. “Shh, please don’t say that, you’re gonna break my heart baby.”
“I don’t deserve you!” You wail.
Natasha rests her head against the top of yours, closing her eyes as she rocks you back and forth, listening to your anguished cries “So why did you drink so much?”
“I was sad and I wanted to not feel sad anymore but now I feel very sad.”
“Alcohol’s a depressant, it’ll do that,” Natasha murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “You should’ve just told me.”
“I’m always moaning to you about my problems, I didn’t wanna bother you-”
“You don’t bother me! I want to hear what’s going on with you. What I don’t want is for you to go to random bars and get drunk all by yourself,” Natasha sighs, kissing the top of your head. “Why are you suddenly so worried about this?”
You sniffle and suddenly you can’t stop talking. Tell her all about your childhood, how boys had asked you out as a joke, how you’d explored your sexuality but every girl you’d dated had told you were too needy, how your parents had always favoured your younger sister. About your parents alcoholism, how you always promised yourself you wouldn’t get drunk and how you feel uncomfortable around drunk people, even now. How you’d never come first for anyone and now you blamed yourself. If only you weren’t so needy, so pathetic, you’d be worthy of love. Natasha listens, letting you get it off your chest, her hand rubbing up and down your back.
“You can do so much better than me,” You sob.
Natasha kisses the top of your head again and whispers “You know what though? I often think that about you. That you could do so much better than me.”
You blow a raspberry “No you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I’m an assassin; I have so much blood on my hands. Every time someone sees you with me you get put in more danger. You’re so sweet and kind and funny, and I’m… Emotionally unavailable a lot of the time. I have nightmares and I’m… I’m needy too.”
You hiccup, your tears starting to subside as you look up at her. Natasha reaches over to the coffee table, picking up a bottle of water and placing it in your hands “I can’t wait to deal with your first hangover tomorrow.”
You take a long swig of the water, realising for the first time just how thirsty you are – partly from all the alcohol, and partly from all the crying. You wipe at the tears on your face, your make-up now so smudged that you look like a little panda. Natasha thinks it’s cute and kisses your cheek “You’re my beautiful girlfriend, my baby girl and I love you. Knowing you’ve been feeling this insecure kills me.”
“I didn’t realise… You feel the same?”
“Sometimes. But I’m also really selfish because even if I’m not good enough for you, I’m not letting you go anywhere.”
You smile, your head against her shoulder “You’re my favourite.”
“You’re my favourite. And you’ll always come first for me,” Natasha kisses your forehead. “No more drinking sessions by yourself. And no more self doubt. I won’t allow it.”
Natasha lifts you easily into her arms, ignoring your squeals of protest which are half-hearted anyway. She carries you through to her bedroom, lowering you onto the floor. She helps you out of your clothes, letting you wear one of her oversized t-shirts as pyjamas then gently wipes off all your make-up. Natasha kisses your red, shiny face and then pulls you into her arms “Get some sleep. You’re gonna wake up with a hell of a headache.”
You groan, nuzzling your face into her neck “Will you look after me?”
“Yeah baby, of course,” Natasha reassures you, running her hand through your messy hair. “Always.”
You fall asleep in her embrace and Natasha kisses your forehead. You look so cute and vulnerable; it makes her fall in love with you even more. She’d had no idea you were feeling that way and she’s worried you’ll feel embarrassed in the morning. Natasha won’t let you feel bad about yourself though. You’ve taken care of her multiple times after a few too many drinks and now it’s her turn. She kisses your forehead. Her favourite girl… She won’t let you doubt yourself ever again.
summary: the mission went wrong. Natasha refused help. Her wife refused to watch.
tags/warnings: fluff, hurt/comfort, domestic, teasing, flirty, sarcasm, intimate tension , mild injury, blood, brief discussion of trauma, strong language (light), teasing that pushes boundaries
author’s note: hi 🤍 i did planned to write tonight, but this brainstorm took over, can’t stopped thinking about this idea—Natasha’s wife being a doctor just wouldn’t leave my head. i’m officially obsessed.
Natasha being smug and teasing, and the wife refusing to let her get away with it, felt inevitable.
english isn’t my first language, so please be kind.
comments always make my day, I’d love to hear what you think.
the mission should be easy. in and out.
it wasn’t.
—
The blast hits harder than Natasha expects.
Heat washes over her first—then sound. Shattering glass rains down across the street, smoke curling thick and acrid between overturned cars. The air tastes like metal and dust.
Not enough to take her out—never that—but enough to send her skidding across the pavement, ribs screaming as she catches herself on one knee. She pushes up immediately, ignoring the sharp, pulsing ache along her side.
Alive. Standing. Good.
Sirens rush in almost instantly.
Police cars flood the street, red and blue lights bouncing off broken glass and scorched pavement. EMTs swarm the area, voices overlapping, hands already reaching for the rest of the team.
Natasha presses her hand to her ribs and feels it—warm, sticky.
She pulls her hand back.
Blood.
She exhales slowly.
“I’m fine,” she says before anyone can open their mouth.
Clint’s eyes drop. “You’re bleeding.”
She shrugs. “It’s superficial.”
“That’s what you said about the knife in Bucharest.”
She ignores him.
The paramedics arrive, moving efficiently through the team. Tony is loudly insisting he doesn’t need stitches. Steve sits patiently, already answering questions. Bruce cooperates immediately.
Natasha does not.
She stays standing near the perimeter, arm loosely braced across her side, jaw set.
“I don’t need—” she tells a paramedic.
“Romanoff.”
The voice cuts through everything.
Natasha turns.
Clint narrows his eyes—then looks past her.
And grins.
“Oh,” he says softly. “You’re so fucked.”
You’re pushing through the crowd in scrubs, hair falling loose, hospital badge still clipped on. You look wrecked—the kind of tired that only comes from a finished shift—but your eyes are sharp, locked on her like a threat.
An officer steps into your path. “Ma’am, you can’t—”
“I’m a doctor,” you snap, not slowing.
“We already have medical—”
You stop, voice dropping.
“My wife is bleeding on live television.”
Silence.
Behind the officer, Clint lifts a hand in greeting when your eyes flick to him.
“Hi, Barton.”
“Hey, Doc,” he beams. “Rough night?”
Then you’re in front of Natasha.
Her breath catches.
“What are you doing here?” she asks immediately. “You were supposed to be going home.”
You look at the blood seeping through her suit.
“And you’re supposed to not die,” you reply flatly.
She almost smiles.
“I’m fine.”
You tilt your head slowly. “Sit.”
Nat hesitates.
Clint laughs openly. “Sit, Tash. Trust me.”
She sits.
Tony watches, delighted. “I have never seen her obey that fast.”
You crouch in front of her, movements clipped, controlled. Cameras are everywhere—you keep it clean, minimal, professional.
“You didn’t let them check you, did you?...” you mutter. “Of course you didn’t.”
“It’s just my ribs.”
You press gently.
She inhales sharply.
“That hurt,” you say.
“A little.”
“You flinched.”
She smiles faintly. “You noticed.”
Tony squints. “So… married? You??”
“Yes,” Natasha says at the same time you say, “Unfortunately.”
Without looking up, you add, “Oh stop. You begged me to marry you.”
Nat turns to you, offended and amused. “That is not—”
“You said please,” you continue calmly, securing the bandage. “Twice.”
Clint loses it. “I KNEW IT.”
You lean in, voice low. “This is temporary. We’re going home. Then I’m actually checking you.”
Her lips curve. “Bossy.”
“You married me.”
She doesn’t argue.
Home is quiet.
The door closes behind you, and only then do you let the tension drain from your shoulders.
“Bedroom,” you say.
You help her out of her clothes once you’re home, movements careful despite the way your pulse absolutely refuses to slow down.
Her jacket comes off first. Then her shirt. Slow. Deliberate. You keep your touch clinical on purpose—steady hands, precise fingers—even as your face warms traitorously.
Natasha watches you the entire time.
“You’re being very gentle,” she murmurs.
“I didn’t want the whole world to see my wife naked,” you reply flatly. “Figured I’d save that for later.”
She stills.
Then her mouth curves—slow, wicked, unmistakably pleased.
“Oh?” she says. “You thought about that?”
You don’t look up. “Focus.”
She leans back on her hands, ribs carefully supported, clearly enjoying herself now. “So you were jealous.”
“I was professional.”
“Mm,” she hums. “Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you were one bad headline away from tackling a paramedic.”
Your ears heat instantly.
She notices. Of course she does.
“You get like this when you’re worried,” she continues, softer now. “All serious. All careful. And then you pretend you’re not staring.”
“I am not—”
She shifts just enough—too much.
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
Her smile turns smug. “There it is.”
You press two fingers lightly against her ribs—medical, controlled, deliberate.
She hisses, laughing under her breath. “Careful, doctor.”
“Natasha.”
She leans closer, voice dropping. “You hate it when I tease.”
You finally look up. Meet her eyes.
“No,” you say quietly. “You tease because you know I don’t.”
That makes her pause.
Just for half a second.
You straighten, hands leaving her entirely. Calm. Composed.
“And because you know I was terrified,” you continue. “Because if I hadn’t been there, you would’ve brushed it off. Again.”
The room shifts.
Natasha’s teasing smile fades—not gone, but softer. More alert.
“…That was low,” she says gently.
“You scared me,” you reply. “Don’t use that to flirt.”
Silence stretches between you.
Then she exhales—and laughs quietly.
“Wow,” she murmurs. “Okay.”
She reaches for you, slower this time, thumb brushing your wrist. “Point taken.”
You soften—but you don’t back down.
“Good,” you say. “Because I don’t mind the teasing.”
Summary: After losing Vision once again, falling in love with you seems like the scariest thing Wanda has ever had to do. However, when the words are not reciprocated, your insecurities make it impossible for you not to confront her. (Requested)
Word count: 1094 || Pronouns: not used
Warnings: none
A/N: And look who's back! Again! I wouldn't count on me not disappearing again though Well, a lot has happened, but what matters is that I've finally come to terms with posting here again. I'm just a little short on ideas, though, hahaha but anyway, I hope you like it!
You do NOT have permission to repost or translate my work on any platforms (even with credit)
Masterlist | Library Blog
───── ⋅ ✮ ⋅ ─────
The last few months have felt like a quiet hell at the Avengers compound.
After you learned what happened in Westview, you and Natasha took an abrupt break from the mission you were working on and went to the rescue of the Scarlet Witch.
Wanda was a mess, even worse than the last time you saw her. So you dealt with the military who were trying to capture her and took her to a safe place, a place that, many years ago, had been home to all of you.
You and Natasha provided support in your own ways. Natasha was more assertive and practical. She made sure Wanda was always fed and hydrated, and kept track of the other redhead's appointments with the therapist she had found for her through some friends.
You, on the other hand, offered the Scarlet Witch the emotional support she had never had before. You don’t try to fix Wanda. You don’t ask her to talk when her eyes glaze over or when her hands tremble faintly around a mug of tea. You just stay. You sit beside her on the couch when grief makes her curl inward. You walk with her through the compound gardens when being indoors feels suffocating.
You fit into that routine gently. And somewhere along the way, you end up falling in love.
Wanda never pulls away when you touch her. Never flinches when your fingers brush hers. At night, she lets you hold her like an anchor, her forehead pressed to your collarbone, breath slow and uneven like she’s afraid of dreaming. She kisses you softly, reverently, as if love is something fragile that might shatter if handled wrong.
It's you who says it first. The words had slipped out the first time on a lazy afternoon, sunlight spilling through the windows, Wanda half-asleep against your shoulder. You don’t even realize what you’ve said until the silence stretches too long. She doesn’t respond. Instead, she just tightens her grip on you slightly.
You tell yourself it’s enough. After all, she’s been through hell. She needs time. Nevertheless, every time you say it after that, something in your chest aches when she doesn’t. Until you reach a point where you can't take it anymore.
Today is a cold Wednesday like any other in October. Wanda is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while the kettle heats, her sleeves pushed up, red magic flickering faintly around her fingers like a nervous habit. Natasha passed through minutes ago, exchanged a few unimportant conversations before leaving, saying she needed to call Yelena and check how things were going.
You show up not long after that, but before Wanda can offer you a cup of tea, you're grabbing your jacket from the coat rack. “Hey, honey, I'm going out for a walk, okay?” I let her know, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek before heading to the door, “I love you!”
“Take care!” You stop on your tracks at her response and Wanda immediately notices the change in the atmosphere, frowning in confusion. “What's wrong?”
“I love you.” You try again turing back to face her with a knowing look. “I know.” She answers with a chuckle, averting her gaze from yours and focusing on the tea in her hand, using her powers to make the spoon stir the hot liquid inside the mug.
“Why don't you say it back?” You question, hurt lacing your tone. Before you know it, your feelings build up inside of you like a crashing wave, stopping you from holding back your next words. “Honestly, Wanda, ever since the first time I said it, I've accepted your silence. Because I figured you just weren't ready to say it back. But I don't know, every time you leave me hanging I wonder if you just don't really feel the same way.”
“I do!” She hits back, her eyes pleading, but you shake your head, huffing heavily. “Then why don't you say it back?!”
“Because I can't lose you too!” She shouts, taking you by surprise. “Everyone I love dies. Everyone. There hasn't been a single exception to that pattern.” There is a brief moment of silence after that, but the tears streaming down her cheeks leave you too stunned to speak, so she sighs heavily, wiping her eyes with the hem of her shirt. “I tried so hard not to feel what I feel for you, Y/n. The fear of getting hurt again was... too much. But not falling in love with you was inevitable, and I blame you for that. Still, saying those words out loud is scary because it feels like you'll disappear the moment I say them.”
“I won't.” You finally speak, moving closer to her and wrapping your arms around her in an attempt to reassure her. However, all she does is offer you a sad smile, the lifting of her cheeks making a few more tears fall.
“It seems that way… And no matter how hard I try, I just... It's too scary.” She confesses in a shaky voice, resting her forehead on yours with your eyes closed. You mimic her action, swallowing the lump in your own throat. “I'm sorry, Y/n, for not being able to tell you how I feel about you. But know that I... Do. I really do. So much.”
“I'm sorry, love, for demanding that of you.” You apologize as well, leaning back just enough to gently brush a strand of hair from her face, a kind smile on your face. “I understand, okay? I understand, and I know how you feel. I just... Insecurity got the better of me, that's all.”
“I'm sorry.” She repeats, her tone as sincere as you have ever heard. In response, you just nod lightly, closing the distance between the two of you with a gentle kiss. “What about we watch a movie together?” You invite when the kiss is over, making her frown. “I thought you were going for a walk.”
“I can do that another time.” You say with a shrug of your shoulders, winning you a sweet, grateful smile from the redhead.
In response, Wanda intertwines her fingers with yours, guiding you to the TV room. For the rest of the day, you lie cuddled on the couch, her hand on the back of your neck, running her fingers through your hair.
She doesn't say the words, not yet. But her breathing is in sync with yours, and her lips often find yours during the movie.
And for now, that’s enough.
───── ⋅ ✮ ⋅ ─────
And that's it for today! I hope you enjoyed it, thoughts and comments are always welcome ツ
Summary: Natasha gets the wrong idea after seeing you out of work.
A/N: Thanks for the request, @notcreativenames
This is why you don’t like to play.
Of course it wasn’t a good idea to agree to a pool match with a super soldier. Thankfully, Steve is too morally correct to place a bet, so after he defeats you, all you’ll have is a bruised ego.
To add to your bad luck, Natasha and Sam join you a little bit after starting the game. Out of all the people you’d like to impress, Natasha is definitely at the top of the list.
“Tell me you bet something big” Sam says, looking around and nodding approvingly.
“You know I don’t do that” Steve says, aiming and getting three more balls.
You sigh, hoping this can be over quickly.
“In the corner” Natasha says, standing next to you. Your eyes are immediately drawn to her lips, a crimsom lipstick making her features stand out.
“What?” you say, feeling like it’s almost illegal to look that beautiful.
“Go for the left corner. Just an advice… if you trust me” she says, and it looks as if she’s trying to backtrack. As if saying something like that is a risk of its own.
“Of course I trust you” you nudge her side, getting ready to follow her advice. It works, because two balls go inside and even if you’e still about to lose, it won’t be such a gigantic defeat. “Can I get you another drink to thank you?”
“You’re not done playing” Sam says when you hand over your pole. But it only takes another shot for Steve to finish and you give him a pointed stare.
After that, you walk behind the bar and ignore the waiter. You’re one of the only people who can get Natasha’s drink right.
“Cheers” you say, sipping your glass of wine as she nods, confirming the martini is perfect. “Thanks for having my back. Nice to not be a total loser”
“Well, you did listen to me. Most people don’t” she smiles, and you lean against the bar.
“I always do. And I trust you, more than anyone” you smile, enjoying the little moment of privacy.
You’re always running around, going on missions, training recruits, filling out paperwork. It’s messy, loud and dirty work to keep the world safe.
But you wonder if at the very least, people like you and Natasha don’t deserve the courtesy of a break from time to time.
“Without knowing me that well?” she half jokes, but you can tell part of her means it.
“I think I know you. Not everything, but enough to feel like… we’re friends. Unless we’re not?” you chuckle nervously.
Truth be told, there’s always someone around when you’re in the same room as Natasha.
“I like to think we are” Natasha eases your nerves, and you take another sip of your wine, hoping it will hide your blush. “And if there’s anything you want to know, there’s my file”
“I don’t care about that” you’re quick to say, because you know what she means. A list of crimes, her infamous ledger.
But that’s not who she is.
“You sure?”
“What would you like to know about me?” you say, chaning the subject.
Natasha’s taken aback, and you’re not sure if she’ll just say one of her little jokes and steer the conversation away from an actual talk into safe territory.
“Did you ever have a pet?” she finally says, though she wants to slap herself at the basic question.
But you’re already smiling, remembering the dog you had.
“Rufus. Beagle, extremely food oriented. We had a two second rule in the house, because if you dropped something, that’s how long it would take him to get it. Lived to be 15”
“Cheers to Rufus” Natasha jokes and you smile, waiting for the next question. “I’m… a little embarrassed to say I’m blanking right now”
“You? The woman who interrogates gangsters for breakfast?”
“Well, I wasn’t… expecting this”
Which is true. She’s been looking at you, from afar. The way you’ve built your relationships around the team, always smiling and knowing exactly what to say.
Natasha could be like that, but it was mainly the spy in her, knowing how to get the exact outcome she wanted out of every interaction. You always came off as genuine, easy to talk to. It wasn’t an act.
And to be on the focus of that charm, it made Natasha uncharacteristically shy.
“Well, you could think about other questions and we’ll just chat. Like, over dinner? Or coffee, if it’s better for you”
Do you want to ask Natasha out on a date? Yes, since the moment you met her.
But right now, as she’s looking at you so intensely, part of you hesitates. Is it too unprofessional?
“Actually…”
Natasha doesn’t get to finish that sentence, though. Your phone rings and you hum, frowning.
“I’m sorry, I have to take this”
“Yeah, that’s ok” Natasha says, letting out the breath she’d been holding the minute you leave.
Were you asking her out? Or just being polite, like you were with everyone?
Whatever it is, Natasha’s going to take the chance to say yes to your invitation.
Except you don’t return to the party at all, and your phone’s off.
For the rest of the night, Natasha wonders if she did something wrong.
—
The last thing Natasha ever does is take things personally.
But it’s hard to avoid that feeling when you’ve been gone for the entire day and no one seems to know where you are.
What if you’re in some kind of trouble?
She walks around the Compound, finding your pocket knife and smartwatch safely stored in one of the shelves. You never leave without those, ever.
Fearing something’s seriously wrong, she decides to go on a little private mission. If you’re fine, then she’ll let it be and not bring up anything at all. Natasha prefers to be safe than sorry.
After looking at some of the cameras and tracking your cellphone activity, she pinpoints your location to a nice, unassuming neighborhood outside of the city.
She only hesitates a moment before taking one of her guns with her. And if she goes over the speed limit and runs a couple of red lights? It’s an emergency, and no one will really dare to fine an Avenger.
At this point, she’s memorized the address and it only takes her a short walk from an alley to find the place. It’s just a small house, one floor and a big backyard. A woman is standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a baby as she looks over something in a casserole.
It all seems so normal, that she hesitates a second longer.
Then, a little girl shouts for her mom, and you appear in the doorway, carrying a laundry basket. You laugh at the small girl, fumbling with the basket and the toy she gave you.
Natasha can’t hear what is said, but the other woman speaks to you and you roll your eyes, though there is some affection behind the gesture.
Right.
You’re not in danger.
The redhead retreats, as silently as she came. Except her heart is heavy with something unfamiliar, and she takes the long way back to the Compound.
All she wants is to be alone right now.
—
First one at the conference room before a mission overview. You look around, sighing.
These chairs suck, and you’re noticing just now. You’re pretty sure Cap chose them, since he barely notices those kind of things.
It doesn’t help that your back is hurting, from all the stuff you’ve been doing these past few days.
Just as you’re settling in your seat again, Steve, Sam and Natasha walk in the conference room.
You smile at her, happy to see her but all you get is a small glance.
“Nice to see you again” Steve says.
“Thanks. Had some stuff to do” you say, not providing any more details. However, you can’t help but grimace as you move in the chair.
“Did you hurt your back training?” Steve asks, concerned.
“Or doing something else?” Sam jumps in before you can answer, his playful tone implying a not so innocent activity. You glare, and Natasha interrupts, clearly not in the mood for jokes.
“Let’s just review the mission, yes?”
“Right. We need access to Sokolov’s communications. He’s having a party at his mansion. You’ll infiltrate. Natasha as a guest, Y/N as part of the catering staff” Steve explains, handing over two files.
“So Nat gets to have fun while I serve hors d'oeuvres” you joke, but Natasha just nods, standing up.
“Gotta get changed”
You’re about to stand up and follow her, but Steve asks you to stay. You can’t help but feel like you’re being called to the principal’s office.
“Everything ok with you?”
“Yeah. It was just… some family stuff. I’m fine”
“Want to get some medical clearance before leaving?”
“No, I just carried some heavy stuff” you say, avoiding the subject. “Do you know… is Natasha ok? She seemed quiet”
“She’s always quiet. Well…” he’s about to say something but then shakes his head.
“What? Come on, say it, Rogers” you push him and he smiles.
“I was going to say except when she’s around you. But I think you’ve already noticed”
“Ha. Nice one, grandpa” you pat his shoulder, leaving the room.
—
It’s a fancy party, but you’re not expecting anything less from a Russian mercenary. You’re stationed at the bar, making drinks and engaging in small talk with attendees. This is actually not such a bad cover, as you can gather intel. After all, people are coming to you to get even more drunk than they already are, and they think you’re just a bartender.
In the end, you and Natasha drove separately. It didn’t make sense for a party guest to arrive at the same time as a staff member. You were really hoping to at least get a chance to ask if she was ok. Maybe something happened while you were away. Of course, you had your phone with you, but Natasha tended to isolate herself. If she was going through something, you would always…
“Can I get a dirty martini?” a voice says, stopping your spiraling thoughts.
The moment you look up, you feel like the world stops moving. Natasha’s wearing a green dress, her hair arranged in a side swept that gives off an old Hollywood vibe.
“Right away” you fumble with the bottles of alcohol, the guy working at your side giving you an angry stare.
You work in silence for a few moments, tempted to look at her again. Once you’re done with the drink, you slide it over. She discreetly passes a comm as your hands connect.
“When I mentioned a night out, this isn’t what I had in mind” you try to joke, but she shuts it down quickly.
“Don’t you think it would be highly inappropriate?”
“I… what?” you look at her, confused.
Is it because you work together?
Had you crossed a line?
But before you can ask what does she mean, Natasha walks away from the bar, mingling with the crowd, and out to look for Sokolov.
The plan is to catch his eye, and make him take her back to his private office. You hate the idea, but it’s not your choice to make.
Even more so now, that you seem to know less about Natasha than you thought.
—
This isn’t going to work. Natasha’s too distracted to focus on the mission, which is incredibly dangerous. She’s surrounded by criminals who would not hesitate to kill two Avengers if your cover was blown.
The problem is, she can’t help but go over your secret. It’s not the fact that you’re married with kids and keeping it hidden from the rest of the team. That’s exactly what Clint did, and his reasons were completely valid.
What she can’t understand is why the hell were you flirting with her, even going as far as asking her out. Were you doing it so people thought you were single?
The other choice seemed less likely, but Natasha couldn’t help but wonder… were you ok with cheating on your wife?
The Russian is pulled back to reality when Sokolov approaches her.
“I don’t believe we’ve met” he says, taking her hand and kissing the back of it.
Natasha has to supress a groan and the urge to kill him right there.
“Creep” you mumble through the comms. “I’ll be right there with his special drink”
There’s a sedative in his vodka, and you’re tempted to slip a little more than recommended. Still, you stick to the plan and walk over to where the man is speaking with Natasha.
He barely glances your way when he takes the drink. Natasha grabs the glass of red wine you’re offering. You know she’s not supposed to look at you or even acknolwedge your presence, but it still hurts you a little that she’s giving you the cold shoulder.
From your place at the bar, you see them talking and then Natasha spills wine on his white suit. The man makes a face that quickly turns into a smirk when Natasha grabs his hand. According to plan, she’s probably suggesting they go to his studio.
You’re ready to kill him when you catch his hand going down Natasha’s back.
God damn it.
What if he doesn’t fall asleep immediately? What if he tries to touch her?
“Where are you going?” the guy at the bar says.
“To get more ice” you lie, following them to the study.
You wait a minute before you barge in the door, and both Sokolov and Natasha turn to look at you, alarmed. He’s standing too close for your liking.
“Get the fuck out of here” he says, slurring his words. So, the sedative is working.
Still, you don’t know what comes over you when you walk up to him and knock him down with a single punch.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Natasha says, pushing you.
“That was faster” you shrug your shoulders, inspecting your hand.
“You idiot! This is not the plan. You’re putting us both in danger” she pushes you again, and you take her by the wrist.
“I didn’t like how he was touching you! I hated every second of it, ok? I hate that you have to put yourself out there during missions”
“You’re such an idiot” Natasha slaps your hand away, cursing under her breath as she begins to hack into his systems. “I can’t bug the place now, because he’ll know we were agents. Best I can manage is steal the information he already has”
“I’m sorry” you say, trying to walk up to her.
“Stay away from me”
“Why are you so mad at me?”
“Because” she says, clinching her jaw and looking at the computer screen.
“Because…”
“I’m not just some cover you can use so people don’t know about your family. And I’m certainly not a fun little affair you can have whenever you feel like it”
“Wow, wow, what the hell are you talking about?” you say, raising your hands in confusion.
“Your wife seems lovely” is all Natasha says, finishing with the files. “I’m done here. You stay, and if you do anything stupid again, I’m not helping”
“What wife? Natasha, I’m very confused” you plead, blocking her way.
“Move”
“I’m not married!” you insist.
“And those were definitely not your kids? The oldest one even looks like you. You have a lot of nerve…”
“Wait, are you talking about my nieces?” you say, suddenly understanding at least a fraction of what’s happening.
Unfortunately for you, one of the security guards walks in, and it only takes a glance before he sees his boss on the floor, unconscious.
“Go get the car, I’ll meet you by the exit” you push Natasha away, knowing she’s faster and has a better chance of getting out.
Before the guard can call for backup, you throw a punch to his throat, rendering him speechless. The gun slips from his hand and you kick it away. The moment people hear gunshots, it will become chaos.
The man throws you to a coffee table that shatters and you crawl around the glass, small cuts in your arms. The effort made him drop to his knees, and you force yourself up, holding a shard of glass that you stab directly into his neck.
“Shit” you say, noticing he was holding a small knife and he managed to stab you with it as you killed him.
With a new sense of urgency, you leave the study, hoping Natasha decided to wait for you. Sticking to the back of the room, you leave the main hall, and go out the back. You can feel blood dripping down your side. It’s not so bad but you’re definitely feeling dizzy, the rush of adrenaline beginning to wear off.
“What now?” you say when you almost get run over by a black Mercedes Benz. Natasha stares at you, still looking angry. “You sure? Don’t want to leave blood stains”
“Get in the damn car” she says when she notices the stab wound.
“I don’t want to die” you mutter when she drives at full speed. “And the Compound is that way”
“We’re too far away, and you’re bleeding out. I know a place”
“I’m not bleeding…”
“Stop talking” she says. Natasha doesn’t shout, doesn’t curse.
No, her tone is ice cold and that’s somehow ten times scarier.
So, you keep your mouth shut, making pressure on the wound to slow down the bleeding.
Fifteen minutes later, Natasha turns left into a hidden path, and she drives for another five minutes until you spot a small cabin.
“Safe house?”
All she does is nod, parking and getting out of the car to help you.
“I got it” you ease her, limping towards the door.
“Where else are you hurt?”
“Just the stomach, don’t worry” you say, sitting down while she gets the supplies she needs from a small bathroom.
“There’s no anesthetic” she informs you when you lose your white shirt and you grimace.
“I’ll be fine”
But honestly? You wanna cry the minute she starts to stitch you up, and you hold your breath, anticipating the feel of the neddle piercing your skin.
“I’m sorry” she says after you let out a whine.
“It’s my fault. You’re right. I ruined everything” you shake your head. On top of getting stabbed, you’re going to have to deal with Steve’s reprimand. Honestly, you can’t blame him after the stupid stunt you pulled.
“If I had asked… instead of assuming things. Maybe you wouldn’t have been so sensitive” she says, finishing with the last stitch. “Let me see your arms”
You let her work in silence, removing small pieces of glass that are stuck in your skin.
“Wanna tell me what happened?”
“I… was worried about you, the day after the party. So I tried to find you. I mean, I did find you, at that house, with the kid calling you mom”
“That’s Katie, my two year old niece. She can only say the word mom, so she calls everyone that. Including her father, also know as my brother in law. The idiot insists he can clean the gutters and then breaks his leg” you sigh, looking down at the wound.
That’s going to leave a scar.
“So the woman is your sister” Natasha nods, feeling incredibly stupid.
Talk about jumping to conclusions.
“Yeah. Had to go help for a few days before our mom arrived to take over. That’s why my back was killing me. I had a toddler asking for piggy back rides while I was lulling her little sister to sleep”
“I feel so…”
“Don’t” you take her hand, smiling as she sighs. “I wanted to tell you. I just… I know it’s safer to keep our families hidden. But all the time, I just kept thinking that I wish you knew. Because they’re such a huge part of who I am and I wanted to share it…”
“Of course”
“I like you” you blurt out. “Sorry, I might have a concussion”
“I like you too. And I’m pretty sure I don’t have a concussion, for what is worth” Natasha says, helping you out of the bloody shirt and handing over a SHIELD t-shirt she found in a closet. “Are you feeling better?”
“Maybe. There’s one thing that would really help” you say, frowning as you take Natasha’s hand.
“Painkillers?”
“Go out on a date with me” you shake your head, smiling as she blushes.
“Not the concussion talking?”
“Nope. Been meaning to ask you for a while now”
“I’d love to” Natasha agrees, and you throw your fist in the air, regretting it a second later.
“Fuck, that hurt”
—
The narrative changes slightly. For all Steve knows, you saved Natasha from the mercenary and got valuable intel.
Under the excuse of helping you move, Natasha wraps her arm around your waist, your own over her shoulders as you walk back to the rooms.
“Heard you got stabbed” Sam comments as you pass him.
“Yeap” you say.
“Then how come you look so happy?” he insists and all you can do is shrug your shoulders.
Natasha walks you to your room, reminding you of the medicine you have to take, but all you do is pull her to lay by your side, happy to feel her next to you.
“No more missions with ugly guys all over you” you kiss her forehead and she melts against you.
“We’ll send Barnes next time”
“Yeah, let’s see how well they do if they try to kiss him”
“So about that dinner…”
“How about takeout and a movie until I’m better? And then I promise I’ll take you to the best place in New York”
“You got yourself a deal” she looks at you, and you raise your eyebrows, hoping she’ll say something else.
Instead, Natasha leans forward, connecting your lips in a short kiss.
“Stalker” you joke and she pinches you.
“You almost got us killed because you got jealous”
“And you know what? I’d punch him harder next time”
With a small laugh, Natasha goes back to resting her head against your shoulder, happy when you kiss her temple.
“It was kinda hot, though” she admits, which makes you laugh until your side hurts.
Okay hear me out- a soulmate AU with House and a female reader where they meet when the reader is being diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. Not long after, the diagnosis might end up being corrected to be something minor and treatable and survivable
>>>“The Thing About Dying”<<<
Summery: When a terminal diagnosis brings Y/N face-to-face with the notoriously detached Dr. Gregory House, neither of them expects the connection that follows.
The first thing you learn about being terminally ill is that people stop looking at you like a person.
They look through you.
Nurses speak softer, like sound itself might break you. Doctors avoid eye contact when they talk about timelines. Friends linger too long, their smiles forced, their hugs careful—as if you might shatter in their arms.
You learn to recognize pity dressed up as kindness.
So when Dr. Gregory House limps into your hospital room and looks at you like you’re a puzzle he’s mildly offended by, it’s almost comforting.
“You don’t look like someone with a death sentence,” he says flatly, eyes flicking from your chart to your face.
You blink. “…Excuse me?”
He pops a pill into his mouth and chews. “Terminal brain cancer patients usually look either terrified or resigned. You look… annoyed.”
You huff a laugh before you can stop yourself. “I am annoyed. The coffee here tastes like betrayal.”
Something in his eyes sharpens. Not interest exactly—recognition.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That tracks.”
⸻
House wasn’t supposed to be your doctor.
He wasn’t even supposed to be involved.
But somehow, he keeps showing up. During scans. During rounds. Leaning against the doorframe when you’re pretending to sleep.
You start to recognize the rhythm of his cane in the hallway. It’s ridiculous, how comforting it becomes.
One night, you catch him staring at your MRI scans with an intensity that borders on obsession.
“Is it bad?” you ask quietly.
He doesn’t look away. “It’s wrong.”
Your heart sinks. “How bad?”
He exhales sharply. “Not bad like you think. Bad like it doesn’t make sense.”
You swallow. “I don’t understand.”
“I know,” he says softly. “That’s what scares me.”
He should leave after that. He doesn’t.
Instead, he sits beside your bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s holding something fragile together.
“You scared?” he asks.
You hesitate. Then, honestly, “I’m more scared of not getting to be scared anymore.”
Something cracks in his expression—just for a second.
And then, incredibly, he reaches out and covers your hand with his.
The contact is electric. Warm. Anchoring.
Your breath catches. So does his.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
⸻
Days blur together.
Tests. Scans. Needles. Questions.
And House.
Always House.
He argues with his team over your case like it’s personal. He snaps at Foreman, yells at Chase, insults Cameron until she storms out—and still, he stays up all night rechecking your results.
You wake up one evening to find him asleep in the chair beside your bed, cane leaning against the wall, head tipped back, exhaustion carved deep into his features.
Your chest aches.
You reach out, brushing your fingers against his sleeve.
He startles awake instantly.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough.
“I think I should be asking you that.”
He huffs. “Don’t get used to this. I’m only here because you’re confusing.”
You smile softly. “You’re not as heartless as you pretend to be.”
His gaze lingers on your face, something vulnerable flickering behind his sarcasm.
“Don’t ruin my reputation,” he murmurs.
⸻
The night everything changes, rain hammers against the windows.
House bursts into your room without knocking, breath uneven, eyes alight with something between triumph and terror.
“I was wrong,” he says.
Your stomach drops. “About what?”
“About everything.” He steps closer, gripping the foot of your bed. “It’s not terminal. It was never terminal.”
You stare at him, frozen. “What?”
“It’s rare. It’s complicated. But it’s treatable.” His voice cracks. “You’re not dying.”
The world tilts.
You gasp, your hands shaking as the weight of it crashes over you. Relief hits so hard it hurts. Tears spill freely, unstoppable.
“I’m not—” Your voice breaks. “I’m not dying?”
“No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”
You laugh and cry at the same time, breath hitching until you can’t breathe at all.
And then you’re sobbing into his chest, fingers gripping his shirt like he might disappear.
He hesitates only a second before wrapping his arms around you, holding you tight—too tight—for someone who’s supposed to be detached.
His chin rests against your hair.
“I wasn’t ready to lose you,” he admits softly.
You pull back just enough to look at him. “You barely know me.”
His eyes are dark. Honest. Terrified.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the problem.”
Later, when the adrenaline fades and the world feels steady again, you sit together in the quiet.
“Why did you fight so hard?” you ask gently.
He stares at the floor. “Because when I walked into that room and saw you, something in my chest hurt in a way I didn’t recognize.”
You swallow. “What does that mean?”
He meets your gaze.
“It means you matter,” he says. “More than you should. More than makes sense.”
Your fingers brush against his, tentative.
Neither of you pulls away.
Outside, the rain finally stops.
And for the first time since your diagnosis, the future doesn’t feel like a countdown.
Closed Doors was delicious, write more for House one day and my life is yours, you absolute angel 🙏🙏
Til Death Do Us Part
SUMMARY: When House notices the subtle cracks in his wife's bright facade, he can't ignore them.
WORD COUNT: 2,439 words
PAIRING: greg house x wife!reader
WARNINGS: angsty angsty (sorry😭)
The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly as House leaned against the wall of his office, tossing a worn tennis ball into the air and catching it in one deft hand. Through the glass walls, he watched her—his wife—laughing with one of the interns. Her head thrown back, her entire frame animated with that familiar, infuriating energy that first made him fall for her.
But something wasn’t right.
He caught the ball mid-air, frowning. She was laughing too hard. Too brightly. A beat too long before she steadied herself, hand fluttering briefly to the side of her head. Not the first time he noticed it. Not the first time he chalked it up to exhaustion, or the hospital wearing her down. Yet, House had a nose for lies. Even unspoken ones.
Later, when she sat at their shared desk in the flat, a stack of children’s charts spread before her, he caught her blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear her vision. Her hand trembled when she reached for her tea.
House said nothing. Not yet.
He started running tests behind her back the very next day.
Nothing major at first—blood work, basic scans, subtle prodding during casual conversations masked as teasing. She laughed him off, told him he was getting soft in his old age, caring too much. He retorted with some snide comment about how British women probably enjoyed seeing their husbands panic. She threw a pillow at his head.
But deep down, House was gnawing on a bone he couldn’t put down.
Something was wrong.
Something he couldn’t diagnose by sarcasm alone.
It took him a week. A brutal, sleepless, Vicodin-laced week of cross-referencing every symptom she didn't even realise she was showing. When the preliminary results landed on his desk, he didn't even read them at first—just stared at the thick envelope like it was ticking.
Finally, he ripped it open.
Cancer.
The word punched the air from his lungs, even as his brain kicked into clinical overdrive. He scanned every line, every marker, but nowhere did it say where exactly the cancer was lodged. Just that it was there. Hiding. Growing.
He needed Wilson.
No—he needed answers.
He found her on the paediatrics floor, perched on the edge of a hospital bed, coaxing a giggle out of a pale, freckled boy with a toy stethoscope. She looked radiant. She looked fine.
House's stomach twisted.
He waited until she finished, then intercepted her outside the ward.
“Got a sec, Doc McCheery?”
She grinned, mock saluting. “Only if you’re here to hand-deliver my 'World’s Best Doctor' mug.”
“Something better.” His voice was light but his eyes were steel. “A mystery.”
She cocked her head, blonde hair catching the light. “Oh, go on then. Solve it, Sherlock.”
House stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’re sick.”
Her smile faltered, barely, but it was enough for him to see it.
He pressed on. “I’ve run your blood work. You’re throwing off tumour markers. Something’s growing inside you.”
She rolled her eyes, but he didn’t miss the flicker of panic. “Honestly, Greg, you’re worse than my mum.”
“We’ll have Wilson run some more scans,” he continued, relentless. “Get a full body PET. Find out where it’s hiding.”
“No.”
The word was sharp. Final.
House blinked. “No?”
She crossed her arms, forcing a laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re overreacting. It’s probably a false positive. Stress, maybe. God knows I’m married to enough of it.”
House’s jaw clenched. “You’re lying.”
She stepped back, defensive, playful tone gone. “Drop it, House.”
“Like hell I will.” His voice rose, drawing a few glances from passing nurses. He didn’t care. “You think I’m just going to stand there while you—while you—”
“What? Die?” she snapped, suddenly furious. “Grow up.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
House stared at her, breathing hard. “You know.”
It wasn’t a question.
She looked away, blinking rapidly again. “Yeah,” she said hoarsely. “I know.”
House closed his eyes for a second, as if that could erase the moment. “Since when?”
“Few weeks.”
“WEEKS?” His cane thudded against the wall as he turned in frustration. “And you didn’t think to tell your husband?”
“What for?” she shot back. “So you could dissect me like one of your bloody puzzles? You think I wanted to become your latest case study?”
“You ARE my case study, dammit!” he barked. “You’re my wife!”
She swiped angrily at a tear threatening to spill. “I’m your wife, Greg, not your patient. I get to choose.”
House advanced on her, voice low and dangerous. “You’re choosing to die.”
She laughed bitterly. “Yeah, well, not much of a choice, is it?”
House gritted his teeth. “Wilson can start treatment. There’s still time.”
“No.”
Her voice cracked.
“No chemo. No endless scans. No months of vomiting and losing my hair and becoming a ghost before your eyes. I’m not doing that.”
House stared at her, aghast. “You stubborn, infuriating—”
“It’s brain cancer, Greg.” She said it too fast, like tearing off a plaster. “It’s already spread. There’s nothing to treat.”
The words hung between them, thick and suffocating.
Brain cancer.
Terminal.
House swallowed hard, throat dry. For the first time in years, he felt utterly, completely helpless.
She stepped closer, softer now. “I don’t want to spend what’s left being prodded and poked and sick. I want to live.” Her fingers brushed his. “With you. As me.”
House stared at her hand on his, his mind reeling.
Live.
As her.
Not as some hollowed-out version.
He squeezed her fingers, just once.
And for once, House had no smart-ass reply. No sarcastic retort.
Just grief, raw and gnawing, wrapping its claws around his ribs.
They barely spoke on the drive home.
House gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles whitening with every mile. She sat curled against the window, cheek pressed to the cool glass, silent. Normally she filled car rides with chatter, teasing him about his music taste or criticising his driving.
Now, just silence.
He hated it.
When they reached their building, she moved ahead, keys jangling weakly in her hand. House limped after her, cane tapping the stairwell floor, every step heavier than the last.
Their flat smelled like old books and the faint citrus of her shampoo.
Home.
It was supposed to feel like safety. Tonight, it felt like a countdown.
She dropped her bag at the door and peeled off her jacket, moving sluggishly. House watched her, searching for something to anchor himself. Some way to fix this.
“Do you want tea?” she asked, voice too bright, brittle.
He barked a humourless laugh. “Yeah. That’ll cure the cancer.”
She flinched, barely, but recovered quickly. “Well, if not, at least it’ll shut you up for five minutes.”
House’s chest ached.
This—this—was how they coped. Sarcasm layered over fear like armour. They had built their marriage on it.
He let her make the tea.
Let her pretend.
She set his mug in front of him, hands trembling slightly, and sat opposite at the small kitchen table. Her sleeves were pushed up, revealing the delicate twist of her wrists, the veins he knew too well.
House stared at her.
So alive. So herself.
And yet.
“How long?” he asked quietly.
She traced the rim of her mug with one finger. “They gave me six months. Maybe a year, if I’m stubborn enough.”
He snorted, despite himself. “You? Stubborn? Shocking.”
A ghost of a smile flickered across her lips. “Said I could beat the record if I pissed off enough people.”
His throat closed up.
He set the mug down too hard, spilling tea across the table. Neither of them moved to wipe it.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, softer now, almost pleading.
She shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t want you to look at me like—” she waved vaguely at the air between them, “—like that.”
“Like what?” he rasped.
“Like I’m already dead.”
House rubbed his face with one hand, feeling years older. “I’m a bastard, not a corpse sniffer.”
She laughed, a broken, beautiful sound. “Could’ve fooled me.”
The silence stretched, heavy, but not empty.
Finally, she spoke.
“I’ve made peace with it, Greg. I need you to.”
House shook his head, sharp and stubborn. “I don’t make peace. I make enemies. Death’s on the list.”
She reached across the table, curling her hand around his. “You can’t fix this.”
House’s fingers twitched.
Fixing things was what he did. Diagnosing, cutting, poisoning, healing—forcing the body to obey him through sheer willpower and spite.
But not this.
Not her.
Her hand was warm. Solid. Real.
He clung to it like a man clinging to a ledge.
“What do you want, then?” he asked hoarsely. “A world tour? Skydiving? Trip to Disneyland?”
She snorted. “You on a rollercoaster would definitely kill me quicker.”
House squeezed her hand, hard enough to make her wince.
“Just you,” she whispered. “Just time. Just... us.”
He bowed his head, forehead pressing against the back of her hand.
“Okay,” he said, voice breaking. “Okay.”
That night, he couldn’t sleep.
She dozed beside him, soft breaths against his shoulder, hair fanned across the pillow like a halo. He watched her for hours, memorising the slope of her nose, the way her lashes fluttered when she dreamed.
Every detail was a lifeline and a knife.
At some point, she stirred, finding him awake.
“Greg,” she murmured sleepily, “if you don’t stop brooding, I’ll die of boredom before the cancer gets me.”
He huffed a laugh, rough with unshed tears.
“Come here,” she ordered, tugging at his arm.
He shifted, wincing at the stiffness in his leg, and let her curl against him, head tucked under his chin. Her hand splayed across his chest, fingers idly tapping a rhythm only she knew.
“Love you, you miserable sod,” she mumbled into his shirt.
House closed his eyes.
He’d never been good at saying it back. Not easily. But tonight, he needed her to know.
“Love you too, you bossy Brit,” he said thickly.
She smiled against him, and for a moment, it was almost easy to believe that morning would come like any other. That time wasn’t slipping through their fingers like sand.
Weeks passed.
They didn’t talk about treatments again. Didn’t whisper about hope or miracles. She refused hospitals, refused sympathy. She worked as long as she could, still lighting up the children’s ward with her reckless, infectious energy.
But House saw the changes.
The headaches that left her pale and trembling. The slurred words. The moments where she stared at nothing, lost in the fog.
He fought every instinct to rush her to a hospital.
Because she asked him to let her live.
Because he loved her too much not to.
Some nights she was strong enough to mock him, to tease him about his cooking, his Vicodin stash, his permanent scowl. Other nights, she cried in his arms, scared and furious and small in a way she never let anyone else see.
He held her through it all.
And every day, House hated the universe a little more.
Hated how something so brilliant, so bright, could be snuffed out by something as stupid as rogue cells multiplying in her brain.
One evening, she sat on the battered old sofa, a woollen blanket draped over her lap, sipping hot chocolate. Her hair was thinner now, her skin papery, but her smile—God, her smile—still stopped his heart.
“Greg,” she said suddenly, serious.
He looked up from his medical journal.
“When I go,” she said, “I want you to do something.”
He closed the journal slowly. “If this involves taxidermy, I’m out.”
She laughed weakly. “No. I want you to be happy.”
House stared at her.
“You’re allowed,” she whispered. “After. You’re allowed to love again. To be alive.”
House’s mouth twisted. “There’s no after.”
She leaned forward, touching his knee. “Promise me.”
“I don’t make promises.”
She just smiled.
And somehow, House knew he would spend the rest of his life trying to keep that one.
A/N: I don't know if I'm an angel anymore😭😭I'm sorry guys I just had this idea but I'll do some fluff maybe tomorrow....
I know I have been absolutely awol and have not posted any reauests recently! Im getting on them but i just reached s11 on greys again and seeing amelia with ow*n is a disservice I had to make right, so... Enjoy!
Rain always meant a collapsed ER.
Ambulances rushing in and out, the beds filled with patients.
"Okay, now follow the pen," you said to the guy on bed five, checking his pupils. "All right, someone page Neuro, have his head checked."
You moved to the next bed, a woman that had fallen from the stairs. You started to work on the superficial wounds as you waited for Dr. Shepherd to appear.
When she did you pointed to the man you'd been examining before, "Biking and rain are not a good convo."
"Got it."
"All right, ma'am, try to breathe for me," you told the woman while listening to her heartbeat. "I really enjoy working in the pit, you know?" You told Amelia as she examined the man on bed four.
"Let's get a head CT for David here. Why's that?" She asked, walking towards the patient you were tending to now.
You handed her the chart. "Well, people are always hitting their heads."
She laughed, "...And?"
"And so I get to page you often." You smirked confidently.
"And why do you enjoy that?" She looked at you.
"Pretty sight." You winked. "Seems like you have it under control, Shepherd. I'll head out, there's another ambulance on the way."
You left before she could answer you properly. Half as an excuse and also, there really was another ambulance.
The day carried on as usual, with no more neuro consults, much to your disappointment.
You were uncertain whether to shower at the hospital or home, and the exhaustion you felt only convinced yourself on a nap in the on call room, a shower, and then home.
You got into the first room that was open and dropped yourself on the bed, with a loud sigh, relishing in the pillows.
"Long day, huh," someone called from the top bunk.
"Oh, sorry, I didn't know it was occupied." You apologised. "The pit always means a long day."
"You didn't page me again. Should I be worried or not?" Amelia peeked from the bunk.
"Ha, no one else came in need of your expertise." You said as she climbed down the bed. "Am I a horrible person?"
"How so?" She sat.
"Waiting for people to need a neuro surgeon just so I get to see you?"
"Depends on how hard you wish on it…" She laughed. "You know, you're not a bad sight yourself."
"That, Dr. Shepherd, is highly innapropiate." You joked with a stern face.
"Hypocrite." She slapped your arm as you cracked a smile. "Speaking of innapropiate…"
You raised an eyebrow, "Yes..."
"I mean, on-call rooms do have a reputation."
"Yes they do." You smiled, "It'd be a shame to dishonor it, truly." You turned to her, a hand on her cheek.
"A shame indeed." She kissed you, taking you into the mattress with her.
hiiii just wanted to say i’m obsessed with ur writing, especially ur weems fics. i’m so excited that ur writing for more characters and i was wondering if i could maybe request a lisa cuddy fic? something w like a teacher’s pet kinda vibe (fluff or smut, totally up to u). i swear it’s sooo hard to find good cuddy content no pressure at all tho, just thought i’d ask in case it sparks something fun in that brilliant brain of urs ❤️❤️❤️
Cuddy’s Favourite
Lisa Cuddy x fem!intern!reader
A/N: Thank you for your kind words AND your request. Massive crush on Lisa Cuddy (and half of the other House MD characters…). Hope you’ll enjoy!
You learned quickly that hospitals have their own ecosystems. There’s medicine, and then there’s everything else: hierarchy, politics, gossip. You keep your head down, do the work, try not to give anyone a reason to talk. But it doesn’t matter, they talk anyway. Especially about you.
You hear it in passing, soft laughter behind turned backs, clipped conversations that trail off the moment you enter the room.
Teacher’s pet, they say. Cuddy’s intern. Favourite little shadow.
You don’t flinch anymore. You’ve heard worse. Besides, it’s not like they’re wrong.
She doesn’t exactly hide it.
Lisa Cuddy is demanding. Unforgiving. A perfectionist with a wardrobe better suited for a runway than a hospital, and a gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. No one intimidates you the way she does. No one draws you in, either.
You’re not supposed to play favourites in medicine.
But Cuddy does. And you're hers.
It’s unspoken, never acknowledged aloud, never scrawled into the margins of evaluations. But you’re not stupid. You know what it looks like when she singles you out during rounds, calls you into her office to discuss consults other interns weren’t even allowed to touch, leans in a little too close when she hands back your charts.
You also know you’d chase her approval even if she never looked at you twice.
The truth is, you like being watched. Not by everyone. Just her.
You like it when she finds you in the middle of a shift and corrects your posture with nothing but a look. When she pauses after you answer a question, just long enough to make you wonder if you impressed her, or disappointed her. You like the quiet weight of her expectations on your shoulders.
She never praises you in front of others. But in her office, when the door is closed and the lights are low, sometimes she lets a little warmth into her voice. Sometimes she says your name like she’s thinking about something she shouldn’t.
You never let yourself imagine what.
House is the worst about it.
He never calls you by name. Just golden girl, Cuddy’s favourite, or his personal favourite: obedient intern number one.
You’ve tried ignoring him. Tried answering him in monosyllables. Nothing works. He pokes at you like a bruise he knows won’t heal.
“She’s got you house-trained already,” he tells you once in the elevator. “Cute.”
You grip the file in your hand tighter.
“She’s your boss too,” you reply, too tired to play his game today.
“Oh, sure. But you—” He eyes you with mock awe. “You practically purr when she says good job.”
You say nothing.
“Hey, I’m not judging,” he adds, shrugging.“Everyone wants Mommy’s approval. You just work harder for it.”
He steps off at diagnostics, but not before tossing a grin over his shoulder. “Be careful, though. Pets get put down when they start biting.”
You don’t respond. But the words sit with you longer than you’d like.
The pager buzzes at 6:43 p.m.
Come by my office. – Cuddy
You stare at the message a second longer than necessary, then tuck the device into your coat pocket and head toward administration. It’s later than usual. Most of the hospital is already winding down but her light is still on when you get there. Her office door is slightly ajar, like she knew you’d come quickly.
You knock lightly.
“Come in.”
Her voice always sounds different in the evening. Less clipped. Warmer. Or maybe that’s just projection. You’ve been told more than once that you see what you want to see.
She’s seated behind her desk, blazer slung over the back of her chair, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The top two buttons of her blouse are undone. Her posture is as precise as ever, but there’s something relaxed about her, an end-of-the-day looseness that makes her look a little less untouchable.
She glances up at you with a faint smile. “You’re still here.”
“You paged me.”
“Didn’t think you’d still be around this late.”
You shrug. “I don’t mind the hours.”
“You shouldn’t say that out loud. I’ll start assigning you more.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
She lets out a quiet laugh, low and throaty. “Fair enough.”
She gestures to the chair in front of her desk. “Sit.”
You do. She slides a file across the desk toward you. Your intake notes from the morning.
“I wanted to talk about this,” she says. “The patient with the arrhythmia.”
You nod. “Did I miss something?”
“No. You were thorough. Very thorough.” She pauses. “Almost suspiciously so.”
You blink. “Suspiciously?”
“Your note-taking is bordering on romantic obsession.”
You open your mouth, then close it again.
She tilts her head. “Don’t look so alarmed. I’m complimenting you. In my own way.”
“I guess I just… I try to be careful.”
“You try to be perfect,” she corrects. “You think if you do everything flawlessly, I won’t find anything to criticize.”
You shift slightly in your seat, cheeks heating. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No. But it’s not sustainable.”
You nod slowly, fingers tightening around the armrest.
She watches you, eyes narrowing slightly, like she’s testing a theory.
“You don’t like being wrong,” she says.
“Does anyone?”
“You take it personally. Like I’m disappointed in you.”
You say nothing.
“I’m not,” she adds, softer now. “But I think you’re scared of that.”
You finally meet her eyes. “Maybe.”
A pause. Her gaze lingers. “You know people talk about you.”
You nod. “I know.”
She folds her hands on the desk. “Does it bother you?”
“Sometimes.”
“They say you’re my favourite.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?”
You hesitate. “Am I what?”
“My favourite.”
The air between you changes. Tightens.
You’re not sure how to answer. You want to say yes. You want to ask her why it matters. You want to ask her what she’d do if you said something you weren’t supposed to.
But all you say is: “That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether it’s a compliment or a warning.”
That makes her smile—an actual smile, not the tight-lipped one she uses in meetings. Something slower. Fonder. Dangerous.
“Maybe both,” she murmurs.
You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until she rises from her chair. She walks around the desk and perches on the edge of it, closer to you now. She folds her arms across her chest, watching you like she’s trying to decide what you’ll do next.
“I know you want to impress me,” she says. “That’s not a bad thing. But don’t confuse ambition with submission.”
Your mouth goes dry.
“I’m not trying to submit,” you say, barely louder than a whisper.
“No?” Her voice dips. “Could’ve fooled me.”
There’s a pause, long and heavy, the kind of silence that crackles with possibility.
Then, mercifully, she shifts the tone again.
“You’re a good intern,” she says, a bit more professionally now. “Focused. Detail-oriented. A little obsessive, maybe, but I can work with that.”
You let out a breath. “Thank you.”
She leans back slightly, one leg crossed over the other. “Tell me something.”
You glance up.
“Do you actually like the work,” she asks, “or do you just like when I notice you doing it well?”
You freeze.
“That’s—” You stop. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Honestly.”
You take a breath. “I think… I like both.”
She studies you again, eyes tracing your face.
“That’s honest,” she says quietly. “And dangerous.”
Your pulse stutters.
“I’m not trying to cross any lines,” you say.
“I know,” she replies. “Neither am I.”
But neither of you moves.
For a moment, it feels like the whole world narrows down to the space between your chair and her knees. A few feet. A lifetime. Her gaze is steady, unflinching. You get the sense she could look right through you if she wanted.
She doesn’t. She sees you, and that’s almost worse.
“Get some sleep,” she says, standing again. “You’ve earned it.”
You nod, rising carefully.
At the door, you glance back.
“If I ever did want to be your favourite,” you say, soft and sure, “would that be a bad thing?”
She lifts a brow. “You already are.”
And then, before you can reply, she’s turning back toward her desk.
You step out into the corridor, heart thundering in your ears.
They can whisper all they want. You don’t care.
Because you are, without a doubt, Cuddy’s favourite.
A mission goes sideways when you’re poisoned by a neurotoxin designed for slow, agonizing death. With no backup and no time, Natasha breaks every rule to keep you alive, administering a volatile antidote that burns through your veins like fire.
Contains: Graphic depictions of poisoning, medical emergency, seizures, pain response, CPR, needles, panic attacks, and emotional trauma.
Written July 20-26 2024
(5016 Words)
------------------------------------------
The lights in the briefing room are a kind of sterile that makes your skin itch. Bright, buzzing fluorescents overhead. No windows. Four walls. No clocks. Time doesn’t exist here, just orders, gear, and the cold press of inevitability that comes before any high stakes op.
You sit on the edge of the long table, boots planted wide, pretending like your body isn’t wound tight from the inside out. Fingers twitch. One leg bounces, restless. You're trying to look calm, calm and professional. Natasha’s across from you, and that makes it impossible.
She’s reading the file like it personally insulted her.
The silence between you is loud. Familiar. Full of everything that hasn’t been said in weeks.
She hasn’t looked at you yet, not really. She’s scanning the mission brief like it contains a hidden threat, flipping each page with surgical precision. You don’t know how she can be so still. You wonder, not for the first time, if she trained herself to stop fidgeting. Or if she ever did it at all.
Your knee bounces again.
“You’re twitchy,” she mutters.
You don’t flinch. “I call it ready.”
That earns you a look. Her eyes finally lift, and when they meet yours, you feel it in your stomach. Natasha doesn’t just look at people--she studies them. Dismantles them. You’re not exempt. Never have been.
“You call everything ready,” she says, voice flat, low. “Even when you’re not.”
That one stings. You smirk anyway. “And yet I’m still alive.”
She hums softly, no smile. “For now.”
You shift your weight, lean back on your hands, let your head tilt just slightly -- defiant. “You nervous, Romanoff?”
She turns another page. “Not for me.”
That shuts you up.
There’s something in her tone. Not sarcasm. Not clipped or cold. Something quieter. Heavier.
You sit with it for a second.
You’re not sure who breaks the silence next. Maybe it’s both of you. Her hand closes the file at the same time your boot squeaks against the floor. She stands, tucking the folder under one arm, other hand dropping to her thigh holster with ease. Always armed. Always precise.
You stay sitting, watching her check gear like it’s instinct.
“Mission’s tight,” she says without looking up. “Compound’s low grade, underground. Hydra splinter. Intel says they’re close to releasing the nerve agent. Target has the formula and the samples.”
You nod slowly. “We intercept, extract, and torch the rest. Silent entry. No kill unless provoked.”
She nods. “One vent point. Two entrances. No backup. You and me.”
Just you and her. Like it always is when it matters.
You feel your throat go dry.
She continues. “Preliminary scans show traces of an unidentified neurotoxin. Weaponized, possibly air-based. Could be absorbed on contact. Most likely internal dispersal through blade, syringe, or microdose powder. Symptoms could be delayed.”
“Symptoms?” you echo, heartbeat slowing.
She finally looks at you again. That same unreadable calm. But her eyes-- her eyes are molten steel.
“Paralysis. Hallucinations. Nervous system breakdown. Slow death, not quick.”
You stare. “Sounds like a party.”
“Not a party I’m letting you die at,” she says sharply, too fast, too raw.
You blink.
It’s the first time she’s slipped.
Her jaw tightens. She adjusts her gloves like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just say the quiet part out loud.
You step off the table, slow. Move to the bench where your gear waits. You buckle your vest, still feeling her gaze crawl across your shoulders. It burns more than the lights.
“So what’s the play if one of us gets tagged?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light.
“Immediate evac,” she answers without hesitation. “There’s a bunker inside the north wing. Medical station. Supposed to be cleared. If we get hit, we get out. Fast.”
You hesitate. “And if only one of us gets hit?”
She doesn’t answer.
You turn. She’s standing too still now, eyes unreadable.
“Natasha.”
Her eyes close for a second, lashes dark and low.
Then.... “Then I carry you.”
The words drop like a blade.
You don’t move. She doesn’t flinch. There’s something between you now--buzzing, electric, unbearable. Not new. Just exposed.
You try to speak, but she’s already reaching for her sidearm, strapping it tight. Her movements are clean, practiced, but her hands shake just once--barely a tremor.
“Don’t get cocky,” she says again, voice soft. “And don’t be stupid.”
“I’ll try if you do,” you fire back.
She steps close.
Too close.
You feel her breath, smell the faint metallic oil of her gear. Her hand brushes past your shoulder as she picks up your earpiece. She holds it out to you between two fingers, like a dare.
You take it slowly, keeping your eyes on her face.
Her voice is a whisper now. “You ready, detka?”
The word sinks into your chest.
You want to say yes. You want to say always. But the way she’s looking at you, the weight in her gaze like she already knows something’s going to go wrong, it steals your voice.
So you nod.
She turns without another word.
You stare at the empty space where she stood.
And your heart doesn’t slow until you’re in the quinjet, five thousand feet in the air, staring down at the lights of a compound you’re going to walk into side by side.
And maybe not both walk out of.
The quinjet lands like a whisper against the backdrop of midnight fog.
Your boots hit the earth with a muted crunch-- mud, wet leaves, something darker. Fog curls around your calves in heavy tendrils. The compound looms ahead like a bunker out of time: slabs of decaying concrete, overgrown with ivy and moss, hunched in silence. You can't even see the stars. No moon. Just that dull gray pressure in the sky, like the whole world is waiting to hold its breath.
You breathe through your mask. Natasha lands beside you, silent as a shadow, her silhouette barely more than a shift in the mist. You catch a glimpse of her profile, jaw tight, eyes sweeping the treeline, already calculating exits and ambush zones. She's wired. More than usual.
You follow her to the compound’s eastern breach, a rusting utility panel half-covered in vines. You crouch beside her. The air smells like mold, metal, and ozone. She slips a fiber optic camera into the crack and studies the interior. Her breath barely stirs the fog.
She taps her comm. "Two guards, perimeter. Cameras looped for six minutes."
You nod. No words. The rhythm between you doesn’t need them.
You breach low. Silent takedown. The first man doesn’t even grunt before you’ve got his weight cradled to the ground, Natasha already dragging the second into the brush with a nerve pinch that leaves him twitching.
Inside, the compound is colder. The hallway smells like ammonia and rot. Overhead fluorescents flicker, half powered, some buzzing. The sound of your boots, soft-soled and careful, blends with the steady hum of unseen generators. You track together like wolves.
You take point. Natasha follows close. Close enough that you can hear her breathing through the comm.
You turn a corner and pause. Hold up one hand. Two guards. Talking in hushed Czech at the far end of the corridor. Natasha slides past you, calm, slow, predatory. You admire how easily she moves--like she’s dancing with ghosts. Within seconds, the guards slump silently to the floor.
You keep going. Left. Then another left. Then a flight of stairs that smell of oil and chemical burn.
The lower levels are worse. Damper. Darker. A faint blue light pulses under the lab door. You know it before you open it: this is where the poison lives.
"Scan for tripwires," she murmurs.
You sweep the frame with a small UV torch. Nothing. It’s almost disappointing.
"Too easy," you murmur.
She doesn’t reply.
You slip inside first. The lab is bigger than expected--long tables covered in sterile cloths and scattered notes, beakers, syringes, unmarked vials. The overhead light casts everything in a washed out, antiseptic blue. Shelves of equipment line the walls. An exhaust system hums in the ceiling.
Natasha peels off toward a terminal, hands flying over the interface. You start moving through drawers, lockers, storage bins. You find a canister sealed with four steel clamps--filled with clear vials, each bearing only a biohazard symbol.
You hold one up. "Found your death juice."
She glances back. "Don’t open it."
"Wasn’t planning to."
"Then don’t joke."
Her tone makes you pause.
You meet her eyes. There’s something in them. Something sharp. But she turns away too fast.
You secure the canister in your pack.
A noise. Behind you.
You pivot--weapon up. It’s a lab tech. Unarmed. Late 40s. Balding. Panic in his eyes. He lurches forward like a man with nothing to lose.
You intercept easily. Grab his wrist. Twist. Drive him into the wall.
He flails, and for a second, you think it’s over, until you feel the sting.
A flick of steel. A knife. Small. Coated with something faintly oily.
You slam your elbow into his face. He collapses.
You look down.
A slash along your ribcage. Not deep. Not even painful yet.
You exhale. Roll your eyes. “Asshole got a lucky scratch.”
But Natasha is already beside you.
“What happened?”
“Knife. Didn’t even feel it.”
She peels your suit open before you can stop her. The cut is dark already, edges rimmed in angry red, skin swelling fast.
“Fuck,” she hisses. “You’re dosed.”
“What? No, it’s--”
Then your hand starts to tremble.
You try to grip your weapon. Miss.
The ground tilts.
“Y/n.”
You hear her voice like it’s underwater.
Your knees buckle.
She catches you.
Your vision tunnels.
Cold tile under your spine. Lights bloom too bright above.
“Y/n. Hey. Stay with me.”
She’s kneeling beside you. Her gloved hands move fast--checking your pulse, your pupils. You see panic blooming in her face, cracking through that iron surface.
“I’m fine,” you slur.
“You’re not.”
You try to sit up. Your muscles ignore the command.
Natasha curses under her breath. She rips off her glove and touches your face. Her hand is warm. Grounding.
“You’re gonna be okay,” she says, but her voice isn’t steady. “I’m gonna fix this. I promise.”
You reach for her wrist. Miss again.
“It was just a scratch…”
“Not with this compound. They laced it. Probably aerosolized it, too.”
You blink slowly. The room spins.
“I don’t want to die in a place that smells like feet,” you mumble.
That gets the smallest sound out of her. Almost a laugh. Almost.
“Shut up,” she says gently. “You’re not dying.”
She hoists you up into her arms.
You sag against her chest, your cheek against the stiff fabric of her vest. Her heart is pounding like a war drum.
“Hold on,” she whispers. “Just hold on for me, detka.”
You think you nod.
But then the world goes dark.
Everything is dim, and then everything is too bright.
You drift in and out, each blink a flicker of a memory you can’t hold onto. One moment you're in her arms. The next, your body is weightless. The cold metal beneath your back shocks you, makes your spine jerk, but it’s like your brain is buffering behind it.
Then comes sound.
Not an alarm. Not shouting.
Just her.
Natasha’s voice is high, sharp. “No, no, no, stay with me.”
You open your eyes. Barely.
The room above you spins. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, too harsh, too fast. You see the outline of her, her shoulders broad, hunched over drawers, flinging them open one by one.
The metal clatter is deafening.
Each slam, each rip of a cabinet door is edged with panic. She’s never like this. Not even in the field. Not even when bullets are flying.
But now she is.
She mutters to herself in Russian, breathless.
"Gde ty… gde ty, blyad', poka…"
She opens a drawer, slams it shut, moves to the next. Plastic vials scatter across the ground. You try to lift your hand to stop her.
You can’t.
She doesn’t hear you, but she hears something, the small choking noise that escapes your throat.
She drops everything.
Races back to your side.
You see her face now. Closer than ever. Bare. Vulnerable. Her braid is half-undone. Sweat beads along her brow. Her eyes look glassy. Haunted.
“Y/n?” she says softly, kneeling. “I’m here. Hey. Look at me.”
You do. Just barely. Her face swims, double vision, haloed in fluorescent light.
“I’m gonna fix this. You hear me?”
Your lips move. Nothing comes out.
She grabs your hand. Holds it to her chest. You can feel her heartbeat slamming beneath her suit.
She swallows thickly. Then leans down. You feel her forehead press to yours for a split second.
Then she bolts again.
You hear the hiss of a cold storage unit being cracked open. A lock disengaged.
She exhales like she’s been punched.
"Please, please…"
A beat.
Then: “Yes.”
She’s back at your side within seconds, sliding to her knees.
She holds the auto-injector up like it’s holy. Sleek metal. Faint blue glow in the vial. She checks it three times, her hand trembling, then steadies it against your neck.
You flinch.
She freezes.
“Hey,” she whispers, moving closer, her voice dipping low, quiet, coaxing. “It’s okay. It’s gonna hurt, but I need you to trust me.”
You blink, sluggishly. Your breath rattles.
She cups your face with one gloved hand, her thumb sweeping across your cheek. Her other hand holds the injector firm.
“Y/n,” she says your name like it’s breaking her. “Detka… please. Let me do this.”
She waits. Just for your eyes. Just to see that flicker of understanding.
You nod. Or maybe you don’t.
But she can’t wait any longer.
She drives the needle into your neck.
The world shatters.
Your body jerks.
You scream.
White fire floods your veins like acid. Every nerve sears. Your back arches so hard your shoulders leave the table. Your mouth opens, but the sound is pure agony.
Her hand is over your mouth in an instant.
“Shhh, detka--I know, I know, I know--I’m here.”
You claw at her with your free hand. You can’t stop. You need it to stop. It’s worse than the poison. It’s like you’re being burned alive from the inside.
She holds you through it.
She leans over you, her hand firm over your mouth, tears leaking down her cheeks. Her other hand clutches your shoulder. She’s shaking as hard as you are.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re gonna be okay. Just hold on, baby, please. Stay with me.”
Your legs thrash. Your hands slap at the gurney.
Then it crests.
The fire fades. You collapse. Chest heaving. Gasping for air.
Natasha pulls her hand away, but doesn’t let go of your face. She strokes your cheek with the backs of her fingers.
“You’re okay,” she murmurs, over and over. “You’re okay, detka. I’ve got you.”
Tears slip down your face now.
Not from the pain.
But from the look in her eyes.
Raw. Terrified. In love.
Your voice is wrecked. “Thought I was gonna die.”
She leans close. Her lips brush your temple.
“You’re not allowed to,” she whispers. “Not while I’m breathing.”
You half-laugh, a broken sound. “You’re bleeding.”
She looks down. There’s blood smeared across her forearm. Yours. From your fingernails.
She doesn’t care.
She brushes sweat from your brow and kisses your knuckles.
“Talk to me,” she pleads. “Anything. Keep talking.”
You blink. “Hurts.”
“I know.”
“Still burning.”
“I know, detka. I’m here.”
Silence hangs for a second.
Then, softly, almost broken:
“I can’t do this without you.”
You stare at her.
“You don’t have to,” you whisper.
She leans forward, forehead pressed to yours again. Her lips brush your ear.
“I thought I lost you. And I never even told you--”
You feel her swallow the words. Bury them. But they’re there.
You whisper, “Say it.”
She doesn’t move.
Then “I love you.”
Simple. Unadorned. Like a gunshot in the silence.
“I love you and I didn’t say it because I thought it would make this harder. Because it would mean I couldn’t do the job.”
Her hand slides down your chest, rests over your heart.
“But watching you go down… nothing could have prepared me for that.”
You can’t smile, but you want to.
“You still owe me that date,” you rasp.
She laughs, watery. “You still want to be seen with me in public after this?”
You give her the faintest smirk. “Only if you carry me there.”
She exhales. Holds your hand tighter.
Then she checks the injector again. One dose gone. Timer running.
“Next dose in eleven minutes.”
You swallow. “And if I need a third?”
“We find it. We fight for it. Or I carry you through the compound kicking and screaming until I get you on that evac jet.”
You close your eyes. Just for a second.
Her hand brushes your cheek.
“Don’t go to sleep,” she says gently. “You stay with me, Y/n.”
Your heart rate steadies.
But her panic doesn’t fade.
Not even a little. You don’t know how much time has passed.
Minutes? A heartbeat? Years?
You’re not on the table anymore. You’re moving again--limbs flopping uselessly, your weight dead in her arms. The air is colder now. You feel it against the sweat clinging to your neck, the pulse of it in the hallway, the echo of your foot dragging on tile every time Natasha pulls you forward.
Her arms are around you, tight--one across your back, the other under your thighs. You know she shouldn’t be able to carry you this far, this fast, while still moving silent and deadly.
But she does.
Because you’re her mission now.
No comms. No backup. Just her rage and fear holding you together while your body threatens to come apart.
“Stay awake,” she whispers, voice tight. “Detka, you hear me? No checking out. No napping. You do not sleep until I get you out of this hellhole.”
You try to answer. Nothing comes out.
But your eyes flutter. Barely.
She keeps going.
She rounds a corner and nearly runs into two guards--armed. Alert.
You’re barely conscious, but you feel the shift in her muscles. The sudden drop to one knee, placing you behind her. Her hand finds her Glock like it’s always been there. Two shots. Muffled. Precision. One in the throat. One between the eyes.
You hear the thud of bodies falling.
You hear the silence that follows.
Then her hand is on your face again.
“Still with me?”
Your head lolls.
She adjusts her grip on you. Kisses your temple.
“Two more minutes,” she breathes, not sure if it’s a promise or a plea.
The symptoms are returning.
It starts in your fingertips this time--an itching, almost tingling burn that crawls upward. You can feel your blood slowing down, thickening. Your teeth chatter even though you’re sweating.
Natasha feels it too.
You’re seizing.
She drops to the ground with you in the shadow of a steel stairwell and props you against her chest. Her gloves come off fast. She grips your face with bare hands. They’re warm. Yours aren’t.
“Don’t do this,” she whispers.
She pulls out the injector with shaking fingers.
“Too soon,” she mutters. “Not long enough since the last--fuck.”
Your body convulses.
“I can’t wait,” she decides aloud.
She plunges the second dose into your neck.
This time, you black out entirely.
No screaming. No flailing. Just silence.
Too much of it.
For a second, she thinks she’s killed you.
She presses her forehead to your chest, listening--desperate.
Lub-dub. Lub-dub.
Faint. But there.
When your eyes snap open and you gasp like you’ve been pulled from underwater, her hand immediately slams over your mouth.
You don’t know why she’s crying until you realize you’re crying too.
The burn rips through you like napalm. The second dose hits faster, harder, crueler. Your body contorts, and she holds you like you’re both drowning.
“Shh. Shh. Shh, baby. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” she whispers, rocking you in her lap, curled around you like a shield. “Just breathe. Just breathe. I know it hurts.”
You claw at the front of her vest. She lets you.
Your teeth grit. You scream through her palm.
And then you collapse again, twitching. Weak. But breathing.
“You’re okay,” she murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
She can’t carry you anymore.
Your weight, your heat, your body-it’s too much now. Not physically. Emotionally.
She can’t feel her arms.
She kneels beside you and presses her hand to your neck. Still alive.
Barely.
Then she grabs your vest collar, hauls you to your feet, and throws your arm over her shoulders.
You groan weakly.
“I know,” she says. “I know, detka. We’re almost there.”
Every step is pain. Your legs don’t work. You’re mostly dead weight, and she’s using every ounce of muscle and momentum she has to keep you both upright.
You round a corner.
You see it.
Light.
The corridor opens up into the hangar, your evac point. The chopper is already waiting, blades thudding.
“We made it,” she breathes, more to herself than to you.
But then, shouting. Footsteps.
Natasha grits her teeth. One more goddamn obstacle.
Five Hydra agents swarm the corridor behind you.
She throws you to cover, gently as she can. Her gun is up before your body hits the floor. Four rounds. Three bodies.
The fourth comes at her fast, knife out.
She parries, twists, drives her elbow into his throat. He drops like a stone.
She’s panting. Bleeding now, cut across the arm. Doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care.
She lifts you again.
Two more steps. Then your heart stops.
Literally.
You slump in her arms like a puppet with cut strings.
She doesn’t even scream.
Not at first.
She lowers you to the ground. Strips off her vest and places it under your head. Straddles your waist and starts compressions.
“One. Two. Three. Four. Come on, Y/n. Come on, baby. Breathe.”
Nothing.
She switches to mouth-to-mouth.
Breathes into you. Pushes her soul into your lungs.
“You’re not dying here.”
Another round of compressions.
She’s crying now. Shaking. Her voice climbs.
“Come on. Come on. Don’t do this. I didn’t say it just so you could leave me--!”
Still nothing.
She leans in again. Breathes again.
Then...finally.... You cough. Blood. Bile. But air.
She catches you before you turn your head.
You gasp again, mouth open, lungs on fire.
You look at her. She’s soaked. Bloody. Wild eyed.
You try to smile.
“Made it… to the date.”
She collapses into your chest.
“Shut up,” she says, sobbing, laughing. “Just--shut up.”
You feel her lips against your collarbone. Then your cheek. Then your mouth. Salt tears and blood between you. She kisses you like it’s oxygen. Like she needs it to live.
You let her.
Because you do too.
Natasha dragging you the final stretch, body broken, her mind fracturing -- while the evac chopper blades are screaming overhead and help is just out of reach.
This is the last burst of desperation before you’re ripped from the mouth of death.
She kisses you once.
Quick. Messy. Salt and blood on your lips. Her hand cups your face like it’s all she has left in the world.
Then she’s moving again.
“Stay awake, detka,” she breathes, slinging your arm around her neck once more. “You got this far. Don’t quit now.”
You try to stand. You try to help.
You can’t.
Your body is a dead thing she has to drag. Your legs twitch but won’t lift. Your knees knock against the floor as she pulls you through the corridor, step by brutal step.
Outside, the wind shifts. The chop of helicopter blades roars louder. Almost there.
“I’ve got you,” she says again, though her voice is hoarse now. She’s repeating it more for herself than you.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
She stumbles. The weight of you pulling her sideways. She slams a hand into the wall for balance, nearly collapses.
Her arms are screaming. Her spine feels like it’s going to snap.
But she keeps going.
One hand on her pistol, the other dragging your body into the light of the hangar bay.
She sees them then.
SHIELD medics.
Two of them. Just past the open ramp of the chopper.
One lifts a radio.
“Agent Romanoff--status--do you need--?”
“Help!” she yells, staggering forward. “She’s dying!”
They sprint toward you.
“Poisoned--nerve agent--two doses of the antidote--cardiac arrest sixty seconds ago--she’s back, but she’s slipping--!”
They reach you just as your body spasms again.
Natasha doesn’t let go.
She’s still holding you even as they lower a stretcher. Still has one knee under your head as they start cutting away the armor, checking your vitals, calling for adrenaline.
“You need to let us--” one medic says.
“Don’t tell me what I need,” she snaps, and her voice is ice. Shaking. Shredded.
They work. She watches. Every time your chest rises, her grip tightens on your arm. Every pause makes her stop breathing.
When they finally lift you into the chopper, she’s beside you. No one tries to stop her.
Her hand never leaves yours.
Inside, it’s noise and heat and spinning pain.
You blink weakly. The overhead lights are harsh. Your ears are full of static. You're shaking violently now--reaction from the second dose--and your body won't calm.
You can’t stop whispering her name. Like you’re checking if she’s still real.
She is.
She leans over you, both hands cupping your face.
“I’m here,” she whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You look at her, really look.
There’s blood on her cheek. A split at her lip. A gash along her bicep still bleeding freely. But her eyes are locked on you like you're the only thing worth watching in the world.
“I love you,” you murmur, dazed.
She kisses your forehead, hard.
“You’d better,” she says.
Then your eyes roll back. The medics shout something.
And she starts to pray again.
You wake to the sound of beeping.
Soft. Steady. Mechanical.
It echoes in your skull like sonar, each pulse drawing you back toward consciousness. At first, it doesn’t feel like waking -- it feels like surfacing from deep water, lungs aching, gravity heavier than it should be.
Everything is white.
Too bright. Too still.
The sheets under you are stiff. The light above your head doesn’t flicker like the compound’s. It’s soft. Clean. Sterile. A filtered hum of recycled air replaces the chaos of gunfire and shouted orders.
You inhale -- and feel the weight of your own body for the first time in hours. Days? You don’t know. Every inch of you aches. Your chest is wrapped tight. There’s a catheter in your arm. Tubes in your nose.
But you’re alive.
You blink again, slowly.
And that’s when you feel it.
Her hand.
Wrapped around yours.
Warm. Steady. Holding like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the earth.
You turn your head with effort.
There she is.
Slumped in a chair beside your hospital bed, head tilted to rest on the mattress, asleep. Or trying to be. Her other hand is buried in her hair, half-pulled loose from its braid. She hasn’t changed clothes. There’s a bloodstain on her tactical pants and bruises down her forearm that weren’t there before.
She looks wrecked.
You want to speak, but your throat is raw -- so dry it feels like you’ve swallowed dust.
Still, something rasps out.
“…Tasha.”
She jolts awake so fast it’s like you’ve been shot again.
Her head lifts. Her eyes are wild, scanning you from head to toe, like she expects you to vanish right in front of her.
And then they fill with tears.
“Oh my god--” Her voice breaks. “Y/n”
You try to smile. It hurts. “Still… breathing.”
She’s already leaning forward, both hands on your face now, her thumbs brushing gently at your temples, your jaw, your lips like she needs to re-learn every part of you to believe it.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
“Only returned the favor,” you croak.
She lets out a soft, broken laugh, then presses her forehead to yours.
“I thought I lost you,” she whispers.
You close your eyes, letting her words settle into your skin.
“You didn’t,” you say. “You never do.”
She sits back, wipes her eyes roughly, like she’s mad at herself for showing any of this. But her hands won’t stop shaking.
“How long?” you ask, voice hoarse.
She hesitates. “Thirty-two hours in a medically induced coma. Another eight unconscious. You coded twice. They had to re-administer part of the antidote. Your kidneys tried to fail.”
“Hot,” you whisper.
She shakes her head, but the corner of her mouth twitches.
You squeeze her hand, or try to. Your fingers barely move.
But she feels it.
Her expression softens.
“I thought about what I’d say when you woke up,” she murmurs. “Rehearsed it in my head. Over and over.”
You look up at her. “And?”
She leans close again. Her voice is barely audible.
“I love you,” she says. “I loved you before this. I just didn’t know what to do with it.”
You blink slowly. “Guess I had to almost die to get you to say it.”
She closes her eyes.
“You’re never doing that again,” she whispers. “I mean it. No more near-death confessions. Next time I want to say it, we’re going to be safe. Somewhere soft. Warm. You’ll be wearing pajamas. I’ll be making you pancakes. Badly.”
You smile, finally. Weak. But real.
“I want that.”
She kisses your knuckles.
“You’ll have it,” she whispers. “You’ll have all of it.”
Silence falls again. Not awkward. Just full of things that don’t need to be said out loud.
Her hand stays in yours.
And in the lull between beeping monitors and IV drips, you let yourself drift.
Summary: a solo mission goes sideways, and you come back injured. Natasha takes care of you and wants answers, even if you won’t give them right away.
Pairing(s): natasha x gf!reader
Warnings: fluff, injury, angst (if you squint)
Word Count: ~1.6k
a/n: one-shot to hold u guys over bc part 3 is taking longer than i thought. ALSO i hear some people are interested in a taglist??? so if you're interested enough in my writing to want me to tag u when i post smth, pls just shoot a message into my inbox. (if u wanna be tagged only in specific posts pls lmk)
---
It was a simple recon mission really. So simple you were sent in solo, Fury having enough faith in you to trust that you could handle it alone and make it back in one piece. The mission was straightforward: gather intel, avoid detection, and report back. You didn’t know what was up with you. Lately, your focus had been less than ideal and you certainly felt the repercussions now. It had been going on for a few days, your best friend — Wanda — assuring you that it was just a minor slump, “Happens to the best of us,” you remembered her saying, not knowing that the situation was deeper than you let on. You thought that taking this assignment could be a way for you to refresh, man were you wrong.
You didn’t know what was occupying your mind as you walked thoughtlessly into the building, barely focused on your surroundings, until you were ambushed by enemy agents. You quickly realized that the situation was far more complex than you initially thought. They had anticipated your arrival, and the stakes were suddenly much higher. You usually prided yourself on your keen sense of hearing so you really weren’t expecting any company that you didn’t already know were coming. Luckily, your ability to think on your feet allowed you to get away, but not without a bullet in your calf and a stab wound on your shoulder.
You assumed that there would be more agents to come if you didn’t move fast, so — despite the stinging ache in your leg — you rushed back to the jet and made your way to the tower.
If Natasha, your girlfriend, had nothing to do, she would wait for you by the helipad after your missions, always embracing you in a warm hug at the end a long day. Today was one of those days, except the second you stumbled out of the jet, a concerned expression plastered all over her face.
“Hey love, a little help?” you asked, your voice laced with friendly sarcasm. Something that Natasha found endearing and sometimes infuriating. At least you were still cracking jokes, meaning that you were okay, or as okay as you could be while slowly bleeding out.
“You look like hell,” your girlfriend muttered, already closing the distance. Her eyes swept over you, taking in your battered state. She quickly took your arm over your shoulder, on the side that wasn’t injured to avoid causing any further harm to the laceration. “What happened?” She tried to keep it casual, but her voice dipped lower, littered with care.
You kept the conversation going as you walked over to the med bay with her help. “Nothing, just—” you were cut off by a wince that left your mouth faster than you could stop it. “Just got distracted for a sec,” you continued.
“That’s unlike you. Anything I should be worried about?” she asked, but before you could answer her question, she continued. “You should be more careful, you’re lucky you’re not dead. If any—”
You cut her off before she could finish. “Can we continue this later, I’m really not in the mood.” You were way too tired and in pain to listen to her scold you for your stupidity. In all honesty, you had no clue why your brainpower hadn’t been up-to-par. Although Natasha was upset that you interrupted her, she respected your wishes and kept quiet the rest of the journey.
Your arrival at the med bay had turned many heads, immediately warranting the attention of Bruce who was running some blood tests in the lab. With his help, along with the advanced medical technology that you had access to— courtesy of Stark Tech — you were stitched up in no time. Albeit, you were still walking funny and were banished to bedrest for a week or so.
---
Your girlfriend insisted on staying with you as much as her busy schedule allowed her, despite you constantly reassuring her, telling her that you were fine. She made sure you were drinking and eating enough, while also tending to your wounds and replacing the bandages every now and then.
“So, you wanna tell me what’s going on with you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at you.
“What do you mean?” you answered, despite knowing exactly what she meant. You’ve been off your game. You were met with silence, Natasha staring at you, waiting for you to give in and start talking. After a few seconds of silence, you finally let up.
“I’ve been all over the place lately. Can’t focus on anything.”
Natasha nodded slowly, as if she’d already figured that much out. She sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle your injured leg, and rested her forearms on her thighs. Her gaze didn’t leave yours. “Yeah, I noticed,” she said, her voice low. “And you’re lucky it didn’t get you killed.”
You sighed, looking away, suddenly feeling very aware of the dull ache in your calf and the tightness of the stitches in your shoulder.
“I thought getting back out there might help,” you admitted. “Reset my head. Get back in control.”
Natasha let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Right. Because throwing yourself into a recon op while your brain’s fried is definitely the best way to recover.”
You gave her a sideways look. “I’m aware, thanks.”
She didn’t smile. Instead, she leaned in slightly, her voice softening. “Look, I’m not mad. Okay? I just…” She hesitated for a second. “When I saw you limp out of that jet, bleeding, trying to play it off like it was nothing — that worried me.”
That shut you up for a moment. You hated the idea of being a liability, being the cause of that flicker of fear in her eyes. “I didn’t think it was that bad,” you murmured.
“You didn’t think,” she corrected sharply. Then, softer, “Because you’ve been in your head too much, and you didn’t tell me.”
You glanced at her again. The anger in her voice wasn’t real anger, it was concern, thinly disguised behind habit and sharp edges. You knew it well. “I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it,” you said honestly.
Her expression eased up, just a little. “I already know you can handle it. But you don’t have to do it alone.” She reached over and gently took your hand, brushing her thumb over your knuckles. “You’ve got me, remember?”
You looked at her, eyes a little tired but finally meeting hers fully. “Yeah. I know.” There was a pause. The air between you felt a little less heavy.
Then she smirked. “Good. Because next time you try to hero your way through a mission with a bullet in your leg, I will tase you.”
You laughed—actually laughed—and it felt like the first real one in days. “Noted.”
The laughter faded slowly, but the warmth it left behind lingered in the room — soft, tentative. Natasha didn’t let go of your hand. She just waited, eyes steady on yours, giving you space. You hated how easily she could read you. Hated it, but also needed it. You sighed, letting your head fall back against the pillows. “It’s not just a slump.”
She didn’t say anything, but you could feel her shift, giving you her full attention.
“I’ve just been off,” you said finally. “Not sleeping. Can’t focus. I’ll sit down to work and suddenly it’s like I’m not even there. Like my head’s already moved on to something else, but I don’t know what.” You stared up at the ceiling, trying to find the words. “I keep thinking, what if I freeze up at the wrong time? What if I don’t hear something I’m supposed to, or I get someone else hurt because I’m not fast enough?”
You swallowed. That thought had been crawling around in your head for days now. It wasn’t just about you. It was about her, too. About the team. About all the people who’d put their trust in you. “I think I’ve been trying to outrun it. Like if I keep pushing forward, maybe it won’t catch up to me.”
Natasha was quiet for a long beat before she spoke, “You know that’s not how this works.”
You nodded without looking at her. “I know.”
She reached over and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, gentle, careful not to graze the bruise on your cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she said. “You’re just burnt out. And you’ve been trying to fix it by acting like nothing’s wrong, which — shocking no one — only made it worse.”
You gave her a look. “Are you lecturing me right now?”
“Absolutely,” she said, deadpan. Then, a touch gentler, “But only because I’ve been there. And I know how easy it is to pretend you’re fine when you’re not.” You let out a breath. There was something comforting about her voice. Grounding.
“So what now?” you asked, a little helpless.
She gave your hand a squeeze. “Now we take it slow. You rest. I keep nagging you. We figure it out one step at a time. Together.”
You didn’t respond right away. Just looked at her, the strength in her gaze, the steadiness of her grip. The way she was already pulling you back from the edge without demanding you be perfect.
