changing the locks on your heart ‘cause you’re bored
ᥫ᭡natasha romanoff x fem!reader
ᥫ᭡summary: You worry that your situation with Natasha has become one-sided, but she’s quick to reassure you of the opposite
ᥫ᭡content: fluff + a dash of comfort; legal age gap; technically stark!reader; gay panic because obviously; soft!nat allegations; a lot of exposition cause i couldn’t help myself; not proofread;
ᥫ᭡a/n: HAPPY PRIDE! 🏳️🌈 even though i cancelled my fic girl summer event, this was a draft for it that i’d already finished, so i believe it deserves to be out in the world! i’m still just trying to take my time off writing right now, but i hope you enjoy this fic in the meantime! i hope to be back in the swing of things soon
The summer heat wrapped around the compound like a blanket, sunlight glaring off of the massive pool outside the Avengers Tower. Music drifted faintly from the outdoor speakers set up, Cap and Clint took turns on the grill. You sat curled up in one of the lounge chairs in an oversized t-shirt and shorts, trying very hard to focus on the book in your hands. Trying and failing. Because Natasha lay in the chair beside yours. And Natasha in the summer was unfair.
She wore a black bikini and dark sunglasses, stretched out beneath the sunlight. One arm rested behind her head while the other draped lazily across her stomach. Relaxed Natasha was rare enough. Relaxed Natasha inviting you to spend the day with her? Was like a diamond in the rough.
Earlier that morning, she’d knocked lightly on your bedroom door before leaning against the frame. “Come sit by the pool with me today,” Simple, casual. But your heart had started racing immediately anyway.
Your pull to Natasha, and her pull right back to you, in a word had been miraculous. You’d been a young friend of Tony’s, something of a little sister to the man. You’d come from a troubled, orphaned past and he’d given you a place to stay. Now, you lived at the compound. You helped where you could, with research, mission support, communications, the less flashy stuff. Something else you’d gotten and you weren’t exactly sure how, was Natasha Romanoff’s attention.
You noticed a stark (no pun intended) difference from the looks she gave her other comrades and the looks she gave you. Soft looks were reserved from you, soft tones even more so. And you can’t remember having ever seen Natasha hug the other Avengers, or squeeze their hand, running her thumb along their knuckles. But that was the treatment that you got.
You’d spent your late nights together when neither of you could sleep, just you and Natasha in the kitchen with decaf coffee and deep conversations. Then came the touches. Natasha’s hand on the small of your back. Her knee bumping hours beneath conference tables. Natasha taking and squeezing your hand when she could sense you were overwhelmed with something.
You weren’t sure when it had shifted into something else. Maybe it was when Natasha started kissing you on the cheek when you ended the night. Maybe things had shifted the night she showed up at your room after a nightmare, and you’d held her close, snuggling up until sunrise. More than likely, it was the tennis court incident. God, the tennis court.
You still thought about it constantly. It happened last month after one of Tony’s parties. Too many people, too much noise. You’d barely gotten two words in with Natasha all evening.
Then suddenly, she’d appeared at your side and muttered, “Come with me,”
No explanation. Just Natasha leading you through the compound at midnight, fingers hooked loosely around your wrist. You’d ended up at the outdoor tennis courts under dim floodlights, warm summer air thick around you.
The second that gate clicked shut behind you, Natasha kissed you. Hard. Like she’d been holding herself back all night. You remembered stumbling backward until your spine hit the fence, Natasha crowding impossibly close while her hands framed your face.
You’d laughed breathlessly against her mouth at one point and whispered, “Nat—“
“I know,” she’d murmured before kissing you again. Like she couldn’t stop. Like she didn’t want to. You remembered hoping the moment never ended. And the way Natasha had rested her forehead against yours afterward, your breaths mingling, made you think she felt the same exact way.
So why did you still feel insane about it half the time? Why did every unanswered text make your stomach twist? Why did every mission leave you wondering if Natasha would come back distant again? Why did you feel so deeply while Natasha remained impossible to read? The thoughts followed you everywhere, even now. Especially now. Here you were, spiraling quietly beside her.
Sure, Natasha had been affectionate today. Softer, seeking you out more often. But your brain kept insisting that it was temporary. That eventually Natasha would realize you cared too much.
You turned another page in your book without processing a single word. A moment later, Natasha shifts beside you. You felt her looking before you actually glanced over. Sure enough, her sunglasses had dipped slightly down her nose so she could peer over the frames. Her smile was sleepy and fond and it made your chest squeeze.
“What?” you ask softly.
“Do you know you furrow your brows when you’re trying really hard to concentrate?” Natasha says.
Heat crawls into your face immediately. “I’m not straining myself or anything. I’m just reading. But it’s hot, so yeah, it’s a little hard to focus.”
Natasha snickers and settles back again. You try again to focus on your book, and fail a second time. Because every few minutes, Natasha would glance over at you. And sometimes she’d smile, and sometimes, she’d just look. Like she was just taking you in, admiring your presence. Which somehow made everything worse. Because if Natasha cared, really cared, wouldn’t things feel more certain than this? Wouldn’t you know what you were to her?
You were so lost in your own thoughts that you almost startled when a shadow suddenly crossed your book.
You look up, and Natasha is stood above your chair now, sunlight outlining her hair in coppery gold. God, she was beautiful.
“Wanna get in the water with me?” Natasha asks.
The answer escapes before you can think too hard about sounding eager. “I’d love to.”
Natasha smiles and holds out her hand. Your pulse skips as you take it. Her fingers curl around yours with familiar ease, and she gently tugs you to your feet. The walk to the pool was short, but Natasha never let go.
The concrete heats the soles of your feet while distant laughter echoes around the yard. Natasha stops at the water’s edge beside you. Blue water gleams beneath the afternoon sun.
For a moment, neither of you speak. Then, Natasha quietly asks, “What’s going on?”
Your stomach drops, but you attempt a smile. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been in your head all day, I can tell.”
Of course she noticed. Natasha noticed everything about you.
“It’s nothing.” You deflect.
Natasha turns fully toward you then. “Hey.” She squeezes your hand once. “Talk to me.”
And maybe it was the heat of the sunlight, or the way she’d looked at you all morning, but suddenly the words were pushing at your throat, too hard to keep inside.
“You ever worry,” you started quietly, staring at the pool water instead of her face, “that maybe you made something bigger in your head than it actually is?”
Your question is met with silence and you immediately regret speaking. Your laugh is nervous and you go for another deflection. “Forget it. That sounds dramatic.”
“Don’t do that.” Natasha says coolly.
You swallow hard. Natasha steps close enough for you to feel her body heat, smell the intoxicating musk of her perfume. “What makes you think this isn’t real to me?”
The question catches you so off guard that you finally look at her. Natasha’s expression had gone soft in that way she only allowed around you. It made your heart stuttered.
“You’re hard to read sometimes,” you admitted.
A flicker of guilt flashes across Natasha’s face and it surprises you. Then, she reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek. The gesture was unbearably tender.
“You know why I brought you to the tennis court that night?” she asks quietly.
Heat floods your face once again. You shake your head.
“Because I’d just spent four hours wanting to kiss you,” Natasha murmurs. “And I couldn’t stand pretending otherwise anymore.”
Your breath caught. Natasha’s thumb traces lightly across your cheekbone. “I invite you into my space constantly,” she continues softly. “You’re the first person I look for when I come home from missions. I sleep better with you beside me,” A tiny smile tugs at her mouth. “You’ve somehow convinced the world’s greatest spy to willingly talk about her feelings.”
A startled laugh escapes you through the emotion clogging your chest. Natasha steps even closer.
“This isn’t one-sided,” she said firmly. “I’m so incredibly fond of you, y/n,”
Every spiraling thought in your brain seemed to stop in that moment. Natasha looked genuinely offended by the thought of you doubting her feelings for you. And suddenly all those tiny moments over the past few months rearranged themselves differently in your head.
Natasha bringing you coffee exactly how you liked without asking. Her hand finding yours beneath blankets during movie nights. The way she always drifted toward you in crowded rooms. The tennis court. This pool.
You look up at her, searching her eyes. “I’m fond of you too, Natasha,” you reply. “So goddamn fond.”
Natasha’s hands cup your face again and she drags your mouth against hers. You hum at the taste, at the feel of her, your hands wrapping around her waist. Your heart is a ticking metronome in your chest, and in that moment, you know you’re exactly where you need to be. And you’d never doubt Natasha’s feelings for you ever again, even for a minute.
Summary: Being told not to fall in love with someone is difficult, especially when that someone is Natasha Romanoff—and especially when the warning comes far too late.
Warnings: fluff, angst, implied sexual themes
Words: 8244
The music pulses through the floor of the club like a second, louder heartbeat, trying to drown out your own.
Lights fracture across the room in restless bursts of color, slicing everything into shifting pieces. Faces appear and disappear, hands are thrown into the air, and bodies collide and reform in rhythm.
Everything blurs into noise, into heat, into something wild and uncontained.
It's chaos.
And you sit just outside of it.
Tucked into the corner of a booth, you exist in a pocket of stillness that doesn't quite belong in a place like this.
One arm drapes lazily across the table, your fingers idly tracing random patterns as you wait. Your gaze drifts over the crowds, not really focused or searching for anything, just passing over the movements like background scenery in a place you're not really part of.
A figure stumbles into your peripheral vision, breaking the rhythm of your detachment. Before you can shift away or pretend not to notice, he's already there, leaning heavily against the back of your booth, far too close, and invading your space with the unmistakable scent of cheap alcohol and poor decisions.
"Hey, sweetheart," he slurs, words sticking together as he flashes a crooked, overconfident grin. "You want some—"
"Nope."
You don't even turn fully toward him. The word comes out flat and immediate, cutting him off mid-sentence without hesitation.
"Keep walking."
He pauses, blinking in confusion when the response didn't match the script in his head. His grin falters, twisting into something sour as his ego scrambles to recover.
"Bitch," he mutters under his breath, not quite brave enough to say it louder.
You don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
He barely makes it two steps before the universe corrects itself.
A solid collision sends him stumbling backward, his balance giving out as he catches himself awkwardly on the floor.
"Hey—!" His protest starts on instinct, but it dies just as quickly as it began.
Because she's there.
Natasha stands over him, her posture loose, almost casual, but there's nothing soft about the look in her eyes.
"Watch where you're going," she says, her tone low, edged just enough to make the warning unmistakable.
The man swallows hard, whatever bravado he had dissolving instantly. He scrambles to his feet without another word, disappearing into the crowd like he was never there to begin with.
You don't react right away, choosing to examine her quietly instead.
There's something about the way she holds herself that captures your attention a second longer. Since you met her, Natasha has always been poised and self-assured, unshakable, as if she knows she's entirely in control.
Slowly, you lean your chin into your palm and sigh with exaggerated drama.
"My hero," you coo, your voice dripping with mock admiration.
Natasha huffs, unimpressed, and slides into the booth beside you with the ease of someone who belongs wherever she decides to be. Two drinks land on the table soon after.
"Shut up."
You grin, reaching for one of the glasses and lifting it to your lips.
"That took a while," you comment casually.
Natasha shrugs, already taking a sip of her own.
"Line was long."
"Mmhmm," you hum, unconvinced.
You don't need an explanation. You've known her long enough to read between the lines and figure out what really took up her time.
"Let me guess…new number?"
A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. Without answering, she reaches beneath the neckline of her top. She pulls out a small, folded slip of paper and flicks it across the table toward you.
"Two, actually. Stopped me on my way back."
You catch it easily, unfolding it with a raised brow. Messy handwriting with the message to 'call me' followed by a phone number. To top it off, in one corner is a lipstick mark stamped like a signature.
"And she got it into your bra?" you tease, glancing up at her. "That's dedication. Sounds like someone's going to have a very busy night."
Natasha relaxes back into the seat, giving a faint, noncommittal shrug.
"We'll see if I feel like it."
You smile faintly into your drink.
That's always her answer.
And you already know how it ends.
By the end of the night, she'll choose someone. She'll give them just enough of everything—attention, charm, pleasure. Something that feels dangerously close to real. Enough to make them think they've been chosen for something more.
And in the morning?
She'll be gone.
Another almost. Another story someone else will tell about her.
Your fingers trace the rim of your glass as your gaze flicks back to her.
"Do you ever think about taking one of them seriously?" you ask, quieter now.
"No," she deadpans.
You laugh at her immediate response, your smile turning fond as you tilt your head at her expression, which has now shifted to an unamused glare at you.
"I mean it, Natasha," you press, softer. "Maybe consider the possibility of falling in love with someone for once."
Natasha scoffs, shaking her head like the idea itself is ridiculous.
"Nobody who's handing out numbers to someone they spent ten seconds talking to is looking for love," she replies, matter-of-factly, raising the glass to her lip, before adding. "And neither am I."
The corner of your smile falters slightly, and you quickly look down at your drink before she can catch the shift in your expression.
It's one of the clearest differences between you and her. Where she dismisses it, you still believe in finding the one—a love so certain there's no question, no doubt.
Meanwhile, Natasha Romanoff doesn't fall in love. Not really. Not in any way that lasts. Her walls aren't just high. They're reinforced, locked tight, and designed to keep everything out.
Even you.
And you're the closest thing she has to a best friend, aside from those she saves the world with.
You exhale slowly, pushing the thought down and steering the conversation toward something safer.
"So what's your secret, then?" you ask, letting the teasing edge return. You tap the paper. "How do you keep collecting these like trophies?"
Natasha raises a brow over the rim of her glass before giving a slight shrug.
"I know what people want to hear."
You make a face.
"That's such a cop-out answer."
Her smirk deepens, sharpening at the edges like she's already entertained by an idea.
"What?" she challenges. "You want a demonstration?"
You pause, but it's not really out of hesitation, not in the way it should be. It's curiosity. It's the pull of wanting to see what she does with that effortless charm she carries around like a second skin.
And maybe, if you're being honest, it's something else, too.
"Sure," you say finally, with a casual shrug that doesn't quite match the interest in your eyes.
You shift closer, turning fully toward her, and then you lean in with exaggerated confidence, deliberately overdoing it. Your voice drops, dripping with mock seduction, every word intentionally theatrical.
"Hey, beautiful," you murmur, laying it on thick. "Wanna come home with me tonight?"
For a split second, there's silence.
Then Natasha laughs.
It's not the quiet, amused huff she usually gives you. It's fuller, something real enough that it catches you off guard.
Her head tilts back slightly as the sound leaves her, her shoulders loosening and her guard dropping in a way you don't see often.
And for that brief second, you're not thinking about the bit anymore.
You're just watching her.
Watching the way her eyes crinkle faintly at the corners, the way her lips curve without calculation, the way the sound of her laugh settles somewhere in your chest and lingers there longer than it should.
"That's not even remotely close to what happens," Natasha says, shaking her head as she looks back at you, amusement still lingering in her expression.
You blink, pulled out of the moment, and then you laugh too. It's lighter, a little self-aware now as you lean back from her space.
"Yeah, alright," you admit, grinning as you shake your head at yourself. "That was too much."
You glance at her again, more thoughtful this time.
It has always amazed you how she holds herself and how her attention works. Natasha doesn't chase, but somehow, she still pulls people in.
Your grin fades into a more contemplative expression. You shift again, slower this time, closing the distance without the exaggerated movement from before.
"Alright," you say, quieter now, your tone losing the performative edge. "Let me try again."
You take a slow breath, letting the noise of the club fade just enough to sharpen your focus.
This time, when you look at her, you don't rush it. You let your gaze linger, unhurried, as it traces over her, catching the relaxed confidence in the way she sits, the subtle teasing curve of her lips, the way the shifting lights catch in her red hair and set it briefly aglow before slipping away again.
Only then do you meet her eyes.
"Hey," you say, your voice quieter now, steadier. "Mind if I join you?"
Something changes. It's subtle, so slight it could almost be imagined, but the air between you shifts, tightening just a fraction.
Natasha tilts her head, the corner of her mouth lifting into a small, amused smile.
There's a flicker of intrigue there, something sharper beneath the surface, before she gestures casually to the space beside her.
"Go ahead."
With her permission, you slide closer, easing into her space. Your knee accidentally bumps against hers beneath the table. Instead of pulling away, you stay, letting the contact linger just long enough to be noticed.
Then, sliding your arm along the back of the booth behind her, your fingers brush absentmindedly through a loose strand of her hair, catching it for just a second before letting it fall.
"So," you ask, your tone light but measured, "are you here alone?"
Natasha holds your gaze. For a moment, her eyes don't move, steady as she assesses you, but then in one second, they dip…to your lips.
It's brief, almost nothing, before she meets your eyes again.
But you still catch it. And the awareness of the action lands somewhere low in your chest, tightening unexpectedly at the way her attention feels.
"No," she says smoothly, as if nothing at all just happened. "I'm here with a friend."
There's a faint hint of amusement in her tone, like she's making a joke that you can't participate in.
Her fingers tap lightly against the side of her glass, a soft, rhythmic motion, before she tilts her head again, studying you with a look that feels far more intentional than casual.
"But," she continues, her voice dipping lower, slipping beneath the noise of the club so that you feel it more than you hear it, "I wouldn't be opposed to some better company."
Your brow lifts in exaggerated offense.
"Oh?" you hum, leaning in just enough to close the distance by a fraction, your knee pressing more firmly against hers beneath the table. "That so?"
Natasha's lips curve into that slow, knowing smirk she wears when she knows she's already ahead, when she's already decided how something is going to go.
"Mhm."
Her gaze drifts again, this time with no attempt at subtlety. It moves from your eyes, lingering at your mouth, down the line of your jaw and neck, and then to your collarbone before lifting back up again, like she's mapping something out in her mind.
It shouldn't affect you.
She hasn't even touched you.
And yet, heat rises anyway, creeping up your neck, settling across your cheeks before you can stop it. You swallow, steadying yourself before continuing.
"And what exactly qualifies as 'better company'?" you ask, keeping your tone teasing, though the curiosity underneath it is real and unguarded.
Natasha leans in closer. Not enough to erase the space between you. Just enough that it matters. Just enough that your focus narrows, sharpening until she's the only thing that feels clear.
"Someone interesting," she says.
Her fingers shift, sliding lazily across the table, near your hand. They're close enough that you're aware of the distance between them, of how little it would take to close it.
"Someone who knows how to hold their own," she adds, her eyes lifting to meet yours again, something like a challenge buried in the words.
There's a pause as she lets her words linger.
"And," she finishes, softer now, her voice lowering just enough to settle under your skin, "someone who knows how to keep my attention."
Your lips twitch, amusement flickering through your facade briefly.
"Oh, is that all?" you tease.
Natasha huffs out a quiet laugh, but her gaze doesn't waver. It stays locked on yours, steady and expectant.
"Think you can manage it?"
The way she says it, not quite cocky, but not entirely fake either. It feels like an invitation. Like she's waiting to see what you'll do with it.
So without thinking, you lean in—just a little.
"I don't know," you answer, tilting your head as if you're considering her instead. "You seem like you get bored easily."
"I do," she admits without hesitation.
You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing at her blunt honesty. Instead, you let your fingers tap idly against the back of the booth just behind her shoulder, grounding yourself in the motion.
"Then I guess I'll have to make sure I'm not easy to forget," you tease.
Her response isn't what you expect.
There's no immediate smirk, no counter-teasing remark. Instead, there's a brief flicker of something warmer in her expression, gone before it fully forms.
It catches you off guard as her amused grin returns on her face.
Natasha's fingers slide closer to yours on the table, brushing against yours lightly, as if she's offering you a glimpse of what her touch feels like without fully giving it.
"Careful," she murmurs, her voice low, threaded with quiet amusement. "That almost sounded like you're promising me a good time."
You grin, unable to help it now, caught up in the rhythm of it all, in the ease of this back-and-forth.
"Maybe I am."
For a moment, Natasha doesn't respond. She relaxes back in her seat, watching you thoughtfully.
Her gaze holds yours with that familiar spark of challenge resting just beneath the surface. It doesn't push. It doesn't press.
It just…stays.
Like she's waiting.
Like there's something unfinished hanging between you, and she's content to let it linger there as long as it takes.
And somewhere in that quiet, the space between you shifts.
Not all at once. Not in any way you could point to.
Just enough to stop it from feeling quite as defined.
And then everything shifts.
Natasha's lips curve slowly into that unmistakable, confident smirk, her brows lifting slightly, like she's just claimed victory without needing to say it out loud.
That's what breaks the trance.
You blink, the moment snapping apart as your awareness rushes back all at once.
And suddenly, you're very aware of how close you are to her.
Your hand is now braced against the seat behind her. Your body angled more toward hers. One knee pressed into the booth, and the other shifted forward between her legs.
Like you were about to climb into her lap without ever realizing so.
Your breath catches.
When did you—
For a second, you don't move. You just look at her, then at the tiny space between you, then back again—trying to trace it back, to find the point where things shifted.
But there isn't one.
Just the quiet realization that it already has.
A soft, disbelieving laugh slips out.
"That—" you start, shaking your head slightly, still hovering there. "That shouldn't have worked."
Natasha's lips curve again, slower this time. There's satisfaction there, unmistakable, but beneath it, something softer flickers briefly.
"Mm," she hums, her voice low. Her gaze dips once to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "And yet…here you are."
Something in your chest tightens at that, sharp and familiar. You don't let yourself examine it too closely. Instead, you exhale and push yourself back, creating space, though not nearly as much as you probably should.
"Okay," you mutter, half to steady yourself. "That was—"
"Convincing?" she offers lightly.
You glance at her, narrowing your eyes, though a reluctant smile tugs at your lips.
"Dangerous," you correct.
She leans back, finally giving you some room, but not before her fingers brush briefly against your wrist as you pull away.
Just enough for her touch to linger, to stay with you.
"I did warn you," Natasha says, her tone light again. "If you're not careful, you might fall in love."
You scoff, settling back into your side of the booth, though your heart hasn't quite caught up with you yet.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Natasha. It's not that easy to make me fall in love."
"Good."
The word lands differently.
You glance at her.
She's looking at you with a serious expression now, not teasing, not amused.
"Don't fall in love with me," Natasha says quietly.
It's soft. Nearly lost beneath the music, beneath the noise, beneath everything else.
But you hear it anyway.
It settles somewhere deep, somewhere uncomfortable, tightening your chest in a way you don't have time to process, because just as quickly as it appears, it's gone.
Her smirk slides back into place like armor.
"Unless, of course," she adds casually, lifting her drink, "you want a full demonstration."
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reach for the folded paper. Without thinking too much about it, you tuck it back into the front of her top, your fingers lingering just a second longer on her skin before pulling away.
"Save it," you say lightly. "For your numbers."
And then you lean back. Back into your space. Back into the role you've always had in her life.
The best friend.
The one who is never supposed to cross that line.
The one who already did anyway.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
You drag your spoon slowly through the soup, barely registering the motion as it disturbs the surface. The liquid folds in on itself, ripples spreading outward before settling again, only for you to repeat the same absent-minded movement.
It's rhythmic, almost hypnotic, just something to keep your hands occupied while your thoughts drift somewhere else entirely.
"Not that good?"
The voice cuts cleanly through the fog.
Your head lifts, blinking as the restaurant comes rushing back into focus all at once—the soft amber lighting, the low murmur of conversations overlapping, the occasional clink of silverware against plates.
Across from you, your date is watching with a small, curious smile, her expression gentle but searching, like she's trying to read what you won't say.
"Hm? Oh—no, it's great," you answer quickly, setting your spoon down with a soft clatter. Your hands retreat to your lap, fingers lacing together as if that might steady you. "I'm just…"
You falter, the excuse dissolving before it forms. Your gaze dips briefly, and you shake your head with a quiet exhale.
"Sorry," you add, softer this time, a note of sincerity threading through the awkwardness. "Would you excuse me for a minute?"
You're already pushing your chair back, offering her an apologetic smile, the kind you've perfected over time that hides more than it reveals.
She nods easily, gracious in a way that only makes the guilt twist tighter in your chest.
"Of course," she says. "Take your time."
That almost makes it worse.
You weave through the restaurant, past tables filled with people who seem entirely present in their own evenings, their laughter and conversations grounded in a way you can't quite access.
The restroom door swings shut behind you, cutting off the noise abruptly, leaving you in a quiet that feels almost oppressive.
You exhale, long and unsteady, bracing your hands against the edge of the sink.
For a moment, you just stare down at the porcelain, your reflection hovering faintly in your peripheral vision. You try to gather yourself, to reconstruct the version of you that walked into this place with the intention of trying—really trying.
Because this should be working.
She's kind. She listens. She laughs easily, asks thoughtful questions, and remembers details you mention in passing. There's nothing forced about her, nothing sharp or complicated.
By every reasonable standard, this date is going well.
And it is.
So why does it feel like you're somewhere else entirely?
Your gaze lifts slowly, meeting your own reflection in the mirror. You look…distracted. Distant in a way you can't quite hide, no matter how hard you try.
Because no matter how much you focus, your mind keeps slipping.
Back to her.
Natasha lingers at the edges of everything, like a shadow you can't quite shake.
When your date smiles, warm and open across the table, your mind instantly replaces it with something else. A familiar smirk that builds at one corner first, like it knows exactly what it's doing to you.
When the light catches your date's hair, soft and golden, your thoughts betray you with flashes of red instead. How those scarlet strands fall just slightly out of place, like it refuses to be tamed, like it's part of her in a way that feels intentional.
And when your date's fingers brushed yours earlier, it should have meant something.
But all you could think about was the difference.
The way Natasha's touch never feels accidental. The way it always lingers just a fraction too long, like she's leaving something behind on purpose. Like she knows exactly how to stay with you, even after she pulls away.
You squeeze your eyes shut, your hands coming up to press against your cheeks.
"Stop," you murmur under your breath, sharper this time.
This is ridiculous. You're on a date—with someone real, someone present, someone who is actually trying to meet you halfway.
And instead, you're stuck on someone who has made it very clear that she doesn't want this kind of relationship. Not with you. Not with anyone.
You let out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand down your face before reaching into your pocket for your phone.
This is a bad idea. You know it is. Your thumb moves anyway. Because, despite everything, despite the logic, despite the self-awareness, she's still the person you want to talk to.
The line rings once.
"Hey, what's up?" Natasha's voice slips through the speaker, low and familiar, and something in your chest loosens instantly, like tension you didn't realize you were carrying finally gives way.
It annoys you. How easy that is. How immediate.
You press your lips together, pushing that thought aside.
"Hiding in the restroom," you say, leaning back against the counter, your tone dry but lighter than you feel. "While my date is probably wondering if I've escaped out the window."
There's a soft pause, and then a low chuckle that feels entirely too warm through the phone.
"That bad?" she asks, amusement curling through her words.
You huff quietly, your gaze drifting back to your reflection.
"No," you admit, and this time it's honest. "She's great. Really great, actually."
You hesitate, your fingers tightening slightly around your phone.
"It's just…" you trail off, your brow furrowing as you try to find the words. "I don't know."
There's a quiet hum on the other end, thoughtful and measured.
"Mm," Natasha murmurs. "You're distracted."
It's not a question.
Your lips press together in a small pout because, of course, she can hear it. Of course, she can pick you apart without even trying.
"Maybe," you concede.
A beat passes.
"Need a rescue?" she asks, her tone shifting, still teasing, but there's an undercurrent there. Something just shy of serious.
And that's the problem.
Because you know she means it.
She would show up. Or give you an excuse convincing enough to leave. She would use all of her resources to pull you out of this moment without any hesitation.
The thought makes your chest tighten, not with relief, but something more complicated.
Your lips curve faintly, despite yourself.
"You offering?" you ask, letting a bit of that familiar back-and-forth slip in, something easier, something safer.
"Always," Natasha replies smoothly.
You can practically hear the smirk in her voice. Before you can call her out on it, her voice continues, softer this time.
"Do you want me to?"
It hits you hard how quickly she is to say that. Because it's effortless for her. This dynamic. This closeness that never quite crosses the line, but never steps back either.
Her offer hangs in the air, tempting you with the promise of her presence.
You open your mouth to respond, something half-teasing yet also honest already forming.
"I–"
"Where did you say your wine glasses are?" The voice in the background cuts cleanly through the moment.
Your smile falters, the warmth from earlier cooling as the realization that she isn't alone settles in.
There's a faint rustle on the other end, a subtle shift of movement. Natasha mutters something, her voice lower now, directed away from the phone. You can't make out the words, only the tone, easy and unbothered.
Truthfully, the revelation is not surprising.
Natasha moves through people and spaces like she belongs anywhere she chooses to be. There's always someone, something, some orbit she exists within.
So why does it feel like something just dropped in your chest? Why does it feel like you've been caught off guard by something you already understood?
You swallow, your grip tightening slightly on your phone as you force your expression to smooth out.
By the time she comes back, you've already started building the walls back up.
"…sorry," Natasha says, her voice slipping back into place like nothing happened.
You lean more against the counter for some support, letting the teasing edge return to your tone.
"Felt like some company tonight?" you ask.
It's a casual question. Harmless in the way you say it.
And yet a long pause fills the conversation as Natasha considers your tone.
"Something like that," she finally replies.
You nod faintly to yourself, your lips curving into something that almost feels like a smile.
"Good," you say. "Wouldn't want you getting bored."
The words come out easy, but underneath them, something twists, sharp and unwelcome.
You wonder if this is what Natasha meant. Why she doesn't ever want anything more with anyone. Maybe, if you learn to do the same, you wouldn't have this ache in your chest anymore.
"I should get back," you add, your tone shifting just slightly enough to signal an ending.
There's a pause on the other end again, this one longer.
"What were you about to say?" Natasha asks, referring to earlier before you were interrupted.
You glance at your reflection once more. At the truth sitting just behind your eyes. At the words you almost let slip, the ones that would've changed something, even if only for a moment.
You straighten, pushing off the counter.
"It's nothing," you say, softer now, but steady. "I'll manage."
Another beat.
"…right," she replies, quieter this time.
You hesitate for half a second before adding softly.
"Enjoy your night, Natasha."
You hang up before she can respond. Before she can pull you back into that orbit again.
The silence that follows feels heavier than before.
For a moment, you just stand there, staring at your reflection, at the version of yourself that almost said something you can't take back.
Your chest feels tight. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming.
Just…heavy.
Like something quietly settling into place.
You exhale slowly, smoothing your expression, pushing everything down into something manageable.
Because out there, someone is waiting for you. Someone who chose to be here with you.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
By the time you step out into the cool night air with your date, something inside you has undeniably shifted.
The careful distance you maintained earlier has softened, dissolving into something far more natural and unforced. It becomes easier when you stop trying to define what this moment is supposed to mean, when you let go of the need to measure it against expectations or outcomes. Without that pressure, everything settles.
The conversation begins to flow with ease. There's no second-guessing, no pauses filled with overthinking. Your words come naturally, and so do hers.
At one point, she nudges her shoulder lightly against yours, teasing you about something you said earlier in the night. The gesture is small and playful, but it feels significant in its simplicity.
This time, you don't hesitate.
You respond instantly, matching her tone, letting yourself lean into the moment instead of analyzing it.
And it feels good.
There's no weight pressing against your chest, no lingering tension pulling at your thoughts. For once, your mind is quiet.
It's just two people enjoying each other's company without any expectations for more.
You hold onto that feeling as you continue walking. When you finally reach the front door of your apartment, your steps slow.
There's a brief pause as you stand there, your hand lingering on your keys. The small, familiar weight suddenly feels heavier, your pulse just slightly uneven as you turn back to face your date.
She's standing close, her expression open and soft. Still, there's an expectancy there too, not demanding or pressuring, but present enough that you can feel it.
You know this moment. You've been here before.
You could stop now, just like you always do. You could keep things simple. Say goodnight, thank her for the evening, and let this end the way so many others have—pleasant, harmless, and ultimately forgettable.
Just another attempt at love that eventually fades quietly into the background.
But then your thoughts drift.
You think of Natasha.
You think of the way she moves through moments like this. She never hesitates, never allows doubt to creep in and complicate something that could simply be. She doesn't overanalyze or assign meaning where none is needed.
She just acts.
And for once, you decide to do the same.
You lean in first.
The kiss begins softly, almost cautiously, as if both of you are testing the space between you. There's a moment of uncertainty, a quiet question in the way your lips meet.
But it doesn't stay that way.
She responds immediately, stepping closer to you as if there was never any doubt. Her hand finds your arm, then slides to your waist, grounding you in the moment. The warmth of her touch is undeniable, real in a way that pulls you further in.
You feel it, the closeness, the simple, human pull of proximity.
It isn't empty.
It isn't meaningless.
But it isn't her, either.
And maybe…it doesn't have to be.
Maybe this can be enough to let you forget, even for a moment.
You deepen the kiss, allowing yourself to get lost in it. You focus on the immediacy of the sensation, on something tangible and present, something that doesn't ask you to wait, to question, or to ache for something more.
Your hands curl lightly at her collar, pulling her closer.
For a brief moment, it almost works.
It almost quiets everything else.
You just need a little more time, a little more distraction.
When you pull back, your breath is uneven.
Your forehead hovers close to hers, the space between you charged but fragile. The words that come next feel uncertain in a way you hadn't planned for.
"Do you…" you start, your voice quieter now. You hesitate, then push through it. "Do you want to come in?"
There's a flicker of surprise in her expression, but then she nods, a small smile forming as she prepares to answer.
"Guess you didn't need saving, after all."
The voice cuts cleanly through the moment.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. Your shoulders tense, and your breath catches sharply as something cold settles beneath your skin.
Slowly, you turn your head.
Natasha stands a few steps away.
One hand is tucked casually into her jacket pocket, the other loosely holding a pack of beer at her side. Her posture is relaxed, but her expression doesn't match it.
There's something else there, something that immediately fills you with a sense of guilt.
Your date glances between the two of you, confusion quickly replacing the warmth that had been there moments ago.
"What is she talking about?" she asks, uncertain.
"No, it's not what you think—she's my friend. I called her earlier but—," you say quickly. Your words come out rushed and defensive, and without thinking, your body instinctively creates some space between you and her.
And just like that, the moment collapses.
"I think…" your date begins, then falters. Her gaze lingers on you, searching for something that isn't there anymore. "I think I should go."
You don't stop her. You don't even try.
"Yeah," you say quietly. "That's probably…a good idea."
She nods, offering you a polite smile that no longer carries the same warmth.
"Goodnight," she says, her hand brushing your arm one last time before she turns away.
Natasha doesn't acknowledge her at all as she walks past. Her attention is fixed entirely on you.
The elevator doors close with a soft ding, and silence fills the space she left behind.
You don't look at Natasha, your gaze fixed on the ground in front of you. But in reality, you don't have to. Not when you can feel her presence, pressing into the air around you.
"What are you doing here, Natasha?" you ask finally, your voice tight.
"Checking on you," she replies, as if it's the most natural response in the world.
You let out a short, humorless laugh and turn to face her fully.
"Checking on me," you repeat. "Right."
Her gaze flicks briefly toward where your date disappeared, then returns to you.
"That didn't seem like you," she says.
Something in your chest snaps.
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
She steps closer, her expression tightening with confusion.
"What were you thinking?" she says more firmly. "Inviting someone you barely know to stay the night."
You scoff, shaking your head.
"Are you seriously judging me right now?" you shoot back. "Because that's exactly how you do things."
Her jaw tightens, just slightly.
"That's different."
"Why?" you challenge, stepping closer now. The frustration you've been holding back begins to surface, sharp and unfiltered. "Because it's you?"
"Because you don't—" she cuts herself off, exhaling sharply. "You don't see people like that. As a passing moment. You actually care."
"Well, you don't get to decide who I am, Natasha," you fire back, your voice rising. "Or what I'm allowed to do just because it doesn't fit whatever version of me you have in your head."
"That's not what this is," she says, her voice lower now, strained in a way you're not used to hearing.
"Then what is it?" you press.
Natasha doesn't answer.
And that silence is what pushes you over the edge.
"You always know exactly what to say," you continue, your voice sharper now, cutting through the space between you. "So what's wrong now, Natasha?"
"Stop," she warns, her tone low.
But you can't.
You're already too far in. You step closer before you can think better of it, crowding into her space, forcing her to look at you. She holds her ground for half a second, jaw tightening, until you shove at her shoulder with the next word out of your mouth.
"Come on," you push, bitterness creeping into your words. "Where's the charm? The part where you make this all make sense?"
At each push, she stumbles back without resistance. Again and again. Until her back hits the wall.
Your hand fists in the fabric of her jacket before you realize what you're doing, gripping tight, anchoring her there.
Natasha's breath hitches, so quiet it almost isn't there, but you feel it. That tiny fracture in her control. Her eyes flick down to your lips for half a second, then back up to your face, so quick that you might've imagined it.
But you know what you saw. You see it in her face. Time and time again.
The hesitation. The truth sitting just beneath the surface.
Your chest tightens, anger unraveling into something far more fragile.
"Say it," you demand, your voice faltering despite your effort to keep it steady. "Just—say it."
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You can feel the heat of her through the jacket, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the tension coiled in her like a spring ready to snap. Close enough to see every flicker in her expression, every guarded thought trying to stay hidden.
And suddenly, you're exhausted.
Exhausted of the almosts. Of the half-answers. Of the way she looks at you like she's holding something back—something you're not allowed to hear.
Your grip loosens, and the energy to stand strong against her slowly drains.
"You've known for a while," you say more quietly now. "I know you do."
For the first time, Natasha can't meet your eyes.
You let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand across your face, wiping at the tear forming there.
"God, Natasha, just break my heart already so I can stop—"
"I love you."
For a moment, you're not even sure you heard the words correctly. Your eyes lock onto hers, searching in disbelief.
"What?"
Natasha stands in front of you without any trace of her usual composure. The charm she relies on is gone, along with the practiced deflection, leaving only something unguarded and terrifyingly real.
"I love you," she says again, her voice softer now.
Everything around you seems to fall silent, yet your heartbeat grows louder and faster, as if it cannot keep pace with what is happening.
This isn't how things were supposed to unfold.
You release a breath that nearly turns into a laugh of disbelief, your head shaking faintly.
"That is…" you begin, but the rest of the sentence never comes.
Nothing makes sense.
"You told me not to fall in love with you," you manage instead, your voice unsteady.
"I meant it."
"Then what the hell is this?"
Natasha exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her hair.
"It is exactly why I said it," she replies, her tone edged with frustration. "Because this is what happens."
She gestures between the two of you.
"It becomes complicated. It becomes messy. It…” She cuts herself off, her jaw tightening.
You watch her, your chest aching with the weight of it all.
"So what do you do?" you ask. "Pretend it's not there?"
Her silence is answer enough.
You step closer, slower this time, until there is barely any space left between you.
Your hands rise hesitantly, hovering for a brief moment before you gently cup her cheeks, tilting her face so she can't avoid your gaze.
"Why can't I love you, Natasha?" you ask, your voice quiet.
She swallows, and you see the exact instant her control slips before she surges forward and presses her lips to yours.
Somewhere nearby, the box of glass bottles hits the floor with a sharp sound, but neither of you reacts. Natasha's hands grip you firmly, pulling you closer until there is no distance left.
A soft sound escapes you, and she catches it, reversing your positions and pressing you back against the door instead. She holds you there, her body anchoring you in place, and kissing you again with a breathless urgency.
Her lips move along your jaw and then down to your neck, finding the exact place that draws a sharp intake of breath from you as she presses against the pulse there.
Your fingers are tangled in her hair now, keeping her close while you struggle to steady yourself.
Then just as suddenly, she stops. Natasha's head lowers, resting against you as she breathes heavily against your collarbone.
"Everything…" she murmurs. "Everyone I have ever cared about…"
She lifts her head, and the steadiness in her eyes is gone, replaced by something fragile and afraid. Her hand comes up to your face, her thumb brushing gently across your cheek.
"I always lose them," she says.
Your brows furrow as you take in her words before softening in understanding. Your hands slide to the back of her neck, fingers moving in slow, soothing circles against her skin.
"Natasha, I…" You hesitate, knowing there are promises you cannot make. Still, there is one truth you can offer. "I will always love you, Natasha."
No matter what happens after this moment, no matter if everything returns to what it was before, that will not change.
The conflict remains in her eyes over whether this is the correct choice.
You offer a small, reassuring smile and lift your hand to smooth the tension from her expression before cupping her face again.
"Hey, beautiful," you say gently. "Do you want to come home with me tonight?"
Natasha closes her eyes for a brief moment and rests her forehead against yours. A quiet, breathless laugh escapes her.
"That should not have worked," she mimics your comment from the other night, her gaze soft with fondness when she looks at you again.
Your eyes flick briefly to her lips before meeting her gaze, a playful grin forming.
"And yet, here you are."
She lets out a quiet, affectionate huff before kissing you again, opening the door behind you, and guiding you inside.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
You are not surprised when you wake and find the space beside you empty, even though you had fallen asleep wrapped in her arms. The sheets are cold now, the warmth of her body gone long enough for the emptiness to settle in completely.
Just like you said. Another almost. Another story that someone else will someday tell about Natasha Romanoff.
The difference is that you know what existed between the two of you was real. Natasha feels it too. You are certain of that much. She cares about you in a way that goes beyond fleeting affection or temporary comfort.
The problem is not whether she loves you. The problem is that she cannot bring herself to choose a life where she allows herself to keep that love.
With a quiet sigh, you push yourself out of bed and find your phone. Despite everything, concern still lingers heavily in your chest. You want to make sure she made it home safely, wherever "home" is for her.
You wander into the living room, staring at the empty message screen while trying to decide how to begin.
"Hey."
"God—Natasha!"
You jolt violently at the sound of her voice, clutching your phone tightly against your chest as your head snaps upward.
"Say something next time!" you blurt out, still breathless from the scare.
Natasha sits on your couch, though she looks nothing like the composed woman she usually is. Instead of lounging comfortably, she perches awkwardly on the very edge of the cushion, her posture tense, as though she expects to leave at any second.
A faint smile touches her lips as she watches your reaction with quiet amusement.
"I did say something."
You glare at her in silent reprimand before taking a slow breath in an attempt to steady your racing heartbeat. It does little to help. The panic fades quickly, replaced by something far warmer as Natasha's gaze drifts slowly over you as she waits. Her eyes move with deliberate attention, almost as though she is retracing every touch from the night before.
Heat creeps up the back of your neck, and you clear your throat softly.
"I thought you left," you admit.
Natasha shifts slightly where she sits, and her attention flickers toward the front door instead of you.
"I was going to," she says quietly. After a brief pause, she continues in an even softer voice. "But after nights like that…this is usually where I end up coming."
The confession carries an unfamiliar uncertainty, something small and vulnerable hidden beneath her usual composure. Like she's not sure if she's still allowed to do this.
Realization spreads through you slowly, and before you can stop it, warmth blooms in your chest. Out of every place Natasha could have chosen to run to, the place where she felt safest was here. With you.
You lean against the doorway for a moment, studying her quietly.
In the daylight, after everything that happened between you, she somehow looks younger like this. Not softer exactly. Just tired in a way that strips some of the sharpness from her edges.
Like she's waiting for the moment things become too real.
You move slowly toward the couch, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she wants to. But she doesn't.
When you sit beside her, there's still space between you, just enough to give the other some room to decide what to do next.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The silence isn't uncomfortable exactly. Just heavy with too many things finally sitting out in the open between you.
Natasha exhales quietly, her gaze fixed somewhere ahead instead of on you.
"You should know," she says at last, voice low, "I'm not good at this."
You glance toward her.
"That's a first. Natasha Romanoff, not being good at something?" you tease lightly.
A humorless smile flickers briefly across her mouth as she gives you a sideways glance. Her eyes linger on your face before her smile falls.
"I leave," she says plainly. "Sometimes for days. Sometimes longer." Her jaw tightens faintly. "Sometimes I can't explain where I've been. Sometimes I won't want to talk about it even when I can."
There's frustration buried beneath the words. Not at you.
At herself.
You stay quiet, letting her continue at her own pace.
Natasha leans forward slightly, forearms braced against her knees now.
"I don't…" She pauses, searching for words she clearly hates having to say aloud. "I don't know how to let someone depend on me like that."
There it is.
Not I don't want you.
Not I don't love you.
Just:
I don't know how to survive being loved.
Her hands clasp together tightly.
"And when things start feeling…" She stops again, exhales sharply through her nose. "Too important, my instinct is to run before I can lose it."
She turns to look at you. There's no charm in her expression now. No teasing smirk to hide behind.
Just honesty. Raw and uncomfortable.
"I meant what I said," Natasha says quietly. "About not falling in love with me."
Your chest aches a little hearing it now, not because it hurts, but because you finally understand what she was trying to do.
Protect you. Protect herself.
You lean back slightly into the couch, your eyes lowering for a moment as you gather your thoughts carefully.
"I know," you say softly.
Natasha's brows pull together slightly, almost like she expected resistance instead. Expected you to fight her on it.
You turn your head toward her again.
"I'm not going to sit here and tell you your fears aren't real, Natasha."
That gets her attention fully.
Because she's probably spent most of her life hearing some version of:
"Just trust me."
"It'll be different."
"You have to let people in."
As though fear is solved through persuasion.
But you don't try to take hers away.
"You've lost people," you say quietly. "You've spent your whole life surviving things most people can't even imagine." Your gaze softens. "Of course, loving someone feels terrifying to you."
Natasha stares at you silently. Almost startled.
You offer her a faint smile.
"I can't promise you that fear ever goes away," you admit. "And I can't promise I'll never get hurt either."
Her expression tightens slightly at that.
"But I can promise something else."
You shift a little closer now, slowly enough that she can move away if she needs to.
She doesn't.
Your voice lowers softly.
"You never have to earn a place with me."
The words land hard. You can see it immediately in the way Natasha stills.
"I mean it," you continue. "If all you can give me some days is showing up on my couch at three in the morning and sitting there in silence?" You shrug lightly. "Okay."
A shaky breath leaves her quietly.
"If you need space, I'll give it to you. If you come back, I'll still open the door."
Natasha's eyes drop briefly, emotions moving across her face too quickly to fully hide.
"And if one day you decide this is too much," you add carefully, "then we'll survive that too."
That one almost breaks her.
Because what you're offering isn't pressure.
It isn't an obligation.
It isn't forever demanded upfront.
It's safety.
A place where she doesn't have to perform usefulness or perfection in order to stay.
Your hand lifts hesitantly before resting lightly over hers.
"No matter what this becomes," you say quietly, "you will always have a place with me. As my best friend, as…" You smile faintly. "Something more complicated than that."
A soft laugh escapes Natasha then. Small and breathless and painfully fond all at once.
Her fingers tighten around yours before she finally looks at you again.
And for the first time, Natasha looks less afraid of being loved. Not unafraid.
Just less alone inside of your love.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: this one got longer than I expected 😅, one day I won't chicken out on writing the sex scene like I originally planned (though it didn't felt like it needed it in the end). Again thank you for reading and now I disappear into my WIPs once more 😂
Summary: Your quiet suburb route has been traded for one in the city. Manhattan. From cozy moderate homes, to the Avengers Tower. You find yourself falling for the resident redhead. You see her multiple times a week, but you can’t help but wonder: Why is she ordering so much?
Natasha looks around her room where five jellyfish lamps stare at her in judgement. Will she finally gather the courage to ask you out before her living space resembles an aquarium gift shop?
Word count: 9.4k
Tags/Warnings: fluff, yearning, Natasha falls first and harder, puns
---
You look up to see the gorgeous skyscraper towering over you, an enormous “A” is displayed proudly on the side, barely visible from below.
You eyes drift back to what’s in front of you. The lobby can be seen through the glass doors, its decor sleek and clearly expensive. The hologram behind the reception desk exhibits scenes from the Battle of New York before ending with, “Welcome to the Avengers Tower”.
You take a deep breath in. Last week you had been delivering mail in the suburbs. Chatting with parents whose kids had just left for school, watching dogs run around front yards, and enjoying the quiet that came with not being in the city.
Now, you’re in the heart of New York. Manhattan. How did I get here? you wonder while exhaling.
Your boss had told you about the route change a few days prior. One of your fellow postal workers was retiring unexpectedly, causing a shift in everyone's routes. Yours just happened to be the most dramatic.
From having a route that mostly consisted of calm residential roads and sleepy avenues, to busy city streets and the honking of cabs every other minute. You were mostly delivering directly to companies now. The security was tight, but nothing like what you were experiencing at the moment.
The blue light of a scanner runs up and down your body before you hear a polite, but robotic voice above you.
“Y/N Y/L/N, you are now in the system as the mail courier. No threat detected from the packages or mail. You are free to continue into the lobby. The front desk is just ahead of you.”
You look around, searching for the source of the voice.
“I am J.A.R.V.I.S. A software created by Mr. Stark.”
You decide not to question it, pressing your bag more securely against you while a package is under your other arm. You start taking steps towards the front desk while looking around the lobby. There’s waiting areas to your left and right with comfortable looking armchairs and couches. A small coffee kiosk can be seen near the front desk, where the barista is making drinks for employees passing through. You can feel the warmth of the sunlight coming through the floor to ceiling windows.
You arrive at the front desk where the receptionist greets you with a smile.
“Hi, I’m here to drop off some mail as well as a package,” you say, smiling back. You place the package on the counter while pulling out a stack of mail and handing it to her.
“Of course,” she responds, reaching for the mail. Her eyes scan the package before pointing to the label. “This package is a restricted delivery and needs to be signed by Mr. Rogers directly. I’ll call him to come down to sign off.”
You hadn’t been expecting to meet one of the Avengers, having forgotten about the restricted delivery in the chaos of the route change.
“He’ll be down in just a moment,” she says kindly before turning to sort the mail.
You pull out your tablet from your bag, finding the necessary documents while you wait for him to arrive.
You look up when you hear the chime of the elevator arriving. Out arrives a nervous looking Steve Rogers.
Taller than he looks on TV, you note casually.
He walks over to the front desk where you’re giving him a little wave.
“Hello, nice to meet you. I have a package that needs your signature before handing it off. I’m going to need to see your ID,” you say with a professional smile.
He looks at you, eyes wide, before pulling out his wallet and handing you his ID.
You give it a once over, glancing down at the photo before looking back at him.
He observes you quietly before saying, “I don’t mean to sound arrogant or anything, but most people would recognize me. I haven’t had someone ask to see my identification since 1943.”
You look up at him before giving him a small smile. “It’s not that I don’t know who you are Mr. Rogers, I just like doing my job well,” you say while handing back his ID.
He looks impressed as you turn your tablet around towards him.
“I’m going to need you to go through these pages and initial and sign where indicated. Also, since whatever you ordered is at a certain value, you’re going to need to sign some additional pages that you can pull up afterwards then press confirm to indicate that the package was handed off to you directly.” You extend the tablet pen to him.
Steve squints at the screen as if that would somehow give him the knowledge of how the technology works. He gives you a shy smile. “Do you mind if I call someone? It’s my first time having ordered something and J.A.R.V.I.S basically did everything for me.”
“Not at all,” you respond good-naturedly.
He turns to the desk to ask the receptionist to call someone that you don’t catch. She agrees enthusiastically while looking him over.
“Did I mention I’ve only been out of the ice for a few years?” he asks, a little embarrassed.
“You didn’t, but the 1943 comment made this unsurprising,” you say with a teasing tone. “No worries Mr. Rogers, I’ve never been frozen but I still don’t understand how bluetooth works,” you say while laughing.
He gives you an appreciative smile before laughing with you.
—
Natasha steps into the elevator and presses the button for the lobby. She sighs, this wasn’t her first time having to help Steve with technology. After a few moments the elevator doors open to the sunlit lobby. She can hear Steve speaking excitedly to someone.
“I still don’t trust it,” he says.
“I know right? Online banking is kind of crazy if you think about it,” you agree.
Natasha steps into the lobby to see you and Steve mid conversation. You look as sweet as your voice sounds, nodding at something Steve says when you notice her.
The sunlight makes your eyes shimmer as you regard her.
“I think your friend is here,” you say to Steve.
He turns around and smiles at Natasha. “Thanks for coming down, Nat. I can’t quite decipher what I’m supposed to do with this.” He hands her the tablet and pen.
She looks over the pages before responding, “I’m used to this by now you dinosaur, no need to thank me.”
She hears you giggle and feels a flutter in her chest, choosing to ignore it and continue to go through the pages, signing and initialing for Steve before handing it back to you.
You take it back gently. “Thank you for your help,” you say to her appreciatively.
“Problem—I mean, no problem,” she corrects quickly.
Steve gives her a look.
You smile at her before turning to Steve. “It was nice talking to you today Mr. Rogers but I have to go take care of some more deliveries.”
“Please, just call me Steve,” he says before pausing for a moment. “I just realized I never asked for your name.”
“No worries at all. I’m Y/N. I’m taking over this route so we might be seeing each other more often if you order more things to be delivered. Hopefully next time you won’t need backup,” you say teasingly.
“No promises,” he says with a chuckle. “It was nice to meet you, Y/N. Good luck with the rest of the deliveries.”
Natasha watches as you store the tablet back into your bag.
“It was nice to meet you too, Steve.” You turn to Natasha. “Have a great rest of your day, Ms. Romanoff.”
You give her a bright smile and she feels her brain freeze. She watches as you walk to the lobby doors and exit.
“So she did know who I am,” she says to Steve after a moment.
“She knew who I was too. Still checked my ID and everything. I like that she doesn’t treat us any differently,” Steve says thoughtfully before turning to her with a mischievous grin. “So, what was that?”
“What was what?” she responds with a straight face.
“I’ve never heard you stumble over your words in all the time that I’ve known you.”
“Maybe you haven’t known me long enough then.”
“Whatever you say, Romanoff,” Steve responds with a knowing smile.
She doesn’t catch it—eyes looking towards the doors that you just exited from.
—
It’s a week later when Natasha sees you again. She’s sitting at the kitchen counter with Steve while eating lunch.
“Captain Rogers, you’re needed in the lobby to sign for a package,” says J.A.R.V.I.S through the kitchen speaker.
Her thoughts drift to you. It had been a while since she met someone outside of the team that talked to them like they were just ordinary people. While Steve was welcoming to others, he generally kept a distance. With you, he was talking as though you two had known each other for a long time.
There was something about you that felt so open that was rare to find nowadays. Like you didn’t have anything to hide.
The complete opposite of me, she thinks bitterly.
She hears the scrape of the chair as Steve moves to stand. She stands as well.
“I’ll go with you. Since you don’t know how to use the tablet and all,” she says nonchalantly.
Steve looks at her amused. “I’m sure that’s why,” he says while walking to the elevator with her following closely behind him. He presses the button for the lobby.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks defensively.
“Oh, nothing at all,” Steve says with a teasing lilt. “Couldn’t help but notice the great Black Widow getting flustered while we were talking to Y/N.”
“I did not get flustered.”
“So you’re saying you didn’t fully pause when she told you to have a good day?”
“There may have been a pause but I did not get—” The elevator doors open with a quiet chime.
Her words come to a halt when you come into view. You’re wearing your uniform, a blue collared shirt and grey slacks—something most people wouldn’t look twice at, but in Natasha’s eyes it’s like there’s a spotlight on you.
You’re looking outside at a dog passing by with its owner, a soft smile on your face. Natasha feels the same flutter in her chest that she did when she first heard you giggle. This time, she couldn’t ignore it. The feeling of her heart racing and the warmth she felt in her chest betraying her and forcing her to acknowledge it.
She was enchanted by you. Even after only exchanging a few words.
“Definitely didn’t get flustered,” Steve says with a smirk, walking past her to you.
She follows after him, glaring at his back. She wipes the glare off her face the moment you turn to them, noticing their arrival.
“We meet again,” you say with a charming smile. “I thought you said you wouldn’t need backup the next time, not that that’s a bad thing.”
“Well, I didn’t. She—" Natasha jabs Steve in the back with precision, so quick your eyes don’t catch the action. He hunches over in pain.
“Yeah, unfortunately this antique needs a little more time to get his bearings in this day and age,” she says casually, looking at her nails.
“Clearly. I mean Steve, I know you’re technically like 90 years old but you have the super soldier serum in you. You shouldn’t be having that bad of back pain,” you say with amusement in your eyes. You hand Natasha your tablet and pen. “I assume you’ll be signing for him again?”
She accepts the tablet and pen from you. “Yeah, we’ll have to teach him another day.”
Steve glares at Natasha, but decides to let it go when he sees the way she’s looking at you.
“I’m going to head up because it looks like you’ve got it taken care of. I need to lay down for a bit,” Steve says while rubbing his back.
Natasha shoots him a panicked glance, but he meets her eyes with a steady look that screams ‘You’ve got this’.
You watch the exchange with a clueless smile on your face. “I hope you feel better, Steve. Take care of yourself.”
“Sorry we couldn’t chat today. I’ll see you another time, Y/N,” Steve says while walking to the elevator.
She’s left alone with you. Her heart begins to beat faster as she tries to focus on initialing and signing the documents even with her hand shaking from the nerves.
She notices you watching her hand as she writes. She strives to use her best handwriting, finding the lines come out unsteady regardless. It feels like an eternity before she completes all the pages. You haven’t said a word, just observing as she finishes.
Am I too intimidating? She thinks to herself, disappointed. Maybe you would’ve preferred if Steve had stayed. You seem to have fun talking to him.
You meet her eyes as she hands you the tablet and pen back before looking down again to where your fingertips overlap.
“I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful your hands are. When you write your hand moves so gracefully. It’s really pretty to watch,” you say sincerely, albeit a bit shy. You take the tablet and pen fully into your hand before storing them in your bag.
She looks at you in disbelief. Beautiful?
Bloodstained, maybe. Lethal, always. Her hands had never known any other description.
Did you not know what she’s done with these hands? All the lives she’s taken? She wonders to herself. There’s no way you didn’t. The files were public, everyone had seen them.
You look nervous that you’ve offended her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No one has ever said that to me before,” she says softly before you can finish your apology. “I don’t think I deserve that compliment, but thank you.”
“Why do you think that?” you ask gently.
Natasha looks down at her hands, unable to meet your eyes. She rubs the callouses on her palm and fingers that she’s gotten from how frequently she handles her handgun. A constant reminder that she’s battle hardened. Far from beautiful.
Her head lifts to meet your eyes. Your gaze is so soft and she can’t find the strength to meet it straight on, choosing to avert her eyes. You’re too kind, too untainted for someone like her to even face.
She lifts her hand, her palm facing you. “You don’t know what I’ve done with these hands,” she pauses. “Well I guess you do, everything is out there,” she says with a resigned smile.
“I do,” you agree softly.
“Then you know these hands aren’t beautiful. They’re covered in the blood of people whose lives I took and that won’t go away no matter how many times I wash them.” She doesn’t know why she’s telling you this, someone she basically just met. Something about you felt safe. Like she could entrust parts of herself that she didn’t want the world to see and you wouldn’t look away.
She feels your hand touch hers, delicately, like you didn’t want to scare her away. Your fingertips trace the callouses and cuts on her hand. She finally meets your eyes, the softness in your expression still remains even after what she had said. Somehow, she felt like you were looking at a version of her that she didn’t see in herself.
“You’re Natasha Romanoff aren’t you?” you ask suddenly.
“Huh?” You manage to catch her off guard. “I mean—well, yes.”
“The same Natasha Romanoff who protected New York and effectively the world?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t—”
“Doesn’t change the past right?” you cut in smoothly. “I know. We can’t change the past. The lives can’t be brought back and the hurt can’t be taken away.”
Her eyes drop, she’s about to lower her hand when she feels you interlock her fingers with yours. You won’t let her run away.
“Everyone says the past doesn’t define you. I agree with that, but that wording makes it seem like it's easy to accept. The past did define you. You sit with what you did and you accept the guilt that comes with it. Saying, 'the past doesn’t define you' after doing something terrible is just a free pass people allow themselves. It’s what you do after your actions that define you” You take a deep breath, bringing your connected hands down and swinging them side to side. It brings her a sense of comfort.
“Did you continue to do what you did in the past? Have the same goals you did when you were in the KGB?”
She shakes her head, unable to speak.
“I won’t act like I know everything, because I don’t. Far from it. The actions that I’ve seen speak volumes about you. Someone who’s brave and selfless enough to protect others who can’t protect themselves.” You stop swinging your hands. She looks up to see you smiling softly at her. “We can do a lot of good, so much that it’s overflowing. It still won’t wash away the bad and that can feel helpless. What we can do though—is forgive ourselves bit by bit everyday and walk, feeling a little lighter in the process.”
She squeezes your hand tightly, feeling transparent in front of you. The heaviness that she’s always carried in her shoulders is still prevalent, but being here with you and hearing your words, she felt a fraction lighter.
She feels your hand loosen, your eyes widening.
“I’m so sorry if I overstepped, Ms. Romanoff. I know I don’t know you personally, I just felt like—”
“No,” she says with a small smile. A genuine one. “I needed that. More than you may realize. Also, just Natasha is fine.”
You release a sigh of relief before smiling back at her. “Well, I’m glad something came out of my ramble.” You let go of her hand, grabbing the package addressed to Steve before handing it to her. “I’m sorry but I have to take care of the rest of the deliveries.”
“I—yeah, of course,” she stumbles out. Why was she about to ask you to stay?
“See you, Natasha,” you say softly, a smile gracing your lips.
“See you,” she responds just as softly. She gazes at your retreating figure until you’re fully out of sight.
She looks down at the package, releasing one of her hands so only one is supporting it. She can still feel the sensation of you swinging her hand side to side and the calm it brought her. She replays your words, each one felt like they were starting the healing process of the wounds buried deep in her heart.
She brings her palm to her lips, pressing them to where your fingertips had touched. She wants to learn the version of herself that you see.
I want to see you again, she thinks while closing her eyes.
—
Why did I say all that? you think to yourself in horror, hands covering your face. You had just come back to your apartment after finishing all the deliveries. The secondhand embarrassment finally set in from your actions earlier today.
You can feel the heat radiating off your cheeks.
There was something about her expression that drew the words out of you. You couldn’t stand how she looked like she had already given up on herself. That she was irredeemable. That she was still a ruthless killer. When you looked at her, all you could see was the gentleness in her eyes when she met your gaze. Not the cold stare of someone who didn’t care about others.
You meant every word you said, but even though she claimed that it was needed, you couldn’t help but feel like you had intruded.
You release a heavy sigh, dragging your hands down your face. You peer down at your fingertips, the same ones that had traced the cuts and hardened skin of her hand. You still found them beautiful. When you held her hand, you could feel the steady warmth that radiated from it. The hands of someone that fought tooth and nail to survive. How could you not find that beautiful?
You bring your fingertips to your lips, the warmth of them mimicking the warmth you felt from her hand, but not quite as comforting. You don’t know why, but you feel connected to her.
I hope it’s not awkward when we see each other next you think to yourself before turning to make dinner.
—
Natasha expected to be able to see you in a week or maybe even a few days with how frequently the guys ordered things. It had been two weeks.
She had even resorted to waiting in the lobby for when you would drop off mail, only to have been told by the receptionist that you either just left or had come when she was in training. It was driving her crazy.
She didn’t even know what she wanted to say to you—just that she wanted to see you with that look that made her feel like she was worth something.
Which is what led her to stomping into the common room where Steve, Tony, and Clint are watching a movie together.
Tony looks behind to where she’s standing, arms crossed. “You gonna pay for the floor you’re stomping all over?”
“Why haven’t you guys ordered anything?” she asks, ignoring his question altogether.
Tony and Clint exchange glances of confusion.
“What’s it matter to you?” Clint asks.
“Answer the question.” She stares them both down. Steve stays facing the TV, trying to hide his laughter so he doesn’t face the brunt of her irritation.
“I mean, I don’t know. Just haven’t needed anything recently,” Tony says with a shrug.
“Same here. Usually just get stuff delivered to home,” Clint responds after, squinting at her. He observes her, noticing the pout she’s trying to hide behind the annoyance.
“So, we answered your question. Now answer mine. Why do you care?” Tony raises a brow, waiting for her answer.
“I don’t care,” she tries to say confidently, failing as her voice trails off towards the end.
“Clearly you do,” Tony quips back.
“I said I—”
“Nat,” Steve cuts in, deciding to help her out. “If there's something you need, why don’t you order it?”
Her eyes widen. She had been so sure that one of the guys would order something that it didn't occur to her that she could speed up the process herself.
When it comes to you it feels like her brain turns to mush. Unable to think at the capacity that she normally can.
She looks up to give Steve an appreciative smile. He’s already looking at her with a knowing one. She turns around and heads back to her room.
“Wait, that’s it? You just needed to order something? Even grandpa here can do that!” Tony yells down the hallway.
“Let her be, Tony,” Steve says while patting his shoulder.
Tony grumbles under his breath, turning back to continue the movie.
Clint continues to stare down the hallway to where she had retreated. He had never seen her act so irrationally before.
Something’s up, he thinks before turning to the TV while grabbing a handful of popcorn.
—
You step into the lobby of the Avengers Tower looking down at the package in your hands.
“Natasha Romanoff”. You’d be seeing her again for the first time since your last conversation two and a half weeks ago.
You cross the distance of the lobby to the front desk, letting the receptionist know to call her down.
The receptionist confirms that she’s on her way and you feel your heart rate pick up. You’re not sure if it’s from nerves or excitement. Maybe something in between.
The elevator arrives at the lobby floor, the doors opening—and there she is. She's wearing black jeans, a white shirt, and a brown leather jacket. And she’s entirely out of breath.
She walks over to you while trying to steady her breathing.
“Did you run a mile to get here?” you joke, noticing your heart rate hasn’t slowed, rather the opposite.
“Something like that,” she says between breaths.
“Are you in a rush? I can see you’re all dressed up. Let me just get the tablet ready so you can—”
“No,” she says, her answer a little too fast and loud. “I’m not in a rush at all. This is my only plan for today.”
You tilt your head, glancing at her outfit. “Are you sure? You look dressed to go somewhere.”
“I ran to change when I heard—” she pauses, eyes widening for a split second. “When I heard that my plans got moved up,” she corrects quickly.
“I thought you said this was your only plan,” you ask, confused by the contradiction.
“I misspoke,” she says, her lips curling into an easy smile that makes it hard to focus.
“Oh, I see. For a moment I thought maybe you dressed up for me,” you say with a grin, tilting your head.
She mutters something, looking momentarily annoyed with herself. Her expression shifts when she meets your eyes. The soft gaze from your last encounter finds its way back onto her face.
“You look cute today,” she says, her voice sounding confident. Though, for a moment, you swear you hear a shake in her voice.
You look down at your outfit. “My work uniform?”
“Yes.”
“Do you say that to all the postal workers?”
“No. Just you,” she says softly. A light dusting of pink on her cheeks.
Maybe you had missed the blush on her cheeks from her rushing earlier.
“That’s the first time I’ve heard that,” you say with a genuine smile. “Thank you, I really needed that.”
You really did. It had been a long day of ignored greetings or curt replies. Talking to Natasha felt like a breath of fresh air.
You take out your tablet and pen, unlocking it before handing them to her. She begins the task of signing and initialing, taking her time, reading over each page twice. You can feel her eyes on you every so often but every time you look to meet them, she’s studying the pages carefully.
Am I imagining things? you wonder to yourself as she finally signs the last page.
She hands you the tablet with the pen on top, you reach to grab it, your fingertips touching hers. You tug gently but she doesn’t let go, looking up in confusion only to find her watching you with soft focus. Captivated.
Your eyes drift to the glimpse of emerald in her eyes as if magnetized, her pupils dilated. The gentle curve of her nose. The fullness of her lips that are curled into a faint smile.
The heavy thud of footsteps in the lobby cuts through the stillness of the moment. She lets go abruptly, startled, as if she were in a trance. You quickly claim the tablet, tucking it into your bag as your heart begins to beat wildly.
“I have to go finish the rest of the deliveries," you say, your voice steadier than you feel.
Her hand twitches. “I understand,” she says quietly, her voice barely a whisper, before meeting your eyes with a bright smile. “See you, Y/N.”
“See you, Natasha.” You give her a small, lingering smile before turning away, heading to the lobby doors.
Once outside, your hand settles over your heart, its rhythm wild but recognizable. When you move your hand to your face, your knuckles graze your cheek—the heat radiating there is unmistakable.
You bite your lower lip trying to suppress the smile threatening to bloom across your face. You realize now that the rush you felt when she stepped out of the elevator wasn’t just a passing feeling. It’s a crush.
—
Natasha smiles down at the package in her hands as the elevator quietly makes its way up to the common room.
She doesn’t even remember what she ordered, randomly picking items in the decoration section and setting them to expedited shipping. Having Tony’s card definitely had some perks.
The doors slide open to Clint’s scrutinizing face.
“What’d you order that’s got you so happy?”
“Nothing,” she says, expression turning neutral.
“Nothing? Could’ve sworn I just saw you smiling at that,” he says, while pointing to the package.
“Must’ve been mistaken. Might need to get your eyes checked.”
He gives her a deadpan stare. “Yeah, I of all people need to get my eyes checked.”
She ignores him and starts heading towards her room.
“Something’s got you acting weird and I have a feeling it has to do with that,” Clint calls after her, nodding his head at the package. “You know I’m going to figure it out eventually. May as well just tell me now.”
“Nothing to tell,” she responds nonchalantly, pulling the package closer to her chest.
“Whatever you say,” Clint says with a mischievous smirk on his face. He turns, walking the opposite way.
Am I acting differently? she wonders to herself, the door to her room shutting behind her.
She carefully places the package on the floor, tearing through the duct tape with her pocketknife and removing the packing.
She stares down at the object. A neon-blue lamp in the shape of a jellyfish. She looks around the rest of the room which is a paradise of neutral tones.
She reaches for the lamp, ready to discard it but her hand stops. While you didn’t buy it for her, you brought it to her. She continues staring at the lamp that she doesn’t find particularly flattering before making a decision.
She places it on her coffee table, fully in view. Its neon blue stands out in contrast to the grey and beige decor around her room. It’s ridiculous looking, but she finds herself smiling at it. It makes her think of you.
—
A month passes with her seeing you three to four times a week. Ten to fifteen minute encounters that Natasha treasures every second of. She hasn’t found the courage to ask to see you outside of these package pickups, finding every time she opens her mouth ready to ask, something else entirely comes out.
She recalls her most recent encounter with you when she was about to ask you to grab coffee with her.
“So, what do you do outside of work?” Natasha had asked.
You looked up in thought. “I usually just relax at home, maybe meet friends. How about you?”
“I work out,” she blurted. The words out before she could filter them, trying to sound impressive. She felt her face heat up, realizing how it sounded like she was showing off.
You looked at her with a smirk, eyes glimmering with mischief. “I could tell.”
Her thoughts were stolen away by your smile and she ended up forgetting to ask you.
Now, she looks around her room. Five neon-blue jellyfish lamps sit on her coffee table in a circle, like a neon cult. A lobster corkscrew rests on her kitchen island, its googly eyes looking at her unblinking. Next to it is a white and black shark-shaped bottle opener. An array of marine life magnets with silly puns that she doesn’t even find funny cover the front of her refrigerator,
Her gaze drops to her feet, where a pair of bright orange fish-shaped slippers await her. She doesn’t even like the color orange. She doesn’t even particularly like fish.
She doesn’t dare look past the bedroom door where she knew more useless marine themed decor was.
At this rate her room would look like an aquarium gift shop—all because she couldn’t gather the courage to ask you out for coffee.
It felt like every time you smiled at her, or laughed, or honestly just spoke, she couldn’t think straight. Instead of forming a plan to ask you out, she just kept ordering more things. Clearly in the marine themed decor section that she must’ve selected when she was ordering with one thought in mind—to see you.
She looks around the room once more, the neon-blue glow of the jellyfish lamps reflecting in her eyes, and softly smiles to herself.
She was a fool for you.
—
You feel a flutter in your chest the moment you enter the lobby. A month ago you couldn’t have imagined having a full conversation with Natasha. In the beginning it was only polite greetings and silent, loaded glances. Now, the two of you talked about everything and nothing at the same time—whatever you could fit into fifteen minutes. Sometimes twenty when she “needed extra time to read the documents” she’d seen at least a dozen times.
You want more time with her. Definitely more than fifteen minutes—but even then you don’t think that would be enough.
Which is what has led you to today where you’ve promised yourself that you’ll ask her to meet outside of these deliveries.
You and the receptionist had become well acquainted, having the smooth routine of greeting one another before she called upstairs. No matter whose name was on the box, Natasha would be the one to show up, having somehow become the authorized agent for all the Avengers.
Today, however, was different.
“Agent Barton will be down in a moment to sign for Agent Romanoff’s package.”
You turn to her, eyes wide. She’s already shifted her attention to sorting through the stack of mail you brought.
You’ve heard about Clint a few times from Natasha. Mostly about him teasing her or playing pranks on her. She always sounded irritated when mentioning him, but you’d caught the glimmer of amusement in her eyes. She never said the words “best friend,” but you knew that’s exactly what he was.
You hear the chime of the elevator signaling his arrival.
You’d seen Clint on TV before, but in person he was magnitudes more intimidating. He was already observing you with a sharp gaze.
He walks towards you with confident steps before stopping in front of you. He looks you up and down, as if sizing you up. You’re mind blanks on what to say.
“So,” Clint says, his voice carrying amusement. “You’re the one who’s been keeping Natasha busy.”
You snap out of it quickly. “I think it’s actually the other way around,” you say with a smile.
He tilts his head, a small, knowing smile gracing his features. You remember Natasha mentioning this smile before, the one that always ticks her off because it's like he knows a secret you’re not aware of.
“Is that so?” he says, eyes glinting. “Funny, because she’s halfway across the world on a mission, and the first message I get from her isn’t ‘I’m okay’ or ‘Target acquired.’ It’s a two-paragraph text stressing the importance of me receiving this package.”
He takes a step closer, his smile widening. “She was very specific, even saying it twice, that I’m supposed to let you know that she really wanted to see you today but the mission came unexpectedly. She’s usually pretty focused on her missions, even cracking a joke gets me a glare. For you, though? She’s distracted.”
You feel the heat creeping up your neck. You understand what Natasha meant by teasing. But then his words sink in. Distracted. On a mission.
You meet his eyes, the embarrassment replaced by worry. “Can you tell her that it’s okay? And that I wanted to see her too? She needs to focus or she might get hurt.”
Clint looks surprised for a moment. He observes you, seeing the genuine concern for Natasha. His smile returns. This time it's soft. Real. “I’ll let her know,” he promises.
You pull out your tablet and pen, pulling up the documents before handing them to him.
He begins the task of signing and initialing, occasionally peering at you with a thoughtful gaze. His expression slowly shifts as he gets closer to completing the pages. He looks as though he’s figured something out.
He hands you back the tablet with the pen on top, exchanging it with the package in your hands.
“It was a pleasure meeting you. Mind if I ask for your name?” Clint asks with a mischievous smile.
“My name is Y/N,“ you answer with a genuine smile. “I already know you’re Clint. Natasha’s best friend.”
Clint looks down, affection flickers across his features before he expertly brushes them away.
“I’ll make sure to tell Natasha what you said—especially the part about you wanting to see her,” Clint says with a playful grin. “Have a good rest of your day, Y/N.”
“You too, Clint. It was really nice to meet you as well,” you say, offering a small wave before he turns and heads towards the elevator with the package under his arm.
You take a deep breath. You hadn’t been expecting to meet someone so important to Natasha, and it surprised you how much his approval mattered to you.
The disappointment of not getting to ask her out today still lingered but was muted by the fact that even though she was halfway across the world, on a mission, she was still thinking of you.
Be safe, you pray silently, stepping outside into the sun.
—
Clint walks down the hallway to Natasha’s room, grabbing his phone from his back pocket with his free hand. He leans against the wall near her room to type out a quick message to her.
Package secured, he sends.
The reply came in almost an instant. And?
And what? It’s a box, Clint types back. Y/N seems nice, though.
Shut up. Did you tell her what I said? What did she say?
Yes, yes. I told her. She said she wanted to see you too but that you should focus on your mission. She was worried that you being distracted would get you hurt, Clint watches the typing bubbles appear the second he sends the last text.
She said she wanted to see me?
Clint rolls his eyes at the screen. Yes. I’ll leave the package in your room.
He powers off the phone before he can see her reply—a frantic Wait!
He opens the door to her room, him being the only other person authorized to enter. He almost drops the package when he sees her living space. The neon-blue circle of jellyfish lamps serves as a welcome sign, sitting proudly on the coffee table.
“Oh my God, Natasha,” Clint mutters, his exasperation giving way to unbridled laughter at the realization. “You’re a total idiot.”
—
Natasha sneezes quietly, trying not to blow her position. Either the Siberian chill was finally getting to her or someone was talking about her.
She scopes the outside of the base, noting that there’s only two guards standing at the front.
Simple in and out, she thinks to herself confidently. Should be home by the end of the day.
Her thoughts drift to Clint’s text. You wanted to see her, too. She feels warmth bloom in her chest, a welcome feeling from the snow around her.
She shakes her head, trying to get back into focus. The fastest way to see you again would be completing the mission. She turns the safety off her handgun and begins stealthily making her way towards the base.—
So much for a simple in and out, Natasha thinks, her breath ragged.
She’s covered in dust and gun powder, the sleek black of her suit looking grey from debris. Stinging cuts cover her arms and legs—blood trickles down a cut on her cheek that she couldn’t even remember getting.
The mission had gone on for an additional two days, every possible variable coming out of the woodworks. Double the amount of soldiers than reported, the signal jammer breaking, her Widow’s Bites malfunctioning.
She sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion. She puts the Quinjet into autopilot, seeing that she’d be arriving in New York by noon.
She moves with practiced efficiency to the medkit, rummaging through it to find antiseptic and bandaging before working on her wounds. The time passes by slowly. Only the sound of rushing wind from how fast the Quinjet slices through the sky.
You wanted to see her, too.
She leans her head against the wall, her eyes fluttering shut. She falls asleep—her dreams filled with you smiling, welcoming her back home.
—
Natasha wakes to the sound of the Quinjet landing. She stretches her limbs, feeling every muscle ache from overexertion.
She gathers her gear before releasing the cargo door, squinting her eyes as the sunlight floods the hangar. It’s a sharp contrast to the dimness of the base in Siberia.
She was finally home.
The hallways are quiet as she enters, finding that the common room is empty as well. The silence feels welcome after how chaotic her past few days had been. She’s just beginning to savor the stillness before she’s startled by a voice.
“Agent Romanoff, you’re needed in the lobby to sign for a package,” J.A.R.V.I.S politely informs her.
She runs. Not caring about how exhausted she feels, the grime on her skin, the cuts stinging with every movement—her thoughts only on you.
She presses the button for the lobby repeatedly, impatient. Her heart starts racing as she watches the floor numbers tick down on the screen at an agonizingly slow pace. Finally, the doors slide open.
You’re already looking at the door as if you were counting the seconds yourself.
Natasha takes several hurried strides towards you, stopping when she sees your expression.
Your face is filled with concern, eyes darting to the different injuries she has while taking in her appearance. You reach forward, hand gently touching her hair that looks muted compared to its normal vibrant red.
Your hand moves to her cheek, fingertips tracing over the edges of the bandage she had placed haphazardly.
She feels her heart skip a beat. This was the first time you had reached for her since your first real conversation—the first time you’ve touched since your fingertips overlapped on the tablet. Your hand cups her face, your eyes scanning, searching for any hidden injuries.
She reaches up, her fingers curling over yours to anchor you to her. She leans her head into your palm, letting out a deep breath that she had been holding since the mission started.
That finally draws your gaze to hers.
“I wanted to see you,” she whispers, her voice raspy from exhaustion.
“I heard,” you whisper back, thumb stroking her cheek. “I didn’t realize how much brighter my days are with you until you weren’t here.”
She feels her breath stutter. Her heart aches with overwhelming adoration, more intense than any injury she had sustained on the mission.
“I heard you wanted to see me, too,” she says quietly, eyes searching yours.
“Clint told you?” you ask. When she confirms with a small nod, you offer a soft smile. “I did. I still do.”
“Even though I’m right here?” she asks, tilting her head in confusion.
“Mhm,” you murmur, stepping closer. “It’s not enough.”
She gazes down at you, eyes softening as she realizes exactly what you mean. The fifteen minutes weren’t enough. She wants hours with you. Days. But even then, she doesn’t think it’d be enough.
Suddenly, her eyes widen. She remembers the letter—the one she’d stayed up all night writing before the mission. She pulls her hand back from over yours, unzipping her pocket to pull out the envelope that was now crumpled and stained from her mission.
She hesitates, looking at the battered envelope. She’s about to put it back, deciding to rewrite the letter, but you reach out, hand covering hers before she has a chance.
“Is that for me?” you ask, eyes dropping to where your name is neatly written at the front of the envelope.
Natasha looks down, embarrassed but not able to turn back now. “Yes,” she murmurs, her voice uncharacteristically shy as she hands it to you.
The envelope is sealed with an octopus sticker, which you carefully unpeel, keeping it intact. You open the crumpled letter, the corners of the paper adorned by starfish.
She watches you nervously as you read the letter, shifting her weight side to side. She had chickened out while writing it, deciding to take you on a tour of the tower next time you came. She wasn’t sure yet if she could keep her composure for over fifteen minutes with you.
She sees your eyes twinkle as you reach the end, gazing up at her. “It’s going to have to be a pretty quick tour you know?”
“Consider it a practice date,” she says smoothly. She gives herself a mental pat on the back.
“Oh?” you say playfully, brow raised. “So, when’s the real one?”
She feels heat creep its way to the tips of her ears. “One thing at a time,” she responds, feigning confidence.
“Oh, of course,” you say with a teasing smile that gives her butterflies.
She watches as you carefully refold the letter, sliding it gingerly back into the envelope before sealing it with the sticker. You tuck it in your bag before grabbing the tablet and pen, unlocking it and handing them to her.
Natasha keeps her head down, trying to calm her racing heart as she goes through the pages.
How was she going to make this tour interesting? she wonders to herself.
—
As promised, you’re being led by Natasha through the hallways as she speeds through the paperwork on the tablet, the new package secured under her arm.
She’s dressed casually today, jeans and an oversized hoodie— a reminder that you’re in her home. She points out little details here and there but she always looks back at you with a small incredulous smile, like she can’t believe you’re here.
“And this is the floor my room is on,” she says, leading you into the common room. “I told everyone to go away for half an hour. You don’t have to worry about anyone showing up.”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” you say softly while looking around the luxurious room.
“I know,” she says quietly, looking down shyly. “But I would. I just want it to be us.” She hands you the tablet, before contemplating something.
“There isn’t really anything else to see, at least that you’re authorized to. Do you want to see my room?” Her eyes widen when she realizes how that sounds, cheeks flushing. “I mean—nevermind. We can just go back down to the lobby. I know you don’t have much time left.”
You watch her with amusement as she rambles. She finally meets your eyes when she hears you trying and failing not to laugh.
“I’d love to see your room,” you say between breathless laughs.
She gives you a little glare before leading you to her door. Her hand pauses over the handle.
“You know, maybe we should just go back to the lobby.”
“Even though we’re already right here?” you ask with innocent eyes. “Can I please see?”
You’re curious about how she decorates her room and how it matches her personality.
She looks at you wanting to say no, before relenting. Her hand hovers over the doorhandle, before sighing and opening it, she holds the door open for you. You step inside expecting something sleek and minimalist.
Instead, your eyes are drawn to a summoning circle of neon-blue jellyfish lamps. Your gaze naturally drifts to the massive red beanbag in the corner—clearly shaped like a crab. On the kitchen island, a lobster corkscrew lays as if it belongs there, its googly eyes somehow found its way to the door, staring at you.
You take a hesitant step further into the room. Your foot bumps something soft. You look down to see a pair of bright orange fish-shaped slippers.
You look around the room again, finding new marine themed decor on every pass. You turn to Natasha who has been silent, hand still on the door handle, looking like she’s frozen in place.
You can’t help the bright smile that blooms across your face.
It’s adorable—so out of character from the “deadly assassin” that everyone else sees. You can’t help but giggle to yourself when you picture the image of her sitting on the beanbag, wearing her fish slippers.
“It’s very… unique,” you say through your laughter.
“You don’t have to force yourself to compliment it,” she mutters, her face red with embarrassment.
“I’m not!” you exclaim, genuinely charmed. “What did the others think of it?”
“You’re the only other person besides Clint who’s seen it,” she says, finally releasing her hand from the handle and closing the door. “I don’t let people into my space easily.”
The weight of the admission settles between you, but before you can respond, the sound of a ringtone comes from her bedroom.
“I’m sorry, let me answer that real quick. It’s my work phone,” she says regretfully.
“No problem,” you respond with an easy smile.
She walks away to take the call as you continue taking in her living space. You notice the same paper she’d written her letter resting on the kitchen island next to a shark-shaped bottle opener.
You pull out a pen from your bag, scribbling a note for her to find later. You finish just as she returns.
She looks down at her watch, disappointment crossing her features. “Is it time to go?” she asks, her voice small.
“Yeah, unfortunately,” you murmur, feeling the weight of the goodbye looming.
She leads you out of her room, back to the elevators. The doors slide open, and she follows you to the lobby doors as if she’s trying to steal every last second. You turn to give her one last smile before heading out but you feel her fingers curl around your hand before you can take a step.
“See you next time?” she asks, her eyes searching yours.
“Of course,” you respond, feeling your heart swell with affection. You give her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze before she lets go.
You walk out the door, a wide, unstoppable smile stretching across your face. You’re already counting the hours until the next delivery— and for her to read your note.
—
Natasha walks back into her room with light steps, matching the lightness she feels in her heart. She’s replaying her interactions with you when the letter paper on the kitchen island catches her trained eyes.
That’s not how they were positioned before, she notes. Her tactical instincts come to the surface as she scans the room but sees nothing else out of place.
She takes careful steps forward, seeing the top paper has been written on. She leans over the counter to read it:
Natasha,
I’m shore glad we ended up meeting and that I got to have a glimpse of you outside of these deliveries. You octopi my thoughts all day and I want to spend more time with you. Let minnow when you’d be free for a date next time we see each other.
-Y/N
Natasha lets out a breathless laugh as she lets her forehead drop to the cool marble of the island. She reads the note over and over.
A wave of embarrassment washes over at the realization that you truly think she has a deep passion for marine life—enough to curate her entire room around it. She looks around, taking in the proof of how much she’s become a fool for you, finding the embarrassment dissipates.
Because at least now she knows you feel the same way. She reaches for her pen to write you a response.
—
The ambiance of the lobby felt familiar to you now. The city that had once felt intimidating and overwhelming was now a place that you felt grateful for.
Because this is where you met her.
It’s been a few days since your “practice date”. The arrival of a package for her finally in your arms. The receptionist catches your eye, nodding at you with a small, knowing smile when you tilt the label towards her.
It’s only a few minutes before you hear the chime of the elevator. Natasha steps out hurriedly, wearing a simple white blouse and loose fitting black pants. It’s simple, elegant, but to you, she’s shining.
She reaches you in a few long strides, and before you can say anything, she places an envelope on top of the box. You tilt your head, freeing one of your hands to take it as she moves the box and places it onto a nearby table to give you her full attention.
She nods at you to read it. You open the envelope, a seahorse sticker guarding it this time, and pull out the letter. You unfold it, taking in her messy handwriting:
Y/N,
Everytime I see you, you make my heart swim a little faster. My life is better with you by my tide and I can’t imagine being without you in the future. I feel like we mermaid for each other. Water you doing next Friday?
-Natasha
P.S. Look up.
You raise your eyes to see her gazing at you with undeniable affection.
“I know I kind of said it in the letter, but I want you to hear it from me personally,” she says, her voice steady and full of determination. “I like you. I think I’ve liked you from the very first moment we met, and I don’t want to waste another second not being with you.”
You bite your lip trying to hide the wide smile threatening to spread across your face. Your eyes filled with joy. “You misspelled something here,” you murmur, voice full of adoration as you point to a spot on the starfish-adorned paper.
Natasha’s confident expression vanishes, transforming into a horrified one. She leans in close, her shoulder brushing yours as her eyes track where your finger is pointing.
“Where?” she asks, her voice frantic. “I checked it so many—”
You turn your head, catching her lips. You feel her stiffen for a split-second before returning the kiss with desperation, melting into you. You pull back an inch, giving her one last peck when her lips chase after you.
“I like you too,” you say breathlessly, forehead resting against hers. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a long time.”
“Me too,” she murmurs. “So… about next Friday?”
“I’m free,” you respond. You pull a sticky note from your bag, scribbling your phone number on it and pressing it into her hand. “I’ll see you next Friday.”
You pull her into a deep kiss before finally stepping away and turning towards the glass doors.
You walk out into the New York sun, feeling giddy. Behind you, the best spy in the world stares after you with a dazed, hopeless smile on her face.
—
The Friday of the date
You and Natasha turn a corner in the aquarium, a massive, glowing jellyfish display coming into view.
“Natasha, look!” you exclaim, expecting her to be excited. Instead, she’s looking at you, completely captivated.
“Natasha,” you say, bumping her with your shoulder. “The jellyfish. They’re right there.”
“Mhm,” she murmurs, barely sparing a glance at them.
You stop, looking at her in confusion. “Aren’t they your favorite? You have like five lamps in the shape of them.”
She stiffens, her eyes widening as if she’s just been caught. “Oh,” she pauses, her voice going up an octave. “Yes. Of course they’re my favorite. Very… jelly-like.”
You squint at her before realization dawns on you, a breathless laugh escaping. “Oh my God. You don’t even like marine life that much, do you? I should’ve known when you barely looked at a single exhibit we passed by.”
Natasha glances at the wall of jellyfish, trying to hide her face that is reddening by the second.
“So… you wanted to see me that bad, huh?” you tease, your voice carrying a playful lilt that is betrayed by the pure, unfiltered adoration in your eyes.
“Please, don't," she groans while covering face with her hands, her red cheeks still peeking between the cracks of her fingers.
“I won’t, I won’t,” you agree with a bright smile.
She sighs, knowing that she’ll be hearing about this for the rest of your lives together but she can’t stop the smile that spreads across her face at the thought. Together.
Because now, you and her were a “shore” thing.
---
Well number 3 down. Was practicing dialogue a bit in this one so, feedback is always appreciated! I learned that you have to use 3 of these "-" suckers in Docs to be an em dash. The more you know 😌
Secret A/N: Y'know when you're in a meeting with all department leaders including C-suites and you decide to take a big sip of water and the initial bit of water goes down the wrong way so you start coughing. But you can't take a big cough that would help clear it from your throat because the remaining water is still in your mouth and you'd spit take it. You also can't swallow it because well, you're coughing. So then you have to just wait for it to pass as your colleagues/friends try to hide their laughs. Just me? aight.
⋆ headcanon form of being natasha romanoff’s wife .ᐟ
warnings — none. except me just writing without any context, i was just thinking about wifey nat :)
Wifey!Nat who is the definition of a protective spouse—her love language is knowing where you are, who you’re with, and that you’re safe. She doesn’t hover, but she’s always aware—or more likely loves to always be aware of everything revolving around you.
Wifey!Nat who isn't super traditional, but she does wear her wedding ring at all times. She’ll take it off on missions and slip it on a chain under her suit.
She absolutely adores waking up next to you. Morning Wifey!Nat is soft, clingy, and kisses your shoulder before she gets out of bed to make coffee for both of you.
You have a drawer in the kitchen specifically for knives because she keeps buying them with the reason of “can't never have too many.”
Wifey!Nat who is surprisingly domestic. She might not be an amazing cook but she finds peace in cleaning or folding laundry after intense missions. (post resting under your obligation, of course).
Wifey!Nat who hates grocery shopping but will come along if you ask—she pushes the cart while you pick things out, occasionally sneaking snacks into it for you.
Wifey!Nat who insists you know some self-defense, even if she’s never planning on letting you be in danger. She teaches you how to disappear in a crowd and how to spot a tail—“Just in case, printsessa.”
You’ve had multiple SHIELD/Avengers agents secretly assigned to keep an eye on you when she is away.
Wifey!Nat who always gets the best security in your shared home. Think panic buttons, reinforced locks, and facial recognition tech.
Wifey!Nat who has a sixth sense about people. If she doesn’t like someone in your life, she’s almost always right.
She’s not super flashy with PDA, but she’s incredibly intense in private. She loves slow dancing with you in the kitchen at night.
Wifey!Nat who loves kissing you softly when she first comes home from a mission, then holding you like she’s never letting go.
Wifey!Nat remembers every single anniversary, important date, and your favorite things. She’ll buy you flowers or little trinkets from other countries she visits.
Wifey!Nat who only calls you by sweet pet names like “moya lyubov” (my love) or “zvezdochka” (little star) in Russian. It's only ever your name when you're either arguing, or just you being a brat.
"tell me the truth, y/n. don't play with me."
Wifey!Nat has a soft spot for cuddling. She’ll sprawl across you like a cat, insisting she’s “just resting for five minutes” but actually falling asleep.
Wifey!Nat who becomes terrifyingly efficient when it comes to your safety. No one lays a hand on you without facing heavy consequences.
If she ever finds out you were scared or threatened, she’ll hold you close and whisper, “I’ve got you. Always.”
She’d burn the world down if someone hurt you.
Wifey!Nat who steals your clothes. She’s always lounging in your hoodies and claims they smell like “home.”
Movie nights mean she falls asleep halfway through but won’t admit it.
She’s the kind of wife who will assemble IKEA furniture at 2 a.m. and curse in Russian the whole time.
Wifey!Nat who also loves to tease you endlessly but gets defensive if anyone else tries.
Being with you gives Wifey!Nat the sense of family she’s always craved. You’re her safe place, her anchor.
She gets emotional about your wedding day because she never thought she’d ever get that kind of happiness.
Wifey!Nat who writes you love notes when she’s away. Little “I love you” slips left in your coat pocket or book bag.
Can we go back to writing/reading Avengers tower fanfics where we were running around with the gang and literally just vibin with everyone. Idk just feeling nostalgic for weeks now and I need to read something that’s not soo angsty
short summary: Natasha's distracted. The source of her failing missions and mistakes? She's denying to accept that it's coming from you, and who you've decided to walk in with during one of Tony Stark's party.
words: 6.3k
!!! warnings !!! : *drinking, alcohol, violence, sparring, fighting, physical violence, mentions of blood, mention of guns, blood*
-
Natasha doesn’t look at you when you walk in.
But she notices.
Her hands are wrapped around a metal cocktail shaker, her fingers beginning to go numb from the cold that now frosts the cylinder.
This week should’ve been like any other, but something was terribly off.
She grabs a fine strainer, angling it over her martini glass.
File reports took Natasha twice as long as usual. She was misreading her own paragraphs, missing key details, and leaving grammatical errors. She made small mistakes and took unnecessary risks, and somehow only on her missions. Her hesitation to pull the trigger, letting targets get away too easily. She’d tried to fix her mistakes during training, but her form? Sloppy.
Unacceptable.
Her PRs were at an embarrassing all-time low, and no amount of recommended rest or relaxation was working.
No amount of vodka, either. Natasha decides to add an extra shot of it anyway.
“Maybe some… time off would do you good, Romanoff.” The words of Nick Fury echoed in her mind, and she could feel herself scowl at the pure thought.
She’s wound tighter than a coil, every muscle tense beneath calm skin, waiting for a threat that never quite materializes.
But maybe it already has. She finally looks at you, and her gaze immediately softens. Natasha’s eyes run over your shoes, your dress, your hair. She analyzes you carefully, noticing every movement of your lips, every lift of your eyebrows, the curve of your smile. She thinks of how much time it might’ve taken you to get ready.
You laugh at something near the doorway, your hand reaching forward to the body in front of you, and it stays. Fingers curl tightly around the bicep of Sam Wilson, mirroring Natasha’s now-tightening grip over metal.
“Am I late?” Sam asks, his voice softer than Natasha would like.
“You’re always late,” you tease, straightening out his tie and smoothing it over once it’s sitting properly. Your fingers linger on his collarbone- slow, brushing movements.
Natasha’s jaw clenches without her permission, and the metal shaker slips underneath her touch. She regains her grip before anyone sitting at the bar notices.
The clear liquid pours from the metal shaker through the strainer, filling the chilled martini glass.
“Jesus. I only want you to make my drinks from now on.”
Natasha looks down at her martini, overflowing and spilling on the bar countertop.
“A recovering alcoholic, ladies and gentlemen,” Natasha says flatly to a very amused Tony Stark, who sneers in return.
Sam grins, but that wasn’t an unusual sight. He was always smiling around you. Natasha can read your body language easily, noticing the looseness of your shoulders, the way you lean into Sam naturally. Your movements are smooth, like you’ve been here before.
You have, but not just with him.
And that’s exactly what was so off with this week.
The martini that touches her lips is bitter and tasteless, so far off from what she usually can create. It’s downed quicker than it was made- that extra shot of vodka sank straight to the bottom of her stomach. It collides with the anger that bubbles, as Sam’s hand now rests on the small of your back. It's a gentle, casual move. It could be seen as friendly, and maybe that’s all it was.
The look on Natasha’s face might have said otherwise, because a dry laugh from Tony Stark steals her attention. He appears by her side, wiping up Natasha’s previous spill and beginning to make his own drink in fear that Natasha might flood the bar countertop again.
“You’re staring,” he mutters. “Didn’t take you for someone who would go for Wilson.”
His comment has Natasha quickly turning her head, holding fierce eye contact with him.
Tony smirks, popping a maraschino cherry into his mouth. His drink was complete, and he messily tossed his materials back where he’d found them. He leans into Natasha just enough for this to seem like a casual, light conversation.
“Keep the glaring up, and Wilson might just file a harassment complaint. Do me a favor, make my life easier? Talk to her.” He pats Natasha’s shoulder, then slips away from the bar to bother someone else.
“Didn’t know you were bartending tonight, Widow.” Sam Wilson appears in front of the bar, with you still close by his side. You’d seen Natasha and Tony talking to each other when Sam decided he’d get the two of you a drink, and you’d hastily offered to tag along.
Natasha quickly glances at you before she takes a sharp inhale through her teeth, playfully. “Unfortunately,” she raises an eyebrow, “I just retired.”
Sam laughs, his hands sit tightly in his front pockets. “You'd better get re-hired fast. This girl here says you make the best martinis in New York.”
“No kidding,” Natasha says, a small smile on her face. She can feel the burn of your stare, the way you can’t even pull your eyes away from her. She sees all in her peripheral vision, whilst her eyes lie on Wilson. “Still, I think you’re perfectly capable of filling in for me tonight.”
“Please, Nat.”
Your voice has Natasha’s eyes flicking to yours, and she almost instantly reaches for her martini shaker. “Best in New York,” you say quietly, raising your eyebrows. That small movement from you has her questioning if this is intentional, like you’re pushing to see what she’ll do when it’s you who asks.
“Two of whatever you just made,” Sam says. “Then you’re retired forever.” Natasha doesn’t even bother looking back at him, too fixated on you.
“You sure?” she asks, already reaching for the Belvedere vodka. “Might be a little strong tonight.”
“I think we can handle it.” The way you say it, the slight lift of your chin, the challenge in your eyes, makes Natasha’s pulse spike. She’d do anything to get you completely alone right now, and she thinks back to the last time she’d had that. The training room, a week ago. The way you say “we,” Natasha knows it’s just for the sake of the drink, but she hates you and Sam even being considered an item, again.
The frosted glasses are filled with the clear liquid, topped with a slight garnish of a lemon peel. This time, she doesn’t spill a single drop.
She pushes a martini to Sam, then one to you. Her movements slow, and your fingers brush as you reach for the stem of the glass. Her contact lingers, and she holds the glass firmly, planted on the bar. Her finger slides to yours slightly, and it’s electric. A shiver travels down your spine, and you successfully tug your glass out of her hold. You take a slow sip, your eyes lowering but never leaving Natasha’s. Her gaze flickers to the vodka on your lips, and you gently use your tongue to lick it off.
Sam looks between you both now, frowning and feeling more aware than ever before. “Did I miss something?”
“No,” you and Natasha say at the same time.
“Actually, yes,” Natasha speaks for both of you, and you frown, taken aback. You take a bigger sip of your drink, looking at both Natasha and Sam now. You’d need a lot more of these to get through whatever was going on here, you’d decided. Natasha smiles politely at Sam, who has confusion written all over his face.
He looks at you, almost scared. You shake your head, reaching out to him. “Could you give us a minute?” You squeeze his arm gently, a look in your eyes passing to him. He nods in understanding, to you and then to Natasha.
You take a final sip of your martini as you watch Sam walk away, mingling among the guys. Only now do you notice how loud the music is; you could practically feel it pulsing through your veins along with the loud singing and chatter from everyone drunkenly dancing. Cheers echo throughout the common room when the lights dim, darkening and leaving strobe lights to illuminate the way. Definitely not a hazard.
Natasha’s hand is soft and warm as it finds your arm, and suddenly she’s standing in front of you, no longer behind the bar. She’s close, and she takes a step closer, just like how she’d seen you and Sam near the doorway.
“Tasha,” you murmur. You were far enough away from everyone for this to be a private talk, but you still weren’t taking any chances. “What are you doing?” Different colors of light cover her face, switching between red, blue, pink, and orange. They accent her features, darkening your view of her as they flash.
Natasha avoids answering right away. Somehow, the music gets worse, pounding through your mind and shaking every wall in the room. Natasha’s voice remains calm despite your contrasting environment.
“What are you doing with him?” Her fingers tighten slightly around your arm, and you can feel yourself lean into her, like you’re aching for her touch. It’s not enough to hurt you, just enough to hold you here. Like she’s afraid you’ll disappear at any moment.
“Sam and I chose to stay friends. You know that,” you remind her.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Then you’re gonna need to be more specific.” You challenge her again, looking at her lips for a split second. The lights make Natasha look unreal, darkening her red hair, then highlighting it again. Her lips change from purple to blue.
“I think,” Natasha says slowly, scanning your entire face. Her volume lowers, her raspiness breaking halfway through. “You wouldn’t touch him like that unless you’re looking to get a reaction.”
“Is it working?” you ask, softer now.
Her mouth parts slightly, her breath shuddering against yours. “You know that it does.” Her voice is light, almost a whisper. You think back to last week, when it was just the two of you in the training room.
Memories flash of her tight workout clothes, the slam of your body into the bar mats, and her fixated gaze. The way she’d pinned you down, eclipsing you from the harsh fluorescent lights above. Her lips ghosted over yours, warm, steady- never touching.
“I didn’t really think that still stood,” you say, referencing last week. “You’re avoiding me, Nat. You don’t answer my calls, you’re barely here anymore. Stark throws one party, and you’re upset I showed up with somebody else?”
Natasha looks away from you. “With him,” she reminds you, unable to even say his name.
“Tasha,” you soften, using two fingers to brush along the arm that’s still firmly planted on yours. You can feel her tensing underneath your touch, her muscles freezing up. A beat passes, and she relaxes, her fingers gently tracing your skin back, mindlessly wandering.
“You think this is about the party?” Natasha asks.
“I think this is about you distancing yourself. From me.” Your eyes meet hers, and a flash of surprise wavers over her face, despite both of you knowing how true it is. You lean in closer, faltering when you feel Natasha’s hand pressing against you, keeping you where you were. Discipline.
“You distract me.”
You let out a scoff, shaking your head slightly. “That’s not a reason.”
Everything between you two had been mutual. You were so sure of it, while also slowly going insane because of the amount of buildup, the anticipation had you desperate for her. For anything to happen.
“It is for me,” Natasha snaps, regretting it when she sees someone look towards both of you and when she feels your movements against her arm still. You don’t say anything in response. The lights that shade Natasha’s face turn blue for a moment too long, and she almost looks hurt. “Everyone’s seen me this week. My training, my mission reports. Letting something affect how I work is where I draw the line. I can’t have that.”
You detach your arm from Natasha’s hold entirely, taking a step back and nearly bumping into a barstool.
“But you seem to have such an issue with who I’m around tonight.”
“That’s different,” Natasha fires back almost instantly.
“How?”
“Because when he looks at you- it's not casual. It's-” Natasha shakes her head, blinking slowly, losing her trail of thought.
“Are we really going to do this here?”
“What else would you rather do?”
You shrug, picking up the martini that Natasha had made for you. It had lingered on the bar, waiting to be finished. “Maybe enjoy my night.” You take one last swig of the drink, the smooth vodka travelling down your throat.
“Yeah, with him?” Natasha’s jaw is tightened, biting her tounge to stop herself from releasing insults.
“With whoever I want,” you reply evenly, even though the feeling in your stomach betrays that. Your face is burning hot, the alcohol settling in your system, but it's nothing compared to the heat of her standing this close. Her pale skin underneath her silk dress, radiating, reaching out to you.
You set your drink back on the bar and turn away, heading towards the crowd behind you. Looking to get lost in the mix of colored lights and swarms of bodies, all you needed was a good distraction.
Natasha grabs your wrist before you distance yourself too much, her brain not even processing the weight of her actions. Her grip is sharp, pulling you into your orbit, closer. Touching.
“Natasha-” you blurt out, surprised by her forcefulness. Your hand lands on her waist, an anchor as you steady yourself against her, preventing her from stumbling straight into you.
“Don’t walk away from me,” she says lowly, eyes glued to your mouth. “I wasn’t done.” Your heartbeat races underneath her fingers, breathing heavy as you slightly tremble. You were completely on edge, finally having a taste of the emotions Natasha had experienced this week.
The tension was as thick as it ever had been, waiting to break, waiting for someone to cross the line. Your face felt like it was on fire, burning and pulsing straight through your ears.
A red light flashes over Natasha’s face, and her eyes darken into something you’ve never seen from her before.
The music swells around you, bodies pressing and laughing and dancing, but it feels distant. All you can focus on is the warmth of her hand around your wrist and the way her thumb shifts slightly against your skin, grounding herself.
“You’re confusing the hell out of me, Nat. You want me until you don’t. I'm just a distraction from work, and you barely speak to me-”
“Shut up,” she breathes.
Her lips cut you off in a searing kiss, warm and firm against your own. Your fingers cling to her dress, sliding between silk and muscle, and you hear yourself sigh directly into her. Natasha turns her head, nearly melting into you, relaxed. Everything she’d been missing this week, all that had been going wrong, this is what she’d wanted.
The hand that wraps around your jaw, her thumb sliding over your cheek, pressing you closer, signals that it was something she needed.
“Hey- hey!” A voice cuts through the music, even though it was still blasting, you could hear it growing closer. With the way Natasha reacts, breaking the kiss so smoothly and removing her touch from yours, it was like it never even happened.
There’s even an appropriate amount of space between the two of you she’d created as Sam Wilson makes his way back to the bar, grinning and catching his breath. You hadn’t even moved an inch; Natasha had done all the work. She smooths the blue silk of her dress, directly over where your fingers had been, now wearing another polite smile, matching Sam’s toothy grin.
“They’re making me dance, you promised me I wouldn’t do it alone.” Sam laughs, reaching for your arm. “C’mon.” The happiness in his voice tells you two things: he’d found a lot more to drink, and he didn’t see anything.
Your eyes don’t leave Natasha’s until you physically have to, if you didn’t want to crash into the strangers that now surround you. You’d been tugged into the sweaty crowd, the music getting louder, the noises of the jumping bodies, singing, and cheering. Sam smiles at you, laughing as you begin to dance with him. His hands are warm but calloused. The hems of his shirt are rough as he collides with your arm.
You’re laughing and grinning with him, talking into his ear, trying to pretend like you can’t still feel the gentleness of her touch, the taste of her vodka burned at the tip of your tongue.
Sam has you spinning, falling in and out of his touch, back and forth, swaying to the beat of the surrounding music. The bass rattles through your ribs, all you can see are the bright colors flashing over the dancefloor and him. But without meaning to, you tear your sight away to where you’d just been, moments ago.
The strobe lights frame her in fragments of orange, then blue, then darkness. Her posture is composed again, her arms tightly folded, pressing into her chest. Her expression is unreadable as she’s just simply watching you, seemingly the theme of tonight. In the sea of moving bodies, you fall stagnant, and you almost don’t let Sam pull you back to him.
Natasha finally moves, one leg in front of the other, carefully plotting her next course of action. You watch it in flashes of light, the different colors beginning to make you feel dizzy. Sam is shouting something you’re choosing not to process, trying to get your attention, but nothing works. Your eyes quickly dart to the end of Natasha’s path, seeing Bruce directly at the finish line.
Alone, steadily sipping his drink, avoiding the boisterous and shouting crowds like he always did. He’d barely even touched his one drink, only mingling with a few select people tonight, but he wears a small smile as he’s pleasantly surprised to see Natasha walking over to him. He says something that makes her laugh, her fingers brushing his suit as if to steady herself.
Your face is blazing red when she looks over to you, making sure you’re watching when she leans in to whisper something in his ear. A satisfied smile lines her lips.
You’re not the only one who knows how to get a reaction.
-
It’s 2:53 a.m. when you give up on sleep entirely. Your room alternated between being stiflingly hot and too cold, unable to get comfortable as you tossed and turned in your sheets. Your eyes were glued to the ceiling, the running of the AC in the ventilation was the only noise that could be heard, and usually it soothed you, but not tonight.
You don’t even remember the excuse you made up, leaving Sam at the party. Your entire attitude had changed seeing Natasha with Bruce, and suddenly, you didn’t feel like faking your feelings anymore. The remnants of the party still echo in your mind, all the words that were said, the feeling of blue silk on your fingers, the sharp taste of vodka.
Your hands press into your face, frustrated with yourself as you take a slow breath in. Your fingers dig into your temples, trying to calm your breathing, regulate your pulse. You close your eyes, but all you can see is her. Thoughts of short red hair and pale skin, her smooth fingers, the way her dress clung against her muscles. Her voice, raspy and slow, as she’d pulled you into her.
Your hands feel the heat radiate from your face from just the pure thought of her. “What am I doing?” You whisper into the darkness.
The only response comes from the AC, steadily humming.
One foot in front of the other, and you’re slipping on a tight zip-up hoodie. The dimly lit halls of the Avenger’s compound are peaceful, contrasting the incredibly loud evening that remains at the front of your mind. You have no real destination that you seek, hoping to tire your legs out the more you explore. You just let your feet carry you down the corridor, past the common area, past the darkened lab doors.
You find yourself in the kitchen now, giving glances to the multiple security systems that surround you, providing a low humming noise as background noise to your walk. Finishing a cup of water, you turn a few lights off before rounding the kitchen corner, nearly colliding with a figure stepping out from the opposite hallway.
You gasp quietly, stopping dead in your tracks. You’d been trained to neutralize threats and sneak up on soldiers, but you couldn’t help it this time.
Natasha, of course, shows no reaction. Her eyes drag down your frame, then back up again, taking in your zip-up, your bare legs.
No longer in her dress, she sports tight compression leggings and a black tank top, clinging to her skin. Her breathing was controlled but uneven, and even in the dimly lit kitchen, you could see a thin line of sweat bordering her forehead.
“Can’t sleep?” She’s the first to break the silence, loosely crossing her arms over her chest, her hands exposed. You look down at them, taking in the sight of her knuckles, red and raw. She’d broken skin over a few of them, and you can see the faint trace of her blood.
“You were training,” you say instead, and Natasha shrugs.
“Can’t afford any more mistakes.”
The firmness in her voice tugs on your heart. You knew she had been beating herself up over what’d been happening on her missions, but the darkening circles underneath her eyes tell you this wasn’t the first night she’d been up late, trying to perfect everything she’d been doing wrong.
“Mistakes,” you repeat quietly. “Is that what you’re calling this?”
She narrows her eyes, pressing her lips together.
“I’m calling it what it is.”
“Natasha, you hesitated once. You’re human. It’s allowed to happen. One second doesn’t erase years of instinct. I mean…” you gesture, almost frustrated with how easily she dismisses herself, “just look at everyone on the team. We’ve all made worse mistakes and still live to joke about it.”
“Hesitating gets someone killed. It’s not up for debate.” Natasha lifts her chin sharply, challenging you. She pauses, hesitating over her next words. “But it’s cute that you’re trying.”
You’re questioning her sincerity, but you swear you can see the faintest smile curve her lips. Natasha was a full force of fire, burning quietly with a refusal to go out. You’ve seen better than anyone how set in her ways she could be, burying her conflict and doubt deep within discipline.
All you do in response is tilt your head slightly. “Okay, show me. Train me. Like we used to.”
Natasha looks up at you, a small wave of eagerness flickering within her. She doesn’t pull back as you take a step closer. Now there’s barely space between you.
“This isn’t a game,” she says quietly, watching your expression, waiting for what you’ll say next. Her eyes travel back to your lips, just like they had at the party. She doesn’t feel like now is the best time to close the distance, but she’s tempted.
“I know.”
“You’re not dressed for it.” Natasha references your tight-fitting hoodie and boxer shorts, and you wonder how long she’ll play cat and mouse as she tries to delay this.
“That’s never stopped us before,” you joke lightly, and Natasha rolls her eyes. Still, she gives a nod, grazing your shoulder with her own when she turns around, making her way back to where she’d just been.
-
“No gloves?”
“Afraid you can’t take a punch?” Natasha raises her eyebrow curiously at you, stifling a small smirk. She carefully wraps her hands, tightly covering her previous wounds with white cloth.
“I’ll ignore what you did to that poor bag over there and say no.” You gesture your head towards the sandbag, split in the middle and spilling over the floor. You match Natasha’s actions, tightly winding the cloth over your hands, leaving little space for movement. Once you’re finished, you tug your hoodie off, catching Natasha’s stare as you toss it across the room.
The sparring ring is a familiar scent, rubber and metal, mixed with the faint smell of sweat. Its combination reminds you of early mornings and even later nights, none as late as this one, though.
You cross through the strips, tilting your neck towards your shoulders, stretching as you wait for Natasha to join you. She steps through the ropes a second later, ducking in with ease. The mat dips slightly beneath her weight as she gradually gets closer to you.
You reach a clenched fist out to her, holding it in the air. An old habit from when she used to train you. Natasha shakes her head with fake annoyance, but taps it with her own. Once on top, once on bottom.
You circle each other slowly, carefully, making sure your eyes never leave her. You’ve learned that lesson before, and never again did you make the same mistake. You’re not surprised that she initiates, her first strike is careful, controlled as she aims for your shoulder. You block it, using her proximity to jab at her side. Too easy. She blocks it nearly the second you reach out.
Natasha pivots, quickly stepping forward to hook her leg underneath yours, an attempt to ground you, but you step to the side just in time, the adrenaline of it all beginning to wear away your lack of sleep.
“Naughty,” she whispers, aiming a punch at your face. You duck, managing to deliver a blow to her side as you get closer to the mat.
“Distracted already?” You ask, attempting to feign left. Your comment has her clenching her teeth, heart starting to pound. She steps inside your guard, forcing you back a half step, not falling for it. Surprised at her forcefulness, your hands lower the slightest bit, and Natasha takes the opportunity to sack your lower jaw.
You groan, taking a hot-headed swing in rebuttal, missing completely as Natasha smoothly leans back, your fist flying through the air.
Natasha doesn’t miss the opening, your left side is completely unguarded with your right fist still close to your face. She steps in close, her hand catching yours mid-air, twisting your arm just enough to stop you. You groan again, caught in this position with her. Sweat beads from your forehead already, and you’re grateful you’d taken off your hoodie. You knew any attempt to her side with your right hand she’d catch immediately. You’ve been here before.
“Still using the same moves,” Natasha murmurs. “Predictable.”
“That’s funny.” You exhale a huff of air, trying to ignore the way her fingers are still wrapped around your wrist. “I was actually thinking the same.”
Natasha lets you go, backing up the slightest bit, allowing you to swing, and you do, your right hand sharply cutting forward, all to be blocked by Natasha’s arm. She pushes her arm against yours, creating space.
“Do tell.”
“Yesterday, at the party. You’re predictable when you’re jealous.” Her mouth parts slightly with surprise, and you take her second of shock to your advantage, successfully hitting her forearm. Natasha lashes out, striking both of your forearms, sending you backwards into a new corner of the ring.
“You’re reading into things,” she says, voice low.
“You left early,” you counter, ducking another strike. “Didn’t even say goodbye.”
“Couldn’t break up your time with Wilson more than I had. Thought I was doing you a favor,” Natasha quips, challenging you. Her face is flushed, breathing slightly ragged. The aching in her limbs from training for hours is settling in, but if anything, it’s more fuel for her.
“A favor with Bruce?”
“No different than what you pulled.”
The mention of Sam has her re-clenching her fists, tightening against the cloth. You look down at them, a deep red beginning to seep through the bandages.
“Nat,” you say gently, reaching out to touch her. Natasha ignores you, grabbing your outstretched hand and twisting your arm, this time sending you hurling towards the ground. You groan loudly, the left side of your body connecting sharply with the rough mat, and you grab your left arm, squeezing tightly.
Your eyes watch the fluorescent lights above as you lie for just a moment, trying to bring air back into your lungs at a normal pace.
Natasha’s hair is messy, with wisps of red beginning to straggle from her tight slick-back. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, waiting for you to get back up. You push yourself onto your elbows slowly, wincing at the movement. The way her chest heaves, her eyes narrowed, impatient now for you to stand.
“You hate him.” The second you stand, Natasha’s fist flies at you again, and you’re blocking them with little chance for a rebuttal. She’s cornering you again, your back pressed into the ropes. Natasha pauses before answering, looking like she’s deciding whether or not to admit a terrible secret.
“I hate when he’s with you. You know that, and still-”
“Still?” You block a direct hit to your face, lowering your arm slowly. Natasha’s face is close to you again, her eyes landing on your lips for a split second.
You notice a vein standing out in her neck as she tenses up again. “You walked in with him.”
“And you’ve been avoiding me.”
She moves before you even finish the sentence, an aggressive, right hook that you struggle blocking. The force still rattles through your forearm.
“Stop,” she says quietly, but you swing again.
“You didn’t like that he touched me,” you say, stepping into her space now. “You didn’t like that he asked me to dance. You hate how he used to be there for me.”
“Stop it,” she says again, her knuckles connecting directly to your cheekbone, sending you staggering back. The imprint of her bones leaves a mark instantly, and you can feel the blazing of your pulse in your face.
“Why?” you fire back. “Because you don’t get to control who I-”
Another blow, but you manage to block it this time, forcefully pushing your arm against her hand.
“You hate that it wasn’t you,” you say. “You hate that he gets to stand next to me without worrying he’s going to ruin me.”
Her expression cracks, and she swallows hard.
“That’s not-”
“Exactly what you said last week. You backed away first.”
Natasha stares at you, taking in your words; the memory of being in the same spot a week ago lingers thick in the air. Her constant acts of self-sabotage as she pushed you away and made you come back. The way she can’t control how badly she wants you, and that scares her.
“I was protecting you,” she says quietly. She takes a careful step forward, lightly punching your lowered elbow. You raise your fists again, moving your feet and feeling the brush of cotton against your chin. You decide to aim for a low jab, scoffing at Natasha’s last comment.
“Then you won’t mind if I decide to move on.”
You see her shoulder tense, but you don’t expect the speed. You’d left your right space unprotected, the perfect opening. What was supposed to be an aim directed towards your jaw connects higher, her arm more curved than it should’ve been, with the force she was coming at you with.
Her knuckles hit sharply, punching you square in the nose. A sharp noise cracks, echoing throughout the room. Your head whips back immediately, eyes squeezing shut as you let out a quiet gasp. Your hand flies to your face, covering your nose and trying to process the pain beginning to travel up your face.
You close your eyes again, a burning white hot searing in them, threatening tears to spill through your eyelids. Your hand turns warm, red liquid beginning to seep through your fingers, staining your cotton wrap. It runs down your chin and leaves splatters onto the mat beneath you.
“Shit,” Natasha whispers, frozen in place. Her eyes are wide as she watches you, her chest rising with immediate panic at what she’s just done. There it is, her hesitation. Her own bleeding fist is burning as she pulls it against her side.
“Guess that answers that,” you try to play it off, laughing shakily. “Still not jealous?” Blood slides into your mouth, coating your teeth and sending a metallic taste down your throat as you swallow it. You run your tongue over your teeth, cringing slightly at the flavor.
“Don’t move,” Natasha says, by your side now, assessing the consequences of what she’s just done. She gently takes your face in her hand, bringing her other wrapped hand up to your nose, stopping some of the bleeding as it absorbs. “Blink a few times for me,” she says, darting her eyes between your own. She tilts your jaw back slightly, checking your pupils and face for immediate swelling. Her thumb brushes underneath your eye gently, and her small movement has the pain disappearing for a moment.
The caution in her touch, the worry in her eyes, the guilt written all over her face; it was rare to see her like this.
“I didn’t- I mean, I wouldn’t,” her voice is shaken, full of regret.
“It’s okay,” you say, slightly muffled from her wrap still underneath your nose.
“I would never…” Natasha trails off, meeting your gaze. She looks like she’s pleading, struggling to choke her words out. Suddenly, the room feels smaller.
“Never what?” You ask quietly, and she lowers her hand from your nose. Only a small amount of blood escapes, trickling down your upper lip. The hand that rested on your jaw slides to your shoulder, holding onto you tightly.
“I would never hurt you on purpose.”
“I know that,” the soft tone of your voice has Natasha leaning in closer. You almost let out a laugh at how obvious her sentence was to you. “I know you, Natasha.”
She exhales deeply, gently wiping the last bit of fresh blood underneath your nose with her hand. Her finger gently soothes your shoulder, as if she’s making sure you’re still with her. This week had been a complete mess, her missions, mistakes, her cold shoulder and avoidance towards you, and here you are- looking at her as if she’d hung the stars.
A shaky breath ghosts your lips as she slowly inches forward, like she’s double-checking it was okay to be so close to you. Her voice is smooth as she whispers against you.
“You distract me,” she admits. “On my missions. In my training. Last night.”
Your heart beats faster at the mention of the party, and your hand reaches out to her, meeting her waist like you did last night. Your fingers close around a ribbed tank top instead of silk. “Natasha,” you whisper, no other words for her confession.
“I lose focus,” she continued. “When I start to care, I hesitate.”
You raise your eyebrows, half surprised. “Care?”
“About you.” Green eyes flicker through your own, over your face, lingering a moment too long on your blood-stained nose. She reaches forward, lightly ghosting her fingers over it, afraid to hurt you again. You take her hand, pulling away from what she’d done.
“I care about you, too,” you say. “That doesn’t have to be your weakness.”
Natsha’s breath falters, tilting her head as she leans in closer to you now, achingly slow, right where the two of you had been, just hours ago. Her forehead is almost touching, and she hesitates to close the distance herself. She gently pulls her hand from your grip, her thumb brushing over the corner of your mouth.
Her eyes flutter shut, giving you all the permission you needed to press your lips to hers. It’s not frantic this time, clinging to each other and crushing your mouths in desperation. Natasha takes her time feeling you, breathing in the salt of your skin, sliding her hand down to your jaw, pressing slightly.
Her lips find yours again as they part, kissing you slowly while being mindful of your nose. Your hand tightens around her waist, wanting her closer. Her hand travels down to your chest, lightly pressing her fingertips against your skin. You taste iron on her lips now, contrasting with the sharpness of the martini from earlier. Her kisses are careful, teasing, like she’s trying to memorize how your lips felt against her own.
She gently presses against your sternum, breaking apart for a minute, her lips unable to resist the small smile that settles. She takes a moment to breathe with you.
“You’re still bleeding,” she whispers.
“You hit hard,” you murmur back.
A look of guilt crosses her expression again, and you regret it, kissing it away before it can settle any further.
This time, when she deepens the kiss, there’s no caution.
Natasha’s hand presses firmly into your chest, not pushing you away, just grounding herself. The kiss grows warmer, your breathing syncing, your bodies inching closer until there’s no space left between you. Her stomach presses against yours, and you get an insatiable need to have her closer.
“I don’t want you with him,” she reveals, her voice barely steady. “I don’t want you moving on because I got scared.”
You kiss her once, slower than before. The feeling of your lips stays with her as you part, nodding to her slightly. Your forehead brushes against hers, then your nose against hers gently, careful despite the swelling. The contact is soft, testing. Intimate in a way that the punch lacked.
“I don’t want that either. I just need you, here. Telling me what’s going on, not everything- I’m not asking that. But you don’t have to do it alone.”
A beat of silence.
Natasha kisses you again, quicker, confident.
Certain.
-
a/n: All the love on Off the Grid means so much to me, thank you all!! 💞
summary: valentine’s day at the avengers compound. one closed door. one deeply traumatized Steve Rogers. and a couple that absolutely refuses to keep their hands to themselves.
tags/warnings: valentine’s day, established relationship, excessive PDA, making out, suggestive content, implied sexual content, humor, avengers as family.
author's note: hi 🤍 this was written in the spirit of valentine’s day, bad timing, and the undeniable fact that Natasha Romanoff would absolutely make out with her girlfriend like the world is ending, especially in a building full of nosy avengers.
no apologies were issued to Steve Rogers.
Tony Stark made it worse. on purpose.
english isn’t my first language, so please be kind. as always, feel free to leave a comment, i live for your reactions
Valentine’s Day has always made Natasha a little feral.
You should’ve known that the moment the door shut and she didn’t even bother with subtlety—just grabbed you, kissed you like she’d been holding back all morning, like restraint was a suggestion and she’d chosen to ignore it.
You laugh into her mouth, breath already uneven, fingers sliding over bare skin because neither of you bothered much with clothes. What’s the point, honestly. It’s your room. Your day. Your girlfriend.
Her hands skim your waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you she’s there, solid and very real. She backs you up until your hips hit the dresser, not hard—confident. Like she knows exactly where she wants you.
“This is supposed to be romantic,” you whisper, lips brushing hers, voice betraying you.
She smirks, slow and dangerous. “I am being romantic.”
Then she kisses you again, deeper, hotter, like she’s offended you’d even question it.
It’s messy in the best way. Open mouths. Soft laughs. Teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp. You tug her closer because space between you suddenly feels insulting. Her forehead rests against yours for half a second, breath warm, eyes dark with intent.
“You look good today,” she murmurs, rude about it, like it’s obvious.
You scoff softly. “You didn’t even let me finish getting dressed.”
She kisses the corner of your mouth. “Exactly.”
Your hands roam, familiar and greedy. Her breath stutters—not much, but you catch it, and it sends a jolt straight through you. You smile, smug, and she notices.
“Oh, don’t,” she warns, already smiling too.
You don’t get to reply.
Because the door opens.
Just—opens.
No knock. No warning. No respect for Valentine’s Day or privacy or basic survival instincts.
Steve Rogers freezes mid-step.
The room is painfully quiet except for your shared breathing.
You’re pressed together, bodies close, barely dressed, hands exactly where they should not be visible to third parties. Natasha’s grip on your waist is unmistakable. Your fingers are curled into her shoulder. You are very obviously in the middle of something that does not involve small talk.
Steve makes a noise that sounds like his soul leaving his body.
“Oh—! I— I’m—”
Natasha turns her head slightly.
She does not move away.
She raises an eyebrow. “…Steve.”
You groan loudly, mortified and laughing all at once, dropping your forehead against her shoulder. “Oh my God. Please tell me I’m hallucinating.”
Steve spins around so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t pull something.
“I DID NOT SEE THAT,” he says at full volume. “I’M SO SORRY. I SHOULD HAVE— I RESPECT—”
The door slams shut.
Locked.
Steve stands there for a beat too long, staring at the door like it personally betrayed him. Then he turns and marches away with the intensity of a man who has just witnessed something he was not emotionally prepared for.
Inside the room, there’s a pause.
Then Natasha laughs.
You pull back just enough to stare at her. “You’re enjoying this.”
“He didn’t knock,” she says simply, unapologetic, eyes still warm on yours. “Rude.”
“He saw everything.”
She shrugs. “Not everything.”
You snort, half-laughing, half-still very aware of how close she is. “We traumatized Captain America.”
Natasha leans in, voice low, smug. “He’ll recover.”
Your hands slide back to her waist automatically. Neither of you moves away. Why would you?
She presses a quick, soft kiss to your lips—slower now, deliberate. “Now,” she murmurs, “where were we before America intervened?”
You smile, helpless. “Being romantic.”
Her smirk returns. “Exactly.”
And this time, the door stays locked.
-
Steve does not mean to tell anyone.
He truly doesn’t.
He makes it approximately twenty steps down the hallway before the image replays in his head—bare skin, hands, smirking—and he audibly clears his throat like that might reset his brain.
It does not.
He turns the corner and walks straight into the common area, where Sam and Bucky are already posted up like gargoyles. Bucky’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed. Sam’s scrolling on his phone, relaxed. Unconcerned. Innocent.
Steve stops in front of them and stares.
Sam looks up first. “Why do you look like you just time-traveled again?”
“I need to tell you something,” Steve says, stiff.
Bucky squints. “…did you die?”
“No,” Steve mutters. Then, after a beat, quieter: “But I wish I had.”
That gets their attention.
Sam straightens immediately. “Okay. Start over.”
Steve exhales, runs a hand through his hair. “I went to return Natasha’s jacket.”
Bucky nods. “Mistake number one.”
“The door was unlocked.”
Sam’s eyes light up. “Oh.”
“I did not knock,” Steve admits, miserable.
Bucky grins. “Oh no.”
“And they were—” Steve stops, searching for the right word, clearly coming up empty. “—indisposed.”
Sam leans forward, elbows on the counter. “Define indisposed.”
Steve closes his eyes like he’s bracing for impact. “They were… very affectionate.”
Bucky raises his brows. “Clothes?”
Steve hesitates.
Sam gasps dramatically. “Steven.”
“…Minimal.”
Bucky loses it immediately, laughter bursting out of him. “On Valentine’s Day? That’s bold.”
“They were happy,” Steve adds, like this is the most offensive part.
Sam presses a hand to his chest. “You traumatized, grandpa.”
Steve does not argue.
“I made eye contact,” Steve confesses.
Sam screams. Actually screams.
“NO. YOU MADE EYE CONTACT?!”
“They smiled,” Steve says, voice breaking. “At me.”
Bucky wipes a tear from his eye. “Oh, that’s unforgivable.”
By the time Wanda walks in with Vision, Steve is on his second glass of water and staring into the middle distance.
“What happened?” Wanda asks gently.
Sam doesn’t even look at her. “Steve walked in on Nat and Y/N mid-Valentine’s activities.”
Vision tilts his head. “Activities?”
“Barely dressed,” Bucky adds helpfully.
“Hands places,” Sam continues.
Wanda blinks. Then smiles. “Oh. That explains the aura spike.”
Steve groans. “Please stop.”
Yelena appears like she’s been summoned by chaos alone. “Why is he suffering?”
Sam points at Steve. “He saw thighs.”
Yelena cackles. “I warned him.”
Clint strolls in last, takes one look at Steve’s expression, and nods. “Yeah, that’s the face of a man who opened the wrong door.”
Steve finally looks up. “Why does everyone know already?”
Yelena smirks. “Because they are not subtle.”
Right on cue, the hallway door opens.
You walk in with Natasha’s arm firmly around your waist, completely unbothered. Relaxed. Glowing. Natasha looks smug in that way that should honestly be illegal.
The room goes silent.
Sam points at you like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.
“YOU TRAUMATIZED GRANDPA.”
Natasha raises a brow. “He opened our door.”
You nod. “Without knocking.”
Steve winces. “I thought—”
“You didn’t,” Bucky says cheerfully.
Sam shakes his head, laughing. “Man fought Nazis just to be taken out by Valentine’s Day.”
Clint raises his coffee in salute. “To love.”
Steve leaves the room.
Again.
Natasha watches him go, amused, then looks down at you. “Should we lock the door better?”
You grin. “Absolutely not.”
Sam groans. “I need hazard pay.”
And somewhere down the hall, Steve Rogers seriously considers switching buildings.
But oh Tony? Tony makes it so much worse. Naturally.
Tony Stark finds out ten minutes after Steve flees the common area for the second time.
Which is impressive, really, because Steve doesn’t tell him. Steve doesn’t even make eye contact with him. Steve simply walks past, jaw tight, aura screaming I have seen things, and Tony—unfortunately—has instincts.
He watches Steve refill his water bottle. Again.
He watches him avoid sitting.
He watches him flinch when laughter comes from the hallway.
Tony squints.
“…Did Valentine’s Day finally break Captain America?”
Sam doesn’t even pretend to hesitate. “He walked in on Nat and Y/N.”
Tony freezes.
Slowly grins.
“Oh,” he says. “Ohhh.”
Steve points at him without looking. “Do not.”
Too late.
By noon, the compound has been upgraded.
Tony doesn’t just leave the decorations up—he adds to them. Petals on the floor. Candles that definitely weren’t there before. The LOVE IS IN THE AIR banner now has a smaller one taped underneath it that reads KNOCK FIRST.
Steve notices it mid-stride.
He stops.
“…Tony.”
Tony appears instantly, coffee in hand, smug as hell. “Relax, Cap. I’m fostering communication. And trauma processing.”
“You put rose petals outside their door,” Steve says flatly.
“Correction,” Tony replies. “I put rose petals leading away from their door. For safety.”
Sam laughs so hard he has to sit down.
Natasha walks by with you, takes one look at the decorations, and hums appreciatively. “That’s new.”
Tony points finger guns at her. “You’re welcome.”
You blink. “Why is there a heart-shaped sign that says ‘EYES UP’?”
Tony beams. “Inside joke.”
Steve leaves the room again.
Dinner is when Tony really commits to the bit.
Candles. Soft lighting. Music that sounds suspiciously like it was curated by someone trying to seduce an entire room. Steve stares at his plate like it personally betrayed him.
Tony raises his glass. “I’d like to make a toast.”
“No,” Steve says immediately.
“To love,” Tony continues anyway. “To boundaries. And to doors that lock.”
Natasha smirks. You hide your smile behind your napkin.
Steve pushes his chair back. “I’m done eating.”
“You haven’t eaten,” Bruce says gently.
“I have eaten enough today,” Steve replies, haunted.
The card shows up the next morning.
Steve just wants coffee. Protein. Silence. Maybe a universe where none of this happened.
Instead, there’s a red envelope taped directly to the fridge.
It has his name on it.
He stares at it for a full five seconds before realizing he’s holding his breath.
Sam is behind him immediately. “Open it.”
“I will not.”
Bucky appears on his other side. “Open it.”
“I don’t think—”
Tony pops up out of nowhere. “Open it.”
Steve sighs. Defeated. He opens the card.
Inside, the handwriting is unmistakably Natasha’s.
Roses are red,
Privacy is key—
Next time, knock louder.
Happy Valentine’s Day
There’s two lipstick marks at the bottom.
Steve closes the card. Opens it again. Like maybe it’ll say something different the second time.
It does not.
Behind him, Tony loses it.
“Oh my god,” Tony wheezes. “They signed it.”
Sam is crying laughing. “They SIGNED it.”
Bucky nods approvingly. “That’s commitment.”
Steve presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I fought in a war.”
“Yeah,” Tony says cheerfully. “And now you’ve lost one.”
Right on cue, Natasha walks in with you tucked comfortably under her arm. You look relaxed. Happy. Entirely unrepentant.
“Morning, Steve,” she says pleasantly.
You smile. “Coffee?”
Steve straightens. Nods stiffly. “Yes. Thank you.”
He grabs his mug and leaves immediately.
Tony watches him go, sighs dreamily. “I give it five years before he forgives you.”
author's note: this drabble was written based on this request. i’m not sure if it’s exactly what you were expecting, but i really hope you enjoy it. i had a lot of fun writing Natasha trying (and failing) to keep herself under control.
This wasn’t routine.
Most Target runs were tactical. Fast. Efficient. Minimal collateral damage.
Natasha Romanoff had promised herself she would behave.
Ellie was buckled into the cart seat, swinging her feet happily. Matt stood in the basket, hugging a box of cereal like it was priceless. You pushed the cart with ease, list in hand, focused.
Nat walked beside you.
Trying very hard not to stare.
Groceries, she reminded herself.
Children. Exit.
Activewear appeared at the end of the aisle.
She slowed.
You felt it immediately. “Nat...”
“I’m fine,” she said too quickly. “Just—observing.”
She picked up a pair of leggings. Black. Compression. Familiar. The exact kind she trained beside you in at the compound gym, watching you move with strength and control and—
Focus.
“These are good.” she said neutrally.
“You say that about all of them.”
“No,” she replied. “Only the ones that don’t roll.”
Matt looked up. “Mommy rolls?”
Ellie giggled. “Like down a hill?”
Nat smiled, grateful. “No. Mommy is very stable.”
Then—softer, just for you: “And very distracting.”
The leggings went into the cart before she could stop herself.
That’s one item. That’s fine.
Gym shorts were next.
Nat picked them up, paused.
“You still steal mine...” she said lightly.
“You leave them in my drawer.”
“I know.” she admitted.
Ellie leaned forward. “Mama, why does Mommy wear your clothes?”
Nat smiled, composed. “Because we’re married.”
Matt nodded. “That makes sense.”
Then, quieter—less composed: “And because they look better on you.”
You shot her a look. “Behave.”
“I am,” she whispered. “I haven’t even mentioned your—”
She stopped herself. Closed her eyes. Took a breath.
Sports bras.
Nat froze like she’d walked into enemy territory.
She reached for one. Stopped. Reached again.
“These,” she said carefully, “are important.”
You crossed your arms. “That’s not the whole reason.”
“It is a reason,” she replied.
Ellie tilted her head. “Important for what?”
Nat crouched immediately. “So Mommy is comfortable when she trains.”
She stood. Met your eyes.
Failed.
“And,” she added quietly, “this one stays exactly where it should.”
You stared.
She placed it in the cart like this had been inevitable.
Jeans should’ve been safe.
They were not.
Nat stopped in front of the display, scanning with professional focus. She pulled out a pair, assessed the fabric, the cut.
“These are reliable,” she said.
“They’re jeans.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“For… bending.”
You inhaled sharply.
Ellie gasped. “Mommy bends!”
“Yes,” Nat said quickly. “To pick up toys.”
Matt grinned. “A lot.”
The jeans joined the cart.
Sweaters came last.
Nat picked one up—soft, oversized. She held it against you, and her teasing faded into something warmer.
“This,” she said quietly, “for after training. Or mornings when you steal my side of the bed.”
You smiled. “You're spoiling me.”
She swallowed. “I’m trying not to...”
At checkout, the cart told the story.
Groceries. Snacks. Juice boxes.
Leggings. Shorts. Sports bra. Jeans. Sweater.
The cashier smiled knowingly. Nat accepted defeat.
In the parking lot, while you buckled Ellie in, Nat leaned against the car, watching you like this was her favorite part of the day.
Summary: Natasha calls you girlfriend and you correct her
Word Count: 300+
Genre: fluff
A/N: Happy New Year!
The compound gym was usually quiet on Sunday mornings. Except for today, when a group of young trainees from junior program had been invited to tour the Avengers facility. Wide-eyes kids, all of them staring at everything like it was magic.
You were supposed to demonstrate a simple disarm. Simple.
But the trainee you partnered with moved faster than expected, swinging the practice staff at your head with way too much enthusiasm.
You didn’t even think. Your body reacted on instinct.
You ducked low, swept his legs in one clean motion, caught the falling staff mid-air, spun it around your wrist and tapped it gently against his shoulder in the universal “you’re out” signal.
The entire room gasped.
One of the kids whispered, star-struck, “She’s so cool…”
And before you could say anything, you heard Natasha’s voice ring out from across the room, loud, proud and absolutely smug:
“That’s my girlfriend, you suckers!”
Nat was standing there arms crossed, smirk sharp enough to cut glass, absolutely preening.
You helped the trainee to stand and then turned to Natasha with a smirk.
“Your wife, Nat.”
The kids gasped. Natasha froze for a second, then her smirk deepened into something warmer, brighter.
She closed the distance in two slow steps, eyes gleaming.
“My wife,” she echoed, voice dropping like she liked the taste of the word, “Even better.”
A couple of the trainees whispered excitedly, one of them whisper-shouting, “She’s married to Black Widow!”
Natasha ignored them completely, her attention fixed entirely on you as she took your hand and tugged you closer.
“You know,” she murmured, low enough only you could hear, “you showing off like that is extremely attractive.”
You raised a brow, “Didn’t mean to show off.”
“Liar,” she said with a soft laugh, “Good thing you’re my wife or I’d have to fight half these kids for your attention.”
You squeezed her hand, still smirking, “Relax, Nat. They’re all terrified of you.”
Her smirk returned full force, “Even better.”
Tag list: @mirage018 @yelldontwhisper @canvascoloredin @perfectlyfoggycloud @taliiiaasteria @checkenlittlsblog
short summary: You and Zora broke up two years ago, and of course you're not over it. Filled with plenty of anger and resentment towards her, you're shocked to hear of her plans of returning to town.
(The plot is based around the events of Jurrasic World Rebirth)
word count: 5.6k
warnings !!! : *drinking, language, some sexual themes*
-
Paramaribo, Suriname, South America. 2027.
-
“I need a favor.”
“When do you not?”
“Hey, I’m serious.”
Duncan’s voice lowers, and instantly, you can tell he isn’t joking around, like the two of you usually are. You sit up a little straighter in your chair, a cue to let him know you’re listening. You could always tell when something’s on his mind, and he hadn’t been the same since you watched him take a phone call the other day.
There were insurmountable layers of trust between you and Duncan Kinclad. Working side by side with him for 10 straight years as a mercenary can do that to two people. Three, actually, if you include Zora Bennet, who was as integral to your circle as any of you were. Even her lack of presence couldn’t be replaced, but you made sure to take on the loss of a member as best as you could.
You had seen it all with Duncan and your crew, enduring both the worst and the best moments of your life. The people and experiences shaped who you were, though everything came at a heavy price.
The ones you’ve lost still haunt you to this day. Then again, everyone knows that’s the risk you take working in a field like this.
Now, you worked part time with Duncan and his crew, smuggling whatever goods they could get their hands on. The other half, you spent at Van Dijk's Bar & Grill.
“There’s a job.” He stands up, pushing his chair back into the table you were still sitting at. This information was nothing out of the ordinary; every two weeks or so, there would be a job.
“There’s always a job,” you say, frowning. You were more confused than anything, and Duncan wasn’t acting himself. He was always straightforward and pulled together. You watch as he pours two drinks from the side bar he’s now behind. “Whatever it is, you can tell me-”
“I need you here, instead. Not with us.” Duncan sets the bottle of liquor down, calmly. He watches your reaction, predicting the next words that you’ll say inside his head.
“What?! That’s insane, you’ll be short!” Since moving here, you can’t even remember a time when you weren’t going on missions with Duncan and the crew, you knew the layout of his boat like the back of your hand. “And what, I'm just supposed to sit squat here, look after the bar and grill?”
Duncan sits back down, sliding your drink straight into your hands. He takes a heavy sip, keeping the glass near his mouth.
“Yeah.” He nods. “Zora’s coming back. With some hotshot from the city.”
You feel like your heart drops straight into your stomach. You tear your gaze away from Duncan as a burning sensation makes its way to your throat. Everything comes flooding back to you in a matter of seconds. This wasn’t like she was just brought up in casual conversation.
“The regular crew will be on, including Z and her guy. We won't be short.”
Zora Bennet, back here, back to the place both of you had called home.
“I can still work with her,” you try to reason. “That’s not an issue. It won’t be.”
“Exactly, because you’re not going.” Duncan’s voice is firm, and you know he won’t change his mind. He never does. Still, you feel the need to annoy him.
“You know I can work with anyone. I can do a job well, and finish it with no problem. You know me.”
Duncan half smiles, shaking his head. “I know that you're relentless. And I’d never ask you to stay behind unless I needed it. I'm asking a favor,” he says again.
You bite the inside of your cheek, rolling your eyes in frustration. You wouldn’t be so hard on him if this weren't something you needed. After those ten years, you were in desperate search of a purpose, something to keep you busy. Missing jobs and sitting on your ass wasn’t something you thought highly of.
“Done. You’d better not gyp me out of the next one then.”
Duncan laughs, clapping you on the back. “Never. And what was that you said about sitting squat? This place ain't so bad.”
You scoff, finally taking a sip of your drink. “No comment, but thanks for the drink.”
“Yeah, you’ll need it.”
“And that’s supposed to mean…?” You look amused, finishing the remains. You watch as Duncan takes both glasses, storing them behind the bar. He begins unloading packed up boxes of supplies, ignoring your question. There was something he wasn’t telling you.
“Could use a little help here,” he mumbles.
Your smile fades, eyes narrowed. “Duncan.”
“I don’t want to get in between," he gestures with his hands, “anything.” He pauses a moment before sighing. “Z refused to even do the job if you were on board with us.”
He continues putting supplies away, breaking down the cardboard boxes filling the space behind the small side bar. He waits for your reaction, an outburst, something. When he looks back to you, all he can see is a look of disbelief.
Your mind feels like it's short-circuiting, with all the anger beginning to boil inside of you. You grind your teeth together momentarily before nodding.
“When is she getting here?”
-
The next day was like any other in Paramaribo. The streets were filled with locals and those who wanted to soak up the sun. Local food vendors and live music entertained the people, making your bike to work the same as it always is.
You pretend not to notice Zora as you punch in, immediately avoiding looking at the obvious table of the crew. All of their gear took up room, along with an obnoxiously large paper map, seemingly drowning the table. You try to help your coworkers make drinks, but something’s off with your focus and rhythm.
“How do you fuck up a tequila soda?”
You roll your eyes at Jay, your very loud co-bartender. Everyone at your job was like family to you, even when they were annoying as shit. You loved working with the bar and crew almost equally. One of the two gave a better adrenaline rush, though.
Jay nudges you on the arm playfully, making you laugh.
What you don’t notice is a pair of green eyes watching. Zora looks back at Duncan, a questioning look on her face.
“Just a friend,” Duncan whispers.
Zora cocks her head slightly, her chair making a loud noise as she stands up. She'd be lying to herself if she said she wasn't holding back from going to talk to you the moment she watched you walk in.
Not even sure how long it had been, the mission she was once incredibly invested in was now shoved to the back of her mind, the voices of the men talking slowly began to get tuned out. She took notice of every glance your coworker made at you, every smile, every laugh.
“And a long island tea. Who does that?” You’re swatting away Jay’s hands as he tries to take the bottle of white rum in your hands, still insulting you.
“Should I be worried if I order two Djogo’s?” Zora smiles, standing right in front of the bar now. Her hands grasp the edge of the wooden counter, slightly tapping her fingers.
All you can do is look at her now, exactly what you had been trying to avoid doing before. Like if you stayed far away, nothing bad would happen or you wouldn't make a choice you'd deeply regret.
Nearly everything about her seemed different. Her hair was the longest you’ve ever seen it, slicked back into a neat pony-tail. The confidence that seemed to bleed from her veins was still evident, something that had always drawn you to her. But her clothes, neat and rich. Was this still your Zora?
“I think I can handle that,” you say. You set the bottle down, grabbing two beers from the cooler. Effortlessly popping off the bottle cans, you slide them to her.
“Thanks,” she says. A slight half smile spreads over her lips, taking the sight of you in. “God, you haven't changed.” The bracelets that wrapped around your wrists beginning to thin, your same style, the way you carried yourself. You were a creature of habit and change wasn’t something you took lightly. If it worked for you, then you kept it.
You can feel your chest swell at her tone, and instantly you know that all of your progress was about to be ruined. Years of building up a wall and telling yourself that you never wanted to see her again were instantly tarnished. Still Zora. Regardless of these feelings, you still felt the need to have your guard up.
“I don't know if I can say the same.” One thing Zora always loved was a good challenge. It was her competitive spirit, her passion for being right. You raise your eyebrows with playfulness.
Zora laughs, leaning up against the bar now, beers forgotten. “You wouldn't know, with all your hiding behind the bar. Who knows how long it would've taken you to come up to us?”
You hum, a wide grin plastered over your entire face. You only hoped you didn't look as foolish as you thought, inching one step closer to Zora. “Last I heard I'm not allowed over there,” you gesture towards the crew with your hands. “Classified. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”
Zora leans back a bit, surprised by your straight-forwardness. You don't miss the way her eyes land on your lips a moment before narrowing. “I thought Duncan was going to tell you when I was coming.”
“He did.”
“And yet you're here.”
“Nice dodge.”
Zora laughs again, eyes closed as her head tilts back. You feel like you're in some sort of trance, or trapped in a memory as you watch her. The rasp of her voice and the sound of her laugh was like pure silk, the way it transported you back to a better time in your life.
“You could've called out. You know Duncan would've said yes,” Zora says, and there's truthfulness in that. With plenty of staff to run the bar, there wouldn't need to be an extra manager with Duncan nearby.
You toss the beer bottle caps you'd been clinging onto in the trash, only now noticing you had drink tickets piling up. You knew exactly what Zora was pushing at, so suddenly. She was always honest and never afraid to tell you what she was thinking, or anyone for that matter. Except once.
You knew you should be angry with her, or at least uninterested in what she's doing here, what she has to say. But as usual, you're clinging onto her every word like you’re the girl from ten years ago who first laid eyes on Zora. Her voice echoes inside your head, and you're leaning towards her, your ribs digging into the wooden counter that separated you.
And familiar ground it would always be. Over time, your feelings for her became so strong, it was almost impossible to keep them to yourself. She was this magnet, a breath of fresh air in your life; someone you never saw yourself living without.
Once the three of you were in inactive duty, you couldn't hold back any longer.
You notice her hands, smooth and seemingly untouched. Her nails were filed to perfection, a clear gloss coating them. She looked like a brand new version of the Zora you once knew.
“You just want to hear that I wanted to see you.” You hate how you love the way your heart beats faster, now avoiding her gaze. You also hated how she was the only one who had you acting like this, some crazy in love idiot. You’d been with others since Zora left, but none of it ever compared. You were feeling more in this moment than you ever had during any random hookup.
After the first year, you’d come to accept that you might never love anyone like this again. A light color flushes your face as you turn away to make the drinks that were piling up even more.
Shrugging, you push a slice of lime into her beer when she sets it back down, exactly how she liked it.
“Maybe. I mean I…didn't think you would. I’m just surprised, that’s all.” Zora licks her lips, reaching for the beer in front of her. She takes a long sip, anticipating your next words. It puzzled you to see Zora mention what happened between the two of you first, you didn’t even prompt it.
The reason why you were separated by continents, no contact, and left with a pit in your stomach every time you glanced at her photos or when she was mentioned in conversation. It was so easy to forget how badly she hurt you when she was right here, standing in front of you with a smirk on her face, her green eyes all over you.
“I need the money if I’m just going to be sitting on my ass while you guys are gone for however long.” Another challenge, and Zora understands that you’re definitely not letting this go. You both know what you said isn’t entirely true, of course you were here to see her. You laid in bed for twenty minutes this morning trying to convince yourself not to go into work. Admitting that out loud would be a different story.
“I promise it’s not personal,” she says quietly.
“Too late.” You hold eye contact with her for what feels like a while. It was already starting the moment she walked over to you, but you can feel the tension growing by the second. Too much to say, but it shouldn’t be here, not now.
And you felt okay when you saw her gone, consumed by the work in front of you. That’s that, you thought.
Zora looks at the lime in her bubbling drink, listening to the crew now calling her back to the table. With a ghost of a nod, she takes the two beers and makes her way over to the group.
The next couple of hours were a blur as you finally caught up with your overflowing amount of drink orders. After that, the night only got busier. The bar always did nearing the end of the week, and you were pleasantly surprised to see that you hadn’t noticed when Zora did finally leave.
But of course, it wasn’t. You shouldn't have been as surprised as you were when you saw her walk through the open doors of the bar and grill, long after close. There was always more to be said and done, especially with the history between you and Zora.
She was alone this time, carrying no weapons, no gear. Just fiddling with car keys in her hand as she walks back up to you, in the exact same spot you two were in earlier. You were leaning over the bar, deep in paperwork and still plenty left to go. The bar was almost covered in bills and legal documents, all the boring shit that comes with owning a restaurant.
“Hey,” you greet her, standing up straighter.
“Of course you’re still here.” Zora knew better than anyone that you always needed to keep busy.
“What, Duncan didn’t tell you where I was?” You joke, trying not to stare at her for too long. You look back to the papers in front of you, your brain not processing a single word that you read.
“Believe it or not, Duncan doesn't actually inform me on everything going on in your life.”
“So he does inform you on some things, got it.” You can't help the way you smile at her when she laughs, pulling up a bar stool to sit on.
“Just the good stuff.”
You hum, making Zora laugh again. Dropping your pen on the bar, you try to tidy up a bit. These late nights were usually uninterrupted, which you preferred so you could actually get shit done. Duncan always gravitated towards the heavy duty work, leaving you with all this mess.
“What time do you guys leave tomorrow?” You stuff papers back into your folders, not caring what goes where.
“Bright and early. 7 sharp.”
“Classic Kincaid. At least give me a hint as to what illegal shit you're pulling this time,” you laugh as Zora shakes her head. From the cooler underneath your side of the bar counter, you pull out an eight pack of beer, resting them on the bar.
She gasps playfully, shaming your actions. “You’re trying to get me drunk.”
“Gotta get information out of you somehow, Bennet,” you make your way over to her, sitting on the bar stool directly next to her. Zora taps her knee with yours boldly, making notice of how close you’ve decided to sit next to her.
“I like when you call me that,” she says, looking you up and down. And of course, you already knew it.
You smoothly open two beers, taking a long sip from yours. Zora copies your motions, never breaking eye contact. You can't ignore how fast your heart is racing, just from being this close to her. You felt like a goddamn teenager.
“I like your hair down,” you say gently, taking another long swig of your beverage. Zora had ditched the pony tail from earlier, and you'd made a note of it as soon as she walked in. Her hair down was rare, but you always preferred it. Straight out of the shower or early in the mornings, her short hair was usually unkempt, leading to her always having it up.
“I remember,” she says even quieter.
You keep a steady conversation going as a few empty beer bottles begin to decorate the bar. It feels so good having her back in your company as you make shallow conversation about God remembers what. It feels so familiar to you because this has already happened, practically hundreds of times. You and Zora were always up late, being able to talk about everything and nothing at the same time. You missed having someone you could tell everything to.
You feel every brush of the knee and every arm touch she gives you. The hand that lingered on your shoulder a little too long, the way she was blushing furiously this entire time. She looked absolutely beautiful, all you could do was admire her.
In a fleeting moment of silence, you're finishing your third beer while Zora looks out to the sea from an open window.
“I miss you,” she says suddenly. “I miss everything.”
You don't call her out on how it was her who caused this. You don't say anything about how maybe she wouldn't have to if only she considered you when she took the job offer in the United States.
Instead, your grip onto the cold bottle tightens as you whisper back to her. “I remember everything, all the time. I miss you, and it hurts.”
Zora smiles at you sadly, setting her bottle onto the bar. She fidgets with her hands for a moment before taking a risk. Inching her fingers to your leg, she draws small circles on your knee before slowly dragging them up your right thigh. She looks back up to you, your pupils full blown, mouth parted slightly.
“Let me know if I should stop,” she whispers, voice raspy and low. Your stomach drops at the sound of it, unknowingly opening your legs further. The gentleness of her fingers against your jeans feels electric, slowly turning in all directions. Maybe it was the influence of alcohol or the fact that you had been yearning after her for most of your life now, but you needed to be closer.
And if you were being truly honest, you'd needed it the moment you saw her today.
You don't miss a single beat as you lean in to kiss her, your free hand wrapping around her neck, pulling her in closer. Zora sighs into you, kissing you back immediately. It's muscle memory to the both of you, knowing exactly how you felt against each other.
Her lips were so smooth, crashing back into yours whenever they’d part slightly. The warmth of her breath and the sweetness of how she tasted, the fresh scent of her perfume, it was too overwhelming for your senses. You’d honestly never felt more alive.
You take a moment to pull away, quickly setting your drink back onto the bar before taking Zora back into your hands. You trace her open arms while she kisses you needily, her hand still dangerously close to your inner thigh. Your fingers slide from her arms to her waist, caressing the skin beneath her tanktop, close to her waistline.
She gasped into your mouth, biting your lower lip unexpectedly. Your hands wander further underneath her top, stroking her toned stomach, soaking in the warmth of her skin. You can’t help but smile against her lips when you feel her start unbuttoning your jeans.
Zora breathes into you heavily, parting for air as she speaks. “I've got a rental car outside.” She raises an eyebrow at you suggestively, watching you breathe equally as hard. Your face is flushed, hair already messy from Zora running her fingers through it. You kiss her as a response, holding her face in your hands.
-
All you can feel is warmth. The hot summer air slightly filters through the car windows, the body pressed into you, holding you tight, scratching her nails down your back. The person you’d been missing for so long, tracing her fingertips over your arm while you silently gazed at the stars in the sky. You could feel her breathing softly, synced up with your own.
You don’t feel the need to speak until you feel her touch leave you. Glancing at her hand, you can see it trembling, even in the dimly lit car. She clenches her hands into fists, trying to remove the shakiness, but immediately drops them when she sees you notice.
“Are you okay? Hey, what-” You notice a tear fall down the side of her face, and you instantly soften, wanting to help. “Zora…” you whisper, using the middle of your finger to wipe the tears that were now beginning to fall even more. She wasn’t too vulnerable in front of you, but she had her moments, like everyone did. You weren’t expecting it so soon, and you couldn’t read her expression like you usually could.
“I’m scared,” she whispers. After saying it out loud she scoffs, rubbing her face with her hands. She puts some distance between the two of you, leaning on the back of the leather seat. Before you can ask why, she interrupts. “The mission tomorrow, I don’t know.” She takes a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. You’re frowning, thinking she was going to say something about the two of you, regretting what had happened.
You watch her, head in her hands as she leans forward now. Zora was the most confident person you knew. She was your calm in a storm, jumping out of a plane with ease, taking on more soldiers than she could handle. She made rash decisions, but they were always genius and always right. With her many years of experience, as long as you’ve known her, Zora didn’t get scared.
“Tell me what you guys are actually doing tomorrow.”
Zora sits up suddenly. “What?”
“This isn’t you,” you’re shaking your head. “On missions, you don’t do shit that makes you scared like this.”
“Legally, I can’t tell you. The mission is fine- it’s easy-”
“Legally?” You repeat, shocked. “What contract is so dangerous that you legally can’t tell me? Duncan refused too, and Bobby-”
Zora squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head in anger. She knew taking you off the mission was going to be a bad idea, even if she was confident in her decision. She was getting tired of it being brought up, especially here. “What?! Asking my crew? This isn’t your assignment, you don’t need to know anything. I wouldn’t-”
“Do the mission if I was on board.” You finish her sentence, at least what you thought she was going to say. “I forgot how goddamn arrogant you get when you’re in charge, calling the shots.”
“You didn’t seem to mind thirty minutes ago,” Zora snaps back. You feel your face blaze red as you look away, making Zora instantly regret her words. “Shit- hey I didn’t mean that. I just-” Zora hesitates. “I didn’t mean that.” She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes again as she tries to center her thoughts. “I couldn’t have you on the front lines while I was here.”
You look back to her, utter confusion written on your face, your expression hardening. You hated where she was about to go with this.
“I just lost someone. It was recent and it was on a simple mission. No strings, no traps.” Zora feels like crying again, and she swallows hard as her throat tightens. “I can’t do it again on my first mission back. Especially with you,” Zora clenches her jaw.
“I can handle myself,” you say defensively. No matter how many times you’ve said it, it felt like Zora always had a protective shield over you. It wasn’t too big of a deal to you years ago, when she was just looking out for your safety. You knew this was the same case scenario, but it was different now. “I hear you on this, I understand what you’re saying but it isn’t your place. You can’t control what I can and can’t do, especially after the shit you’ve pulled.”
“If you died on my watch… my mission. I can’t lose you,” Zora cries.
“You did the second you took that job and didn’t tell me. You know that.”
“Physically- I can’t,” Zora puts her hand over her chest, once again an attempt to calm her breathing. Everything was so soon, too soon after her last mission in Yemen. The car bomb memory was coming back to her in waves. She holds your gaze, tears shining in her eyes. “I love you,” she whispers. “But I’m not changing my mind.”
Your face falls as you process her words, heart swelling. You hate yourself for starting this, for still feeling angry after all this time. You always clung onto everything and it hurt like absolute hell when Zora left you for some fancy shit job in the states. After everything you two had been through, you thought you’d at least get considered if you were going to maintain your future together. All you ever did was consider her.
This was the stupidest shit you’ve ever done, now you were going to have to lose her the same day you got her back.
I love you, too. You want to scream because of how true it is, how it will always be. You’re throwing your shirt back on, buttoning your jeans, quickly gathering your stuff while Zora watches you sadly. “I know I hate change, but I would’ve moved with you. If you wanted me to- I mean. If you’d just asked.”
Zora’s mouth twisted bitterly, looking away from you as she nodded. She felt like she would break down completely if she spoke anymore. The only thing she could do was watch you leave.
-
The next day, you couldn’t go to work. The only place you allowed yourself to drag your feet was in the comforts of your own bedroom, mostly spent curled up in your own bed. After something major in your life, your body always took the heaviest toll, betraying yourself and becoming the most stagnant version of you that you’d ever known.
You watched the ceiling, running your eyes over the patterns on your walls, digging your nails into the palms of your hands. Complete utter silence was all you knew, while Zora and your team were out doing a mission so dangerous, they were legally bound to secrecy.
If Zora was so worried about you dying on her watch, what’s to say that any of them were making it back alive? You didn’t even say goodbyes to Duncan and your crew, too damn caught up in Zora’s return. And Zora, telling you that she loved you, and your only response was to slam the car door in her face.
Too much to regret and far too much to process. You tried your best to sleep the rest of the day away, telling yourself you’d feel better tomorrow.
It was true, even if it seemed impossible. Everything did eventually get better with time, but it was harder to know that your crew could be dead without you knowing. The missions you took with the group always raised a significant amount of danger, but never to this extent. For the rest of the week, you dragged yourself out of your bed and to the bar, trying to get lost in the blur of the art of bartending. Even your co-workers who could always get a smile out of you noticed your change of energy, backing off for the time being.
After a week, you were beginning to get sick with worry. You had enough time to mulch everything over, run every action through your mind and every word you said, only to deeply regret it all. With everyone’s lives at stake, all you could think about now was your crew’s safety, needing them to all be okay. It killed you to not know what was going on, everything you were so used to being apart of was now completely out of your control.
You found out shortly after a week, running into the arms of Duncan Kinclaid. He crushed you into his arms, breathing heavily with you. He held you for a minute, not saying anything. You were without words, feeling the extent of your gratefulness that he was alive, and the heavy regret of not saying goodbye to him; if something had happened. He pulls back, hands still resting on your shoulders as he smiles at you.
“Good to see you didn’t burn down my bar.”
You exhale a laugh, wiping away the burning tears that were beginning to fall down your face. “Shut up,” you breathe out, wearing a small smile. You can’t help but bring him back in for a second hug, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist. Imagining a world without him was too painful of a thought.
He pulls back again, a more solemn look on his face now. Before you can ask what’s wrong, you glance over his shoulder to see Zora walking up to where you two were standing. Duncan pats you on the shoulder, leaving the two of you alone. You can barely process what’s happening before Zora throws her arms around you, burying her face into your neck.
You hold her equally as tight, squeezing her as soon as you hear her sobbing quietly. “You’re okay,” you whisper, soothing the skin on her back. She smelt lightly of sweat, and you’d noticed multiple cuts on her face before she pulled you into her embrace.
Your thumb slides on the back of her neck, trying your best to calm her down. She pulls away from you, her hands holding your arms. Tears continue to fall down her face, and your heart aches at the sight. You want to pull her back into your arms and tell her how much you regret everything you’ve said. Zora shakes her head, trying to find the words.
“LeClerc, and Nina,” she whispers, lowering her gaze to the ground. “They didn’t…” she trails off, shaking her head. She bites her lip, trying to calm herself down but the gravity of the situation begins crashing down on her again, and her heavy sobs are absorbed by you once more as you bring her back against you.
“It’s okay,” your voice breaks as you try to speak, but you’re crying now too. Your crewmates, your family… they’d never be home again.
Zora holds you for some time, before you two part. Despite the heavy news she’d just given, she hesitates before saying the next. “Duncan thought…maybe it’d be good to slow down for a bit.”
You nod, wiping the remaining tears from your eyes. You knew where she was going with this, and you couldn’t deny the happiness that was beginning to form in your heart.
“I want to stay here with you. I don’t want to waste any more time, I was bullshiting myself with that job in the states. I never should’ve done it without you, I never want to do anything without you.”
“It was important to you, Zora, and I should’ve seen that- I always overreact and I let everything get the best of me, I wasted two years so angry…” You whisper, your voice breaking again.
Zora shakes her head, taking a shaky breath in, her hands still resting on your forearms. She slowly soothes your skin, a coping mechanism to calm her nerves.
“You’re the most important thing to me.”
You can see it in her eyes that she means it, full of truthfulness and the love she still carried for you. Taking you into your third embrace, Zora kisses the side of your face softly before her arms wrap around you again. You cry against her, feeling the weight of your newfound grief, and the contrasting gratefulness of her return.
As long as you had her, everything would be okay.
-
Thank you all for the amazing support on my last fics also!!! It means so much to me! < 3
"Listen to me, Yelena," your voice was exhausted after hours of reasoning with the stranger sitting on your couch, "there is no revenge story to write—Clint did not kill my wife. Your mission to kill him will not be in Natasha's memory. It will taint it." You felt tense as you sat across from her in the dimly lit room, the seat often taken by your late wife. "Clint was her best friend. She sacrificed herself for all of us—it wasn't his choice, it was hers."
"Nope, don't believe it. Who told you this story? Him, right? No one else was there." She got up and welcomed herself to your fridge. For some reason, you still stocked it with Nat's favorites—which Yelena helped herself to as she grabbed a beer and a handful of blueberries. Your silence was telling enough. "Exactly."
"No—she went on a mission for an Infinity Stone, the price was the life of—you know what? Forget it!" You shouted, waving your hands in front of you as you tried to distract yourself from the tears brewing. "Yelena, I can't relive this. Your sister saved us, and as much as it pains me to go to bed alone every night or want to text her every five minutes like I used to, I can't. And she couldn't either when I was gone. I so badly want to think she's just on another long mission, but I lost her!" The tears had begun flowing despite your brave efforts to negate it.
"So did I!" Yelena screamed back. "Barton will pay for what he did!"
"Clint Barton is the only family I have left!" You shouted back.
"I can be your family! Natasha was my sister!" Yelena stomped her foot and you felt anger boil inside you.
"Clint was her brother in the same way." You softly growled. "You break into my home, introduce yourself for the very first time while rummaging through my belongings, threaten to kill my friend, act like you know more about our lives than anyone else...Natasha cared about you, she'd never let you go through with this mission."
"Well, she's not here to stop me, is she?" Yelena scoffed at your harsh words, chugging the rest of her bottle before slamming it on your coffee table and wiping her lips with her sleeve. "It was nice to meet you—officially. Wish it were under better circumstances."
Summary: With the start of winter, you need to be sure Natasha stays warm.
Warnings: fluff
Words: 1132
The first thing you register when you wake is the chill. The kind that nips at your nose and seeps through the blanket despite how tightly you’re curled into it. Instinctively, you reach out to Natasha’s side of the bed, but your hand meets only cool sheets. That explains the absence of the usual warmth you’d been trying to hoard all night.
You blink at your phone on the nightstand. One glance at the time tells you Natasha is probably already at the Tower. As if on cue, a soft buzz vibrates against the wood.
It’s cold outside. Be sure to stay warm.
Her timing never fails to make your chest feel warm and stupidly full. You smile, tapping back a thumbs-up and a little heart. When you pull the curtain aside, you catch sight of the thin dusting of snow sitting on the window ledge, the first of the season, and breathe out a slow sigh before peeling yourself out of bed.
By the time you’re ready to head out, you’re layered like your life depends on it: thermal undershirt, turtleneck, thick sweater, heavy winter coat, gloves, scarf, beanie — the whole stubborn-defense-against-winter ensemble. You grab your bag, then pause.
Within the next few minutes, two thermoses of hot chocolate sit on the counter.
You hadn’t planned on two, but at some point while standing in the kitchen half-asleep, you remembered her text telling you to stay warm, and you’d frowned at the memory of how terrible Natasha was at following her own advice.
You tuck the second thermos under your arm and head out, determined to make sure she stays warm too.
By the time you arrive at the Avengers Tower, its interior is warm, polished, and humming with energy the way it always is this early.
But as you cut through the hallway toward the main entrance to the training yard, a burst of cold air drifts in through the brief opening of the glass doors. Beyond them, you see white snow coating the ground in a thin, crunchy sheet.
And in the center of the yard—
Natasha. Standing outside. In a tank top and sweatpants.
You stop dead.
For a full three seconds, your brain refuses to process what your eyes are seeing. Then it clicks, and suddenly, you’re marching over.
“Natasha Romanoff!” you snap as soon as the door whooshes open, cold air slapping you in the face as if joining in your outrage.
Natasha turns, her training batons resting loosely in her hand. The second she sees you barreling toward her like an angry, overstuffed marshmallow, her expression freezes, not with guilt, but with sheer stunned confusion.
“What—?” she begins, but you’ve already reached her.
You grab her hands. Her bare, freezing hands.
“Natasha,” you hiss, “why are outside in this cold?!”
She blinks at you, a slow, almost comedic reaction as if her brain has momentarily disconnected.
“I was just—”
“No. No, no, no.” You slip off your gloves with brisk, scolding movements and immediately shove them onto her hands. “Put these on. Now.”
Her lips twitch, eyes warm with amusement even as she lets you do it, not uttering a single argument.
Once you finish covering her hands, you slide your palms up her arms on instinct, and the moment you feel the goosebumps there, your glare sharpens. Without hesitation, you begin shrugging out of your coat.
She tries to protest this time.
“Moya lyubov—”
“No.” You swing the heavy coat around her shoulders, tugging it close. “You told me to stay warm. Me. Meanwhile you’re out here recreating a Russian childhood or something!”
Natasha is absolutely smiling now, the soft, helpless, and loved-up kind of smile, and somehow that only irritates you more.
And then you notice the tips of her ears. Red from the cold.
Your beanie comes off your head instantly and lands on hers before she can blink. You yank it down over her ears, adjusting it with efficient, angry little pats. And just for added measure of security, you remove your scarf.
Natasha opens her mouth to speak once more, but you wrap the scarf around her neck before she can finish forming the first syllable.
When she’s fully bundled — in your coat, your gloves, your beanie, your scarf — you shove the second thermos against her side with a huff.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “You warn me about the cold, and then you come out here dressed like winter isn’t a thing that can kill people. I swear, Natasha, if you want me to stay warm, then you need to stay warm too.”
She looks unashamed at your chatising and instead continues to look at you like you’ve hung the moon.
“No,” you say firmly, refusing to meet that look. “Do not give me that face right now.”
But of course she steps closer, gently hooking a finger under your chin until you finally, reluctantly, meet her eyes. There’s mischief there. And something tender. Something that melts the last of your anger into exasperated affection.
“You know,” she murmurs, “my lips are feeling a little cold too.”
“Oh really,” you deadpan, tilting your head at her in disbelief.
“Mm-hm.” She leans in, voice low and dramatic. “Terribly cold. In need of warmth, actually. Do you have anything for that?”
You roll your eyes, but her smile is contagious, pulling a small one out of you too. Your hands come up to cup her cheeks, and you press your lips to hers.
The kiss is soft. Sweet and slow. A quiet thaw against the winter air.
When you pull back, your tone is stern but your thumb still strokes her cheek.
“You better take care of yourself too.”
“Yes, moya lyubov,” she says with comically obedient seriousness, nodding like she’s being given mission instructions. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
“You better have.” You give her one last quick kiss before turning toward the Tower. “I’m going inside. Where it’s warm. Like a normal person.”
Natasha watches you walk away, that soft, private smile she only wears for you stretching across her face.
A few seconds later, Steve trudges back into the yard, breath fogging in the cold. He pauses mid-step when he sees her, fully bundled now with a thermos in hand.
“I thought you were changing into lighter training gear to test the new training bots,” Steve says, baffled.
Natasha lifts the thermos to her lips, still smiling. “Maybe another time.”
“Why? It’s barely—”
“It’s cold outside,” she interrupts simply. She glances toward the doors where you disappeared. “Besides, there’s something much warmer waiting for me inside.”
Before Steve can respond, she’s already jogging after you, scarf ends fluttering behind her like a banner. And though the start of winter finally settles over the city, Natasha feels entirely warm.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: The weather has me cold so here's a short fic about it. Thanks for reading! And little update: next chapters for my series are done but they need to be edited, so look forward to those releases soon.
One of the things I've seen people complain about Yelena's character is that she's too different from Natasha like she's not really seductive or bombshell double agent type like the black widow we've seen. But I think it's on purpose.
Yelena and Natasha's styles are complete opposites of each other. Like this scene
Yelena in the first frame looks like she's an innocent victim who's pleading for her life and in the next second she stabs her opponent and the moment she gets the upper hand her facial expression completely changes. She's wearing a look of triumph and she's kinda smug.
My personal head canon this is the exact tactic she uses everywhere. She's not really the hot, sexy type her look is the sort of younger, wide eyed, innocent girl type. And she's aware of this and she uses it to her full advantage with enemies in the field to garner pity or with men to deceive them.
Meanwhile Natasha has always used her sort of sexy seduction as a technique both in and out of the field. It's her strong point and she uses it efficiently.
I think that's how the red room grooms these girls. Probably all the girls have their own techniques that the red room has trained them on.
And to the editors that keep transitioning the scene where Natasha and Yelena touch heads to the scene where Yelena touches her head to Natasha's grave FUCK YOU
Can we take a moment to talk about how damn smart Natasha Romanova is? (Warning, this is long)
In the red room, she was the highest ranked widow not only in combat, but in multiple subjects. Natasha received KGB training equivalent to a phd-level education in multiple sciences like chemistry, biology, and physiology. She’s treated injuries, created poisons and antidotes, and analyzed experimental tech on the fly. She's also a master hacker which is seen in both the mcu and the comics. She can encrypt, decrypt, code, etc. In the mcu she was able to break into shield and government databases. In the comics she did that and also cracked their firewalls, rerouted satellites and/or communications during missions. She's a fluent polyglot. This goes beyond just speaking the languages: she understands cultural nuances, body language, and social codes, which allows her to infiltrate without raising suspicion. Her background as a Soviet operative and later an avenger gives her a rare geopolitical perspective. She understands how intelligence networks, propaganda, and global powers function. She often acts as the avengers bridge to realpolitik.
HC that Natasha is the one who repairs and upgrades her widow’s bite, not just tinkering, but fully engineering the internal mechanics. She understands the circuitry, the charge regulators, the emitters. She knows exactly how much voltage can disable a target without killing them. She’s rebuilt them dozens of times, adapting them for specific missions: nonlethal EMP bursts, grappling-line integration, even compact sensory arrays. (Not sure it's even an HC, cuz she does this in the comics).
Overall, people usually see her power as her enhanced abilities from the red rooms version of the serum, but it's actually her brain.
