An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 3/19
Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Natasha Romanov (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s), Yelena Belova & Natasha Romanov, Wanda Maximoff & Original Female Character(s)
Characters: Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Original Female Character(s), Tony Stark, Sam Wilson (Marvel), Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton, Bruce Banner, Thor (Marvel), Yelena Belova, Nick Fury, Maria Hill, Jemma Simmons, Peter Parker, Phil Coulson, Melinda May, Scott Lang, Laura Barton, Vision (Marvel), Skye | Daisy Johnson, Pepper Potts
Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Team as Family, Internal Monologue, Hurt/Comfort, Xena the Vizsla, Gabi the Cat, Original Villian, Protective Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Swords, Avengers Tower | Stark Tower (Marvel), Avengers Compound (Marvel), A Lot of Plot, Xavier Institute | Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, Natasha Romanov Is an Enhanced Individual (Marvel Cinematic Universe)
Summary:
When a SHIELD operative destroys an AIM sonic weapon built to turn enhanced bodies against themselves, she stops being a footnote in a file nobody was supposed to find and becomes the centre of something far larger… carrying a sword that appears in no inventory and an ability no database has managed to name.
Natasha Romanoff has survived most things by understanding them first. She knows what it costs to have the most private parts of yourself catalogued, weaponised, and used to predict your every move. She knows how to be wanted; trust and the possibility of an after are harder. And this is the first person she cannot reduce to a pattern… and, more dangerously, the first she does not want to.
A Natasha Romanoff x original female character slow burn set after HYDRA’s fall, with found family, hurt/comfort, a dog with an emotional-support toy, and a cat with opinions.
moment of appreciation for female assassin-spies who were raised in an organization run by criminals, who are now using their skills for good, and whose signature colors are red and black. these two would be the most dangerous and iconic duo ever. i love them.
The Avengers 2012 era was the best time ever in the fandom
Thor loves pop tarts, Clint lived in the vents, Bruce and Tony did science together, Steve was the mom friend of the team and did art in his free time, Natasha was cool aunt of the team, Loki was there too and a bunch of other characters like Peter, Sam, Bucky, Vision and Wanda all lived in the Avengers tower together
It was a much simpler time where everyone in the fandom was chill and having fun together
Hypothetically (not hypothetically) I have a F/F fic written for the Natasha/YN tag. It's 18 chapters and 458 pages in a Word doc. It's my first time writing a Marvel fanfic.
Wondering if people think I should post the whole story in one go or chapter by chapter like 1 chapter every few days?
Summary: Part 4 to Detecting Love. Lying to the person who can visually confirm that you’re lying is already a losing battle, but it’s one Natasha has no choice but to face now.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Warnings: fluff, light angst
Words: 5145
There are all sorts of lies. And Natasha Romanoff knows them all.
White lies. The harmless kind that is told to protect someone’s feelings.
Like when you smile after tasting her cooking and say, “It’s good,” even though she can’t bring herself to swallow a single bite.
Then there are lies of omission. The kind that withholds details to avoid trouble.
Like when you tried to hide the fact that you were in a fight—one that robbed you of color in your vision and rendered your lie-detecting power unavailable for the time being.
Now, seated beside you in the med bay, Natasha is facing yet another kind of lie.
Minimization. The kind where someone downplays what they’re feeling, hoping no one will notice.
“I think we should go home,” you murmur, already trying to sit up from the medical bed. “I’m not feeling so great. Probably something I ate earlier.”
Natasha presses a hand to your shoulder, firmly pushing you back down without even looking up from the screen of the tablet in her other hand.
“You mean the lunch I made for you?” she reminds you with a challenging glance.
Your mouth opens, then shuts again when you realize your mistake, before quickly attempting a pivot.
“What I meant is that I’ve been run-down with tons of paperwork and interviews recently.” You give a small shrug. “Maybe it’s better if we reschedule.”
Natasha arches a brow at your excuse, the corners of her mouth twitching in amusement.
“If you’re not feeling well, then it’s a good thing we’re already in the med bay, isn’t it?”
You huff a sigh, your expression softening into something caught between a pout and genuine unease.
“Seriously, Natasha. I’m fine waiting for my vision to return to normal on its own.”
Even though that’s what you’re saying now, she’s not buying it—not when she remembers the nights you’ve spent in quiet frustration and the moments you get upset with yourself when you can’t see the truth in people anymore.
“That’s not what you said last night,” she says with a pointed look.
Your expression shifts into a teasing grin as you reach for her hand and interlace your fingers with hers before pressing a light kiss to her knuckles.
“Funny, I don’t remember much talking last night.”
Natasha huffs and rolls her eyes, but the faint smirk playing at her lips betrays her amusement as she remembers the night before. You weren’t lying about the not talking much part. The two of you were pretty much preoccupied with other intimate matters than that.
Before her mind can drift to such thoughts and distract her, Natasha returns her attention to the tablet in her hand with your vitals just as the med bay doors slide open.
Dr. Cho enters, wheeling a cart with an unsettling number of syringes and needles on its surface.
“Ready for the procedure?” she asks cheerfully.
Your grip on Natasha’s hand tightens instantly. Panic flashes across your face as you glance between her and the tray.
“She’s going to poke my eyes?!”
Natasha leans in, squeezing your hand in reassurance.
“No, she’s not,” Natasha reassures, having already gone through the details of the procedure multiple times with the doctor. “Right?”
Dr. Cho chuckles softly as she lifts one of the syringes, tapping the side gently with her finger.
“These are just sedatives—to keep you relaxed. It’ll be painless and over before you know it.”
You study her face closely, eyes narrowed in futile observation. Then you sigh in resignation.
“I can’t tell if she’s lying or not,” you admit dejectedly.
Natasha lets out a quiet laugh as she stands to give the doctor room.
“She’s not. And after this, you’ll be able to see that for yourself again.”
Before she can move away completely, you tug her hand gently, enough to hold her there a moment longer.
“Will you be there when I wake up?”
Natasha’s gaze softens. She leans down and brushes a kiss against your lips. Her voice drops to a whisper.
“I will. I promise.”
Even without your powers, you know she’s telling the truth.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The soft beeping of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room as Natasha waits beside your bed.
According to Dr. Cho, the procedure went smoothly. Better than expected, even.
But you’d been so anxious, so much so that you kept nervously glancing around the room when you were supposed to keep your eyes still. In the end, the doctor had opted to administer a slightly higher dose of sedative to keep you calm and relaxed.
“She’ll sleep it off soon,” Dr. Cho had said. “But she might be a little loopy when she wakes up.”
Natasha had only nodded, settling in her chair with your hand cradled in hers, thumb idly brushing across your knuckles as she waited.
She’s scrolling through the diagnostic chart on the tablet when she hears your voice.
“Your eyes are pretty.”
Her head snaps up, gaze finding yours.
You’re awake but barely, and your head is now turned toward her, eyes still half-lidded and unfocused, a dazed sort of warmth flickering across your face.
Before she can even respond, you go on in a dreamy murmur, your words slow and slurred.
“They remind me of my girlfriend’s…” A lovesick smile tugs at your lips as your gaze drifts to the ceiling. “She’s really pretty.”
Natasha blinks as she processes your words, caught between amusement and exasperation when she realizes what’s happening. A quiet huff escapes her chest as she sets the tablet aside, deciding to go along with your current delirious state so that you won’t be too startled at where you are.
“Is she now?” she asks.
You nod with an almost childlike seriousness, brows furrowing like you’re trying to communicate something very important.
“The prettiest,” you declare, turning back to look at her with all the dramatic intensity your sedated brain can muster.
Natasha props her elbow on the armrest, resting her chin in her palm as she humors you.
“Prettier than me?” she teases.
Your expression shifts into a contemplative frown, and you study her face with squinting scrutiny now. Your eyes drift down to her joined hand in yours.
For a moment, she thinks you’ve figured it out. She can practically see the gears turning behind your slow blinks.
But instead of clarity, you let out a sigh of heartfelt conflict and pull your hand from hers.
“You’re pretty too…but I already have a girlfriend,” you murmur gravely. “And she gets jealous easily.”
Natasha lets out a scoff, arms folding across her chest.
“I don’t get jealous,” she mutters under her breath.
You don’t seem to hear her—or maybe you do, and you’re just too distracted to piece together her words with who she is.
“She’s so cute when she’s jealous,” you add with another dreamy sigh.
That makes Natasha pause.
She tries to stay annoyed, but your doped-up voice saying she’s cute is enough to send warmth crawling up her neck. Her lips twitch against her will, but she still holds onto the pretense of indifference.
You shift slightly on the bed, fingers twitching before reaching out toward her in a clumsy beckoning motion.
“Can I tell you a secret?” you whisper.
Natasha’s brow lifts, curious, but she knows you’re not in the right state to be talking about such things.
“You probably shouldn’t until the medicine’s out of your system.”
But your expression doesn’t waver. If anything, you lean closer conspiratorially, as if the medical bay were full of spies waiting to eavesdrop.
“You see, I…,” you pause, blinking slowly as you gather your thoughts. “I want to ask her to marry me,” you finish in a soft whisper.
Natasha stills, her amused grin dropping from her face in surprise. For a moment, all sound drains from the room. Her heart, her thoughts, everything, stopping in time as your words hang suspended in the air.
She stares at you, stunned, while you blink heavily, struggling to stay awake.
You raise a finger to your lips, shushing her lightly, adding, “But don’t tell her yet, okay?”
And just like that, your eyes flutter closed again.
Silence lingers in your absence, interrupted only by the rhythmic hum of machines.
Natasha still hasn’t moved.
She exhales slowly, trying to make sense of the sudden weight pressing down on her chest. Your words replay over and over, as if her brain refuses to let them go.
You want to marry her.
You want to marry her.
And now she has to pretend she doesn’t know.
Just then, the med bay doors hiss open. Dr. Cho steps in, clipboard in hand, scanning for your face for any signs of activity.
“Has our patient woken up yet?”
Natasha jolts from her shock, looking between you and the doctor.
“I…she…” she starts, but the words get tangled in her throat.
Dr. Cho lifts a curious brow at the normally unshakeable Black Widow, wondering what’s gotten someone like her stumbling over her words.
“Everything alright?”
Natasha exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand across her face before letting it fall. Her eyes land back on you—peacefully asleep, utterly unaware of the emotional grenade you just lobbed at her heart.
“I’m fine,” she mutters. “Totally fine.”
But she knows she’s not.
Because she may be a world-class liar…but when it comes to you, pretending she doesn’t know what you just told her might be the hardest mission yet.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The road home stretches ahead in a quiet ribbon of asphalt, streetlights bleeding soft gold into the darkness. The city is mostly asleep, and the car hums steadily beneath her.
Natasha keeps her eyes forward even though she can feel your gaze like a physical thing, sharp and curious at the side of her face.
“You’re being awfully quiet,” you say at last, voice light but edged with interest.
Natasha exhales a small, controlled laugh, letting it sound casual as she adjusts her grip on the steering wheel.
“I should say the same about you,” she replies smoothly. “You’re pretty calm for someone who just got color back in their vision.”
You hum, thoughtful, like you’re turning something over in your mind. Then you shift in your seat, fully turning toward her.
“Tell me a lie.”
Her eyes flick to you before she can stop herself.
“What?”
You lean across the center console, resting your cheek against your knuckles, expression open and almost hopeful.
“I want to test my powers,” you explain. “Just once. Lie to me, Romanoff.”
The request is simple. Innocent.
Natasha’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Of all the lies she ever told—of all the identities she’s worn, all the truths she’s buried—this is the moment her mind goes blank. Because the only lie that matters right now is the one she’s already telling.
That she doesn’t know you want to marry her.
She keeps her tone light, eyes back on the road.
“Can’t you test it on yourself? Say…I don’t know. That you hate my cooking,” she deflects.
You laugh softly, shaking your head.
“That wouldn’t work.”
She risks a glance at you then, expecting mischief. Instead, she finds affection.
“Unfortunately,” you add, “that’s not a lie.”
Your smile is gentle as you settle back into your seat, gaze drifting forward again.
“I love your cooking.”
Natasha scoffs, but the corner of her mouth gives her away, lifting despite herself.
“You have a death wish,” she murmurs.
“If it’s by your hands,” you reply easily, lifting your palms as if you’re weighing the thought, “I’d die happy.”
Your eyes flick downward for a quiet, instinctive check. You turn your hands slightly, watching the space around them. You wait for the familiar flare of red. The telltale burn of dishonesty.
Nothing appears.
“Yep,” you murmur to yourself, lips curving as you glance back at her. “Happy.”
Natasha doesn’t see what you were looking for, but she notices the certainty in your voice. And that, somehow, makes her chest tighten more than any red aura ever could.
After a beat, she speaks again, quieter this time.
“Do you remember anything from when you woke up the first time?”
You pause, brows knitting slightly as you search your memory. Then you shake your head.
“Not really. Why? Did I embarrass myself?”
Natasha’s lips part, then close. For a moment, the words sit right there.
You said you wanted to marry me.
And suddenly she’s not a master spy or an Avenger. She’s simply a woman standing on emotional thin ice.
Natasha clears her throat.
“You called me pretty,” she says instead, adding a light laugh to soften the mood.
You turn fully toward her again, eyes dragging deliberately over her face. Slow. Appreciative. Almost reverent.
“If anything,” you say with mock seriousness, “delirious me undersold it. You’re drop-dead gorgeous.”
Natasha smirks, recognizing the look in your eyes—the one that usually ends with gravity forgotten and furniture rendered optional.
She reaches over and nudges your chin forward with a finger.
“No,” she warns. “I’m driving.”
You catch her wrist before she can pull back, pressing a kiss into her palm, then lingering at the pulse beneath her skin.
“Don’t tell me an Avenger can’t handle a little distraction.”
Her lips press together in focus as she keeps driving, posture rigid with restraint. She’s handled worse. She can wait.
Even as your free hand settles on her thigh in a light, absent-minded touch, tracing idle patterns that aren’t innocent at all.
The light ahead turns yellow.
The car rolls to a stop.
The instant it does, the gear shifts into park, and Natasha’s hand is in your hair, fingers curling at the nape of your neck as she pulls you across the console and into her.
The kiss is deep and unhesitating, controlled only in how thoroughly it steals your breath.
You gasp, and she takes advantage of it.
By the time the light cycles green again and then yellow once more, you’re panting softly against her lips. She pulls back just far enough to smirk.
“Who’s distracted now?”
Your eyes are dark and unmistakably alive with both desire and something sharper.
“Pull over,” you murmur, hand sliding higher on her thigh. “You can’t tell me you’re not tempted.”
Natasha licks her lips without meaning to, shifting just enough to give you room, then catches herself.
“I’m not,” she says evenly. All of her training and skills keep her voice steady and confident. An honest answer to anyone else who heard her.
Your gaze locks onto hers. Then drifts to something around her body. A knowing smile curves your mouth as you lean in close, voice low.
“Liar.”
You brush a feather-light kiss against her lips.
“Pull over, Natasha.”
She doesn’t argue. The car turns down a secluded road, disappearing into the quiet.
At least now you know. Your powers are back.
And Natasha has never been more afraid of what you might see next.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha wakes to the sharp clang of metal on metal, followed almost immediately by a muttered curse that sounds very familiar.
Her eyes flutter open.
Her hand drifts instinctively across the mattress, palm spreading over cool sheets where your warmth should be. The empty space alone tells her everything she needs to know.
You’re in the kitchen.
It’s not always like this. Most mornings, when one of you stays over, the two of you wake tangled together, limbs heavy and reluctant to part, lingering in bed until duty or alarms drag you back into the world. Those mornings are rare, stolen things, and Natasha treasures them more than she lets herself admit.
She pushes herself upright against the headboard, the sounds from the kitchen continuing with another clatter, another quiet curse.
Her gaze drifts to the empty space beside her, and her thoughts follow.
What would it be like to wake up like this every day? Not as a guest. Not as someone passing through. But as your wife.
The thought settles deeper than she expects, warm and dangerous all at once.
She exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over her face.
You want to marry her.
The words surface uninvited, looping endlessly in her mind since last night. Since the med bay. Since your sedated confession slipped free without defenses or filters.
Natasha groans quietly into her palm.
If only she knew when.
If she knew how long she’d have to pretend—how long she’d need to carefully measure her reactions, her words, her expressions around the one person who can see lies as easily as color.
She can’t bring it up. She won’t. Not after what your last engagement did to you. She refuses to be the one who reopens scars or turns something precious into pressure. You have to be the one to make the next move in the relationship.
Which leaves her here—awake, alone, and holding a secret she was never meant to have.
With a sigh, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and heads toward the kitchen.
She stops short when she arrives. The counter is full.
Plates. Bowls. A spread of breakfast that borders on excessive—eggs, fruit, toast, things she knows took time and effort, and far more patience than you usually have this early in the morning.
A quiet tsk comes from the sink as you finish drying a pan. You glance over your shoulder and freeze when you spot her.
“Damn it,” you mutter, lips pulling into a small pout. “Did I wake you?”
Natasha huffs a soft laugh, folding her arms loosely.
“You did. Though I probably would’ve woken up anyway when you weren’t next to me.”
You grin immediately, crossing the kitchen to stand opposite her.
“Miss me that much?”
She rolls her eyes, but it’s half-hearted, and the smile betrays her.
“Nope.”
Your eyes linger on her a second longer than usual. The corners of your mouth lift, confident and unmistakably pleased.
“Liar.”
Natasha doesn’t even bother denying it. Instead, she takes a seat on the barstool, gesturing toward the spread in front of her.
“What’s the occasion?” she asks.
You’ve cooked for her before, but never like this.
You round the counter and stop between her knees, hands settling easily at her hips.
“Part of it,” you say softly, “is to thank you. For taking care of me. Before, during, and after the procedure.”
You lean in, brushing a gentle kiss against her mouth.
“I especially enjoyed the after part,” you murmur, a smirk in your voice.
Natasha’s lips curve.
“Did you?” she asks. “Which part?”
You hum thoughtfully, your hands sliding innocently along her thighs.
“Do you want a recap?”
She scoffs and pushes at your shoulder, though not very hard.
“Easy,” she warns. “You just had a procedure. Don’t get too excited.”
You sigh dramatically but comply, one hand leaving her thigh to catch her left hand instead. Your fingers lace with hers, thumb brushing slow, soothing strokes over her knuckles.
“But that’s not the main reason,” you say, tone shifting, lighter teasing giving way to something sincere.
Natasha’s breath stills.
You meet her eyes.
Her heart kicks hard against her ribs.
Is this it?
“Happy anniversary,” you say, smiling. “To the first time I met you.”
“Oh,” Natasha breathes out, caught off guard.
You tilt your head, amused.
“Oh? That doesn’t sound too good.”
“No—no,” she waves a hand quickly. “It’s just…I wasn’t expecting that.”
“What were you expecting?” you ask, genuine curiosity in your voice.
“I—” She hesitates.
She can’t say it. But she can’t lie either.
So instead, she turns slightly toward the counter, breaking eye contact.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says lightly. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
She feels your gaze linger on the side of her face, searching for some explanation before you finally relent and move to grab a plate.
The moment passes. But the tension doesn’t.
And Natasha knows it’s only a matter of time before your eyes and your power start noticing more than she can hide.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
What is the best way to avoid being discovered? For someone like Natasha, the answer is simple.
Distance.
You can’t uncover the truth if you don’t have the chance to look for it.
She knows your schedules down to the minute, from your habits to your usual track patterns at the Compound. It isn’t difficult to adjust hers just enough so your paths don’t cross as often. A briefing here. An extra training session there. Volunteering for missions she would’ve otherwise passed on.
You don’t question it. Your texts stay warm and unassuming.
Busy today?
Miss you.
Be safe.
And Natasha answers just enough to keep things normal. At least, she hopes it looks that way.
I brought you some coffee.
Natasha pauses mid-step in the lobby, eyes dropping to her phone. Her thumb hovers over the screen as she debates it. She could stop by your office, grab the coffee, thank you, and leave. In and out. No time for you to notice the hesitation, the restraint, the way she’s constantly measuring herself now.
Before she can reply, another message pops up.
Look up.
She lifts her gaze just in time to see you standing by the front desk, coffee cup already in hand, watching her with that familiar, warm smile.
“Well,” you say as she approaches, voice light, teasing. “Hey there, stranger. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
You lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek before handing her the cup.
Natasha forces a small laugh as she takes it. “Thanks.”
She takes a sip immediately, grateful for the excuse to look away and gather herself.
“Been busy,” she says evenly. “Missions. Briefings.”
You nod, accepting the explanation easily enough, and then tilt your head toward the elevators.
“Do you want to walk me to my office?”
The question lands heavier than it should. Natasha hesitates. Yes, she wants to. God, yes. But every second with you is a risk now. She doesn’t know which answer will light up red in your vision. Wanting you too much or wanting to protect the secret.
Your expression shifts when she doesn’t answer right away. Concern edges into your voice as you reach out, fingers brushing her arm.
“Hey. You okay?”
The worst question you could’ve asked. She’s not sure which answer would even be correct for that one.
Before she can respond, chaos erupts at the front entrance.
A shout and then the thud of a body hitting the floor.
Natasha snaps to attention as the guard is shoved aside, sliding across the ground, and a man storms into the lobby.
She recognizes him instantly. The one from the file. The one who attacked you. Her eyes lock onto the gun in his hand. She steps in front of you without thinking.
Behind her, she hears your voice.
“Call security,” you tell the receptionist.
“I’m standing right here,” Natasha mutters.
“Yeah, I don’t like that fact either,” you reply, leaning in beside her. Your hand slides to her waist as you try to pull her back. She doesn’t move. “We both know he’s not here for you.”
As you said, the man’s gaze snaps to you the second he spots you.
“You,” he snarls.
You sigh softly behind her. “Told you.”
“Now is not the time,” Natasha mutters, shifting her stance, making sure you stay behind her.
He lifts the gun, careless and angry, and begins to speak loudly.
“I kept wondering how you always knew,” he says. “How you were always one step ahead. So I did some digging.”
Natasha feels your grip tighten on her arm.
“Imagine my surprise,” he continues, grinning, “when I found out about your little power.”
“That’s enough,” Natasha snaps, stepping forward. “You’re not going to win here.”
“Oh, I know,” he says easily. “I just wanted everyone else to know.”
He turns, sweeping his gaze across the lobby at his former colleagues.
“She’s been tricking you all. Her power tells her when you’re lying.”
The room stills as heads turn and whispers emerge. Natasha recognizes the looks instantly. Fear and suspicion at the revelation of someone they thought they had trusted.
“That’s right,” the man laughs. “She’s been judging you from the start.”
His carelessness brings an opening, and that’s when Natasha moves. She lunges, sliding across the polished floor, grabbing his arm and flipping him hard onto his back. The gun skids away as she pins him down with her knee, forearm pressed to his throat.
“I said,” she hisses, “that’s enough.”
He groans, but still manages to look past her. At you.
“You had no right to judge me,” he spits. “You’re the biggest liar of all.”
Natasha’s jaw tightens as she follows his gaze. Slowly, she looks back over her shoulder.
You don’t react at first. No anger. No rebuttal. You just stand there, perfectly still, eyes locked on the man before they drift outward. Across the lobby. Across the people who had been working beside you moments ago.
Agents. Analysts. Staff who laughed with you in passing, trusted you with clearance and conversations and quiet truths.
And Natasha knows what you see.
She knows because she’s seen that look before. Suspicion. Fear. Doubt. Flickering at the edges of people’s silhouettes as their thoughts settle into something dangerous. Their expressions have shifted, guarded now, careful in a way Natasha knows all too well. The kind of distance people put up when trust cracks but hasn’t shattered yet.
You swallow, subtle but visible, like something inside you just sank.
Because you don’t need your power to know what they’re thinking.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Once she’s made sure the man is fully restrained and escorted away, Natasha doesn’t linger in the lobby. The adrenaline fades too quickly, leaving something colder in its place.
You’d told her you were fine before you left, away from the lingering stares and whispers. But she knows better than to take that at face value.
Her steps slow as she reaches your floor. She hesitates outside your office, fingers tightening around the fabric of the hoodie draped over her arm. It still smells faintly like your soap from the last time you borrowed it. Like home, in a way she hasn’t let herself think about too deeply.
She knocks softly, almost tentatively.
“Come in,” you say. Your voice is quieter than usual.
She opens the door and finds you standing near your desk, posture stiff, gaze lifted like you were bracing for something worse than her. When you realize it’s Natasha, your shoulders loosen almost immediately, tension bleeding out of you in a way you don’t bother hiding.
“I brought you my hoodie,” she says, holding it up like an offering. A comfort she doesn’t quite know how else to give.
You smile, a little tired, but real nonetheless.
“Thanks,” you say. “Though the AC unit broke in here, so it might actually be too warm.”
Her expression falters, eyes dropping as she fidgets with the hood.
“But,” you add quickly, stepping forward, “I appreciate the thought.”
You take it from her gently, set it on the desk, then lean back against it. You’re close enough now that she can see the strain you didn’t show anyone else.
Natasha exhales and decides she can’t keep skirting around it.
“Listen,” she begins, carefully. “Don’t take what that man said to heart. Everyone was just… shocked. They’ll come around.”
You let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking your head.
“I’ll be fine, Natasha. Really. This isn’t new.”
That makes her pause.
You shrug, as if explaining something mundane.
“It complicates my job, sure. But it doesn’t make it impossible. People will just be more careful around me now.”
You fold your arms, studying her gently.
“Kind of like how you are.”
Natasha stiffens. Her eyes widen, breath catching before she can stop it.
“You really think I wouldn’t notice?” you add softly, not accusatory, just honest. There’s a tired affection in your smile. “You’ve been avoiding me. Watching what you say.”
“I’m sor—”
“Hey.” You lift a hand, stopping her. “You don’t need to apologize. I get it. You need time to adjust to my powers being back. That’s totally understandable.”
Her hands curl at her sides. That’s not it. She’s never been afraid of your powers. But how could she explain the truth?
You look away briefly, jaw tightening before you speak again.
“I guess being with you made me forget,” you admit quietly, “that most people have something they need to hide.”
Something in Natasha snaps at your words.
“I want to marry you!” The words burst out before she can stop them.
Her hand flies to her mouth at the same moment your eyes widen in shock.
Silence crashes down between you.
Natasha squeezes her eyes shut, groaning softly.
“Damn it.”
When she opens them again, you’re still staring, processing her words in stunned silence.
“You told me,” she says, voice steadying despite herself. “When you were still under the effects of the sedatives. You said you wanted to marry me, and that it was a secret.”
Your breath leaves you slowly as you listen to her.
“So I was trying,” she continues, “to pretend I didn’t know. To not let you see that I did.”
“Oh,” you say, the word quiet as it settles in your chest.
Natasha winces slightly. “Oh?” she repeats, forcing a small, uncertain smile. “That doesn’t sound too great.”
For a heartbeat, the tension lingers, fragile and taut.
Then you laugh. It’s soft and unguarded. The sound slips out of you like relief, and it catches Natasha off guard completely. She feels her shoulders loosen without meaning to, the brace she’d been holding finally easing as she realizes whatever this moment is, it isn’t breaking you.
“Hold on,” you say, lifting a hand. “I need to check something.”
You look down at your palms, take a steady breath.
“I hate your cooking.” A beat passes before you nod to yourself. “Yep. Powers are working.” Then you look up at her, your eyes bright, smile wide and unmistakably real.
“So,” you say, excitement breaking through everything else, “it’s true. You do want to marry me.”
Natasha rolls her eyes at your antics, but she can’t hide her grin.
“Yes,” she says. “I want to marry you.”
You don’t hesitate. You cross the space between you and cup her face in your hands, kissing her with all the certainty you’d been holding back. Natasha melts into it instantly, her hands coming up to hold your wrists like she needs the contact to ground herself.
When you finally pull back, you stay close, forehead resting against hers.
“I love you, Natasha Romanoff.”
She smiles, brushing her lips against yours.
“I love you too.”
And that will never be a lie.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: currently recovering from a cold but managed to finish this one. thank you for reading!
The Avengers 2012 era was the best time ever in the fandom
Thor loves pop tarts, Clint lived in the vents, Bruce and Tony did science together, Steve was the mom friend of the team and did art in his free time, Natasha was cool aunt of the team, Loki was there too and a bunch of other characters like Peter, Sam, Bucky, Vision and Wanda all lived in the Avengers tower together
It was a much simpler time where everyone in the fandom was chill and having fun together
