Summary: you and nat officially start your dream life
Warnings: nat has babyfever
W.C: 5k
A.N: Enjoy <3
The compound is unusually loud when you get home.
Not the chaotic, battle-debrief loud. Not Tony blasting music loud. It’s…anticipatory. Like something is about to happen, and everyone knows it except you.
You don’t have the energy to question it.
Your day has wrung you dry—every meeting dragging, every small thing going wrong in that slow, relentless way that makes it worse than a single disaster.
By the time you step through the door, your shoulders ache, your eyes burn, and there’s a tightness in your chest you’ve been ignoring for hours.
You barely register the way a few heads snap toward you. The way conversations cut off mid-sentence.
“…she’s home,” Thor whispers.
You frown, confused, but your brain feels like it’s moving through syrup.
You don’t ask. You just keep walking.
The smell hits you first.
Warm. Comforting. Familiar.
Food.
You follow it like a lifeline, down the hall and into the kitchen—and there she is.
Natasha stands at the stove, sleeves pushed up, hair pulled back just enough to keep it out of her face.
She’s stirring something in a pan, her movements precise but… off.
A little too careful.
A little too tense.
You don’t notice that part right away.
All you see is her.
Something in you finally gives.
You cross the room without a word. She starts to turn, probably to greet you, but you don’t let her get that far.
Your hands find her arms, gently but insistently, and you turn her fully toward you.
“Hey—”
You pull her into you before she can finish.
Your arms wrap around her, tight, almost desperate, your face pressing into the crook of her neck.
She stiffens in surprise for half a second—and then immediately melts, hands coming up to hold you just as firmly.
“Hey… hey,” she murmurs, softer now, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. “What happened?”
You shake your head against her shoulder. You don’t trust your voice. If you try to explain, you’re pretty sure it’ll all spill out in a way you can’t control.
So you don’t.
You just hold on.
And then, quietly, without warning, your body betrays you.
Your breathing stutters.
Your grip tightens.
And the tears you’ve been holding back all day finally slip free. Silent at first, just a tremble against her.
Natasha notices immediately.
She always does.
“Oh,” she breathes, and something in her voice shifts, something fiercely protective and achingly gentle all at once.
She turns slightly, guiding you so you’re more comfortable against her, one arm firm around your back while the other strokes slow, steady lines through your hair.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
You nod, fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.
Her jaw tightens.
Because she knows.
She knows exactly what’s sitting in her pocket right now. Knows what she had planned. Knows that, hours ago, everything was supposed to go differently.
Candles.
A calmer atmosphere.
You smiling, not…this.
And earlier—
“—Oh my god, you’re proposing to y/n?!” Wanda’s voice had rung through the common room, loud and unmistakable.
Natasha had frozen.
Clint had choked on his drink. Steve had blinked like he’d just been hit with a flashbang. Tony had immediately started asking questions at maximum volume.
“You’re proposing? Romanoff? With feelings? This I have to see—”
Natasha had very seriously considered disappearing.
Instead, she’d just pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, “You were not supposed to say that out loud.”
Wanda, to her credit, had looked genuinely apologetic.
“…I forgot we weren’t alone.”
So now everyone knows.
Everyone is waiting.
And Natasha—
Natasha is standing in the kitchen, holding you while you quietly fall apart after a terrible day, with a ring in her pocket and a plan that no longer fits.
Her hand stills in your hair for just a second.
Then she exhales, slow and steady.
Plans can change.
You come first.
Always.
“Hey,” she says softly after a while, just loud enough for you to hear. “Look at me for a second?”
You hesitate, then pull back just enough.
Your eyes are a little red, your expression worn and fragile in a way that makes something twist painfully in her chest.
Her thumb brushes gently under your eye, catching the last trace of a tear.
“Rough day?” she asks.
You let out a weak huff of a laugh. “That obvious?”
“A little.”
You nod, glancing down. “I’m okay. I just… needed a minute.”
“You don’t have to be okay right now,” she says quietly.
You look back up at her.
There’s something different in her expression.
Still soft. Still steady.
But beneath?
Nervousness.
Real, unguarded nervousness.
You blink, confused. “Nat?”
She inhales.
And for someone who has faced down gods, assassins, and the end of the world more than once…this might be the most uncertain you’ve ever seen her.
“Yeah,” she says, her voice low. “Hi.”
You almost smile. “Hi.”
Her lips twitch like she’s trying to mirror it, but there’s too much else going on.
Behind you, there’s another barely-contained whisper.
“…is she doing it now?!”
“Shut up—”
Natasha ignores them.
Her focus is entirely on you.
“I had a plan,” she admits, almost under her breath. “It was…better than this. Less—” she gestures vaguely “—you crying in the kitchen.”
You let out a soft, embarrassed groan. “I can stop crying—”
“Don’t,” she interrupts gently. “That’s not the point.”
Her hand finds yours.
You feel it then, something shifting.
Your exhaustion doesn’t disappear, but it makes space for something else.
Curiosity.
A flicker of anticipation.
“Natasha…?”
She swallows.
And then, because she’s never done anything halfway in her life, she lets herself be completely honest.
“You had a terrible day,” she says. “And you came home, and the first thing you did was find me.”
Your fingers tighten around hers.
“You didn’t say anything,” she continues softly. “You just…trusted me to be there.”
“I always do,” you whisper.
That almost undoes her.
You see it—just for a second.
Then she steadies herself.
“Good,” she says. “Because I need you to trust me for one more thing.”
Your heart starts to pick up, just a little.
She lets go of one of your hands.
For a split second, you think maybe she’s pulling away.
Instead, she reaches into her pocket.
And then, before your brain fully catches up, she’s stepping back and lowering herself onto one knee.
Your breath catches.
Somewhere in the hallway, there’s a very audible thud followed by a muffled, “oh my god—”
Neither of you looks.
Natasha doesn’t break eye contact.
She opens the small box in her hand, revealing the ring—simple, beautiful, unmistakably you.
“I had a whole speech,” she says, a little breathless now. “It was structured. Thought out. Probably less…rambling.”
You stare at her, heart pounding.
“But this is what I’ve got,” she continues, a faint, nervous smile breaking through. “You. Right here. Exactly as you are.”
Your eyes sting again—but for a very different reason.
“I don’t need perfect timing,” she says. “I just need you.”
She takes a breath, steadying herself, like this is somehow harder than anything she’s ever faced.
“So, will you—”
“Yes.”
It slips out of you, immediate and certain.
Natasha closes her eyes for half a second.
“…I’m going to ask the full question,” she says.
“I know, I just—yes.”
“You’re going to let me finish.”
“I am, I promise.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
Natasha exhales, fighting a smile. Then she looks back at you, really focusing.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “Stay with me.”
“I’m here.”
“I know.’’
She tightens her hold on your hands just slightly.
“Will you—”
You inhale sharply.
She gives you a look.
You clamp your mouth shut so fast it’s almost impressive.
Her lips twitch.
“Good,” she says softly.
And then, slower this time—
“Will you marry me?”
There it is.
Clear. Simple. Real.
You don’t interrupt.
You just stare at her, eyes already stinging again, your grip tightening around her hands.
“Yeah,” you whisper, then add to really confirm it: "Yeah, I will. Of course I will.”
Relief floods her face, immediate and overwhelming, like she didn’t realize how much she needed to hear it said all the way through.
“Yeah?” she asks, just to be sure.
You nod quickly. “Yeah.”
You grin, a little teary, a little breathless.
“I said yes three times, by the way.”
“I noticed.”
“I was very enthusiastic.”
“You were very interruptive.”
“Same thing.”
That finally breaks her—she lets out a soft laugh as she slides the ring onto your finger, her hands just a little unsteady now for an entirely different reason.
“Still counts,” she murmurs.
“Every single one counted,” you say.
You don’t wait; you pull her up into yourself, arms wrapping tight around her, your face pressing into her shoulder again, but this time you’re laughing.
Behind you, the hallway erupts.
“FINALLY!”
“Took long enough!”
“I had money on four interruptions!”
Natasha just holds you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head again, grounding, warm, yours.
“You didn’t let me finish the first time,” she murmurs into your hair.
You tilt your head up, smiling. “You got there eventually.”
She brushes her thumb under your eye, soft and steady.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I did.”
You lean in and kiss her gently.
Like sealing something that was already decided long before tonight.
-///-
You’re half sprawled across the bed, tucked into Natasha’s side, a laptop resting against your legs as the night crawls closer.
The glow from the screen paints both of you in soft light as you scroll through listings, one after another.
Most of them blur together.
Too modern. Too far. Too…not right.
Natasha’s arm is draped loosely around you, her fingers absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy patterns along your stomach—barely there, but constant.
Grounding.
You hum quietly, squinting at another house.
“Mm…how many bedrooms do you think we should look for?” you murmur, your voice already a little sleepy.
There’s a pause.
Then, without hesitation, the words leave her as if she had thought about it for more than a minute.
“At least five.”
You blink.
Turn your head to look up at her.
“…Five?” you repeat.
She doesn’t even look away from the screen. “Minimum.”
You prop yourself up slightly on your elbow, narrowing your eyes at her. “How many times are you expecting me to get pregnant, exactly?”
That gets her attention.
Slowly, Natasha turns her head toward you.
There’s a smirk there. Subtle, but definitely there.
You stare at her.
“Natasha.”
She leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your neck.
It’s soft and teasing, just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Relax,” she murmurs against your skin, her voice warm and amused. “I’m planning ahead.”
You huff, but it dissolves into a quiet laugh, your hand coming up to rest lightly against her arm.
“Natasha and babies, who would have thought?" You smile at her, pecking her lips, then, quieter, ‘’You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” she says, pressing one last soft kiss there before pulling back, “you said yes.”
“Multiple times.”
“Very enthusiastically.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you settle back down against her.
“Five bedrooms,” you mutter. “You’re so ambitious.”
“I’m just practical.”
“You’re quite optimistic.”
“That too.”
You glance back down at the screen, scrolling again.
And then you pause.
“…Wait.”
Natasha’s hand stills for just a second at your stomach.
“What?”
You tilt the screen slightly so she can see better.
A white house.
Simple, but warm. Big windows. A wraparound porch that looks like it was made for slow mornings and late evenings.
And just beyond it…
Water.
A lake, stretching quietly and calmly behind it.
“It’s not exactly close to the tower,” you say softly, almost like you’re thinking out loud. “But it’s not that far either…”
“Far enough,” she murmurs.
“Close enough,” you add.
She studies it for a moment, her thumb resuming its slow, absent patterns against you.
Then she nods once.
“It’s pretty.”
That’s all it takes.
You light up a little, shifting so you’re more comfortable as you start clicking through the photos.
“Okay, okay, wait,” you say, suddenly more awake. “This one—this kitchen, we need a kitchen island.”
“Obviously.”
“And that—” you swipe. “—that could be a second living room. Or like…a playroom?”
“A playroom?”
“Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not,” she says, though there’s amusement in her voice.
You keep going, pointing at different parts of the layout, dreaming about a future with her.
“Okay, so this would be our room,” you decide, clicking on one of the larger bedrooms. “Because it has the windows facing the lake.”
“Agreed.”
“And then—” you swipe again, already thinking ahead. “—this one would be for our first kid.”
Natasha’s hand pauses again.
Not tense.
Just…noticing.
You don’t.
You’re already moving on.
“And then this one could be the second kid's room.”
She hums, watching your face now instead of the screen.
"And this one could be like a quest room… or a possible third kid. Depending.’’
“Efficient,” she murmurs, nuzzling her nose to your cheek.
“I learned from the best.”
“And the fifth?”
You hesitate for a second.
Then shrug, softer now.
“…Something the future will bring.”
She doesn’t answer right away.
Her hand shifts, flattening more fully against your stomach, her thumb tracing slower now, more deliberate.
Grounding.
Thinking.
You glance up at her. “Too much?”
Her gaze meets yours.
There’s something warm there. Something steady.
“No,” she says quietly. “Not enough.”
Your expression softens immediately.
“Five bedrooms,” you murmur again with a smile, turning back to the screen.
This time, you lean into her a little more, your hand finding hers where it rests against you.
She laces your fingers together without even looking.
The house stays on the screen.
The porch.
The lake.
The space.
And for a while, neither of you scrolls to look at a different house.
-///-
The day came before you knew it.
There’s movement everywhere.
Voices in the hallway, footsteps, doors opening and closing, and someone laughing too loudly down the corridor.
It all sounds distant, like you’re hearing it through water.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped so tightly in your lap your knuckles ache.
Your dress hangs nearby.
Everything is ready.
Everything is happening.
And your brain will not slow down.
You swallow, staring at the floor.
You’re getting married today.
To Natasha.
That part feels right. Steady. Certain in a way nothing else has ever been.
But layered underneath that certainty—
Something else.
Your heart starts to race again, and you press your palms harder together, as you can physically hold yourself in place.
Because, of course, your brain picked today.
Of all days.
To replay that email.
The donor profile.
The one you weren’t even expecting to find.
Anonymous, yes—but detailed enough. Similar features. Similar background. Even little things that made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect.
It had felt…right.
Too right.
Like a possibility you hadn’t let yourself fully imagine until it was suddenly right there in front of you.
A future.
A real one.
Kids that might look like her too and not only you.
You exhale shakily.
You haven’t told her.
You want to.
You’ve wanted to all week.
Every time she talks about the house.
The bedrooms.
The way her hand keeps finding your stomach like she’s already picturing something there.
Every time, the words sit right at the back of your throat and then disappear.
Because what if it’s too much?
What if it’s too soon?
What if you bring it up today and it shifts something? Adds pressure? Changes the moment?
Your chest tightens.
“Hey.”
You flinch slightly at the voice.
When you turn, you see Wanda leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, expression softer than usual.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she says gently.
You let out a weak breath. “Can you not—”
“I’m not,” she interrupts, holding up her hands. “You’re just…broadcasting a little.”
“Great,” you mutter. “Love that for me.”
She steps into the room, quieter now, her tone shifting.
“You’re nervous.”
“Very.”
“Cold feet?”
You shake your head immediately. “No. God, no. Not about her.”
“I know,” Wanda says.
You hesitate.
“There’s just…something I haven’t told her yet.”
Wanda studies you for a second.
“You want to?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
You look down at your hands again.
“Because it feels big,” you admit. “And today is already big. And I don’t want to…overwhelm her. Or mess anything up.”
Wanda’s expression softens.
“You think telling her you’re thinking about a future with her is going to mess something up?” she asks quietly.
“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“It sounds like you.”
You huff out a small laugh despite yourself.
“I just—I found a donor,” you say, the words finally leaving your mouth. “Like…a really good one. It just—it made it feel real, you know? And I want that with her, I just don’t know if today is—”
“Hey,” Wanda cuts in gently.
You look up.
“You don’t have to decide your entire future before you walk down that aisle,” she says. “You just have to show up. The rest? You figure out together.”
You let that sit for a second.
It helps.
A little.
“…So I shouldn’t tell her?” you ask.
“I didn’t say that,” Wanda replies. “I said you don’t have to do it right now if it’s making you spiral.”
You nod slowly.
That feels reasonable.
“You know her,” Wanda adds softly. “Better than anyone. When it feels right, you’ll know.”
You take a breath.
Then another.
Your shoulders loosen just a fraction.
“Okay,” you murmur.
“Okay.”
Wanda gives you a small, reassuring smile before heading back toward the door.
“And for what it’s worth,” she adds, glancing back, “she’s just as nervous as you are.”
You blink. “Natasha? Nervous?”
Wanda just smirks slightly. “Terrified.”
That actually makes you laugh.
“Good,” you say. “That’s comforting.”
“It should be.”
She disappears down the hall.
You sit there for a moment longer.
Then you look at your dress.
At your hands.
At the life waiting just on the other side of today.
The nerves are still there.
The question still lingers.
But beneath all of it—
There’s something steady.
You’re not doing this alone.
And you don’t have to have every answer yet.
You stand slowly, exhaling as you smooth your hands down your legs.
“One step at a time,” you murmur to yourself.
-///-
You’re running on fumes.
Not the romantic kind.
The dangerous kind.
You haven’t eaten. Not really. Every time you tried, someone pulled you away—photos, speeches, hugs, “just one quick thing” that turned into ten.
And every single time you sat down—
“—KISS! KISS! KISS!”
You did. Of course you did.
And every time you came back?
Your plate was gone.
At this point, you’re pretty sure you’ve had three bites of something, maybe a piece of bread, and about…far too much champagne.
The room is loud. Bright. Spinning just a little at the edges.
You’re smiling—but it’s getting harder to keep it steady.
Natasha is…worse.
Not drunk, exactly—but irritated in that very specific, very controlled way that means she’s about three interruptions away from snapping.
Someone had just pulled her away again, and you’d watched her jaw tighten as she nodded politely and followed.
Now she’s back.
Finally.
And when she finds you, her hand immediately goes to your waist, pulling you close like she’s making up for lost time.
“You okay?” she murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.
You shake your head a little, pressing into her. “I’m starving.”
Her grip tightens. “I noticed.”
“I tried to eat,” you mumble. “But every time I sit down, I get kidnapped.”
“I’m aware.”
There’s an edge to her voice.
You glance up at her. “You’re mad.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m—” she exhales slowly “—a little frustrated.”
“That’s a scary version of mad.”
She huffs, but her hand softens against your side, her thumb brushing gently like she’s grounding herself through you.
“I just want five minutes with my wife,” she mutters.
That word.
Even now, it hits.
“My wife,” you echo softly.
Her eyes flick to yours.
“Yeah,” she says.
And then—
The music changes.
The crowd shifts, noise dimming as someone announces the dance.
There’s a ripple through the room—people moving back, forming space.
And for the first time all day—
No one interrupts.
Natasha looks at you.
“Come on,” she murmurs.
You nod.
She leads you to the centre of the floor, her hand never leaving yours.
And then—
It’s quiet.
Not completely.
But enough.
Enough that it feels like the world just… fades out around you.
Her hand settles at your waist.
Yours finds her shoulder.
And you start to move.
Slow.
Easy.
Close.
You exhale, your forehead drifting toward hers almost immediately. “Finally.”
“Finally,” she agrees.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
You just sway together, your body relaxing into hers, the tension of the day slowly unravelling.
Her thumb traces slow patterns against your side again.
Familiar.
Steady.
Yours.
“I missed you,” you murmur.
“I was right there.”
“Not like this.”
Her hold tightens just slightly. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t like people taking you away,” she admits.
You huff softly. “I didn’t like it either.”
“Good.”
You smile a little against her. “Possessive.”
“Accurate.”
You laugh quietly, but it fades into something softer as you settle more fully into her.
This.
This is what you needed.
Just her.
Just a moment.
Your fingers tighten slightly against her shoulder.
“…Hey,” you murmur.
“Mm?”
You hesitate.
The thought from earlier creeps back in.
The one you pushed aside.
But now—here, like this—it doesn’t feel as overwhelming.
Just…important.
“I wanted to tell you something,” you say quietly.
She doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t tense.
Just listens.
“Okay.”
You swallow.
“I found…a donor.”
Her movement stills for just a fraction of a second.
Not pulling away.
Just…listening harder.
You rush a little now, words soft but quick.
“I wasn’t planning to. It just kind of happened, and I saw the profile and—it just—it felt right. Like, really right. And I didn’t want to bring it up before today because I didn’t want to overwhelm you or make it—like—a big thing, but I just—”
“Hey,” she murmurs gently.
You stop.
Look up at her.
Her expression isn’t tense.
Or upset.
Just…focused.
Warm.
“You found someone you like?” she asks.
You nod, a little nervous now. “Yeah.”
A beat.
Then—
“Okay.”
You blink.
“…Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it?”
She huffs a small, almost amused breath. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know, like—a reaction?”
“You’re talking about a future with me,” she says simply. “That’s not a problem.”
Your chest tightens, but in a good way this time.
“I just—I thought maybe it was too soon.”
“We’ve been planning bedrooms,” she points out.
“…That’s fair.”
Her thumb brushes your side again.
“You don’t have to figure all of it out today,” she adds. “We’ll look at it together.”
Together.
That word settles everything.
You nod, your forehead resting against hers again. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
There’s a small pause.
Then—
A loud, booming voice cuts through the moment.
“YOU TWO!”
You both flinch slightly.
Thor appears at the edge of the dance floor like an event all by himself, holding—
Shots.
Multiple.
“I HAVE BROUGHT CELEBRATORY DRINKS!”
Natasha closes her eyes briefly. “…Of course he has.”
You let out a soft laugh. “We’re doomed.”
Thor strides over, beaming, completely ignoring the fact that this is supposed to be a quiet, romantic moment.
“FOR THE NEWLYWEDS!” he declares, handing each of you a glass.
You take it.
Of course you do.
Natasha eyes it.
Then you.
Then the glass.
“…We haven’t eaten,” she mutters.
“Details,” you whisper.
She exhales.
Then takes it anyway.
“Fine.”
Thor grins like he’s just won something.
“TO LOVE!” he booms.
You clink your glasses together—yours with Natasha’s, then both with his.
“To love,” you echo.
And then you drink.
Immediately—
Regret.
You cough slightly, eyes widening. “Oh my god—”
Natasha winces, shaking her head. “That was a mistake.”
Thor just laughs, delighted.
“ANOTHER?”
“Absolutely not,” Natasha says instantly.
You, however, are already laughing, leaning into her again, a little dizzier now but smiling.
“Okay,” you murmur, breathless. “Maybe now we really need food.”
She steadies you, one hand firm at your waist.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m stealing you for that.”
“Please do.”
Her forehead rests against yours again, just for a second, grounding the moment before everything inevitably gets loud again.
“We’ll figure everything else out,” she murmurs.
You nod, smiling softly.
“Together,” you say.
“Together.”
-///-
By the time you make it to the kitchen of the venue, you are done.
Not elegantly overwhelmed.
Not softly emotional.
No—fully, completely, dramatically done.
“This is ridiculous,” you say, pushing the door open harder than necessary.
Natasha is right behind you, equally tense, equally fed up. “I told them we needed food.”
“I tried to eat." You spin around, hands flying. “I sat down three times—three—and every time someone dragged me away!”
“I noticed.”
“And now—now—” you gesture wildly at the counters.
Empty.
Completely, offensively empty.
No trays. No plates. Not even crumbs.
“…they took everything,” you say, your voice going dangerously quiet.
Natasha steps further into the room, scanning it like maybe food will magically appear if she looks hard enough.
“It seems that way.”
There’s a pause.
Then—
You grab a glass off the counter.
Natasha turns just in time to see—
“Hey—”
SMASH.
The sound is sharp, echoing through the kitchen as the glass hits the floor and shatters.
You stand there, breathing a little too fast, staring down at the pieces.
“…okay,” you say after a second. “That helped. A little.”
Natasha exhales slowly.
Then, very calmly—
“I’m not even going to pretend to be mad about that.”
You look up at her, a little wild-eyed.
“I’m hungry.”
“I know.”
“I might actually die.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“I could.”
“You won’t.”
She reaches for you, hands settling on your arms, grounding you just enough to pull you back from full meltdown territory.
“Hey,” she murmurs. “We’ll fix it.”
“How?” you demand. “Conjure food? Steal it? Fight someone?”
“…all viable options.”
You huff, somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
Then Natasha’s attention shifts.
To the side.
To a champagne bucket you hadn’t even noticed.
Inside—melting ice.
And strawberries.
Her eyes narrow slightly.
“…hold on.”
Before you can question it, she leans over, plucks one out, and pops it into her mouth.
You blink.
“…Natasha.”
She chews.
Swallows.
Then immediately grabs another.
“Are you—are you eating garnish?”
“It’s fruit.”
“It’s drunk fruit.”
She pauses mid-reach.
“…that explains a lot.”
You stare at her.
She eats another anyway.
“Okay, no, stop—stop eating the champagne strawberries,” you say, trying and failing to sound authoritative.
She points at you with the next one. “You smashed a glass.”
“That was emotional.”
“This is survival.”
You open your mouth to argue—
Then close it.
“…okay, fair.”
She eats another.
And another.
By the fourth, you’re narrowing your eyes.
“You’re getting more drunk.”
“I’m already drunk.”
“You’re getting more drunk.”
She smiles—just a little too confidently.
“I’m fine.”
You sigh.
“…we need real food.”
She nods immediately. “Agreed.”
A beat.
Then—
“Let’s leave.”
You blink. “Leave leave?”
“Yes.”
“In our wedding dresses?”
“Yes.”
“…okay.”
-///-
The taxi driver does not ask questions.
Which is probably for the best.
You’re half-laughing, half-complaining in the backseat, still riding the wave of hunger and alcohol, while Natasha has one arm firmly around you like she’s not letting you disappear again.
“I can’t believe they took all the food,” you mumble.
“I’m still upset about it.”
“I smashed a glass.”
“I know.”
‘’You didn’t stop me.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
You snort.
The line is painfully slow.
You and Natasha stand at the counter of Burger King, still in your wedding clothes, still slightly swaying from too much champagne and not nearly enough food.
Natasha is trying so hard to be patient.
You can tell by the way her jaw keeps tightening every time someone ahead of you asks another question.
“…and fries,” she says flatly, finishing the order. “A lot of fries.”
You lean into her side, nodding like this is a very serious, collaborative decision. “Emotionally important fries.”
The cashier blinks. “…okay.”
You shuffle off to the side to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
You stare at the counter like it’s personally responsible for your suffering.
“…this is cruel,” you mutter.
Natasha crosses her arms. “It’s inefficient.”
“I’m so thirsty.”
“We ordered drinks.”
“I need them now.”
“You can survive two minutes.”
“I cannot.”
She glances over at you. “You absolutely can.”
You squint at her.
Then—
You slip away.
Not dramatically.
Not announced.
Just…gone.
Natasha doesn’t notice at first.
She’s too busy watching the kitchen like she might will the food into existence through sheer irritation.
Behind the counter, things are moving slowly. Someone fumbles an order. Another employee calls for help.
Time stretches.
“Ma’am, can you handle your wife?”
Natasha blinks.
Turns slightly. “Excuse me?”
The employee gestures vaguely past her. “Your wife—she’s—uh—”
Natasha follows the gesture.
And then she sees you.
At the drink dispenser.
Not with a cup.
No.
You’ve leaned down, pressing the lever with your hand, drinking straight from the stream of soda as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Completely unbothered.
Completely committed.
There’s a beat.
Natasha just… looks at you.
All the irritation.
All the tension from the night.
It dissolves instantly.
Replaced by something softer. Warmer. A little incredulous, a lot fond.
Summary: Natasha thought keeping things casual would be simple, that is, until the lines between what’s casual and what’s not start to blur.
Warnings: fluff, light angst, sexual themes
Words: 5768
The Avengers Compound kitchen is unusually calm that afternoon. Just the quiet hum of the coffee machine and the soft afternoon light spilling through the large windows as the two agents engage in a deeply serious debate.
“No, but listen,” Clint insists from the other side of the kitchen counter. “They made a good point.”
Natasha barely looks up from where she’s resting her forearms against the counter as she waits for her coffee to finish, but the faint curve of her lips shows she’s listening.
“If we put Thor’s hammer on some sort of tray,” Clint continues, gesturing with both hands to illustrate the concept, “and then pick up the tray…technically that counts as lifting the hammer, right?”
Natasha hums thoughtfully, tilting her head in exaggerated contemplation.
“Hmm,” she says slowly. “Interesting point.”
Clint brightens immediately.
“But,” Natasha adds, her green eyes glinting with amusement as she turns to him, “would it be you who’s worthy…or the tray?”
Clint opens his mouth and then pauses. His brows slowly knit together as he processes the loophole she just introduced.
Natasha watches him rub his chin in concentration, a small, amused huff leaving her nose. She shifts her weight slightly against the counter, enjoying the rare moment of downtime.
It’s peaceful, which is exactly why she doesn’t notice the footsteps approaching before a pair of arms suddenly slips around her waist from behind.
The action comes with a familiar ease as the warm body settle lightly against her back. Before she can turn, a chin rests comfortably on her shoulder.
“I know who’s worthy,” you murmur, your voice low as your words brush against the shell of her ear.
Natasha’s smirk appears instantly. She tilts her head just enough to glance at you from the corner of her eye, one brow arching in amusement.
“Do you now?” she asks, playing along.
You nod, a confident little grin spreading across your face.
“Mmmhmm.”
Your arms remain loosely wrapped around her waist, casual and unapologetic. One of your hands slips beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips lightly brushing the skin at her side.
“And she’s pretty cute too,” you add offhandedly. “Especially when she wishes me luck before I leave for my mission.”
Natasha snorts softly under her breath.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we’re going to have a problem,” you warn in playful threat.
Natasha simply raises her brow, unmoved by your words.
When it’s clear she’s not budging, you tilt your head and respond with an exaggerated pout, batting your eyelashes at her with ridiculous enthusiasm.
“Come on,” you say dramatically. “Don’t leave me hanging, Romanoff.”
Natasha chuckles at your antics, shaking her head. Still, she turns within your arms until she’s facing you. Her hands rise to your face, cupping it with easy familiarity as her thumbs brush gently across your cheeks.
For a moment, the playful noise of the room fades into the background.
“Good luck on your mission,” Natasha says softly.
Your smile appears instantly, but then—
Flick.
Her finger taps your forehead.
“Hey—!” you protest, instantly bringing your hands up to soothe the spot.
Natasha’s lips curl into a small, teasing smirk.
“Don’t do anything reckless,” she adds.
You respond with an exaggerated pout.
Before you can retaliate, the calm kitchen atmosphere is abruptly interrupted as FRIDAY’s voice echoes through the room, calling your name.
“Mr. Stark has requested me to inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will leave without you.”
A beat passes before she continues.
“Fifty-eight…fifty-seven…fifty-six…”
You roll your eyes and sigh.
“Alright, guess I’m going now.”
You back away, already heading toward the doors, though you pause long enough to point a warning finger at Natasha.
“This isn’t over,” you tell her with mock seriousness. “I’m getting back at you when I return.”
Natasha leans casually against the counter again, folding her arms.
“Sure you will,” she replies, entirely unconvinced.
You point at her again as if issuing a formal threat. Then you disappear through the doors.
Natasha watches them slide shut behind you before a quiet chuckle escapes her.
When she turns back around, she finds Clint staring at her with a raised brow. It’s the look he gets when he thinks he’s figured something out.
Natasha narrows her eyes.
“What’s with your face?”
Clint leans forward slightly against the counter, folding his arms.
“So,” he says carefully, “are you two together now?”
Natasha’s expression immediately flattens.
“No,” she says, her tone firm. “You already know what kind of relationship I have with her.”
Clint waves his hand vaguely.
“Right, right. The whole casual friends-with-benefits situationship.”
He points toward the door you just exited through.
“However…”
Natasha already doesn’t like where this is going.
“…that just now seemed a bit on the coupley side of things.”
Natasha rolls her eyes at his ridiculous observation.
“It was a hug, Clint.”
“Uh-huh.”
Clint nods thoughtfully.
“I mean,” he continues, “Laura hugs me like that all the time.”
Natasha gives him an unimpressed stare at his comparison. What you did just now is not the same thing.
“It’s just a hug,” she insists.
“Sure,” Clint says with a shrug. Then he tilts his head slightly. “But have you seen her hug anyone else like that?”
Natasha opens her mouth, but then she pauses. Her eyes narrow slightly as she thinks about it.
Because…no. Not really.
You’re friendly. You joke with everyone. You throw your arms around someone’s shoulders sometimes during celebrations or victories.
But that kind of hug?
Arms around the waist. Chin on the shoulder. Body pressed against hers.
That was different. You don’t usually do affectionate stuff like that outside the bedroom.
Still, Natasha quickly pushes the thought aside.
You and she spent last night together. Maybe it was just leftover affection from that.
Except, for some reason, the thought of you hugging someone else like that causes a strange irritation in her chest.
Natasha frowns faintly at the feeling. Then she shakes her head, brushing the thought away.
“You’re overanalyzing,” she says firmly. “It meant nothing.”
Clint raises both hands in surrender.
“If you say so.”
His expression, however, clearly says he doesn’t believe her. Still, he’s learned not to push Natasha when she uses that tone.
Instead, he nods toward the counter again.
“So,” Clint says casually, returning to the earlier debate, “picking up the tray with Thor’s hammer on top?”
Natasha smirks again.
“Doesn’t make you worthy.”
Clint sighs dramatically.
“Damn.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The room is quiet.
Not the brittle, suffocating silence that sometimes settles over the Compound after a mission. Not the kind that presses in from all sides and demands to be filled.
This one is softer. Almost fragile. The kind that lingers in the aftermath of something warm.
Natasha lies awake on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling above her.
Sleep refuses to come.
It hovers just out of reach, close enough that she can feel it pulling at her, but never quite close enough to take hold.
Beside her, your body is warm. You’re tucked into her side beneath the sheets, your presence a steady, grounding weight against her. Your arm rests loosely around her waist, fingers curled just slightly against her stomach like you’d fallen asleep mid-thought.
Your breathing is slow and even. Soft against her skin.
You usually aren’t here this long.
Most nights follow a pattern—one that neither of you ever bothered to name, but both of you understand perfectly. It starts the same. You come together, lose yourselves for a while, share a few quiet moments afterward. Sometimes, a conversation drifts lazily between nothing and everything. A few smirks, maybe a teasing remark.
And then you leave.
Always before it lingers too long. Always before it can become something else.
But tonight is different.
You had just gotten back from a mission, longer than usual, rougher by the look of it. Natasha had seen it in the way your shoulders carried tension, in the way your movements were just a fraction slower than normal. And so, the moment you stepped off the jet, she had taken you into her arms and pulled you straight into her room.
Instinct. Habit. Maybe something else.
Clothes hadn’t lasted long. They never do.
But afterward, after a momentary respite of just losing yourselves in each other, instead of leaving, you had just curled into her side, exhaled once, and fallen asleep almost instantly, like your body had finally given out the moment it felt safe enough to.
And Natasha had let you stay.
Slowly, her gaze shifts, and she looks down at you.
Your face is half-hidden against her collarbone, your hair slightly disheveled, messy in that way that comes from both sleep and everything that came before it.
For a long moment, she simply watches you.
There’s something unguarded about you like this. Something softer than the version of you she usually sees—the one who jokes, who fights, who moves through the world with sharp edges and practiced confidence. This version of you seems like it’s reserved for her eyes only.
And Natasha doesn’t know what to do with that.
Inevitably, her mind drifts. Back to the kitchen. The hug. Clint’s words.
Her chest tightens slightly at the memory, the feeling subtle but persistent. Annoyingly so. And with it comes the thought she had pushed down at the time.
Did it mean anything?
“You’re thinking really loud,” you mumble against her skin. The words are rough with sleep, barely formed, but they cut cleanly through her thoughts.
Natasha blinks, startled, her gaze snapping back down to you.
Your eyes are only half-open, unfocused, like you’re hovering somewhere between awake and asleep.
“You’re awake?” she murmurs quietly.
“Barely,” you grumble.
You shift slightly, adjusting your position so your chin rests more comfortably against her shoulder. Your arm wraps firmly around her waist in an absent, instinctive movement.
Natasha’s gaze flickers downward to your hand, resting against her stomach. Then back to your face.
“What was with that hug before you left?” she asks quietly.
You lift your head just enough to look at her properly, blinking like you’re trying to piece together what she’s talking about.
“What hug?”
“The one in the kitchen,” she clarifies. “Before your mission.”
Your brows draw together slightly.
“What about it?”
Natasha shifts onto her side, propping her head up with one hand so she can see you properly. The movement creates a small distance between you, just enough for her to notice.
“I don’t know,” she says slowly. “Clint was saying some things, and it just seemed…”
She trails off, searching.
“…intimate.”
The word lingers between you.
You go still for a second, thinking.
“Oh.”
It’s quiet. Almost too casual. But something changes.
Without seeming to realize it, your arm slips away from around her waist. It’s subtle. But the absence is immediate.
The space you leave behind feels colder than it should.
Natasha hates how quickly she notices.
You run a hand through your hair, still looking thoughtful.
“I guess I didn’t really think about it,” you admit. “It just sort of happened.”
Natasha nods faintly. That’s what she expected. Clint had been reading into it. Overanalyzing, like he always does. The hug didn’t mean anything.
It was just—
Nothing.
For some reason, that revelation doesn’t bring the relief she thought it would.
You sit up with a quiet stretch, a tired yawn slipping past your lips. The sheets fall away from you as you move, revealing the tank top and underwear you must’ve pulled on at some point.
Natasha’s eyes track the motion automatically. She remembers exactly how those clothes had ended up on the floor earlier.
The urgency. The heat. The way neither of you had slowed down long enough to think.
Now, you stand beside the bed, scanning the floor for the rest of your clothes.
The contrast is jarring.
Natasha stays quiet, watching as you dress—pulling your shirt back on, stepping into your pants, smoothing each fold as if putting yourself back together piece by piece.
When you finish, you turn toward her again. You lower yourself onto the mattress beside her, leaning in. Your hand lifts to her chin, gently guiding her eyes back to yours.
Then your lips press softly against hers.
Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hand slides up to the back of your neck, fingers curling lightly into your hair as she kisses you back.
For a brief moment, the thought crosses her mind.
Pull you down. Keep you here. Start it all over again. Lose herself in something easier than this feeling sitting in her chest.
But before she can act on it, you pull away.
“Sorry about that,” you murmur, your voice still close enough that she can feel the words against her lips. “I’ll try not to do anything like that again.”
Natasha’s brows knit slightly. She tilts her head upward, chasing your mouth for another brief kiss.
“It didn’t bother me,” she says quietly.
You smile, soft and small.
But when she leans in again, you pull back. Just enough to be out of reach. Her hand lingers in the air where you had been.
“But you’re right,” you continue gently. “That kind of thing’s too intimate.”
Your expression softens further.
“At least when we’re not hooking up.”
The words settle heavily in the quiet room.
“We agreed this was casual,” you remind her.
Natasha nods slowly. She remembers how this all started. Months ago, at one of Tony’s infamous parties. Too much music. Too much alcohol. Too many people packed into the living room.
The night had blurred into laughter, dancing, and eventually, one very impulsive decision.
The morning after had been awkward. Not because either of you regretted it, but because you both understood exactly what it could become.
And what that would mean.
In this line of work, relationships don’t come easy.
They come with risk. With distance. With the constant possibility of loss.
Neither of you had ever been particularly successful at making relationships work in the past. Neither of you had ever been good at holding onto something like that.
So Natasha made it simple.
No expectations. No attachments. Just something to take the edge off between missions. Something steady in the middle of chaos.
And it has worked so far.
You lean down again, pressing one last, gentle kiss to her lips.
“Let’s not blur the boundaries, Natasha,” you say softly. Then you pull away. You slide off the bed, your movements quiet as you head toward the door.
“Sweet dreams.”
The door clicks shut behind you, and the room falls silent again.
Natasha exhales slowly, her head sinking back against the pillow. Relief settles over her. Or something like it.
The misunderstanding is gone.
Everything is exactly what it’s supposed to be.
What you have is casual. Simple. Safe. It’s better this way.
She repeats it to herself as she closes her eyes.
Again. And again. And again.
Eventually, sleep begins to take her.
But no matter how many times she repeats it, it doesn’t quite erase the faint, persistent ache in her chest.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha takes a slow, measured sip from her glass, letting the burn of the liquor settle before she swallows. To anyone else in the crowded living room, she looks perfectly at ease, just leaning casually against the bar at one of Tony Stark’s increasingly extravagant parties.
The room is alive with movement and sound. Music pulses through hidden speakers, low and rhythmic, blending with the hum of overlapping conversations. Laughter erupts from every corner. Glasses clink in celebration of yet another successful mission. The Avengers are relaxed, off-duty, and untouchable for the night.
Everything appears normal.
But if anyone cared to look closely, they would notice the cracks beneath her surface.
The subtle tension in her posture. The way her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the stem of her glass. The faint clench of her jaw.
And most telling of all, the fact that Natasha’s gaze hasn’t shifted in several minutes.
She isn’t watching the party. She’s watching you.
When you told her you would avoid doing things like the hug, the things that blurred lines, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time. A new boundary drawn, respected without argument.
At first, Natasha thought she wouldn’t even notice the difference.
But she had been wrong.
It started small.
A movie night in the common room.
Where you used to drop onto the couch beside her without hesitation, your shoulder pressed comfortably against hers, your presence warm and familiar. Sometimes you would lean into her without thinking, your head resting briefly against her arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Now, you sit on the opposite end. A pillow placed neatly between you two, creating a quiet, deliberate space.
Then in the gym.
After sparring, when both of you were catching your breath, Natasha had paused in front of you, expecting, without thinking, that same absentminded gesture where your hand fixes a loose strand of hair behind her ear as you made some teasing remark about her fighting skills.
But this time, you passed right by her, reaching behind her instead and grabbing your towel and water bottle without so much as grazing her skin.
Even during mission briefings, the difference was impossible to ignore.
You used to lean over her shoulder to read the screen, your presence close behind her. She could feel your warmth at her back, your breath near her ear as you murmured observations only she could hear.
Now, you stood at the table with your own tablet.
Still beside her but never close.
Always careful. Always just far enough away.
Natasha swirls the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way it catches the light.
So this is what you meant. This is the new boundary.
And she had agreed to it.
So why does it feel like something is missing? Why does the absence of those touches that “meant nothing” feel so…loud?
Her gaze sharpens slightly.
And more importantly, why are you giving them to someone else?
Natasha’s jaw tightens at the sight.
Across the room, you’re laughing. There’s a looseness to your movements, a little more relaxed, your smile a little brighter. Tony’s been generous with the drinks tonight, and it shows. You’re not out of control. Just…lighter.
Your arm is draped casually around Carol Danvers’ shoulders as the two of you talk, the two of you caught in your own bubble of conversation.
Carol laughs, her head tipping back at something you say. And you laugh with her. Then, without hesitation, your arms slip around her from behind, pulling her into a playful hug.
Natasha’s grip tightens around her glass.
It should mean nothing. It is nothing.
Just like how it is for her.
But to her irritation, the hug lingers. Your arms don’t drop right away from the other woman.
Carol nudges you with her elbow and says something in response, prompting you to lean closer so you can hear her over the music. You lean in a little too much, your face drifting into her space with an ease that feels overly familiar.
A sudden, sharp heat twists in Natasha’s chest.
Before she fully registers her own reaction, she downs the rest of her drink in a single motion. The glass meets the counter with a quiet yet decisive sound.
Then she moves.
Natasha crosses the room with clear intent, weaving through groups of people without slowing.
You’re still smiling when she reaches you, still caught mid-laugh as you turn to greet her.
“Hey—”
Her hand closes firmly around your wrist as she pulls you away from the other woman. You look at her in surprise, but you do not resist as she leads you through the crowd.
Behind her, Carol calls out, her tone light and amused.
“Hey, Romanoff, what’s the rush?”
Natasha does not respond or look back. She continues forward, guiding you toward the hallway.
You glance over your shoulder, your smile lingering.
“I’ll catch up with you later, Danvers!” you call.
The promise sharpens Natasha’s irritation. Within moments, she pulls you into her room.
The door closes behind you with a quiet click, and the atmosphere shifts immediately.
You move first. Your arms slide around her neck as you pull her into a deep kiss.
Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hands grip the front of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as she kisses you back.
There is nothing gentle about it. The kiss is intense and consuming as she steps forward, erasing the space between you until your back meets the door with a soft impact.
She barely notices. All she feels is the heat building inside her.
For a brief moment, an image flashes through her mind of you standing with Carol, your arms around her, leaning in without hesitation.
The feeling tightens inside her, and Natasha presses into the kiss with greater intensity.
Her hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you in place as though anchoring you exactly where she wants you. Where she feels she needs you.
Mine.
The thought hits her before she can stop it. She resents it immediately, hating how natural it feels and how good it sounds.
Because the truth is, you do not belong to her. You never have. That was always the agreement.
When she pulls back, it is only for a brief breath. Her eyes move over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, your softened expression, and the way you are looking at her, completely unaware of the conflict inside her.
“Hey, what’s wr—”
She silences you with another forceful kiss.
Your words dissolve into a soft sound against her lips.
Her hands rise to cup your face, drawing you closer as though she fears you might slip away if she lets go.
“Natasha…” you murmur.
The sound of her name on your lips sends a dull ache through her chest.
Still, she continues to kiss you. Again and again, her lips lingering briefly before moving to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your cheek, and then back again. The rhythm becomes restless and searching, almost desperate, as though she is trying to remind both of you of something unspoken.
Eventually, your hands move to her waist and pull her closer.
The contact draws a quiet breath from her.
Your touch feels exactly the same as it always has, and she hates how much she has missed it.
Your fingers trace along her sides and slip beneath the hem of her shirt. The warmth of your touch against her skin sends a shiver through her.
But the sensation is complicated.
Even as she leans into it, something inside her aches. This is the only time you touch her like this now, hidden away behind closed doors.
Outside of this space, there is distance. No casual contact, no easy closeness, and no quiet affection shared without thought.
Yet tonight, Carol received that version of you.
The realization sharpens the ache. For a moment, Natasha allows herself to sink back into the kiss, into the feeling of you, into the illusion of being chosen.
But the thought does not fade.
Only here. Only like this.
Abruptly, Natasha pulls away. Her hand catches your wrist, stopping your movement beneath her shirt.
She shakes her head.
“I can’t do this.”
The words feel as though they tear something open inside her.
You blink at her, confusion crossing your face. Your head tilts slightly as you try to understand, and then your expression softens.
“Are you worried about the drinks?” you ask gently. “I’m fine. I only had a few.”
She shakes her head again and steps back, creating distance between you.
“No,” she says quietly, gesturing between you. “I can’t do this with you anymore.”
The words settle heavily in the space between you.
Your hands lift slightly, as if you intend to reach for her, but you stop yourself at the last second and let them fall back.
For a moment, you simply look at her. Then something in your expression shifts. Your arms fold loosely, your fingers gripping your sleeves.
“Oh.”
The sound is soft, almost lost, but the way your shoulders drop afterward makes her chest tighten painfully.
You look hurt, though you try not to show it.
Every instinct in Natasha urges her to move, to close the distance, to pull you back and say something that will erase that look from your face.
But she remains still.
What right does she have?
She agreed to something simple and uncomplicated.
Yet standing here, watching you try to act as though this does not matter, she finally faces the truth she has been avoiding.
She does not want something simple. She does not want something casual.
She wants you.
Not just in this room or within some boundary. She wants you openly and completely.
The realization arrives all at once, clear and undeniable, and entirely unhelpful.
Because the words still refuse to come.
You offer her a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.
“If that’s what you want, Natasha,” you say softly.
Her throat tightens as she tries to respond, but no words follow.
You nod once and turn toward the door. The quiet click as it closes behind you echoes through the room.
Natasha remains where she is long after you have gone, her chest tight and aching.
Only now does she understand why.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha exhales slowly, releasing a quiet sigh as she leans her hip against the kitchen counter. One hand remains loosely wrapped around a ceramic mug whose warmth has long since faded, yet she makes no effort to refill it.
She is waiting, though she cannot fully define what she expects. Perhaps she is waiting for the coffee machine to finish, for the silence to shift, or for something deeper that she cannot quite name.
The steady drip of coffee fills the otherwise empty room.
It reminds her of how things were only weeks ago, before everything changed and before words were spoken that cannot be taken back.
Sunlight stretches across the polished countertops, catching along the edges of steel and glass. Somewhere within the walls, the faint hum of the tower’s systems continues, a constant reminder that life is still moving forward.
However, she doesn’t feel as though she is moving with it.
Her thoughts wander without restraint, circling back to that previous night. Every word, every glance, and every moment she wishes she could change plays repeatedly in her mind.
A dull ache settles in her chest, familiar and unwelcome. Despite how hard she tried to ignore it, it never truly fades, instead lingering with quiet persistence.
She closes her eyes briefly, hoping for relief, but nothing changes.
The sound of footsteps echoes faintly from the hallway. The rhythm is steady and unmistakable.
Natasha’s attention sharpens immediately, her body reacting before her thoughts fully catch up. She glances over her shoulder and straightens as soon as she sees you standing in the doorway.
You appear just as surprised to find her there.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you feels heavier than it should, weighed down by everything that was said. The silence stretches, pressing in from every direction.
Eventually, you offer a small smile. It is soft and genuine, familiar in a way that causes something in her chest to tighten.
But you do not step closer.
Instead, you remain where you are, leaning casually against the doorframe as though an invisible boundary separates you. The distance itself is not large, but it is undeniable.
And Natasha notices it immediately.
You clear your throat, the sound quiet but enough to break the tension.
“I am heading out for another mission today,” you say, your voice careful and measured. Your head tilts slightly, a habit she knows well, one that always made her smile without effort. “Wish me luck?”
The words are the same as always. The tone, the phrasing, and the moment itself are all familiar.
Everything surrounding them, however, is different.
There is space between you now, a deliberate distance that marks the line she has drawn.
Natasha swallows, her throat suddenly dry.
She understands what this moment means.
You are trying in your own way. You are trying to show her that things are still manageable between you, that you respect her decision, and that you can stand here and speak with her as though nothing has truly been lost.
Her fingers tighten slightly around the mug before she sets it down with a soft clink.
“Good luck,” she says quietly.
The words feel small and inadequate, but they are all she can manage.
Your smile lifts just a fraction more, and relief flickers across your expression. It is as though you expected resistance and are grateful not to find it. You nod once.
“Thanks, Natasha.”
Just like that, you accept it. You seem satisfied with that small offering, with the careful and restrained version of whatever exists between you now. You push away from the doorway and begin to turn, ready to leave things exactly as they are.
That is what breaks her composure.
It is the ease with which you accept the distance without question.
Something twists sharply in Natasha’s chest. In that instant, with startling clarity, she realizes she cannot continue like this. She cannot stand there pretending that polite smiles and quiet farewells are enough.
Her body moves before the thought fully settles.
“Wait.”
The word is soft, barely above a breath, but it stops you immediately.
You pause mid-step and glance back over your shoulder, confusion flickering across your face.
Natasha is already moving. She crosses the kitchen quickly, her steps decisive as she closes the space between you before doubt can interfere.
Before you can react, her hands rise, warm and steady as they cup your face.
Then she kisses you.
There is no hesitation, no restraint, no careful distance. There is only her, choosing you.
A soft, startled sound escapes you, muffled against her lips. For a brief moment, you freeze, caught off guard as you try to process what is happening.
Then instinct takes over.
Your hands find her waist and pull her closer as you return the kiss.
In that instant, everything falls back into place. The warmth, the familiarity, and the connection that never truly disappeared all return at once.
Natasha leans into you and deepens the kiss, pouring weeks of restraint, frustration, and unspoken emotion into it. Her grip tightens slightly, as though anchoring herself, as though afraid this moment might slip away again.
Your hold mirrors hers, firm and certain.
When she finally pulls back, both of you are breathing unevenly. She rests her forehead against yours, her thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks as she steadies herself in the moment.
“Don’t do anything reckless,” she murmurs.
The words are familiar, but their meaning has changed. This time, they carry everything she left unsaid before.
Your eyes open slowly as you study her face, and when your expression softens, Natasha knows that you understand.
This was not an accident or a lapse in judgment. It was a deliberate choice.
Before you can respond, FRIDAY’s voice cuts through the moment as she calls your name.
“Mr. Stark has requested that I inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will—”
“FRIDAY,” you interrupt calmly, “I got it.”
You do not look away from Natasha.
There is a brief pause.
“…Understood.”
Silence settles again, softer now.
Your hands remain at her waist, your fingers idly tugging at the edge of her top.
“So,” you say carefully, a hint of teasing in your voice, “are we establishing new boundaries?”
The question sounds light and joking, but Natasha knows what you’re really asking. You’re trying to understand what she is offering.
Natasha exhales sharply, her nose wrinkling slightly in slight irritation at the word.
“Yeah, new boundaries,” she mutters.
Your brow lifts slightly.
“And they are...?”
She rolls her eyes, though there is no real sharpness in the gesture. When she looks back at you, her expression is completely unguarded.
“Whatever lets me love you.”
The honesty is blunt and unfiltered in a way that’s entirely her.
For a moment, you simply stare at her in surprise. Then your smile spreads slowly, bright and certain. Your hands shift, slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt as your fingertips brush against her warm skin.
Natasha relaxes at the contact. Her eyes flutter closed, and a quiet sigh escapes her as relief washes over her.
The distance is gone.
Your arms wrap fully around her, pulling her into a tight embrace.
She melts into you instantly, burying her face against your shoulder as though it is the most natural place for her to be, as though she is finally allowed to rest there.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then, softly near your ear, Natasha speaks with quiet curiosity.
“That hug in the kitchen the other day…?”
You hum softly in response, waiting for her to finish.
“…Did it mean something?”
After a brief hesitation, you nod gently against her temple.
“Yeah,” you admit gently. “It did.”
Her arms tighten around you. And for a few seconds, the world narrows to just this moment, to the two of you standing in the quiet kitchen, holding onto something that never truly left.
“Forty-eight…forty-seven…forty-six…” FRIDAY'S voice counts softly in the background.
You groan quietly and pull back just enough to look at her, offering a reluctant, almost apologetic expression.
“This is not over,” you say with mock seriousness. You lean in and press a brief kiss to her lips before whispering, “I am going to tell you exactly how I feel when I get back.”
You begin to turn, but Natasha catches your arm and pulls you back against her. She arches a brow, a playful smirk forming on her lips.
“You honestly think I’m going to let you leave now?”
She leans closer to your face, close enough to steal your focus again.
Your grin returns instantly.
“Oh?”
Your arms slide around her waist once more, drawing her tightly against you.
“Are you planning to hold me here with you forever, Romanoff?”
Amusement flashes in her eyes.
“Maybe,” Natasha says, her smile widening. “Unless there is another boundary you would like to set.”
You rest your forehead gently against hers, a soft laugh escaping before you answer.
“No,” you murmur quietly. “That actually sounds perfect to me.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: hope you enjoy the fic and thank you for reading! (love/hate relationship with this one but I needed to get it out of the drafts so that I can stop editing it every time I see it 😅)
Summary: Part 2 of PR Nightmares
Being the PR manager for the Avengers means spinning disasters into headlines and keeping gods, soldiers, and billionaires on message. It would almost be manageable—if only a certain red-haired agent didn’t treat every press event like optional side quests, rumors like entertainment, and you like her favorite game.
Warnings: fluff
Words: 5914
Camera flashes cut through the night in relentless bursts as reporters press forward, each one trying to force their way to the front for a quote or even a glance.
You lift a hand toward security, signaling for them to hold the line and keep the crowd contained behind the velvet barrier before turning back to the two figures waiting behind the backdrop.
“Are you both ready for your first appearance as official Avengers?” you ask, keeping your tone steady despite the chaos only a few feet away.
“Um…kind of?” Peter fidgets with his collar, tugging at the tie in a clear attempt to loosen it.
You immediately swat his hand away and straighten it again before he can undo your work.
“Are you sure I can’t just wear the spider suit?”
You give him a firm look and shake your head without hesitation.
“No. Your identity has already been revealed to the entire world, which means your media training starts now,” you reply, leaving no room for argument.
With everything that followed the exposure of his identity and the retaliation that came with it, the situation needs to be redirected. The only effective way to counter the wave of negative press is to replace it with something positive, something controlled. Tonight’s event, the formal introduction of the newest Avengers, is meant to do exactly that.
You shift your attention to the second recruit, who will also undergo the same training, whether she likes it or not.
“And you, Kate? Still feeling nervous?” you ask.
She leans against the backdrop, bracing herself with one hand while the other fans at her face in quick, restless motions.
“What? No, I am fine. Totally fine. Completely calm. Is it warm out here?” she says in a rush, her eyes darting around.
Considering that it is the middle of winter in New York, her answer does nothing to reassure you. You exhale quietly and step closer, reaching up to smooth a stray strand of hair back into place in an attempt to ground her.
“Take a breath, Kate. You don’t even have to answer questions yet,” you tell her gently.
She nods, slower this time, following your lead as she inhales and exhales.
“Right. Okay,” she murmurs, straightening her posture before glancing around again. “Wait. Where is Yelena?”
You close your eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a steady breath as the beginnings of a headache settle in behind your temples. Of course, she is missing. The third new member seems to have adopted the same habit as her sister when it comes to avoiding events you explicitly told her to attend.
Unfortunately, your influence only goes so far. You have never had much success persuading Natasha to follow a plan exactly, and while she will occasionally compromise with you, Yelena has even less interest in doing so.
“She will be here later,” you say, even though you are not entirely convinced of that yourself. There is no time to dwell on it. You focus on what can still be controlled.
“Peter, you’re up first. Smile, wave, and keep moving. Do not stop for questions. Understood?”
“Got it,” he replies, giving a quick nod as he shakes out his hands and steps forward into the storm of cameras and voices.
You watch closely as he does exactly what you instructed, moving through the crowd without hesitation and making it inside the ballroom without incident.
“Alright, Kate. You’re next,” you say, giving her a reassuring pat.
She hesitates for only a moment before stepping out. There is a slight stumble at the start, but she recovers quickly and manages to make her way inside as well.
A quiet breath of relief escapes you. You have spent weeks preparing all three of them for this, and at least two seem willing to follow directions without complication.
The rising volume of the crowd signals the next arrival before you even turn to look. A sleek black car pulls up, and as the door opens, the original Avengers step out one by one, each of them dressed exactly as you arranged.
Tony. Check.
Steve. Check.
Bruce. Check.
Thor. Check.
Clint. Check.
Your attention sharpens as you wait for the final figure.
The car door closes.
No red hair. No Natasha.
Your phone is already in your hand before the realization fully settles, the call ringing as you peer through the tinted windows in a last attempt to convince yourself she is simply taking a moment before stepping out.
The line connects, and your assistant speaks immediately, her voice rushed with panic.
“I am so sorry! I tried to get her ready on time, but then she offered me a drink, and then we got distracted talking, and by the time I realized what time it was, the event had already started.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose as the headache fully settles in. This is not your assistant’s fault. You already guessed that before calling.
You know exactly who is responsible.
“Just…switch with me,” you say, your voice tight but controlled. “Stay here and keep an eye on the new members during the event. I will…” You let out a quiet sigh, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “I will handle Romanoff.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The elevator chimes softly as it reaches the common floor, the doors sliding open to reveal exactly what you expected. Natasha is sitting cross-legged on one of the sofas, completely at ease, her attention fixed on the movie playing across the small laptop balanced on her lap.
“Romanoff!” you call, exasperated.
She glances over her shoulder the moment she hears you, and her lips immediately curl into a knowing, infuriating smile.
“You made it just in time. Popcorn?” she asks casually, as though she is not currently skipping an event you explicitly told her to attend.
You exhale sharply and stride across the room until you are standing directly in front of her.
She does not move. If anything, her smile deepens as she lifts another piece of popcorn to her mouth, finger deliberately lingering on her bottom lip as her gaze drags slowly over you in open appraisal.
You press your teeth into the inside of your cheek, refusing to react to the warmth that threatens to rise under her attention. Instead, you reach forward, snap the laptop shut, and toss it onto the couch beside her.
“Get up,” you say.
One of her brows lifts slightly, amusement flickering in her expression, but you do not give her the opportunity to respond. You grab her hand and pull her to her feet yourself before guiding her firmly down the hall toward her room.
Once inside, you release her and move straight to the bed, grabbing the dress you had already laid out for her. You turn and press it into her hands.
“Change. Now,” you tell her.
Natasha glances from you to the dress and back again, a slow smirk forming as she considers your words.
“If that’s what you want,” she replies, and before you can prepare for it, she lifts her top over her head in one smooth, effortless motion.
You freeze for half a second at the sudden sight of her toned naked body, your eyes widening before you quickly turn your head away, heat rising to your face as you push the dress more firmly against her.
A quiet, amused laugh escapes her, and you shake your head, letting out a restrained breath.
“You are impossible,” you mutter.
Her laughter lingers as she disappears into the bathroom to finish changing, leaving you alone with your thoughts for the first time since arriving.
Your gaze drifts around the room, taking in the sparse details. There is very little here that marks the space as hers beyond a few carefully placed photographs. Most of them are what you expect, moments captured with the rest of the Avengers at events and gatherings, a few with her sister, each one offering a rare glimpse into a life she rarely shares.
Then one photo draws your attention and holds it.
It is the two of you, caught mid-moment on a dance floor from a previous event, her arms wrapped around you while you leaned into her.
The tension in your shoulders eases as the memory surfaces, vivid and warm, and a quiet breath leaves you before you can stop it.
Arms slide around you from behind without warning, pulling you back into that same familiar warmth.
“Have you decided to stay instead?” Natasha murmurs near your ear, her chin settling lightly against your shoulder.
You suppress the shiver that threatens to betray you, choosing instead to step out of her hold with a sigh and turn to face her with your hands planted firmly on your hips.
“Nice try,” you reply. “But you agreed to attend three more press events without causing problems.”
Natasha laughs softly, turning her back to you as she gathers her hair over one shoulder. She glances at you over the curve of her shoulder, the look in her eyes far too deliberately teasing.
“Help me with this?” she asks, gesturing slightly.
You hesitate, narrowing your eyes in suspicion. There is no way someone like her would need help with something so simple, and yet time is slipping away, and you both can’t be any later than you already are.
That is the only reason you step closer. At least, that is what you tell yourself.
Your hand settles lightly against her lower back as you reach for the zipper, drawing it up slowly.
The quiet stretches for a moment before her voice breaks it, softer now, almost thoughtful.
“I made that promise to you, not your assistant,” she mutters.
Your brows draw together as her words sink in, and realization follows almost immediately.
“Are you actually upset that I sent my assistant instead of coming myself?” you ask.
She doesn’t answer right away, but beneath your hand, you feel the subtle shift in her posture, the tension that gives her away even when her composure does not.
Natasha finally lets out a quiet breath, then shrugs as though it means nothing.
“No,” she replies lightly.
You step around her, folding your arms as you study her more closely.
“I’ve been busy managing Yelena and the others, which means you have not been the center of my attention for once. Is that what this is about?” you press, a hint of challenge slipping into your tone.
Her eyes flicker, and for a brief moment, you catch something unguarded before it disappears behind her usual composure.
“You think I’m jealous?” she asks, her voice carrying a quiet edge.
“I think you’re used to having my attention,” you counter, not backing down. “And I think you did not like losing it.”
Silence hangs between you for a heartbeat.
Then Natasha steps forward, closing the distance in a way that feels entirely intentional, her gaze steady on yours.
“Maybe I don’t,” she admits, her voice low enough that it almost brushes against you. “Does that mean I get to keep you here tonight instead?”
Your breath catches as you become acutely aware of how close she is, how easily she always manages to turn the situation back around on you.
Before you can respond, your phone vibrates sharply in your pocket, breaking the moment. You glance down at the alert, your expression shifting instantly as reality forces its way back in.
“We don’t have time for this,” you say, though your voice is not quite as steady as before. You straighten slightly, regaining control. You poke at her shoulder. “If you behave at the event, we can finish that movie later tonight.”
Natasha tilts her head, considering you, and then a slow smile returns. She catches your hand in hers before you can pull away.
“That sounds like a date,” she says.
Heat rises to your face immediately, and you look away, pulling your hand back to your side and clearing your throat as you try to recover.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” you reply quickly, far too quickly to be convincing.
Her soft laughter follows you as you reach for the door, already knowing you have not heard the end of that.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha glances toward you while keeping one hand steady on the wheel, guiding the car through the slow crawl of traffic on the way to the event. Her attention lingers for a moment as she watches you type rapidly on your phone, messages flying in and out as you coordinate updates and issue last-minute instructions.
Your brows are pinched in concentration as you read the words on your screen under your breath in a soft mumble.
A faint, teasing smile forms at the corner of her lips before she looks back at the road.
“You’re being cute again,” she says lightly.
Right on cue, you let out a long, exasperated sigh, dropping your hands into your lap before turning to face her.
“And whose fault is that?” you reply, your tone edged with disbelief. “Sometimes it feels like you deliberately put me in stressful situations just so you can see that ‘cute’ expression.”
Natasha lifts one hand slightly from the wheel in mock defense, gesturing toward the sea of cars surrounding you.
“We’re almost there. Besides, I don’t remember being responsible for New York traffic,” she answers, easing the car to another stop before glancing at you with a raised brow.
You shift in your seat so you are fully turned toward her.
“Your sister is why I am stressing right now,” you insist. “She is not responding to any of my calls or messages.”
Natasha hums thoughtfully, then reaches for her phone. She sends a quick message, and your phone chimes almost immediately with a reply. Yelena confirms that she will be at the event.
You look back at Natasha and find her watching you with a proud, self-satisfied smile.
You roll your eyes and tuck your phone away.
“If you are waiting for a thank you, you are not getting one. We’re still late,” you point out, settling back into your seat as you take advantage of the brief moment of quiet.
Her smile does not fade as she returns her focus to the road.
“Doesn’t have to be a ‘thank you.’ I’d even accept something as simple as holding my hand as thanks,” she says, her tone laced with amusement.
You give her a flat look when she glances at you again for your reaction, and a quiet laugh escapes her in response.
Despite the noise outside, horns blaring and voices carrying through the traffic, a calm settles inside the car. When the vehicle slows once more, Natasha relaxes slightly into her seat, one hand slipping from the wheel to rest against the center console.
Your gaze drifts to it, lingering longer as you weigh the sudden thought.
A soft sigh of resignation escapes you before you can stop it.
Natasha begins to turn toward you at the sound, but before she can ask you about it, your hand moves. Your fingers brush lightly against hers before you turn her hand over and lace your fingers together with hers.
She looks down at where your hands are joined, then lifts her gaze toward you.
You are not looking back at her. Instead, you lean your head against your other hand, staring out at the city lights beyond the window.
Something in her instantly softens at the sight. She gives your hand a gentle squeeze before chuckling softly in amusement.
A quiet huff leaves you at her action, but you do not pull away. Your fingers remain intertwined as the car finally begins moving forward again.
By the time you arrive at the venue, the crowd has thinned somewhat, though the flashes begin again the moment Natasha steps out from the driver’s side.
You remain seated, confident that she can make it inside without issue. Just as you reach for your phone to message your assistant, the door beside you opens.
You look up in surprise to find Natasha leaning against it, that same familiar smile on her lips as she offers her hand toward you.
You tilt your head, letting out a tired sigh.
“What are you doing, Romanoff? The entrance is in the other direction,” you point out.
Her smile sharpens with playful intent.
“I am escorting my plus one,” she replies with a casual shrug. “Personally, I think bringing a date might help with those rumors you keep worrying about.”
You shake your head, though you still take her hand as she helps you out of the car before closing the door behind you.
“That would not help at all. Everyone knows I handle public relations for the Avengers,” you remind her. “Why would I risk the scandal of being involved with one of my clients?”
Natasha places a hand against her chest in exaggerated offense.
“I’m only a client?” she asks.
You cross your arms and give her a flat look.
“Are you finished?” you ask dryly.
She drops the act, though the teasing glint remains in her eyes.
“You’re not even slightly intrigued?” she presses, leaning closer and lowering her voice. “A secret romance at work. Blending business with something far more interesting.”
You place a hand against her shoulder and guide her back into a proper stance before adjusting the strap of her dress.
Her expression softens as she watches you, something quieter settling behind her gaze as you focus on fixing the small details.
You tuck a loose strand of hair gently behind her ear, your hand lingering for a moment before shifting to lift her chin so that her eyes meet yours.
“That sounds like more trouble than it is worth,” you say, keeping your voice steady.
“You would be worth it.”
There is no teasing in her tone when she answers, and there is no hesitation either.
The familiar flutter rises in your chest again, unwelcome and impossible to ignore, the same reaction she always manages to draw out of you, no matter how hard you try to suppress it. You press your lips together to keep your expression controlled, unwilling to let her see the effect she has, but your eyes still remain locked on hers.
For a brief moment, everything else fades into the background, leaving only the quiet weight of her words and the unwavering sincerity in her gaze.
“Agent Romanoff! Over here, please!”
The calls from the reporters cut through the moment, pulling you both back.
Natasha’s expression shifts easily, her usual smile returning as she tilts her head toward the entrance.
“Back to work then?” she asks.
Taking a deep breath to regain your composure, you drop your hand and follow her toward the waiting reporters.
“Agent Romanoff,” one of them begins. “You didn’t arrive with the rest of the Avengers, but now you’re here, and not alone either. Should we assume this is a dramatic reveal of a possible new relationship?”
You narrow your eyes at Natasha, silently warning her to respond appropriately, but she remains completely unfazed by the look you give her.
“Not exactly,” she answers smoothly, then glances at you with a small, knowing smile. “She’s smart enough not to take that kind of chance on me, especially given the reputation you all give me in the news.”
That draws a few chuckles, and the atmosphere instantly eases. It’s not surprising, but it still amazes you every time she shifts people’s attitudes in a single interaction.
Natasha then nudges your shoulder lightly.
“She is only beside me now to make sure everything goes smoothly for her favorite client.”
You roll your eyes and press subtly at Natasha’s lower back, steering her toward the entrance before the situation can spiral into any dangerous topics.
A soft laugh escapes her as she allows herself to be guided.
“So there is no secret relationship?” the reporter calls quickly after you, still hoping to gather some headline or article.
Natasha waves dismissively over her shoulder.
“There is nothing going on between us.”
“Really?”
The new voice cuts through the noise, and you turn to see Yelena standing nearby, her expression bored but her curiosity unmistakable.
She looks between you and Natasha.
“Then why did I see her leaving your room in the middle of the night?” she asks plainly.
The effect is immediate. Nearby reporters latch onto the statement, voices rising as cameras flash and questions begin flying from every direction.
You close your eyes briefly and press your fingers to your temple as the headache from earlier returns in full force.
Natasha lets out a quiet laugh before leaning in close, her voice brushing against your ear as more cameras capture the moment.
“If it’s any consolation, you look absolutely adorable right now,” she murmurs.
You press your lips together, refusing to react outwardly despite the warmth creeping up your neck. Grabbing both sisters by their arms, you begin guiding them firmly toward the entrance.
“No more questions. We are going inside. Now,” you say, your tone leaving no room for argument.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
You lean back against the podium in the briefing room, crossing your arms as your gaze moves across the people gathered in front of you.
Yelena sits slouched in her chair with her chin resting in her palm, letting out a quiet yawn as she stares at the screen with clear disinterest. Beside her, Kate is far more attentive, carefully arranging her notepad and pen on the table as if she intends to take this seriously.
Your attention then shifts to the third person seated directly in front of you.
“What exactly are you doing here, Romanoff?” you ask.
Natasha rests her folded arms on the table and leans slightly closer, offering a casual shrug.
“I never had the chance to go through this media training with you,” she replies.
You meet her answer with an unimpressed look.
“That’s because you never showed up when I first started here,” you remind her.
Her lips form a small pout before easing into something softer.
“And that happens to be one of my many regrets,” she says, tilting her head as her usual charming smile returns. “So I was thinking I could maybe learn a few things this time. If you’re willing to let me stay?”
You study her carefully, as though you might be able to uncover the real reason she would willingly spend her afternoon sitting through a public relations lecture, but her smile only grows as she holds your gaze without flinching.
A quiet sigh escapes you as you turn your head slightly to the side, already giving in.
“Do whatever you want,” you mutter.
The door suddenly swings open before you can dwell on it further, and Peter rushes in, slightly out of breath.
“Sorry, I made it,” he says quickly.
You gesture toward the empty seat beside Kate without a word, then turn back toward the screen. With a press of the remote, the opening slide appears, displaying a list of common questions they are likely to face.
“Whether you like it or not, being public figures means you will eventually be questioned,” you begin. “By officials, by interviewers, and by civilians. You need to know how to respond properly so we avoid situations like this.”
You switch to the next slide, and the screen fills with headlines from various media outlets, each one paired with photos of you and Natasha taken over the years, all speculating on the same rapidly spreading story.
“Black Widow’s New Partner in Shocking Reveal”
“Avengers’ Top Spy Reportedly Off the Market”
“From Business to Pleasure? Rumors Swirl Around Natasha Romanoff”
Natasha lets out a thoughtful hum as she studies the screen, then raises her hand slightly as if she were in an actual classroom.
“Do you think I could get copies of those pictures afterward?” she asks, her tone far too casual.
You send her a brief, warning look, choosing not to acknowledge the question as you continue.
“This is what happens when people are given just enough information to start filling in the gaps themselves,” you explain.
You shift your gaze toward Yelena, fixing her with a pointed look. She responds with a nonchalant thumbs up, entirely unbothered.
“You need to be mindful of both what you say and how you say it. People will take any opportunity to make assumptions or twist your words out of context,” you explain.
Kate raises her hand almost immediately.
“Do you mean like when Yelena told everyone that you left Natasha’s room in the middle of the night, so now people think you two slept together?” she asks, her curiosity entirely genuine.
Heat rises quickly to your face.
“That is not what happened! We were preparing for the government hearing and lost track of time,” you clarify.
Natasha lets out a quiet, amused sound as she props her head against her hand.
“Preparing?” she repeats, her voice threaded with mischief. “Is that what we are calling everything that happened that night?”
You shoot her a sharp look and bring your hands down firmly against the table in front of her.
“That is exactly what we are calling it, because that is all it was,” you state with emphasis.
Her smirk only deepens, and she answers your glare with a teasing wink.
You release a controlled breath through your nose and shake your head slightly as you try to regain control of the room. You should’ve known better. Natasha will always manage to find a way to throw you off balance.
Turning back to the others, you gesture toward her.
“This is a perfect example of how easily misinformation spreads when statements are unclear and leave room for interpretation,” you continue.
Peter raises his hand with another question, and you nod for him to continue. As he launches into a detailed scenario that sounds far too specific to be entirely hypothetical, your focus remains on him until a subtle weight settles over your hand.
Your attention dips briefly.
Natasha has shifted closer, her hand now resting over yours, where it leans on the table.
When you glance at her, she lifts an eyebrow in silent question, as though asking whether she is allowed to continue.
You roll your eyes before turning back to Peter, answering his question while keeping your tone steady. You resume the presentation without acknowledging the contact, though you make no effort to pull your hand away.
For the remainder of the session, you try to ignore the warmth of her touch, as well as the slow, absent circles her thumb traces against your skin, while you begin wrapping up the lesson.
A call from Steve cuts through the room, signaling the start of their training session, and the others quickly gather their things.
“Next time, we will move on to practice scenarios,” you say to them, then shift your attention to Natasha. “Don’t leave yet, Romanoff. I need you for something.”
Her expression shifts, a playful glint appearing in her eyes as she leans forward, her fingers threading more deliberately through yours.
“Oh?” she murmurs, a slow, teasing smile forming as her gaze lingers on you. “And how exactly would you like me?”
Kate lets out a startled sound, while Peter nearly trips over his own feet in his rush to leave the room. Yelena laughs as she nudges the stunned Kate toward the door, clearly entertained by the whole situation.
“I meant for a public relations matter!” you say quickly, raising your voice slightly in the hope that they heard you before fixing Natasha with a pointed look.
She shrugs with exaggerated innocence.
“I never received proper media training, remember?” she replies. “How am I supposed to know whether I said something that can be misunderstood for something else?”
Considering she’s a legendary spy, you do not believe a single word of that, and she knows it. Letting out a slow breath, you pull your hand free from hers and reach for your phone.
“I need you to make another statement,” you tell her. “You’re going to deny the rumors about us publicly.”
The playful edge fades from her expression, her lips pressing together in visible reluctance at the idea.
“Is that really necessary? I don’t particularly care what people say about me,” Natasha replies.
You place your hands on your hips.
“Well, I do. Not all of those headlines are harmless or congratulatory, Natasha,” you explain. “I’m not going to sit back and let people suggest that you are using your position to pressure someone who works under you into a relationship.”
Her expression softens as she looks at you, something quieter settling in her gaze. Under that attention, you feel a flicker of sudden embarrassment and look away, turning instead to shut down the presentation on the screen.
“And it’s also part of my job,” you add more quietly as an afterthought.
A brief silence settles over the room, and you keep your focus on the computer in front of you rather than meeting her eyes.
“Alright,” Natasha says at last.
You glance up to find her resting her chin in her hand, watching you with quiet intent.
“I’ll do it,” she continues, a small smile returning. “After all, I still owe you two more press events without any issues.”
You give her a flat look.
“There was an issue at the last event,” you point out, gesturing toward her with the flash drive from the presentation.
Natasha makes a soft sound of protest and shakes her head.
“That was not my fault,” she counters, her smirk returning.
You let out a quiet sigh, something close to fond exasperation slipping through as you cross your arms.
“Just make sure you clarify what I was doing in your room that night,” you say.
A teasing smile curves her lips as she lifts an eyebrow.
“Of course,” she replies, her voice smooth as she lets the pause linger just long enough to make your stomach tighten. “We were just…” She tilts her head slightly, her gaze fixed on you as her tone drops with deliberate suggestion. “…preparing.”
You throw the flash drive at her with an embarrassed huff, and she laughs as she easily dodges it.
She truly is impossible.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
With Natasha’s official statement reinforcing that her relationship with you is strictly professional, along with a few carefully placed warnings to your contacts across several media outlets, the rumors begin to lose momentum. Speculation fades, and the narrative slowly corrects itself as the misunderstanding is cleared piece by piece.
Standing in the elevator, you continue watching the recorded press conference on your phone. Natasha sits across from an interviewer you specifically chose for their reliability, someone you trust not to twist her words into something damaging.
“So, just to clarify for our viewers,” the interviewer says, “nothing is happening between the two of you?”
“No,” Natasha replies with a soft chuckle. “I am fairly certain she would agree that I’m more trouble than I am worth.”
Your brows draw together at her response, and your hands lower slowly to your sides as the rest of the conversation fades into the background. The words echo something familiar, something you had said to her not long ago.
Before you can linger on the thought, the elevator chimes and the doors slide open.
You step out and are immediately met with a familiar sight.
Natasha sits on the couch, cross-legged and completely at ease, a bowl of popcorn resting beside her while a laptop sits open on her lap with a movie playing. She turns her head at the sound of your approach and lifts the bowl slightly.
“Popcorn?” she offers.
You pause, taking in the scene, and after a brief moment of consideration, you power off your phone and tuck it away. The discussion about the next press event can wait.
Natasha’s brow lifts in quiet surprise as you walk around the couch and take a seat beside her, reaching over to take the bowl from her hands.
“What are you watching?” you ask.
A small smile forms on her lips as she settles back, shifting a little closer so you can see the screen more clearly.
“It’s Moonraker,” she answers, pressing play as the movie resumes.
You watch as James Bond leaps from a plane without a parachute, and you glance sideways at Natasha.
“Watching a famous spy while being one yourself feels a little cliché, don’t you think?” you remark.
She lets out a quiet laugh, turning toward you with a familiar smirk.
“That may be true,” she says, leaning slightly closer. “But do you know the difference?”
“What difference?” you ask, your voice quieter as you hold her gaze.
Natasha studies you for a moment before reaching into the bowl in your lap and taking a piece of popcorn.
“I look better doing it,” she replies, punctuating the statement with a teasing wink before leaning back and tossing the popcorn into her mouth, her attention returning to the screen.
You let out a soft breath of disbelief as you watch her, your gaze drifting briefly to her hand resting against the couch. The memory of the interview lingers in the back of your mind.
Before you can second-guess yourself, you shift slightly and rest your head gently against hers.
Natasha immediately turns toward you, but you keep your eyes fixed on the screen, avoiding her questioning look.
“I didn’t mean you when I said it,” you murmur.
She says nothing, patiently waiting for you to explain.
“I meant everything else that comes with this job,” you continue, quieter now. “That’s what is troublesome. Not you.”
After a moment, you turn your head and offer her a small, sincere smile.
“You would be worth it too, Natasha,” you add softly.
Her eyes widen slightly at your words.
The reaction makes warmth rise to your face almost immediately, a flicker of embarrassment settling in your chest. You quickly clear your throat as you turn your attention back to the screen, putting distance between yourself and the weight of what you just said.
“Start the movie from the beginning, Romanoff,” you say, aiming for a casual tone that does not quite hold.
She does not respond right away. You can feel her gaze lingering on you, steady and searching, but you keep your focus fixed on the screen, unwilling to turn and discover whether her expression holds surprise, amusement, or that soft look that always manages to unsettle your heart in ways you would rather not examine too closely.
A quiet, warm laugh eventually slips from her, and she reaches forward to restart the film. As the opening scene begins again, her hand shifts beneath yours, her fingers threading through yours with an ease that feels entirely natural.
You don’t pull away. Instead, you allow your hand to remain where it is, resting comfortably in hers.
After a moment, she gives your hand a gentle squeeze before lifting it to her lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles, then lowering it once more to rest between you.
“This feels like a very nice date,” she says casually.
“This is not a date,” you reply with a quiet sigh, sending her a brief sideways glare.
Natasha only smiles, that same knowing expression settling back into place.
“Whatever you say.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: finally finished something from my list of WIPs 😭 thank you for reading!
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
blakekathryn
romaincrisis
prguitarman
areudirty
titsay
kianamaiart
