@redheadarcher ASKED FOR A STARTER
No matter how common injuries were, how many times Scarlett turned up with a busted lip or even a broken limb, all Natasha felt each and every time was despair and white-hot rage. All she wanted to do was to tear the world to pieces and murder whoever had touched her little girl.
(She’d done it too, once. She’d taken a hammer to a cabinet Scarlett kept banging her head on during her growth spurt. Clint had opened his mouth, seen the fury in Natasha’s eyes, then closed his mouth back up.)
It had been easier, when Scarlett was younger. A band-aid and a kiss, then encouragement for her to get back up. Back when Scarlett was Black Hawk, she’d still been young enough that Natasha could get away with some smothering, interrogations and training. More often than not, she’d steer away from mother and into agent, and hadn’t that been so very fun to figure out?
Now, she knew better. She hated it, but she knew better. Knew she had to keep herself from interrogating her daughter and taking matters into her own hands, knew not to come at her too intensely and trying to fix everything. Ironically, in those moments, she should return to old habits: band-aids, a kiss, encouragement.
It didn’t mean she couldn’t pry a little, though, especially when Scarlett’s usual verbosity was nowhere to be seen.
“So…” The needle bit through the skin on one side of the cut, then the other. The thread slid through, only for the needle to come into play again. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”