#romanoff

[isthatdirtyenoughforyou]

In celebration of father’s day, let’s appreciate the one who fixed all our daddy issues. Everyone, repeat after me. Happy Father’s Day, Dadd—

[justs4ygoodnitengo]

ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴅᴏᴡ ᴅᴏᴇs ɴᴏᴛ ᴄʀʏ.

sʏᴘɴᴏsɪs: ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴅᴏᴡ ᴅᴏᴇs ɴᴏᴛ ᴄʀʏ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, sᴇᴇɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴀʙsᴏʟᴜᴛᴇ ᴘᴀɪɴ, sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴsɪᴅᴇ ʜᴇʀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋs. sʜᴇ ɪs ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʟᴇss, ᴜɴsʜᴀᴋᴀʙʟᴇ ᴀssᴀssɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴡs — sʜᴇ’s sɪᴍᴘʟʏ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ. ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴀᴛᴀʟɪᴀ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ᴡʜᴏ ғᴇᴀʀᴇᴅ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ғᴇᴀʀ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴏғғ x ᴀɢᴇɴᴛ!ʏ/ɴ (ғᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

ғɪᴄ ᴛʏᴘᴇ: ᴡʟᴡ, ᴀɴɢsᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛ, sᴘʀɪɴᴋʟᴇ ᴏғ ғʟᴜғғ ☆

ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs: sᴇʟғ ʙʟᴀᴍᴇ, sɪx-sᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀᴄᴄᴜʀᴀᴄʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀʀᴠᴇʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍɪᴄ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ, ᴅᴇsᴘᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ, ʏᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ, ᴍᴏʀᴇ..

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“ʏ/ɴ, ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ!” ʀᴏɢᴇʀ sʜᴏᴜᴛᴇᴅ ᴀs ʜᴇ ᴛʜʀᴇᴡ ʜɪᴍsᴇʟғ ɪɴ ғʀᴏɴᴛ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ sʜɪᴇʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀsᴛ — ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀsɴ’ᴛ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ. ᴏɴᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ, ᴏɴᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴀɴɢʟᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏsᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪғᴇ. sᴛᴇᴠᴇ’s sʜɪᴇʟᴅ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ғᴜʟʟʏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ sᴄᴏʀᴄʜɪɴɢ ʟᴀsᴇʀ ʙᴇᴀᴍ ғɪʀᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴀɴ ᴜɴᴋɴᴏᴡɴ sᴘᴇᴄɪᴇs. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴀɪᴍɪɴɢ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ — ғᴏʀ ɢᴏᴅ’s sᴀᴋᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ sᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ɢɪʀʟ's ʟɪғᴇ.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxᴘʟᴏsɪᴏɴ ʀᴏᴀʀᴇᴅ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪᴄᴋ ғᴏɢ ᴄʟᴏᴜᴅᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴇɴsᴇs. ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ғᴏᴄᴜs ᴏɴ ᴡᴀs ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ sᴀғᴇᴛʏ — ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢ. ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴍᴘᴀᴄᴛ ʜɪᴛ ʏᴏᴜ.

ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡᴇɴᴛ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ.

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“ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ — ᴡʜʏ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʙʟᴀᴍɪɴɢ ᴜs?” ᴛᴏɴʏ sɴᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ, ʜᴀɴᴅs ʀᴀɪsᴇᴅ ɪɴ ғʀᴜsᴛʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀs ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ sᴛᴏʀᴍᴇᴅ ᴀᴄʀᴏss ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴡɪʀᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴛᴏ ᴇxᴘʟᴏᴅᴇ. ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ sʟᴀᴍᴍᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ғɪsᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀʙʟᴇ, ʜᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇs ʙᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ᴀs sʜᴇ ɢʟᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. “ᴡʜʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʙʀɪɴɢ ʏ/ɴ ᴏɴ ᴀ ᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴇ?” ʜᴇʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ғᴜʀʏ.

“sʜᴇ’s ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ. sʜᴇ’s ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʀᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ғᴏʀ ғɪᴇʟᴅ ᴡᴏʀᴋ!”

“sʜᴇ ɪɴsɪsᴛᴇᴅ, ɴᴀᴛ,” ᴄʟɪɴᴛ sᴀɪᴅ ᴄᴀʀᴇғᴜʟʟʏ, ᴀs ɪғ ᴀɴʏ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ sᴘᴀʀᴋ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴇxᴘʟᴏsɪᴏɴ. “ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴏᴡ sʜᴇ ɪs. sʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ sɪᴛ ᴛʜɪs ᴏɴᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ.”

“ᴡᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ,” sᴛᴇᴠᴇ ᴀᴅᴅᴇᴅ, ᴄᴀʟᴍ ʙᴜᴛ ᴜɴʏɪᴇʟᴅɪɴɢ. “sʜᴇ’s ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴀᴘᴀʙʟᴇ ᴏғ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ. ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ғᴀɪʟᴇᴅ ᴇᴀʀʟʏ.” ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ’s ᴊᴀᴡ ᴄʟᴇɴᴄʜᴇᴅ, ʜᴇʀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ sʜᴀʀᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀᴜᴛ ᴀs sʜᴇ ғᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴏʟᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴇʀ. “ɪ sᴡᴇᴀʀ,” sʜᴇ sᴀɪᴅ, ʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴅʟʏ,

“ɪғ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴs ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ… ᴀʟʟ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ.” sʜᴇ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴇᴇʟ, ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇxɪᴛ.

“ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ — sʜᴇ’ʟʟ ʙᴇ ғɪɴᴇ,” ᴛᴏɴʏ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ, ᴘᴏᴜʀɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍsᴇʟғ ᴀ ᴡʜɪsᴋᴇʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ᴛᴇɴsɪᴏɴ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ʜɪᴅᴇ. “sʜᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ʙᴇ.” ʜᴇʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴅʀᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ, ᴄᴏʟᴅ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴜᴛ sᴛᴇᴇʟ. ᴛʜᴇ ɢʟᴀss ᴅᴏᴏʀ sʟᴀᴍᴍᴇᴅ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ — ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛᴏɴʏ ғʟɪɴᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ғᴏʀ ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋs.

ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ʟᴇғᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴏᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴɪɴɢ ᴀᴠᴇɴɢᴇʀs ғɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴇxʜᴀʟᴇᴅ, ᴀs ɪғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʟʟs ᴛʜᴇʏ’ᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʟᴇᴀɴɪɴɢ ᴏɴ sᴜᴅᴅᴇɴʟʏ ʟɪғᴛᴇᴅ. ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ᴡᴀs ʀɪɢʜᴛ—ᴀʟʟ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ɪᴛ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ᴛʀᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ғᴏʀ ᴀ ʜɪɢʜ-ʀɪsᴋ ᴍɪssɪᴏɴ, ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴜɪʟᴛ ғᴏʀ ᴄᴏᴍʙᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ. ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴡᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ—ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴜsᴇᴅ ɪᴛ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ ɪᴛ. ᴅᴇsᴘᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴄᴋʟᴇss.

ᴛʜᴇʏ ʀɪsᴋᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪғᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ sᴏʟᴠᴇ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ʟɪɴᴇs ᴏғ ᴄᴏᴅᴇ—ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ sᴏ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ʀɪsᴋᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀs, ᴛᴏᴏ. ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ᴡᴀs ᴀ ʀᴇᴅ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ sʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴀɴ ᴀᴠᴇɴɢᴇʀ—ɪғ sʜᴇ sᴀɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ’ᴅ ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ, sʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ɪᴛ.

“ɪ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ғᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ɴᴀᴛ,” ᴄʟɪɴᴛ ᴍᴜᴛᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ, sʟɪɴɢɪɴɢ ʜɪs ɢᴇᴀʀ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪs sʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ. ʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ᴀ sʜᴏᴛ ᴏғ ᴡʜɪsᴋᴇʏ, ɢʀɪᴍᴀᴄɪɴɢ. “sʜᴇ's ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴇʀsᴇʟғ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ɴᴏᴡ.”

“ɢɪᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴄʟɪɴᴛ,” ᴛᴏɴʏ ʀᴇᴘʟɪᴇᴅ, ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴘᴏᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʙᴏᴛᴛʟᴇ. ʜɪs ᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀs ʟɪɢʜᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜɪs ᴋɴᴜᴄᴋʟᴇs ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ.

“ᴡᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ. ɴᴏ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴅᴇɴʏɪɴɢ ɪᴛ.” ᴄʟɪɴᴛ sᴀɪᴅ, “ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇsᴛ ᴡᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴏ ɪs ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ғᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ,” sᴛᴇᴠᴇ ᴀᴅᴅᴇᴅ, ᴄʀᴏssɪɴɢ ʜɪs ᴀʀᴍs. ʜɪs ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴄᴀʟᴍ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇɴsɪᴏɴ ɪɴ ʜɪs ᴊᴀᴡ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴀᴡᴀʏ.

ᴛᴏɴʏ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟᴀᴜɢʜ ɪᴛ ᴏғғ, ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ɪᴛ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ. “sʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇ ʜᴇʀsᴇʟғ. ʜᴇʟʟ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ɪs ᴀ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ.”

sᴛᴇᴠᴇ sɴᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴏ̨ᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ. “ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴀ ᴍᴀᴄʜɪɴᴇ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ?”

“ʏᴇᴀʜ, ᴛʜᴀɴᴋs,” ᴛᴏɴʏ ᴍᴜᴍʙʟᴇᴅ, ᴅᴏᴡɴɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ sʜᴏᴛ. ɪᴛ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ʙᴜʀɴ ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ—ᴀ ʙᴀᴅ sɪɢɴ. ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ꜰᴇʟʟ, ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ, ᴛʜɪᴄᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴜɪʟᴛʏ.

ᴛᴏɴʏ ᴅᴏᴇsɴ’ᴛ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏᴡ ɪᴍᴘᴏʀᴛᴀɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ—ɴᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴅᴏ. ᴛʜᴇʏ’ᴠᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ sᴇᴇɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴜᴛsɪᴅᴇ ᴏғ ʜᴇʀ ᴄᴀʟᴄᴜʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ sᴍɪʀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴇɴᴅʟᴇss sᴀʀᴄᴀsᴍ. ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, sʜᴇ’s ᴘᴇʀᴍᴀɴᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴏsᴇᴅ—ᴀ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ, ᴀ ᴛᴏᴏʟ, ᴀ ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ ɢᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ʜᴀs ᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴇʏ ᴛᴏ.

ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴀʏ… ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ ᴄʟɪɴɢs ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴡʜɪsᴘᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴅᴀʀᴇ ᴀᴄᴋɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ. ᴛᴏɴʏ, sᴛᴇᴠᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟɪɴᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ’ᴠᴇ sᴡᴏʀɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ sʜᴇ sᴀᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ʙᴇᴅ—ᴄᴜᴛ ᴏᴘᴇɴ, ʙʀᴜɪsᴇᴅ, ᴜɴᴄᴏɴsᴄɪᴏᴜs—ʜᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇs ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴘʀᴇssᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ɢʟᴀss sʜɪɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴅᴀᴍɴ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴇᴀʀs.

ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀsᴇ, ɴᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴅᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴀʏ ɪᴛ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄʜᴀʟᴋᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏ ʙʟᴜʀʀᴇᴅ ᴠɪsɪᴏɴ, ᴘᴏᴏʀ ʟɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ, ᴛʜᴇ sᴛʀᴇss ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ—ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ʀᴇᴀʟ. ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴅᴏᴡ ᴅᴏᴇs ɴᴏᴛ ᴄʀʏ.

ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ.

sʜᴇ’s ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴅᴏᴡ—ʜᴀʀᴅᴇɴᴇᴅ, ᴄᴜʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴘᴇʀғᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇɴɢɪɴᴇᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ’s ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇʏ sᴀᴡ ʜᴇʀ. ᴀ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ. ᴀɴ ᴀssᴇᴛ. ᴀ sʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ ᴏᴡɴᴇᴅ ʙʏ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴀ ꜰʟɪᴄᴋᴇʀ—ᴀ ᴄᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋ—ᴡʜᴇɴ sʜᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ sᴀɪᴅ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀᴅ, ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ:

ɪꜰ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴊᴜsᴛ ʟᴏsᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀʟʟʏ—

ᴛʜᴇʏ’ᴅ ʙᴇ ꜰᴀᴄɪɴɢ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ’s ᴡʀᴀᴛʜ.

ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴀ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴠᴇɴɢᴇʀs ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ sᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇ.

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ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʟʟᴡᴀʏ ʟɪᴋᴇ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴀʀʀʏɪɴɢ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀs. ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ sᴛᴇᴘ ғᴇʟᴛ ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ, ᴘᴜʟʟɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ғᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ʙʏ ғᴏʀᴄᴇ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴡɪʟʟ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ᴡɪɴɢ ʟɪᴛ ᴜᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄʟɪɴɪᴄᴀʟ ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛs ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ғᴇʟᴛ sᴀғᴇ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴀʏ sᴛɪʟʟ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀʙʟᴇ.

ʙᴀɴɴᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴡʜɪsᴘᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴛᴇʀᴍs ᴀɴᴅ sᴄᴀɴ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ’s sᴛᴏᴍᴀᴄʜ ᴛᴜʀɴ. sʜᴇ sᴛᴏᴏᴅ ᴏᴜᴛsɪᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴅᴏᴡ, ᴀʀᴍs ᴄʀᴏssᴇᴅ ᴛɪɢʜᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴsᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴇsᴛ, ᴇʏᴇs ʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴜɴᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ғᴏʀᴍ. ʏᴏᴜʀ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ғᴇʟᴛ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ—ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛ.

ᴀғᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ʟᴏɴɢ sᴛʀᴇᴛᴄʜ ᴏꜰ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴏᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ. ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ sᴛᴇᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ, ᴘᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ʜɪs ɢʟᴏᴠᴇs ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ᴛɪʀᴇᴅ ʜᴇᴀᴠɪɴᴇss. ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʟɪꜰᴛ ʜɪs ʜᴇᴀᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ᴡᴀs ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ɪɴ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜɪᴍ—sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴡᴀɪᴛ, sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ʜᴇsɪᴛᴀᴛᴇ, sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʙʟɪɴᴋ.

“ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ? ɪs sʜᴇ ᴏᴋᴀʏ?” sʜᴇ ᴀsᴋᴇᴅ, ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ʟᴏᴡ, sᴛᴇᴀᴅʏ—ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴏɴʟʏ ʜᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇᴛʀᴀʏᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴏʀᴍ ᴄᴜʀʟɪɴɢ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀɴᴇᴀᴛʜ. ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ʜᴇsɪᴛᴀᴛᴇᴅ, sʜɪғᴛɪɴɢ ʜɪs ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ. “ᴡᴇ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʏᴇᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴇʀɢʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜɪᴛ ʜᴇʀ… ɪᴛ ᴡᴀsɴ’ᴛ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀ ʟᴀsᴇʀ. ɪᴛ ʟᴇғᴛ ᴛʀᴀᴄᴇs ᴏғ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟsᴇ. sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏxɪᴄ.”

ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ’s ʜᴇᴀᴅ sɴᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ, ᴇʏᴇs sʜᴀʀᴘ ᴀs ᴀ ᴋɴɪғᴇ. “ᴛᴏxɪᴄ?” sʜᴇ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇᴅ, ʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜs. “ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴇᴀɴ?”

“ᴡᴇ’ʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴛᴇᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴏᴜɴᴅs ᴡᴇ’ᴠᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ sᴇᴇɴ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴʏ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ. ɪᴛ’s… ᴘᴏɪsᴏɴᴏᴜs. ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛ.” ʜɪs ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴅʀᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ, ᴀs ɪғ ᴀғʀᴀɪᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏᴏ ʀᴇᴀʟ. ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ’s ғᴀᴄᴇ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ—sʟᴏᴡʟʏ, ᴅᴇʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇʟʏ—ᴀ ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋ sᴘʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʜᴇʀ ᴜsᴜᴀʟʟʏ ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴍᴀsᴋ. sʜᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ᴀs ɪғ ғᴏʀ ᴀ sᴘʟɪᴛ sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ sʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ sᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʀᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏɴɪᴛᴏʀs. “sʜᴇ’ʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴏᴋᴀʏ, ɴᴀᴛ,” ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ᴏғғᴇʀᴇᴅ, ᴀ sᴏғᴛ ʀᴇᴀssᴜʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ᴍᴀɴ ᴡʜᴏ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀs. “ᴡᴇ’ʟʟ ᴅᴏ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡᴇ ᴄᴀɴ.”

ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ’s ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ʙʟɪɴᴋ. sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ sᴏғᴛᴇɴ. “ᴀs ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ.”

“ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ɢᴏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ.” ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀᴇᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜰʟɪɴᴄʜ. ʜᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇs ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ʏᴏᴜ, sᴛᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʟᴀss ᴡɪɴᴅᴏᴡ ᴀs ɪꜰ sʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴsᴄɪᴏᴜsɴᴇss ʙʏ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ.

“ɴᴏ, ɪᴛ’s ᴏᴋ… ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴɪsʜ.” ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ʀᴇᴘʟɪᴇᴅ, ʜᴇʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ sᴛᴇᴀᴅʏ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ—ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ᴀs ɪꜰ sʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴄʜᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅs. ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇᴅ ɪᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴘᴜsʜ. ʜᴇ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇᴅ ᴀ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ—ᴀ sᴍᴀʟʟ, sᴘʀᴇᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ—ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴀᴡᴀʏ.

ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ғʀᴏᴢᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ sᴘᴏᴛ, sᴛᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʟᴀss, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇs sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sʜɪɴᴇ—ᴘᴀɪɴ ғɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ꜰᴏᴏᴅɪɴɢ ᴅᴀᴍ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴀʀs sʜᴇ’s ʙᴇᴇɴ ʜᴏʟᴅɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ sʟɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋ. sʜᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇᴅ sᴏʙ, ɪᴍᴍᴇᴅɪᴀᴛᴇʟʏ sᴡɪᴘɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴀɴᴅ, ʙɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴsɪᴅᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴇᴇᴋ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ sʜᴇ ᴛᴀsᴛᴇᴅ ᴄᴏᴘᴘᴇʀ.

sʜᴇ ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴀᴅᴍɪᴛ ɪᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴ sʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴍᴇs ɪs ʜᴇʀsᴇʟꜰ. sʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ’ᴠᴇ sᴛᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ. sʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ’ᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ. sʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ’ᴠᴇ ꜰᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ, ꜰᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ꜰᴜʀʏ, ꜰᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ɪꜰ sʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ.

ʙᴜᴛ sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ—sʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ. sʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴘᴜʟʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍɪssɪᴏɴ, ᴀɢᴀɪɴsᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴡɪʟʟ, ᴀɴᴅ sʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ɴᴏ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ɪᴛ. ᴀɴᴅ sʜᴇ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ʏᴏᴜ.

sʜᴇ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ sʜᴇ ʙᴇɢɢᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴀʏ, ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ sʜᴇ ꜰᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʏᴏᴜ ʙʏ ʜᴇʀ sɪᴅᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄɪsɪᴏɴ ᴡᴀs sᴛɪʟʟ ʏᴏᴜʀs. ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ—ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʜᴏsᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪssɪᴏɴ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʜᴏsᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ.

ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʜᴏsᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ɪᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ʜᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ.

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ᴀғᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴ ᴇᴛᴇʀɴɪᴛʏ ᴏꜰ sᴜꜰꜰᴏᴄᴀᴛɪɴɢ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴋᴇᴅ ᴏᴘᴇɴ. ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ᴇᴍᴇʀɢᴇᴅ, ɢʟᴏᴠᴇs ᴅᴀɴɢʟɪɴɢ ғʀᴏᴍ ʜɪs ғɪɴɢᴇʀs—ɢʟᴏᴠᴇs ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴀʙʟᴇ ᴄʀɪᴍꜱᴏɴ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ɪɴsᴛᴀɴᴛʟʏ ʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪᴢᴇᴅ.

ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ɪɴ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜɪᴍ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʟɪꜰᴛ ʜɪs ɢᴀᴢᴇ, ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ sᴀᴍᴇ ᴛᴇʀʀɪꜰʏɪɴɢ sᴛɪʟʟɴᴇss sʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴀ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴs. ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ sᴛᴇᴘ ᴡᴀs ᴀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ; ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴀ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴅᴏᴡɴ.

“ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ.” ʜᴇʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴡᴀs ʟᴏᴡ, ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟʟᴇᴅ—ᴛᴏᴏ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟʟᴇᴅ.

ʜᴇ sᴡᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ, ᴅʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀᴇᴍʙʟɪɴɢ. “ɴᴀᴛ… ᴡᴇ sᴛᴀʙɪʟɪᴢᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ. sʜᴇ’ꜱ—” ʜᴇʀ ᴊᴀᴡ sɴᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴛɪɢʜᴛ, ᴋɴᴜᴄᴋʟᴇs ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏ ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋ. “ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʟɪᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ.”

ɢᴜɪʟᴛ, ғᴇᴀʀ, ʜᴇʟᴘʟᴇssɴᴇss ғʟɪᴛᴛᴇᴅ ᴀᴄʀᴏss ʜɪs ᴇʏᴇs, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴀᴛᴇ. “ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ʟᴏss… sʜᴇ’ꜱ ʟᴏꜱᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴡᴇ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ. ɪɴᴛᴇʀɴᴀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ… ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴡᴏʀsᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʀᴇᴘᴏʀᴛs. ɴᴀᴛ… ɪᴛ’ꜱ ʙᴀᴅ.” ᴀ ᴛɪɴʏ ꜰʀᴀᴄᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴏsɪᴛɪᴏɴ, ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴅ ᴏꜰ ɪᴄᴇ sᴘʟɪᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴘʀᴇssᴜʀᴇ. ʙᴜᴛ sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴄʀʏ. ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴏꜰꜰ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴄʀɪᴇᴅ. sʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇ ᴏ̨ᴜɪᴇᴛʟʏ, sɪʟᴇɴᴛʟʏ, ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴀᴛᴇ.

ᴛᴏɴʏ ᴀɴᴅ sᴛᴇᴠᴇ sᴛᴀʏᴇᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ, ꜰʀᴏᴢᴇɴ, ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴡɪᴛɴᴇssᴇs ᴛᴏ ᴀ sᴛᴏʀᴍ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ sᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇ. ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴇᴅ sᴛᴇᴘ ᴄʟᴏsᴇʀ—ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ.

sᴛᴇᴠᴇ sʜɪꜰᴛᴇᴅ, ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ʀᴏᴜɢʜ. “ɴᴀᴛ… ᴡᴇ ᴅɪᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡᴇ—” sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ʜɪᴍ. ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴀᴄᴋɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ ʜɪᴍ. “ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ.” ʜᴇʀ ᴡʜɪsᴘᴇʀ ᴡᴀs sᴏ ꜱᴏғᴛ ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴜᴛ sᴛᴇᴇʟ. “ʏ/ɴ ᴡᴀsɴ’ᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ. sʜᴇ ᴛʀᴜsᴛᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ sᴇɴᴛ ʜᴇʀ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ sʟᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀʜᴏᴜsᴇ.”

ᴄʟɪɴᴛ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴄᴇ, ʀᴇᴍᴏʀsᴇ ᴇᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ʟɪɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜɪs ғᴀᴄᴇ—ʙᴜᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ɢʟᴀʀᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ꜰʀᴏᴢᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴍɪᴅ-sᴛᴇᴘ. ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ’ꜱ ᴇxʜᴀʟᴇ sʜᴜᴅᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ. “ɴᴀᴛ… sʜᴇ’ꜱ ғɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴡᴇ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪꜰ sʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ.”

ᴛɪᴍᴇ sʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ. ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ғᴀᴅᴇᴅ. ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇxᴄᴇᴘᴛ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ sɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏ/ɴ—ғʀᴀɢɪʟᴇ, ᴘᴀʟᴇ, ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ—ʟʏɪɴɢ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴅ, sᴛᴇʀɪʟᴇ ʟɪɢʜᴛs ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ʙᴀʏ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ᴅᴇᴇᴘ, ᴛʜᴇ ғɪʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ʀᴀɢᴇ sʜᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ sʜᴇ’ᴅ ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴅ ʀᴏᴏᴍ. ʜᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇs ɢʟɪᴍᴍᴇʀᴇᴅ, ɢʟᴀssʏ ʏᴇᴛ ᴜɴʏɪᴇʟᴅɪɴɢ. “ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ.” ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ɴᴏᴅᴅᴇᴅ, ᴏᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ.

ᴀs sʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴘᴀsᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀs, ᴛᴏɴʏ ᴍᴜʀᴍᴜʀᴇᴅ, ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍsᴇʟꜰ, “ɪ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ sʜᴇ… ᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴛʜɪs ᴍᴜᴄʜ.” sᴛᴇᴠᴇ ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀᴇᴅ, ᴏ̨ᴜɪᴇᴛ, ᴍᴏᴜʀɴꜰᴜʟ: “ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ sᴇᴇɴ ᴡʜᴀᴛ sʜᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋs ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ sʜᴇ’ꜱ ʟᴏsɪɴɢ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ sʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ’ᴛ ᴀғꜰᴏʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏsᴇ.” ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴘᴀᴜsᴇ.

ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ, ᴄᴏʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇᴛʜᴀʟ, ʟɪɴɢᴇʀᴇᴅ:

“ɪꜰ sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴇs… ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴏɴ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ.”

ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ sʟᴀᴍᴍᴇᴅ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ, ᴀ ꜰɪɴᴀʟ ᴇᴄʜᴏ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ—ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪsᴇ.

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ɪᴛ’s ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴅᴀʏs, ᴡᴇᴇᴋs—ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴ ᴜɴᴄᴏɴsᴄɪᴏᴜs, ʙᴀʀᴇʟʏ ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ᴏɴ. ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ… sʜᴇ’s ɴᴏᴛ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ. ʜᴇʀ ʙᴏᴅʏ ʀᴏᴀᴍs ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴏᴜɴᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴡʀᴇᴄᴋᴇᴅ ꜰᴀɴᴛᴏᴍ—ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ ɪs ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜsᴀɴᴅ ᴍɪʟᴇs ᴀᴡᴀʏ, ʟᴏsᴛ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ sʜᴇ sᴘᴇɴᴛ ʏᴇᴀʀs ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴇsᴄᴀᴘᴇ—ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴ ʜᴇᴀᴅ.

sʜᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇs ʏᴏᴜ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡɪɴᴅᴏᴡ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ɴɪɢʜᴛ, ᴀs ɪғ ᴍᴏɴɪᴛᴏʀɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴄᴀɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʟɪꜰᴇ. sʜᴇ ʟɪᴠᴇs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ, ꜰʟᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ ʀɪsᴇs ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴇsᴛ—ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪᴛ sᴛɪʟʟs ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ, ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ sᴏᴜʟ ꜱᴛɪʟʟs ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛ. sʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇsɴ’ᴛ ᴊᴏᴋᴇ ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ. ᴅᴏᴇsɴ’ᴛ ꜱᴍɪʀᴋ.

ᴅᴏᴇsɴ’ᴛ ᴛɪɢʜᴛᴇɴ ᴀ ɢʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀʟʟ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ “ꜱꜱʜ, ɪ’ᴍ ꜰɪɴᴇ.” ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ɪs ɢᴏɴᴇ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴs ɪs ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇʀ—ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇʀ.

ɪɴ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢs, ʜᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇs ᴀʀᴇ ᴡʀᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴄᴏʟᴅ ᴀᴍʙᴇʀ. sʜᴇ ɢʟᴀɴᴄᴇs ᴀᴛ sᴛᴇᴠᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʜᴇ’s ᴀ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴠɪᴅᴇɴᴄᴇ—ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ sᴛᴇᴘ ɪɴ ғᴀsᴛ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ. sʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴ’ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ᴄʟɪɴᴛ—ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ sʜᴇ ʜᴀᴛᴇs ʜɪᴍ, ʙᴜᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ɢʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴀᴛ ʜɪs ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅs ʜᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪssɪᴏɴs ᴛʜᴇʏ sᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇᴅ—ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜɪs ᴏɴᴇ.

ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏɴʏ—ɢᴏᴅ, ɪғ ʟᴏᴏᴋs ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴋɪʟʟ, ʜᴇ’d ʙᴇ ᴀ ꜰɪʟᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʀɢᴜᴇ ʙʏ ɴᴏᴡ. ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʀᴀɢᴇ—ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀɴɢᴇʀ—ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ sɪʟᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ ᴀɪᴍᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ. ʜᴇʀ ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴅᴀʏ ᴘᴀssᴇᴅ—ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴅᴀʏ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʏ sʜᴇ sɴᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ. sʜᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ᴍᴀʀɪᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ғᴜʀʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ—ʟᴏᴡ, ʜɪssɪɴɢ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇs ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴀ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ. ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀsᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʏᴏᴜ—ʜʏᴅʀᴀ ᴛᴇᴄʜ. ʜʏᴅʀᴀ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ɪᴛ. ʜʏᴅʀᴀ ꜰɪʀᴇᴅ ɪᴛ. ʜʏᴅʀᴀ ᴘᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇᴅ. ᴀɴᴅ sᴏ sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴅᴏᴡ ᴅᴏᴇs ʙᴇsᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ sᴛᴀʀᴛs ᴛᴏ ʙᴜʀɴ—sʜᴇ ʙᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ.

ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ sᴜɪᴛ sɴᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴs ꜰᴜʟʟʏ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ, sʜᴇ ʟᴇғᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴏᴜɴᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ sᴜɴʀɪsᴇ. ɴᴏ ɴᴏᴛᴇ. ɴᴏ ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ. ɴᴏ ᴀʟɪʙɪ. ɴᴏ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ.

ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇᴡs ʙʀᴏᴋᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴍɪᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ. ᴀɴ ᴇᴍᴇʀɢᴇɴᴄʏ ʙʀᴏᴀᴅᴄᴀsᴛ. ᴀ ʟᴀʙ ʟᴇᴠᴇʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴀʟ. ᴀ ʜʏᴅʀᴀ ғᴀᴄɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴄʀᴜᴍʙʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀsʜᴇs. ᴏᴠᴇʀ ꜰɪꜰᴛʏ-ꜰɪᴠᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ—ᴏɴᴇs ᴡʜᴏ ᴅᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ ɪᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴᴇs ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏssꜰɪʀᴇ.

ꜱʜᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴊᴜsᴛɪᴄᴇ. ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴠᴇʀɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀ ᴍᴀssᴀᴄʀᴇ.

ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪs ᴛɪᴍᴇ—ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ʜᴇʀ.

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“ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴏғғ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ʙᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ғᴀᴄɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴅᴏᴡɴ!?” ғᴜʀʏ ʙᴜʀsᴛ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ, ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴsᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴛᴀʟ ᴡᴀʟʟs. ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ sᴀᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀɪʀ, ʜᴀɴᴅs ʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴠɪʙʀᴀɴɪᴜᴍ ᴄᴜғғs, ʜᴇᴀᴅ ʙᴏᴡᴇᴅ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀᴄᴋɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ.

“ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ. ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀ ᴍᴇ.” ғᴜʀʏ’s ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴅʀᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ, ᴀ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜs ʟᴏᴡ. ᴡʜᴇɴ sʜᴇ sᴛᴀʏᴇᴅ sɪʟᴇɴᴛ, ʜᴇ sɴᴀᴘᴘᴇᴅ. “ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀ ᴍᴇ, ᴅᴀᴍɴ ɪᴛ!”

Tʜᴇ ᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ʀᴀᴛᴛʟᴇᴅ ᴀs ʜɪs ғɪsᴛ sʟᴀᴍᴍᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ. Hᴇ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ, ғɪsᴛ ғɪsᴛᴇʀɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴀɪʀ, ʏᴀɴᴋɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏ ғᴏʀᴄᴇ ᴇʏᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴄᴛ.

Sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ғʟɪɴᴄʜ. Sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ғɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴀᴄᴋ.

Aɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ—ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴇʟᴇᴄᴛʀɪғɪᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴛʀᴜᴇ sʜɪᴠᴇʀ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ғᴜʀʏ’s sᴘɪɴᴇ.

Fᴏʀ ᴀ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ᴡᴇᴇᴋ, ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ’s ʙᴇᴇɴ ʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴠᴇʀɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴍʙᴇʀ—ʜᴇʟᴅ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʀʀᴇsᴛᴇᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ɴᴏᴛ ғʀᴇᴇ. Sʜᴇ sᴀᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴏᴜsᴀɴᴅs ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ʟɪғᴇᴛɪᴍᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴍɪssᴀʟɪɢɴᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇ—ᴏɴᴇ ғɪʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ sᴍᴏᴋᴇ-ғɪʟʟᴇᴅ ɢʀᴀᴠᴇʏᴀʀᴅ ᴏғ ᴀ ғᴀᴄɪʟɪᴛʏ—ᴀɴᴅ sᴜᴅᴅᴇɴʟʏ sʜᴇ’s ᴀ sᴜsᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ.

Jᴜsᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴏʟᴅ ᴛɪᴍᴇs. Jᴜsᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴅ ʀᴏᴏᴍ.

Sʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ɴᴏ ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇs ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ—ɴᴏ ᴄᴏɴғɪʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ, ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ sᴛᴀʙʟᴇ, ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ. Iᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴀ ᴍɪsᴛᴀᴋᴇ—ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪʀᴇ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴅɪᴇs, ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀ sʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴄʟᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ʜʏᴅʀᴀ—ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪsᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴏғ ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴇᴛ ʜᴜʀᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪʀsᴛ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ. Aɴᴅ ғᴜʀʏ sᴀᴡ ɪᴛ, ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ ᴀs ᴀ ᴄᴜᴛ.

Hᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇs—ʀᴇᴅ, ʀɪᴍᴍᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇᴀʀs—ᴡᴇʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇʏᴇs ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴅᴏᴡ. Sʜᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴄʀɪᴇᴅ. Cʀʏɪɴɢ ᴡᴀsɴ’ᴛ ᴀ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ sʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ʙᴜɪʟᴛ ᴛᴏ sᴘᴇᴀᴋ. Bᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴡ—ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙʟᴇ, ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ—sʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴄʀᴜᴍʙʟɪɴɢ.

Dᴀʏs. Wᴇᴇᴋs. Aʟʟ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ.

Aɴᴅ ɪɢɴᴏʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀ ɴᴏᴡ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʟɪᴇ: ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ, sʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴠᴇɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴋɴᴇᴡ. Sʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴀ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ—ʟᴏᴏsᴇ, ᴜɴꜰᴏᴄᴜsᴇᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜs. Aɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴏғ ɪᴛ, ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ɢʀᴀɴᴜʟᴇ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪs ᴅɪsᴀsᴛᴇʀ—

ᴡᴀs ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀs ɴᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʙʏ ʜᴇʀ sɪᴅᴇ.

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ᴀғᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ғᴇᴡ ᴡᴇᴇᴋs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴠᴇʀɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ғᴀᴄɪʟɪᴛʏ, ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴡᴀs ғɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ sᴀᴛ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ’s ʟᴀᴡʏᴇʀ, ʜᴇʀ ᴛᴇᴀᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴠᴇɴɢᴇʀs — ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴀᴠᴇɴɢᴇʀs — ᴀʟʟ ꜰᴀᴄɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴀ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ᴏꜰ ɢᴏᴠᴇʀɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰꜰɪᴄɪᴀʟs ᴡʜᴏ ʙʟᴀᴍᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɴᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ.

ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴏɴᴇ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴄᴀsᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴡᴀs sᴜᴘᴘᴏsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ… ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ. ɴᴏ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴡᴀs ꜰɪxᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ’s ᴇʏᴇs.

ɪᴛ ᴡᴀsɴ’ᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴅᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴋɴᴇᴡ — ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ᴡʜᴏ ꜰᴀᴄᴇᴅ ɢᴏᴅs, ᴀʟɪᴇɴs, ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴅ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ɢʜᴏsᴛs ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ sᴍɪʀᴋ. ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ’s ɴᴏᴛ sᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ. sʜᴇ ғᴇᴀʀs ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ.

ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴊᴜᴅɢᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴛᴛᴏʀɴᴇʏs, ᴏʀ sᴏᴍᴇ ʀᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴘᴏʀᴛᴇʀ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ, sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ.

ᴀ ꜰʟɪɴᴄʜ. ᴀ sᴏꜰᴛᴇɴɪɴɢ. ᴀ ꜰʀᴀᴄᴛᴜʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴄᴇ.

ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs sᴜʙᴛʟᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴏɴ ᴄᴀᴍᴇʀᴀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴄᴀᴅᴇ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴀɴ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜQᴜᴀᴋᴇ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇʏ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ. ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ — ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ — ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴅᴏᴡ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ.

ɴᴏᴛ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʏᴏᴜ.

ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴏᴏᴅ, ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ɪɴsᴛᴀɴᴛʟʏ, ᴡʜʏ sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅ. ᴡʜʏ sʜᴇ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs. ᴡʜʏ sʜᴇ ԍᴏᴛ ʜᴇʀsᴇʟꜰ ᴛʜʀᴏᴡɴ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ʟᴏᴄᴋᴅᴏᴡɴ ꜰᴀᴄɪʟɪᴛʏ. ᴡʜʏ sʜᴇ’s ᴘʀᴇᴘᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇᴀʀ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴀɴ ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇ ɢᴏᴠᴇʀɴᴍᴇɴᴛ ɪꜰ ꜱʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ sʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇs ʏᴏᴜ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴏʙᴠɪᴏᴜs. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴜɴᴅᴇɴɪᴀʙʟᴇ.

ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪs — ᴛʜɪs ᴇɴᴛɪʀᴇ ᴍᴇss — ᴡᴀs ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ.

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ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴅᴏᴡ ᴅᴏᴇs ɴᴏᴛ ᴄʀʏ. ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴅᴏᴡ ᴅᴏᴇs ɴᴏᴛ ꜰʟɪɴᴄʜ.

ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴅᴏᴡ ᴅᴏᴇs ɴᴏᴛ ʟᴏᴠᴇ.

ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇs ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ? sʜᴇ’s ɴᴏᴛ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴅᴏᴡ.

sʜᴇ’s ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴏғғ.

sʜᴇ’s ɴᴀᴛᴀʟɪᴀ ᴀʟɪᴀɴᴏᴠᴀ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴏᴠᴀ — ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʙᴇʟɢᴏʀᴏᴅ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴅ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ sᴜᴄᴄᴇᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴋɪʟʟɪɴɢ.

ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴀᴛᴀʟɪᴀ — ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟ ʜᴇʀ — sʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴄʀʏ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ. ɪᴛ’s ᴄʟᴇᴀʀᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛʀᴏɴɢᴇsᴛ, ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜs, ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴɪᴢᴇᴅ sᴏᴜʟ ᴄᴀɴ sᴛɪʟʟ ꜰᴇᴇʟ. ᴀɴᴅ sʜᴇ’s sʜᴏᴡɪɴɢ ɪᴛ. ᴘʀᴏᴠɪɴɢ ɪᴛ. ᴇᴍʙʀᴀᴄɪɴɢ ɪᴛ. ᴀʟʟ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ.

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ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ, ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ sᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ, sʜᴇ ꜰᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ɪᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ sᴀʀᴄᴀsᴍ. sʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴅᴇᴀᴅ sᴇʀɪᴏᴜs. sʜᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ sᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ—ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ sʜᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ. ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛ, sʜᴇ'ꜱ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. sᴛɪʟʟ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs sᴛɪʟʟ ᴀ ᴄᴀꜱᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ sʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀɴ ᴀᴠᴇɴɢᴇʀ. sʜᴇ sᴀᴠᴇᴅ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴜᴘʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ʟɪᴠᴇs ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ; ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ᴛʜɪs ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ sᴇʀᴠᴇ ᴀs ᴀ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ-ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴇssᴀɢᴇ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ. sʜᴇ's ᴛʜᴀɴᴋғᴜʟ.

ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʀᴇsᴛ, ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ ɪᴍᴍᴇᴅɪᴀᴛᴇʟʏ ᴡᴇɴᴛ sᴛʀᴀɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ. ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴsᴄɪᴏᴜs, ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇ, ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴀ ʀᴇʟɪᴇꜰ sᴇᴇɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜᴘ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ sʜᴇ sᴀᴡ ʏᴏᴜ sɪᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ, sʜᴇ ɪᴍᴍᴇᴅɪᴀᴛᴇʟʏ ʀᴜꜰꜰʟᴇᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ, ᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʟᴀʏ ᴅᴏᴡɴ—ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ sᴀꜰᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ʟɪsᴛᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ ᴛʜɪs ᴛɪᴍᴇ.

sʜᴇ ᴡᴀs sᴏ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ. sʜᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴜɢ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴛᴏ ᴇᴍʙʀᴀᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, ʙᴜᴛ sʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ. sʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀʀᴍ ʏᴏᴜ. ʀɪɢʜᴛ ɴᴏᴡ, sʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ.

“ɪ'ᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇ… ɪ ᴍɪssᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ,” sʜᴇ sᴀɪᴅ, ʜᴏʟᴅɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀɴᴅs, ᴋɪssɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ᴛᴇᴀʀs ᴡᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴇʏᴇs. “ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ… ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴅᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ,” ɴᴀᴛᴀsʜᴀ sᴏʙʙᴇᴅ ǫᴜɪᴇᴛʟʏ. ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ʜᴇʟᴘ ʙᴜᴛ sᴍɪʟᴇ.

“ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ,” ʏᴏᴜ ᴊᴏᴋᴇᴅ. sʜᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴡɴᴇᴅ.

“ᴛʜɪs ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ʟᴀᴜɢʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ, ʏ/ɴ!” sʜᴇ sᴀɪᴅ, ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴛ ᴍᴀᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴏᴡ ᴄᴀɴ sʜᴇ ʙᴇ ᴍᴀᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ sʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴊᴜsᴛ ɢʟᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ sᴛɪʟʟ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇʀ,

ʜᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ғɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ᴀᴡᴀᴋᴇ ᴀɴᴅ sᴀғᴇ.

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[jpmarvel90]

Dont Belong Part 3

Masterlist Natasha Masterlist

Part 1 Part 2

Word Count: 7175

Relationship: Mother WandaNat x Daughter Reader

Summary: Y/n's infection is hitting her hard and she's still struggling with her feelings on her parents. Thankfully, Yelena is there to help cheer her up and she brings along a surprise that might just make everything feel better!

Nat: Mama Wanda: Mom

Y/n POV:

These last two days in the hospital have blurred together, a monotonous cycle of dull light and beeping machines. The weight of my infection drags on me, leaving me shivering one moment and sweating the next. I've spent far too much time staring at the ceiling, feeling trapped in this sterile room, yearning for the freedom of my life before the mission went sideways. The boredom is suffocating, and I feel like I'm losing pieces of myself with every passing hour.

I feel a constant gaze from my parents who rarely leave my side. It's strange to go from having them ignore you to being around all the time. Part of me feels like things were like they used to be when I was a full part of their family. The other part of me is screaming saying they don't mean it and will soon be gone again.

But today feels different, a whisper of hope fluttering in the air. I've been waiting for this moment, and when a familiar knock sounds at the door, my heart races with anticipation. "Can I come in?" Yelena's voice calls softly, and I can't suppress the grin that spreads across my face at the sound of her.

"Of course!" I call back, the eagerness spilling over in my tone. I sit up a little straighter, my heart pounding as I manage to prop myself up, using the button on the side of the bed to elevate myself.

The door swings open, and Yelena steps in, her expression a mix of relief and worry. Her golden hair catches the light, and I can see the telltale signs of sleepless nights etched under her eyes. "Y/n!" she breathes, rushing to my side, her voice trembling slightly as she takes my hand.

"Yelena! I'm so glad to see you." The words come out a little breathless, and I can't help the surge of emotion that washes over me. Just seeing her makes the room feel a little less confining, a little brighter.

"I can't believe you're awake," she says, her grip tightening around my fingers. "I was so scared. We all were. You had everyone worried sick." Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, and for a moment, it feels like the weight of my situation lifts just a bit. I don't think I've ever seen Yelena emotional like this before and it helps me realise how bad this whole situation is. She would never allow anyone to see her this vulnerable except for Mama.

"Hey, I'm okay. Well, sort of." I gesture weakly to the IV drip, the hospital bed, and the machines that surround me. "Just a little out of commission at the moment."

Yelena's smile is tentative but bright, yet it's overshadowed by the concern etched on her face. "I just hate seeing you hurt like this. You're my niece and I thought I would always be here to protect you." She shares honestly.

I give her hand a squeeze and share a warm smile when she finally looks up to me. "I can't be protected forever. Besides, I need you now. This recovery is going to be shit and I need you to help me when it gets too much." I reassure her and she nods. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm here to help you through it all. Stark has even set me up on the same floor as you. So, I'll be there whenever you need me." She explains, making my heart warm with the thought of seeing her for a while to come.

"What about the widows?" I ask, knowing how much that means to her. "I've already been able to help so many. Now I need to help you. The others can wait. Besides, Kate can do the research on where we need to go next." She replies. "Who's Kate?" I ask, surprised to hear that she is working with someone else.

"Just a stray that Clint found. She's annoying, but oddly fun to be around. I think you'd like her. I'm sure she'll be around at some point to say hi." She explains with a shrug.

As the initial shock of seeing me seems to fade, I can see the corners of Yelena's mouth twitching upward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. It's as if she's flipping a switch, her demeanour transforming from worried auntie to the playful, teasing friend I know and love.

"You know," she starts, leaning back slightly and crossing her arms, "for someone who just woke up from a dramatic hospital nap, you look surprisingly like a zombie. I mean, I thought they had strict rules against bringing the undead into the hospital."

I let out a soft laugh, despite the ache in my chest. "Yeah, well, the food here isn't exactly helping my cause. I'm pretty sure I could survive off of those tasteless mushy meals for a week and still look better than this."

Yelena raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "Mushy meals? I'd expect you to be on some gourmet diet, considering all the special treatments they give you. I'm starting to think you should at least get some ice cream as a post-surgery reward." She chuckles. "Now that's the kind of thinking I can get behind. Have a word with Tony yeah?" I reply, feeling my spirits lift. "Ice cream sounds amazing. But what are the odds of that happening here?"

"Zero. But I'm prepared for this. I'll break you out of this place and take you for ice cream. You just need to give me the signal, and I'll burst in through the window like a stealthy ninja." She mimics a dramatic leap and landing in mama's pose. "See, I'll even do my best poser impersonation!" She playfully teases and she now starts to pretend to scale the invisible walls of my hospital room, her expression shifting to one of exaggerated seriousness. "You can count on me, Y/n. Ice cream shall be yours!"

I chuckle, the image of Yelena performing an acrobatic escape making the heaviness of the past days lift a little more. "What flavour are we talking here? I hope it's not vanilla. I have standards, you know."

"Vanilla? Please! I was thinking more along the lines of double chocolate fudge with extra sprinkles. And maybe a side of cherry sauce because why not go big, right?" She shares her thoughts whilst taking the seat next to me again. Her hand resting over mine. "Now you're speaking my language," I respond, shaking my head in mock seriousness. "If I'm risking a hospital breakout, it better be worth it." I laugh.

Yelena sits back in her seat, her chest still rising and falling as she laughs at her own hilariousness. She then looks back up at me. "But seriously, let's plan this for when you're feeling better. I'm not above a hospital escape." Her grin is contagious, and I can feel the tension in my shoulders easing. "Deal. Just don't forget the sprinkles."

As our laughter fills the room, I realize how much I've missed this lightness, this camaraderie. It's comforting to think about having Yelena by my side as I navigate the uncertainty of recovery and family dynamics.

But beneath the playful banter, there's an unspoken understanding between us, a bond that allows me to express my fears without words. With Yelena around, I feel like I can face whatever comes next, armed with humour and the knowledge that I'm not alone in this fight.

"Just promise me one thing," I say, my voice turning more serious again. "Anything," she replies, her gaze earnest. "Don't let me give up on the ice cream party, okay? No matter what happens."

"Never! I'll be your ice cream guardian," she declares, puffing out her chest with mock pride. "We will have that party, and it will be legendary. I will personally ensure that you have the sprinkles of life!"

With that promise hanging in the air, I know I can count on her not just for ice cream but for so much more as I navigate this complicated recovery. Even amidst the challenges, I feel a renewed sense of strength.

Though the playful atmosphere soon disappears as Yelena looks at me with a hurt look. "You know," Yelena begins cautiously, glancing around the room as if making sure no one else can hear, "I've been really worried about you. Seeing you like this. It's been hard. I didn't expect to walk in and see my Y/n looking so weak."

"Yeah, well, welcome to the aftermath of a bullet wound," I respond, a hint of sarcasm lacing my tone, but her expression remains sombre. "I mean it, Y/n," she says, her voice low. "I can handle all sorts of dangerous missions, but this... this was different. You're my niece. I've seen too many people get hurt, and it scares me to think about what could have happened if things went even more wrong."

"I know. I didn't want to worry you, but... it's not like I planned to get shot," I reply, my voice softening. "I was trying to do my best, and it went sideways."

"It's not your fault," Yelena reassures me, squeezing my hand gently. "But promise me you'll be careful. Don't rush back into missions. I can't go through this again. I thought I lost you."

"I'm not going anywhere yet. You've got me for a while longer," I say with a playful lilt, trying to lighten the atmosphere. Her smile falters, but she doesn't let go of my hand. "You have to promise me you won't get hurt again. I mean it. You don't have to be the hero all the time, you know." The gravity of her words sinks in, and I can feel a lump forming in my throat. "I thought I was doing well. I thought it was my chance to prove myself," I admit, my voice quieter now. "Prove yourself? You don't need to do that. You're already a part of this family," she insists, her voice firm but gentle.

But I can't shake the feeling of inadequacy, the bitter sting of doubt that lingers in the corners of my mind. "I don't feel like it," I confess, looking down at our hands intertwined. "Not after everything that's happened. My parents... I don't know. It's complicated." I begin tentatively, not sure how to express the turmoil inside me.

"They've hurt me for so long, and I'm still trying to wrap my head around why they suddenly seem to care. It feels like. I don't know, like they're trying to make up for lost time. They've been... around. Too around, if you know what I mean. They've been acting all concerned, but it feels more like an obligation."

I've felt torn about this since I've woke up. They're around all the time and trying to do everything that can to help me. But all I can think about is how much they have hurt me and if they would ever be able to make up for their past actions.

Yelena nods, her expression serious. "It's okay to be conflicted. They've done wrong by you, and you have every right to be angry. But if they're genuinely trying to change, maybe there's a chance for you to heal too." She suggests, similar to how Steve has these last two days.

"I don't want to forgive them just because they're here now. It feels disingenuous," I admit, frustration seeping into my voice. "I've been raised to believe that actions speak louder than words, and I need to see real change." I state irritated. "Then hold them to that standard," she urges, her voice steady. "Don't let them slide by just because they're your parents. You deserve more than that." She iterates.

"I guess I'm just afraid of being disappointed again," I whisper, feeling a shiver of vulnerability wash over me. It hurt so much when I slowly seemed to disappear from their lives. I don't think I could experience that again. "What if they go back to ignoring me once I'm healed? What's the point of this?" I share, tears stinging my eyes.

Yelena leans closer, her brow furrowing as she studies my face. "That's not fair to you. They hurt you, and it's okay to be angry about that. But you deserve to feel loved and cared for. You're so much stronger than you give yourself credit for." "Stronger?" I scoff lightly, but inside I feel a flicker of hope. "I barely survived my first mission and ended up in a hospital bed. That doesn't feel strong."

"Strength isn't just about fighting, Y/n. It's about surviving, too. You survived, and you're still here. You're still fighting." Her voice softens, and I can see her eyes glistening with tears. I nod slowly, her words resonating with me. "You're right. I just don't want to get hurt like that again. I thought joining SHIELD would mean I'd finally be seen, but now... it feels like a mess."

Yelena shakes her head, frustration evident in her expression. "No. You're not a mess. You're human. They need to step up and show you that you matter, but that doesn't mean you have to accept their love without question. You get to set the boundaries. You get to decide what you want from them moving forward. But I do believe that you have to give them a chance to show you that they've changed." She shares, taking me by surprise.

"It was years Yelena. How can I move to just forgive them for everything that's happened? Just because they're here for my recovery, doesn't mean it makes up for everything that they've done." I raise my voice getting frustrated that no one seems to understand the depth of how much this has affected me.

She thinks for a moment before speaking up. "I know I can't understand the pain they caused you. When I heard about what they did to you, I was ready to kick both of their asses. But I've seen this determination in them. Especially Nat. I just don't want you to let the anger eat you alive. You deserve more than that. You deserve to heal, not just physically, but emotionally, too." Her words resonate deep within me. I can feel the weight of my resentment pressing against my chest, threatening to suffocate me. "It's just hard, Yelena. I don't know if I can trust them again. What if they just go back to how things were?"

"That's the risk, but it's also a chance for something better. Maybe this could be the start of a new chapter for you all," she replies, her voice filled with hope. "I mean, how many people get a second chance to rewrite their story? You can make it count." She tries to reason with me. "Or I could just end up disappointed again," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Hey, no one said life was easy," she counters, leaning forward, her tone shifting to a playful challenge. "You've faced worse. You survived a bullet wound, for Christ's sake! How about you take that strength and channel it into something more positive? Like confronting your parents." She suggests. "Confront them?" I echo, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach.

"Yeah! You're a badass. You fought off those Hydra agents; you can fight for your own happiness." she encourages. "Don't let anyone else dictate your worth. Not your parents, not Hydra. No one."

"I'll think about it," I concede, knowing that deep down, she's right. Maybe facing my parents isn't just about them; it's about taking control of my own narrative, my own healing. "Good," Yelena replies, her smile brightening the room once more. "And remember, no matter what you decide, I'll be right here, cheering you on. We're in this together, ice cream and all."

As I gaze into her determined eyes, I feel the flicker of hope igniting within me. Yelena is right. I can't let the past dictate my future. Perhaps I can find a way to reclaim my voice, my choices. And with her by my side, I feel like I can face whatever comes next.

__________

The soft hum of the machines is a constant companion, a backdrop to the quiet conversation happening in the room. Mama and mom sit nearby, each offering their own version of silent support. Mama, with her usual calm demeanour, sits crossed legged in the chair near the foot of my bed. Her posture is relaxed, but her sharp eyes betray her constant vigilance. She notices everything, always has, and I can feel her observing me like she's looking for something beneath the surface. Mom on the other hand, has stationed herself at my side, like aways. She's less fussy, thankfully, but still has to be close, like I'm going to disappear if she's not.

Sometimes, I find the silence unbearable compared to their constant and sometimes suffocating fussing over me. I feel on edge, like they're waiting for me to talk to them. I think back to what Yelena said about confronting them and doing it on my terms. But I want to do it in the right frame of mind, and at the moment, this infection is still kicking my ass.

Mama breaks the silence as her well trained eyes watch me for a while. "How are you feeling Y/n?" She asks, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studies me, as though she's trying to catch me out if I say the wrong thing. "A bit better." I respond with a slight nod, my words carefully measured. I don't want to give too much away. Not about how I'm feeling and especially not about the swirl of doubt that's been growing inside of me since the incident.

"Are you sure? You're sweating." She points out, sitting up. Mom goes to reach for my forehead, but quickly retreats her hand. She's been trying really hard not to be too much and I'm grateful for that. I should have known that she could see straight through me and notice the discomfort I'm in. "Just a little." I admit. "Is there anything we can do? Would you like some water? Or we could change the quilt for a blanket if that would help?" Mom suggests.

I think for a moment before giving in, knowing that I am burning up a little too quickly. "The blanket would be better if that's ok." I respond, earning a warm smile from mom as she stands and moves to grab the blanket as mama takes the quilt and folds it up. "Better?" Mom asks as the thin blanket now rests over my legs. "Yes. Thank you." I quietly respond.

"You're being strong, but you don't have to be." Mom says, her voice soft but persuasive. Her green eyes watching me too closely. "We're here for you." She states. Something I've heard more these last few days than I have in my whole like.

I offer a tight smile. "I appreciate that." I reply, but there's something hollow in my words, something they both notice. I see it in the flicker of mama's eyes, in the slight frown mom tries to hide. They want me to let them in, to trust them. But I can't. No right now.

The knock on the door interrupts the thick atmosphere. As we all look to the door, a smile grows on my face as Yelena pushes open the door, bursting in to the room with her usual energy. Her blonde hair bounces around her shoulders as she strides in, a smirk on her lips. She's a welcome distraction from the unspoken suspicions swirling in my mind.

Behind her, there's someone new. A brunette with wide eyes and a slightly awkward smile follows in her wake, holding a small bouquet of flowers in her hands. It's clear she doesn't quite know what to do with them as she shifts nervously, standing next to Yelena like she's trying to figure out how to fit in. "This is Kate." Yelena says with a grin, motioning to the brunette with a flourish. "Oh, right. The annoying stray Clint picked up." I reply with a grin, my eyes flicking between Yelena and the new girl. I feel a small flutter of nerves in my chest, but I push it aside, trying to appear casual.

Kate gasps dramatically, placing her hand over her chest as if wounded. "Annoying stray? Really? Is that how Yelena described me?" She shoots Yelena a mocking glare, then turns to me with a playful twinkle in her eyes. "Don't listen to her. I'm delightful, I promise." She smirks.

There is something instantly disarming about her. Her smile is infectious, and I find myself grinning back before I can stop myself. "I'll be the judge of that." I say, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Kate's laugh is light. "Well, I guess I better make a good impression then huh. I'm Kate. Nice to finally meet you."

As if she suddenly becomes aware of the other two people in the room, Kate suddenly becomes a lot more nervous as she steps forward, holding out the flowers a little awkwardly. "I, uh, thought some flowers might brighten up the place." She says her voice light but tinged with nervousness. "If you don't like them, I can... I don't know, take them back or something."

I can't help but smile at the sudden awkwardness, feeling some of the tension ease from my shoulders. There's something captivating about her, a clumsy sincerity that feels genuine. Like she's not trying to be anything other than who she is. If's refreshing, in contrast to the more guarded and calculated vibes in the room.

"No, no. They're nice. I love them." I say, accepting the flowers with a smile. "Thank you." I say gratefully. Mom steps in to help, taking the flowers from Kate and placing them on the beside table. She flashes Kate a smile, but I can't help but notice the way her eyes flick between me and Kate, like she's sizing up the interaction. Her protective nature is sweet, but right now it feels like an intrusion, like she's watching too closely.

Yelena of course, can't let the moment go without making it awkward. "Oh great. The two of you are already making goo-goo eyes at each other." She says with a snort, dropping herself into a chair next to mama with a dramatic sigh. "I should have seen this coming." She says to her sister. "Goo-goo eyes?" I sputter, my cheeks burning. "Yelena, we literally just met." Kate for her part, looks just as flustered, running a hand through her hair as she laughs awkwardly. "Yeah wow, not even five minutes in and I'm already being roasted. Thanks Yelena." Yelena has a mischievous grin as she gives Kate a thumbs up. "Hey, I call it like I see it." She shrugs.

I glance at Kate again, and despite the teasing, there's something about her that puts me at ease. Something feels unguarded in a way that I haven't felt around my parents lately. She seems real, no hidden motives, no unreadable layers. Just Kate, awkward and charming in her own way.

Mama raises an eyebrow at Yelena's comment but stays quiet, observing as always. Mom though let's out a soft chuckle, her eyes softening for a moment as she looks between Kate and me. "I think it's sweet." She says, but there's an undercurrent to her words. A subtle probing as if she's gauging how close I'm willing to let this new person get.

I shift uncomfortably in my bed, trying to shake off the unease. "Kate seems nice." I say, trying to keep things light. "But you don't need to start planning a wedding already." I joke, earning a loud laugh from Kate.

Yelena leans back in her chair, a satisfied smirk on her face. "Well, you're already doing better than most people who meet Y/n. She doesn't usually warm up to strangers this fast."

"Yelena." I mutter, shooting her a look, but the playful banter is enough to make me feel a bit more like myself again. Even if the tension with my parents still lingers beneath the surface.

Mama exchanges a glance with mom, and I can feel the weight of their unspoken thoughts. They're both protective, maybe even a little suspicious of the new dynamic. I know they're trying to look out for me, but their watchful eyes feel too heavy right now and to be honest, they don't have the right to have any thoughts on this right now. They've barely been my parents for the last couple of years. They don't suddenly have a say in who I'm friends with.

"Well, at least you brought someone who isn't here to lecture me about being shot." I tease, giving Yelena a pointed look. Kate grins clearly relieved the conversation has shifted. "I'm just here for the heist planning." She smiles, her tone light. "Whatever Yelena has you roped into, I'm in." I join in the joke. Yelena perks up at that. "Oh, you have no idea what you've signed up for Bishop. This one here," she jerks her thumb at me, "has a history with getting into trouble."

Kate moves to take the seat next to me as both my parents decide to give us some space and grab some lunch. I'm grateful for them being able to read the room, but I notice the observant and narrow gaze of mama as she passes by Kate. I'm pretty sure I see Kate gulp a little which makes me laugh lightly.

"So," Kate asks, crossing her arms. "what's the plan for today? Ice cream, hospital jailbreak or maybe both?" She smiles, making the butterflies in my stomach flutter. "Oh, Yelena's already promised me ice cream, but she keeps postponing the jailbreak." I tease, glancing over at Yelena who's pretending not to listen.

Kate lets out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. "Typical. She makes all these grand promises, and then when it comes time to actually execute..." Kate starts teasingly before Yelena speaks up. "I'm literally right here." She complains, throwing her hands up in mock exasperation. "And for the record. I would have busted you out, but your mother threatened to remove all the mac and cheese from the building if I did." She admits with a child like huff.

"Still scared of mama huh?" I smirk, earning a harsh stare from my aunt. "No!" She defends loudly. "Well, maybe when it comes down to you." She admits quietly, making Kate and I laugh. "Well, well. I've finally discovered the one thing Yelena Belova is scared of." Kate torments Yelena. "Yeah, well don't forget that you're the one scared of me." Yelena points out giving her fiercest glare. Something that makes Kate shrink back into her seat. "Yep. You're right. Sorry." She apologises goofily, making me smile even wider.

There's a beat of silence, but it's not awkward. It's easy, comfortable, and I'm surprised at how quickly I've warmed up to Kate. She's sharp, funny and there's a confidence about her that makes me feel more at ease. I can tell she's someone who doesn't take life too seriously, but there's a genuine warmth underneath the sarcasm.

Yelena is watching us again, her arms crossed, and her eyebrow arched like she's trying to figure out how this is going to play out. "You know, I might actually enjoy watching this." She says, her voice laced with amusement. "You two are way too cute. It's like watching a rom-com in real time." She smirks

"Okay, enough of that." I say quickly, feeling my face begin to flush, this time not due to my infection! I glance to Kate who is grinning like she's in on some joke that I'm not, and I can't help but laugh. "Yelena, don't you have some Widow business to attend to?" I question hopefully. "Nope." She says cheerfully, popping the 'p' for emphasis. "I'm on babysitting duty today." She smiles proudly whilst I just roll my eyes. Maybe I do want my parents back right now!

Kate leans closer to me, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Does she always talk like that, or is it just for us?" She questions. "Always." I whisper back, earning a glare from Yelena. "Alright, alright." Yelena says, pretending to be offended, but her eyes twinkle with amusement. "I can see when I'm not wanted. I'll give you two some space. Try not to flirt too much while I'm gone." She teases.

"And you," she stops in front of Kate, a stern look on her face. "If she so much as flinches you call the nurse. I will have your head if anything happens to her." She warns her lowly. Kate just nods, gulping at the threat. "P-promise." She stutters. "Good. Text me if you need anything. Now have fun being all awkward and flirty." She smirks as she saunters out of the room.

Suddenly, it's just the two of us, the room quieter but still filled with that easy, playful energy. I glance over at Kate, feeling a bit of awkwardness settle in. But it's the good kind that makes my heart race a little.

"So, what now?" I ask, trying to sound casual? Kate shrugs, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "I don't know. I mean, we could plot that jailbreak. Or maybe..." She pauses, her eyes meeting mine. "We could just hang out and get to know each other a little better." She suggests.

There's a warmth in her gaze, something that makes my heart flutter, and for the first time in a while, I feel a sense of excitement. Not just for the ice cream or the jokes, but the possibility of something new. Something good. And maybe, just maybe, I'm ready for it.

Nat's POV:

My sharp eyes have always picked up on the subtle shift in a person's demeanour, the tiniest details that others overlook. Right now, I'm studying Kate Bishop. She's awkward sure. A little too wide-eyed and jittery, holding onto those flowers like she's afraid they might combust. There's a clumsy sincerity to her that I can't decide if I trust yet. Y/n though... Y/n is smiling. Laughing even, and I haven't seen that kind of lightness in her face in far too long. Still, I remain cautious.

I watch as Y/n teases Kate, the easy flow of their banter rolling off Y/n's tongue without the weight that usually accompanies her words. It's almost as if she's forgotten, if only for a few minutes, about the turmoil she's been going through. And while I want that for her, there's a part of me that can't let go of my protective instincts. That part that wants to dig deeper into who Kate Bishop really is, figure out if she's worthy of my daughter's trust.

Because Y/n doesn't let people in easily. Wanda and I have made that even harder for her now. To be able to trust is a difficult thing. I don't want to see her hurt more than she currently is. Not after everything that I've caused.

Wanda's voice pulls me out of my thoughts as she steps up beside me, her arms crossed but her expression soft, watching the interaction with a gentler gaze than I have. "She looks happy." Wanda murmurs. Her voice has that quiet thoughtful tone that always means she's been observing the situation for longer than I realised.

I nod, though I don't take my eyes off of Y/n. "She does." I admit reluctantly. Wanda notices this and quickly makes up an excuse of going to get some lunch and we quickly exit the room. Probably much to Y/n's delight!

"You don't like it?" Wanda asks, her lips twitching into a small smile. She can read me too easily, knows exactly what I'm feeling even when I try to keep it to myself. We hover in the corridor outside of Y/n's room as I sigh. "I didn't say that." I glance towards my wife, raising an eyebrow.

"No, but I know you." She chuckles softly, and it's a warm, comforting sound that cuts through the tension I've been holding in my chest. "Nat, you don't trust her yet." It's not a question, and I don't answer right away. Instead, I look back through the window into Y/n's room. My eyes falling to the pair of them. Y/n has leaned a little closer to Kate, her laughter soft, her smile genuine. Kate's making some grand gesture with her hands, her enthusiasm endearing in its awkwardness. Okay, I think. Maybe she's not so bad.

But still. "I just don't know her." I say finally, my voice low. Wanda hums in understanding, her gaze never leaving Y/n. "But look at her, Nat. She's the happiest we've seen her in a long while." She points out. I know she's right. Y/n hasn't had this kind of lightness in her eyes since the incident. Even in the days leading up to it, she was closed off, burdened by the trauma we had caused her. I couldn't do anything to help her, I couldn't fix what I had broken. And now here comes this Kate Bishop, breezing in like a ray of sunshine, making Y/n smile like it's the easiest thing in the world.

I sigh, crossing my arms tighter over my chest. "Maybe." I admit after a pause, my voice quieter now, more reflective. "Maybe Kate is what Y/n needs right now." Wanda turns her head to look at me fully, a surprised look on her face, but she soon gives me a soft knowing smile. "That's not easy for you to say."

"No, it's not." I say honestly. "But I can't ignore how she's acting. It's good to see her like this." I glance to Yelena who's still grinning like a proud instigator of all this chaos. Y/n has her laughing too, which is aways a good sign. "And Kate, she's not what I expected." I share.

There's an awkward clumsiness about the girl sure. But underneath that, there's a kindness in her eyes, something genuine that makes me reconsider my initial assessment. She's not just some reckless kid, despite the reputation. She cares and that means something.

Wanda places a gentle hand on my arm, squeezing lightly. "It's ok to let your guard down a little." I chuckle under my breath at her words. "I don't think I'm wired that way, Wanda." I reply. "I know." She laughs softly. "But maybe you can try. Kate isn't here to hurt Y/n. She's just, being a friend. Maybe that's exactly what Y/n needs right now." I nod, though my instincts still bristle at the idea of lowering my walls completely. "You're right. But I'm not going to stop being protective. Not after we failed her so badly." My gaze hardens just a fraction. "I can't."

Wanda's expression softens further, understanding in her eyes. "No one's asking you to stop protecting her Nat. Just, give this a chance. What ever it might be." She pleads. I look at Y/n again. She's relaxed in a way I haven't seen her in months. The tightness in her shoulders is gone, replaced by something lighter, freer. And I realise that I'm not the only one trying to protect her. Maybe, in her own way, Kate is too.

"I'll give it a chance." I mutter quietly. "But I'll be watching." Wanda smiles knowingly. "I wouldn't expect anything less." She says as both our gazes fall to our daughter. Just then, Kate says something that makes Y/n burst out laughing, the sound so full of life that it catches me off guard. My heart clenches that it's taken this long. That Wanda and I created an environment where she felt like she no longer belonged in this family.

I know it's going to take time for her to even consider forgiving us. But I know that it's important that she has other people around her that she can talk to and have fun with. If it's just Wanda and me she'll become completely closed off. Maybe being around Kate is exactly what she needs. It doesn't mean I'll let my guard down completely. Not yet. I will always protect her. That's what mother's do. Even if I haven't proven my right to that title in a long time.

_________

As Wanda and I step back into our home, the familiar chaos of our boys welcomes us like a warm embrace. The scent of something sweet wafts through the air, mixing with the sharp, clean smell of wood polish from our recent cleaning efforts. I can hear the muffled sounds of laughter and playful shouting emanating from the living room, and it brings a smile to my face despite the heaviness still clinging to my heart.

Tommy and Billy have been asking about their sister non-stop over the last few days, and every time, I see the worry deepen in their little faces. They've felt the weight of Y/n's absences as much as we have, maybe more.

"Hey, you two!" I call out, my voice breaking through the din. Almost immediately, Tommy and Billy come barrelling into the hallway, their faces lighting up like it's Christmas morning. They launch themselves at us, wrapping their arms around my waist and Wanda's legs in a tangle of limbs and giggles. It's a comforting noise, one that momentarily pulls me away from the weight of the world outside these walls.

"Mom! Mom! How's Y/n? Is she okay?" Tommy's voice rises with excitement, his wide eyes sparkling with a mixture of hope and anxiety. I exchange a glance with Wanda, who stands beside me, her own expression tinged with a protective softness. It's a moment like this that reminds me just how much the boys adore their sister.

"She's still unwell, sweetheart," I say gently, kneeling down to meet Tommy's gaze at eye level. "But she's doing better than she was. She'll be home soon." I try to sound optimistic, but the knot in my stomach betrays me. I know how much they want to see Y/n, and how hard it's been for them to understand why she isn't here with us.

"Soon? Like tomorrow?" Billy asks, bouncing on his toes, his dark hair flopping into his eyes. There's a slight hopefulness in his voice, and it makes my heart ache, knowing they're so eager for good news. Wanda steps in beside me, placing a hand on Tommy's shoulder, her touch gentle and reassuring. "She's going to need a few more days in the hospital, honey. She's got to rest and get better first." I watch the way Wanda's eyes soften when she speaks to the boys, how she has an innate ability to make even the hardest truths sound a little lighter.

"But her birthday is coming up!" Tommy exclaims suddenly, his expression shifting from concern to realization. "We have to make it special for her! Can we plan a perfect birthday for her in her hospital room?" His enthusiasm is infectious, and a flicker of warmth spreads in my chest at his determination. Billy nods vigorously, his face lighting up with ideas. "Yeah! We can decorate it and bring her cake! She'll love that!" The energy in the room shifts, and I can see both boys imagining the decorations they might hang, the cake they might bake, and the joy they hope to bring their sister.

"That's a great idea," I agree, feeling a swell of pride as I watch them brainstorm. "But we need to wait until she's feeling a bit better, okay? We don't want to overwhelm her." Tommy frowns slightly, his brow furrowing in thought. "When can we see her?" His voice is earnest, full of longing. I can hear the worry tucked beneath his words, and it tugs at my heart. "Yeah, we want to see Y/n!" Billy adds, his expression mirroring his brother's eagerness.

Wanda glances at me, and I can feel the weight of our responsibilities bearing down. "We'll take you to see her in the morning," I promise, seeing their faces light up with hope. "But remember, she might be tired and need to rest, so we have to be gentle with her."

"Yay!" Tommy cheers, his voice ringing through the hallway, and Billy joins in, practically bouncing on his heels with excitement. Their joy is palpable, a reminder of the happiness that can still exist even amidst uncertainty and pain.

Just then, Steve steps out from the kitchen, having been quietly observing the boys from a distance. His presence brings a calmness to the chaos, and I find comfort in knowing he's here. "Hey, how are you two doing?" he asks, his eyes twinkling as he takes in the scene of our little family reunion.

"Mama and mom just told us that Y/n is coming home soon!" Tommy exclaims, practically vibrating with excitement, his hands flailing as he gestures animatedly.

"Yeah, and we're planning the best birthday for her ever!" Billy adds, his voice bubbling over with enthusiasm, his cheeks flushed with energy.

"Sounds like you're all set for a celebration," Steve says with a smile, nodding approvingly. He leans against the wall, crossing his arms as he watches the boys with fondness. "I'll leave you to it. Just let me know if you need anything." He shoots us a knowing look, one that acknowledges the weight of what we're dealing with, before stepping back into the kitchen.

As Wanda and I stand there, our boys filled with excitable plans, I can't help but feel a mix of gratitude and dread. Gratitude for the moments of joy, the laughter that fills our home, and the love that binds us together. Sadness that our family isn't complete and dread for the challenges still ahead. We're still on shaky ground, still trying to piece together the remnants of our family after everything that's happened.

But for now, I push those worries aside. I take a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scent of our home, and look around at the smiling faces of my children. "Okay, let's start planning for this birthday celebration!" I suggest, my heart lifting at the idea of planning something special for Y/n.

"We need balloons. And streamers!" Tommy states excitedly, his eyes bright with ideas. "And cake!" Billy insists, his mouth already watering at the thought. "What kind should we get her?"

As we brainstorm, I can't help but smile. We'll take this one step at a time. Tomorrow, we'll bring the boys to see Y/n, and hopefully, we'll be one step closer to bringing her home where she belongs. Hopefully, she'll see that we plan to be the best parents to her and in time she'll forgive us. I feel a flicker of hope, ignited by the boys' excitement and determination to make their sister smile, to show her that she is loved and missed.

"Let's get started," I say, my voice full of warmth as I gather them into a huddle, my heart swelling with pride. Together, we can do this. Together, we can find a way to help Y/n heal, and maybe even begin to mend the cracks that have formed in our family.

Part 4

Taglist: @reggierizzoli @ordelixx @mousetheorist @oh-thats-cute @bstvst @waiqui @fxckmiup @kosmichs1 @theprincipality

[widowromanova]

Sniper (part 1) - Natasha x Female Reader

warnings: mentions of violence (guns etc.)

word count: 1244

You've been trying to catch and stop Natasha for as long as you can remember; you finally see her again, after 3 years.

a/n: inspired by a prompt I saw on TT that suddenly gave me insane motivation to write

Your former work for SHIELD, coupled with the glowing recommendation Fury had written for you, had opened doors you never thought possible. High(er)-level intelligence agencies had practically lined up to recruit you, and it wasn’t long before you found yourself entrenched in a new world of operations and classified missions. Your current boss, a calculating and ambitious higher-up with ties that ran deep, had recently assigned you to a high-priority duty. The mission was clear but personal - the kind that made your pulse race and your resolve waver. After three years of chasing her, she was finally within your grasp.

Natasha Romanoff had become chaos, her cunning mind orchestrating a series of events that threatened to destroy global stability. She manipulated world leaders, sowing distrust among allies and tearing apart her long-standing professional relationships. Whispers of a bio-weapon project capable of targeting populations only added to the growing unease among those who suspected her involvement. Yet, to the public, and even some former allies, she maintained an innocent facade, always frustratingly one step ahead. She had made her plan clear to you all those years ago:

Natasha had locked her piercing gaze onto yours. "You know how bad it's gotten, Y/N. The leaders are puppets, and the people-” she paused, “they don’t even realize they’re asleep.”

“You can’t seriously believe getting rid of all of it is the answer,” you’d argued, the weight of her words settling uneasily. Her lips had curved into a faint smile, not of humour, but of certainty.

“It’s not about belief. It’s about necessity. Only through destroying one thing can we rebuild something that works. Governments, alliances - they don't work. They need to be erased.”

“Erased? Do you even know what you sound like, Natasha? And replaced with what? You?”

She paused.

“If that’s what it takes.” Her voice had been calm, no sense of hesitation, her conviction chilling. “Survival of the fittest. No corruption. No weakness.”

At the time, you’d thought it was just frustration talking, the cynical musings of someone who’d been through too much. But now, you realised she’d meant every word. Natasha wasn’t just dismantling the world’s structure - she was forging it into her vision of perfection. And you had been too blind to stop her then.

From then, you knew every move she made was deliberate - you had known her to be an incredibly smart woman ever since you met her. And of course, your history with her proved to be of convenience to organisations, though you were frequently hesitant to speak her name.

The night air was cold, the city sprawled out beneath you in a labyrinth of lights. The sniper rifle before you felt like an extension of yourself; "That sounds ridiculous," you thought, but every inch of the weapon's polished surface was familiar to you. You leaned into the scope, propped up on your elbows. Silence, broken only by the occasional hum of traffic below. You knew, of course, that Natasha would never trust anyone else to do work for her, she was after all a self-proclaimed "lone wolf" (you had always made fun of her for that). You couldn't see her yet, but you knew she was coming.

Your superior had instructed you simply: to wait, and then take the shot when you saw her. Each minute that passed, the tension in your shoulders grew, your thoughts tightening into a knot of uncertainty.

You adjusted the focus on the scope, making sure every inch of the room was visible, your pulse steady. You felt your warm breath mix with the stinging cold of the air around you, manifesting into a puff of smoke.

There you saw it, her gleaming red streaks of hair.

For a moment, the city below seemed to disappear, the noise fading into a distant hum. All that remained was the image of her, framed perfectly in your sight. Your heart beat a little faster, not from the tension of the mission, but from something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in years. The memory of her, the way she used to make you feel. You held your breath, the moment heavier than anything else you had ever done.

And then, as if she could sense your gaze, she turned. Her head shifted slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of the reflection in the window across the street. You froze as her eyes locked onto yours through the scope. The world blurred around her stare, and everything you had told yourself about this mission - about her - faded into the background.

She knew. The realisation hit you like a punch. She had always been sharper than anyone gave her credit for, but in this moment, it wasn’t just about strategy. It was a silent acknowledgment, that you were no longer just playing a game of cat and mouse. Her lips barely parted, as if she were about to speak - though the words never came.

The silence between you was deafening, the weight of it pressing in from all sides. You didn’t know if she would move, if she would even give you a chance to make the shot. The corner of her mouth was slowly tugged up her face, the faintest smirk forming as if she knew exactly what you were feeling: she could sense the panic radiating from your skin. Of course she knew, she always knew.

Your trigger finger twitched, the red spot on her forehead suddenly becoming painfully obvious. She slowly raised her empty hands up to the air as if to surrender, the smirk still prominent on her face. Her right hand began to form a gun shape, her fingers curling into a mock trigger, and with a playful yet mocking precision, she brought it to her temple. She paused, and then, with a small grin, mimicked pulling the trigger, the "pew" sound escaping her lips exaggeratedly. It was a cruel game of control. The image of her - carefree, taunting - causing your finger to tense on the trigger.

You watched as she lowered her hand slowly, the smirk still playing on her lips, her eyes never leaving yours. "Come on, you still have it in you, don’t you?" she taunted through the wiring in the room feeding directly to your ear, her voice a low, amused whisper.

The mockery squeezed at every nerve in your body. Every instinct told you to act, to end this, but you faltered. She was still the woman you once knew, the one who had shared everything with you, and now she was daring you to pull the trigger.

"You know where to find me," she whispered again.

In an instant, the room’s lights flickered, a low hum filling the air. Before you could react, the lights completely blackened, plunging you into suffocating darkness. The only sound that filled the silence was your own breathing, shallow and sharp, as rage set in once again. The weight of the rifle in your hands seemed heavier now as you dropped onto your arms in sudden exhaustion.

The lights flickered back to life, but the room was empty. Your heart skipped a beat as you scanned the space, your eyes darting from corner to corner. Nothing. As if she had never been there at all.

You lowered the rifle slowly. She had just given you the slip again. You clambered up, kicking your equipment out of your way in your anger.

"Fuck."

a/n: part 2 coming soon ;)) (promises of SMUT SMUT SMUT)

[izbiz3737]

Back to main Masterlist part 1 part 3

Natasha ties the stitch tighter with her teeth. “Good thing I’m not normal people.”

________________________________________

You stop dreaming eventually. Or maybe the dreams never stop and your brain just learns not to keep them. Missions blur together after a while.

Budapest. Berlin. Moscow. A man bleeding across marble flooring. A politician collapsing mid-speech. Hotel room curtains. Gun oil. White hallways. Red Room handlers.

You become very good at disappearing. Very good at smiling. Very good at making people trust you thirty seconds before you kill them. The handlers praise you for efficiency. You feel nothing about that.

________________________________________

Natasha learns coffee first. Not because she likes it.

Because SHIELD agents drink it constantly and she’s tired of people asking if she’s okay whenever she refuses. The bitterness makes her grimace every time.

Clint laughs at her for three straight weeks. “You make that face every single sip.”

“It tastes burnt.”

“That’s because it is burnt.”

“Americans are strange.”

________________________________________

You sit in a chair while someone brushes your hair. Not gently. Never gently.

Girls line the walls in identical white gowns. Some stare straight ahead. Some shake. Some look proud. You don’t know how you look.

Madame B walks slowly between rows. “Today,” she says, “you graduate.”

No one smiles. A girl beside you quietly throws up onto the floor.

No one reacts. Handlers remove her without stopping the ceremony. You never see her again.

________________________________________

Natasha gets better at pretending to be human.

That’s what Fury calls it once. “A natural spy.”

If only he knew. She learns sarcasm, eye contact, how long hugs are supposed to last, how to lie without sounding trained to do it.

Sometimes she thinks SHIELD is just another kind of Red Room with better branding.

Then Clint hands her greasy takeout at 2AM and complains about paperwork for twenty straight minutes.

The Red Room never allowed complaining. The realization almost makes her smile.

________________________________________

“Do you understand the procedure?”

“Yes.”

“State the purpose.”

“To remove biological weakness.”

“State the benefit.”

“No possibility of distraction. No divided loyalty. Only mission.”

“Good.”

Your voice sounds calm. You hate that.

Somewhere deep down, something inside you is screaming. But the screaming feels very far away now. Like hearing someone drown underwater. The room smells sterile. Bright lights overhead. Metal instruments.

One of the younger girls starts crying in the corner before her procedure even begins.

An instructor slaps her hard enough to knock her sideways. “Control yourself.”

You stare forward. Do not react. Do not react. Do not react. That is how you survive here.

________________________________________

Natasha kills her first target for SHIELD at twenty.

Afterward, Fury tells her: “You did good work.”

The praise makes her physically ill. She locks herself in a motel bathroom for an hour staring at blood beneath her fingernails. Not because of the body.

Because for one terrible second, she enjoyed how easy it felt. Red Room instincts. Conditioning. She scrubs her hands until they bleed.

That night she dreams of Ohio for the first time in years. Fireflies. Tiny glowing stars in the woods. And your voice: “Nat! Nat, look!”

She wakes up crying without understanding why at first.

________________________________________

The procedure hurts afterward more than during. That surprises you. Not sharp pain. Empty pain.

A deep ache curling through your abdomen while fluorescent lights buzz overhead.

Another girl lies in the bed beside yours staring blankly at the ceiling. Neither of you speak. You don’t know her name. Maybe you never did.

Hours later, an instructor enters with clipboards. “Stand.”

Your legs nearly buckle hitting the floor. “Pain only makes you stronger.”

The words leave your mouth automatically now. The instructor nods approvingly. You feel sick. Not from pain. From how easily you said it.

________________________________________

Clint teaches Natasha how to drive stick shift in an empty parking lot. “You’re too tense.”

“I am literally operating heavy machinery.”

“It’s a Honda Civic, not a fighter jet.”

Natasha nearly drives them into a shopping cart. Clint laughs so hard he cries. For a second, she hates him for it.

Then something warm slips out before she can stop it. A laugh. Small. Rusted. Unused. The sound shocks her more than the near collision.

Because suddenly she remembers another laugh. Smaller than hers. Messier. Following her through Ohio woods. You. The warmth disappears instantly.

________________________________________

You stop keeping track of your age after seventeen. Years become missions. Cities. Bodies.

You are Agent 254 more often than you are anything else. But sometimes, rarely, something breaks through.

A gas station in Iowa with purple toy horses near the register. A child singing American Pie off-key in a grocery store. Fireflies outside a Romanian hotel balcony.

Each memory hits like a bullet. Sharp. Sudden. Gone too fast to hold. The handlers notice afterward. Your dosage increases again.

________________________________________

Girls line the walls in identical white gowns. Some stare straight ahead. Some shake. Some look proud. You don’t know how you look.

Madame B walks slowly between rows. “Today,” she says, “you graduate.”

No one smiles. A girl beside you quietly throws up onto the floor.

No one reacts. Handlers remove her without stopping the ceremony. You never see her again.

________________________________________

Natasha gets better at pretending to be human.

That’s what Fury calls it once. “A natural spy.”

If only he knew. She learns sarcasm, eye contact, how long hugs are supposed to last, how to lie without sounding trained to do it.

Sometimes she thinks SHIELD is just another kind of Red Room with better branding.

Then Clint hands her greasy takeout at 2AM and complains about paperwork for twenty straight minutes.

The Red Room never allowed complaining. The realization almost makes her smile.

________________________________________

“Do you understand the procedure?”

“Yes.”

“State the purpose.”

“To remove biological weakness.”

“State the benefit.”

“No possibility of distraction. No divided loyalty. Only mission.”

“Good.”

Your voice sounds calm. You hate that.

Somewhere deep down, something inside you is screaming. But the screaming feels very far away now. Like hearing someone drown underwater. The room smells sterile. Bright lights overhead. Metal instruments.

One of the younger girls starts crying in the corner before her procedure even begins.

An instructor slaps her hard enough to knock her sideways. “Control yourself.”

You stare forward. Do not react. Do not react. Do not react. That is how you survive here.

________________________________________

Natasha kills her first target for SHIELD at twenty.

Afterward, Fury tells her: “You did good work.”

The praise makes her physically ill. She locks herself in a motel bathroom for an hour staring at blood beneath her fingernails. Not because of the body.

Because for one terrible second, she enjoyed how easy it felt. Red Room instincts. Conditioning. She scrubs her hands until they bleed.

That night she dreams of Ohio for the first time in years. Fireflies. Tiny glowing stars in the woods. And your voice: “Nat! Nat, look!”

She wakes up crying without understanding why at first.

________________________________________

The procedure hurts afterward more than during. That surprises you. Not sharp pain. Empty pain.

A deep ache curling through your abdomen while fluorescent lights buzz overhead.

Another girl lies in the bed beside yours staring blankly at the ceiling. Neither of you speak. You don’t know her name. Maybe you never did.

Hours later, an instructor enters with clipboards. “Stand.”

Your legs nearly buckle hitting the floor. “Pain only makes you stronger.”

The words leave your mouth automatically now. The instructor nods approvingly. You feel sick. Not from pain. From how easily you said it.

________________________________________

Clint teaches Natasha how to drive stick shift in an empty parking lot. “You’re too tense.”

“I am literally operating heavy machinery.”

“It’s a Honda Civic, not a fighter jet.”

Natasha nearly drives them into a shopping cart. Clint laughs so hard he cries. For a second, she hates him for it.

Then something warm slips out before she can stop it. A laugh. Small. Rusted. Unused. The sound shocks her more than the near collision.

Because suddenly she remembers another laugh. Smaller than hers. Messier. Following her through Ohio woods. You. The warmth disappears instantly.

________________________________________

You stop keeping track of your age after seventeen. Years become missions. Cities. Bodies.

You are Agent 254 more often than you are anything else. But sometimes, rarely, something breaks through.

A gas station in Iowa with purple toy horses near the register. A child singing American Pie off-key in a grocery store. Fireflies outside a Romanian hotel balcony.

Each memory hits like a bullet. Sharp. Sudden. Gone too fast to hold. The handlers notice afterward. Your dosage increases again.

________________________________________

“Hey.”

Natasha glances up from cleaning her gun. Clint tosses something onto the table. A plastic horse. Purple. Cheap..Her entire body freezes. “…where did you get this?”

“Gas station.” Clint shrugs. “Thought it looked familiar somehow.”

Natasha stares at it too long. Too hard.

Clint’s expression shifts slightly. “You okay?”

No. No, she isn’t.

Because suddenly she remembers snow. Whistling. Your forehead against hers.

Please go live life for both of us.

Natasha closes her hand around the horse so tightly the plastic creaks. And for the first time in years, she lets herself wonder if you might still be alive.

________________________________________

The mission is the usual. Kill the target, retrieve the antidote for Dreykov.

You've been watching the woman from the rooftops of a coastal town. Below, she looks normal. Normal women carrying a backpack on top of a sweater and jeans.

But you know what's really in that backpack. Stolen antidote that Dreykov wants back.

You climb down from the building now, eye still fixed on your target. Your knife is drawn. The woman runs. Not fast enough.

You catch her by the alley exit, slamming her hard into brick. Her backpack falls between you both with a heavy thud. “Please—”

You stab first. Efficient. Low abdomen. Non-fatal if treated quickly. Enough to stop resistance.

The woman gasps sharply, collapsing against the wall. Your earpiece crackles. “Retrieve the antidote.”

You crouch, reaching for the bag. Then the woman grabs your wrist. Weak. Desperate. But intentional. “You don’t know,” she breathes.

You twist her arm automatically until something cracks. She cries out. “You are compromised,” you say flatly.

The words don’t even feel like yours anymore. The woman’s shaking hand fumbles inside her jacket instead. A small red vial. Your eyes narrow instantly. Antidote. Priority retrieval.

You grab for it and she smashes it against your face. Red mist bursts across your skin. You recoil violently.

For one horrible second, nothing happens. Then, Pain. Not physical. Something deeper. Your knees hit concrete.The alley twists sideways.

A child laughing. Fireflies. Ohio. “Nat! Nat, I wanna play!”

You gasp sharply, fingers digging into the pavement. No. No no no—

Cold shower tiles. Blood on snow. “Agent 254, return immediately.”

Natasha’s forehead against yours. “Go live life for both of us.”Thats what you'd told her.

Your breathing turns ragged instantly. The world flickers. Gunshots. Needles. White rooms. A doctor saying “Hold her still.”

Hands pinning your legs apart. Screaming. Not yours. No— yours. You choke on a sob. The alley comes. back in pieces.

The woman is saying something. “…listen to me…”

Your hands are shaking now. Shaking. That never happens. You stare at them in horror like they belong to somebody else. Images slam into you too fast to process.

Missions. Bodies. Children caught in crossfire. The graduation room. Dreykov smiling. Natasha. Natasha. Natasha.

Your stomach lurches violently. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.

The woman coughs wetly beside the wall. Blood stains her teeth now. “You were controlled,” she says weakly. “The Red Room—”

“I know what the Red Room is.” Your voice cracks apart halfway through the sentence. Because suddenly you do. Not facts. Not training.

Memory. Real memory. You remember Ohio. You remember your name. And worst of all you remember Natasha leaving in the snow while you stayed behind.

The woman watches realization destroy you in real time. Then quietly “There are more girls.” Your eyes snap to her. More Widows. More girls like you.

The woman pushes the backpack toward you weakly. Inside: more antidote vials. “The Red Room can be stopped…”

Your breathing stutters unevenly. Stopped. Nobody has ever said that before. Not possible. Not imaginable.

You look at the blood on your gloves. At your shaking hands. At the knife beside your knee.

Then finally “…Natasha.” The name leaves your mouth like prayer and grief all at once.

________________________________________

You are back in the local safehouse, antidotes in hand before you can even fully process what's happened.

Your mind, it's yours again.

But Natasha. You need to find Natasha. What does she look like? Her eyes, her nose...is her hair still red? Was it red?

The laptop in the safehouse was old. Nothing you couldn't work with, your fingers flying over the keys with speed. Google, social media, cross-tag references and locations. Databases, news, SHIELD leaks, Stark Towers profile information.

Each search bringing you closer and closer to your sister's location. She had to be alive, she had to be.

Then, finally, New York City.

________________________________________

The city was big. Bigger than the coastal town, bigger than anything you'd expected. Busy, too. Full of people rushing around in crowded streets.

You ask a local bar host.

“Do you know Natasha?”

Nothing.

You keep asking. Keep trying. She couldn't be dead. She had to be alive, God she had to be.

It's night before you finally find someone.

Another stranger, walking the dark streets. Your gun is out, loaded, safety off. Just in case.

“Have you seen my sister? I need to find Natasha. Can you help me find Natasha?” you ask the woman almost desperately now, the small Russian lilt clear now in the quiet streets.

“Natasha?” the woman replies. “Whats her last name?”

“Romanoff. Natasha Romanoff. Please.”

“How do you—” the red haired woman squints at you. “...Y/N?”

The woman looked familiar in a way you couldn't place. Your gun snaps into aim, finger tight on the trigger. “How do you know my name?”

“...you're alive.” The woman says. Something...her eyes maybe. “I thought...I thought they would've killed you for...”

“Natasha..?” your grip on the gun falters. Your grip trembles. Not from fear. From exhaustion. From memory. From hearing your own name spoken gently for the first time in years.

Natasha takes one careful step forward. You flinch instantly, gun snapping fully back up. The movement freezes her in place.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Her voice is older now. Rougher than you remember. But still Natasha. Still home. Your breathing comes unevenly. “You left.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. Natasha’s expression breaks. Not dramatically. Just enough. A tiny crack in something held together for years.

“I know,” she whispers.

Your eyes burn immediately. “No, I told you to go.” Your voice shakes harder now. “I told you to run.”

“And I did.” The guilt in her voice is unbearable. You hate that it hurts her. You hate that part of you is glad it does.

“Natasha left me, Natasha...” your eyes squeeze shut, hand against your forehead. “No...stop, stop... she didn't—”

People pass at the far end of the street, completely unaware that two former Red Room assassins stand facing each other beneath flickering neon lights like ghosts clawing their way out of the grave.

Natasha looks at you carefully. Older now. Taller. But underneath all the weapons and tactical instinct and dead-eyed posture still her little sister. Her gaze drops slightly.

The gun.

“Hey,” she says gently. “Why don’t you put that down?”

Your fingers tighten harder instead. Because suddenly you remember another gun. Another snowy night. Another goodbye.

Natasha sees the realization hit your face in real time. “You remember,” she says quietly.

A sharp breath leaves your lungs. Everything comes back at once again the snow, the guards, her whistle, your choice.

Your knees almost buckle.

“I tried to save you,” Natasha says suddenly, voice cracking for the first time. “I tried—I came back later and—”

“You came back?”

That stops her cold.

“…of course I did.”

And somehow that hurts more than everything else.

Because for years, beneath all the programming and chemicals and obedience, part of you still believed she never looked back.

Natasha lowers her voice immediately. Careful. Controlled in the way people only become after years of learning how to handle frightened things.

“Hey,” she says softly. “Look at me.”

You can’t.

Your breathing keeps catching wrong, sharp and uneven. Your hand is still gripping the gun hard enough your knuckles ache.

“I didn’t leave you,” Natasha says.

Your laugh comes out broken. “You did.”

“No.” Her eyes shine under the streetlights now. “You saved me.”

The words hit harder than any strike ever has.

Your grip falters again.

Snow. Fog. “Go live life for both of us.”

You remember it now. All of it.

Natasha stepping toward you. You stepping back. The guards coming closer.

You chose.

“Oh God…” your voice cracks apart completely.

Natasha takes another slow step forward. “You were six.”

“Ten,” you correct automatically.Because that was the age during the escape. Because part of you is still there.

Natasha’s face crumples slightly anyway. “Ten,” she whispers. “You were ten and you saved my life.”

Your knees nearly give out. Nobody has ever called it that before. Not sacrifice. Not love. Not bravery. The Red Room called it failure.

The words slam into every broken place inside you all at once. You lower the gun. Not fully. Just enough.

Natasha notices anyway. Her hands stay visible at her sides. “Can I come closer?”

You stare at her.

Really stare. Older now. Lines around her eyes. Shorter hair. Different posture. But still Natasha.

Still the girl who showed you fireflies. Your throat burns painfully. “…why didn’t you come back?” you whisper.

And there it is. The real question. Not accusation. Not anger. Grief.

Natasha closes her eyes briefly like the question physically hurts. “I tried.”

That’s all she says at first. Because anything bigger would break both of you.

“But—”

“I tried to find you, but..all the Red Room records I could find said you were dead.”

“They told me you were dead. Dreykov, he—”

“I know.”

________________________________________

Natasha doesn't take you to her house. No, too busy. Too loud. Instead, she takes you to an old apartment. A little unkempt and run down, but clearly lived in.

“Clint kept me here when he rescued me,” she explains. “SHIELD HQ was busy and loud. It was...quieter here. Um, sitting room, kitchen. Bathroom, bedrooms.”

She points quickly. “Make yourself at home.”

You stand a little awkwardly in the doorway as Natasha kicks her shoes off, sitting on the couch. Your eyes search the open room, for exits. For escapes. For anywhere something could hide.

The knives in the open kitchen drawer. A gap above the cupboards to hide a small gun. A set of drawers behind the couch that could hide a larger gun beneath it.

“You can sit.” Natasha says quietly, like the words themselves break her.  You don’t move at first.

Your body still feels caught between fight and flight, muscles tight beneath borrowed clothes and dried blood. The apartment smells faintly like coffee and old books and something fried in oil weeks ago. Human smells. Lived-in smells. Not sterile bleach. Not metal.

Natasha watches you from the couch carefully, like approaching a wounded animal too quickly might make it bolt through the window.

“You’re safe here,” she says. The words hit strangely. Safe. You almost ask her what that means.

Instead, your gaze catches on the television across the room. A framed photo beside it. Eight people standing together in strange uniforms.

Natasha.

A blond man with long hair.

A man in red and gold armor.

A man with a bow.

A man with glasses, like someone smart.

A man wearing a blue, red and white hero suit.

A bald man with an eye patch next to a brunette woman.

Heroes. Avengers. Your stomach twists violently. “You’re one of them,” you murmur.

Natasha follows your line of sight. “Yeah.”

“You save people.”

The words sound foreign in your mouth. Natasha’s expression tightens slightly. “I try.”

You stare at the photo a second longer before quietly asking, “Do they know?”

“About the Red Room?” Natasha shakes her head once. “Some of it.”

Not all of it. Not you.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You still don’t know what to do with your hands when they aren’t holding a weapon. Natasha notices.

Slowly, carefully, she reaches toward the coffee table instead of toward you, picking up a glass of water. “You should drink something.”

You hesitate before taking it. Your fingers brush hers for barely a second. The contact nearly wrecks you. Because it’s gentle.

No correction. No restraint. No punishment afterward. Just your sister handing you a glass of water. Your throat burns suddenly.

You sit down at the far edge of the couch like you’re prepared to flee at any second. Natasha doesn’t comment on the distance.

You drink too fast. Survival instinct. Hydrate when available. Natasha notices that too. Of course she does.

“You don’t have to ration here,” she says quietly. Your hands stop instantly around the glass.

The Red Room flashes through your head again. girls hiding bread, counting calories, punishments for stealing food, learning not to finish things too quickly because there might not be more later.

Your eyes lower to the floor. “…right.”

Silence settles between you. Not hostile. Just unfamiliar.

Outside, a siren wails somewhere far below the apartment windows. Pipes clank softly in the walls. Normal sounds. You don’t know how to exist around normal sounds anymore.

Natasha leans forward slightly, elbows on her knees. “Do you remember everything?”

You go still. “No,” you admit after a moment. “Pieces.”

The graduation room flashes behind your eyes immediately. White walls. Cold restraints. A doctor saying clinical words. Colder tools. No anesthesia.

Your breathing catches. Natasha notices instantly. “Hey.”

You press the heels of your hands against your eyes hard enough to hurt. “They—they…”

Your voice dies completely. Natasha already knows.

You can tell by the way all the air leaves her lungs at once. “Oh, God,” she whispers.

You laugh once. Broken. Humourless. “Yeah.”

Natasha’s face twists with something uglier than grief. Rage. Not loud rage. Worse. The kind that sits cold behind the ribs and waits. “I’m going to kill him,” she says softly.

Dreykov. And for the first time since the antidote hit your system, you believe someone actually might.

Your chest tightens painfully. “I killed people,” you whisper suddenly.

Natasha looks at you immediately. “So did I.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Your voice starts shaking again. “I remember them now.” Faces. Voices. Fear.

A child caught in crossfire. A woman begging in an alley. Blood on your hands that no longer feels distant enough to survive. “I remember all of it.”

Natasha is quiet for a long moment. “They made us into weapons before we were old enough to understand what choice was.”

You shake your head violently. “I still did it.”

“And now you regret it.”

You stare at her. The certainty in her voice almost makes you angry. “How can you say that like it fixes anything?”

“Because if you were what they made you,” Natasha says carefully, “you wouldn’t care.”

Silence again. Your eyes burn.

You hate that she still knows exactly where to press to reach the softest parts of you. Natasha shifts slightly on the couch. Slow enough not to startle you.

“When Clint found me,” she says quietly, “I thought I was too far gone too.” You glance at her. “He told me something,” she continues. “He said the worst things I’d ever done weren’t the only things about me.”

Your throat tightens painfully. “Was he right?”

Natasha looks at you fully then. Completely certain. “Yes.”

The answer comes too fast to be fake.

And somehow that hurts most of all. Because the Red Room taught you love was conditional. Useful only when earned. Temporary. Fragile.

Natasha looks at you like she loved you before the Red Room. Like she never stopped. Your breathing goes uneven again.

“You kept it,” Natasha says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“The horse.”

Your hand instinctively moves toward your pocket before you can stop it..Natasha sees immediately. Very slowly, you pull it out.

Small plastic pony. Chipped paint. Bent leg. One ear nearly broken off. You’d hidden it for years.

Natasha stares at it like it physically hurts to see. “Oh,” she breathes.

Your fingers tighten around the toy. “I thought if I forgot this,” you whisper, “then Ohio wasn’t real.”

Natasha’s eyes shine instantly. “It was real,” she says.

Fireflies. Forest stars. Swingsets. American Pie in the car. Mac and cheese. A life neither of you were supposed to have.

Your lip trembles before you can stop it. And then suddenly Natasha is moving. Slowly. Carefully. Giving you every chance to pull away. But when she reaches for you this tim you let her.

Her arms wrap around you gently, cautiously at first like she’s afraid you’ll break. Maybe you already did.

For one horrible second you stay completely rigid. Red Room instinct. Touch means restraint. Pain. Correction.

Then Natasha’s hand moves to the back of your head exactly the way it used to in Ohio. And you shatter. The sob tears out of you so violently it hurts.

Natasha holds you tighter immediately. “I’ve got you,” she whispers desperately. “I’ve got you, младшая сестра. I’ve got you.”

Years of grief hit all at once. Ten year old you in the snow. Six year old you in the container screaming for your sister. Every lonely night. Every mission. Every punishment. Every moment believing nobody was coming back for you.

You cry into Natasha’s shoulder so hard you can barely breathe. And this time she doesn’t let go.

________________________________________

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

Not the quiet of the Red Room,  never that. There, silence had always meant listening. Waiting. Anticipating footsteps outside a door. This quiet is different. Soft.

Old pipes groan somewhere in the walls. Cars hiss distantly outside. A radiator clicks every few minutes like an uneven heartbeat.

You still can’t sleep. Natasha notices almost immediately. Of course she does.

You sit rigidly on the edge of the couch long after midnight, fully dressed, boots still on, one of the kitchen knives hidden beneath your sleeve. Watching. Tracking exits.

The hallway window. Front door. Fire escape. Natasha’s bedroom. Every sound makes your shoulders tense automatically.

The bathroom light flicks on down the hall. Your body reacts before your mind does, hand already moving for the knife.

Natasha emerges a second later wearing sweatpants and an old gray shirt, damp hair tied loosely back.

She freezes when she sees you awake. “You haven’t slept,” she says quietly. Not accusing.Just noticing.

You shrug one shoulder. “Neither have you.”

A small huff of breath leaves her nose. Not quite a laugh. “Fair.”

She disappears into the kitchen for a moment. You hear cabinets open. Water running. The apartment smells faintly like coffee a few minutes later.

You watch her carefully as she leans against the counter.

No weapons visible. Still dangerous. Always dangerous. But not to you. Your brain knows that now. Your body hasn’t caught up yet.

Natasha studies you over the rim of her mug before speaking again. “You can take the bedroom.”

“No.”

“You’ll sleep better in an actual bed.”

“No.”

A pause. Then, quieter “Okay.”

No argument. No order. You don’t know what to do with that. In the Red Room, “no” was never the end of a conversation.

Natasha watches your grip tighten unconsciously around your sleeve. Knife still there. She notices that too. But she doesn’t mention it.

Instead she asks, “You hungry?”

The question catches you off guard enough that you answer honestly before thinking. “…a little.”

Natasha nods once and moves around the kitchen slowly, deliberately loud enough that you can track every movement without feeling threatened.

Cabinet. Plate. Fridge. Microwave. Normal. The realization feels stranger than violence ever did. You watch her heat leftovers in silence.

Your eyes drift around the apartment again. Bookshelves. A blanket tossed over the couch arm. A mug left beside the sink. Evidence of a life. A real one. You stare at the mug too long.

Natasha notices. “That one’s Clint’s.”

Your gaze snaps back to her immediately.

“We come here sometimes. When we need quiet,” she explains carefully. “He helped me after… everything.”

You nod slowly. The archer. The one who spared her. The reason she survived long enough for this moment to happen at all.

Natasha sets a plate down on the coffee table in front of you. Pasta. Simple. Steam curls upward softly. You stare at it for a second too long before picking up the fork.

Then you eat. Fast. Too fast. Years of conditioning override embarrassment completely. Protect food. Finish quickly. Don’t waste time.

By the fourth bite Natasha quietly says, “Hey.”

Your entire body stills instantly. Fork frozen halfway to your mouth. You hate that reaction. Hate it. Natasha notices that too. “You don’t have to rush,” she says softly.

Your throat tightens unexpectedly. You force yourself to slow down. It feels almost impossible.

The silence stretches again after that. Not uncomfortable. Just fragile.

Natasha sits on the opposite end of the couch watching you carefully like she’s trying to relearn something she lost years ago. Finally “Do you remember Ohio?”

The question lands gently. But it still hurts.

You stare down at your plate. “…pieces.” Natasha waits..You swallow hard. “Fireflies,” you whisper eventually.

Something in Natasha’s face softens immediately. “Forest stars,” she says.

Your chest aches so suddenly you almost stop breathing. You remember that.

You remember dirt on your knees. Her hand holding yours. Pine needles crunching under sneakers.

You remember being safe. The fork trembles slightly in your grip. Natasha notices. Again. She notices everything. The room goes very still.

Natasha looks down immediately. You think she might be crying. But when she looks back up again, her face is controlled once more. Only her eyes betray her. “You should try to sleep,” she says quietly.

You nod automatically. Then pause. “…okay.”

The word feels unfamiliar. Not an order. A choice.

Natasha stands slowly. You tense instinctively anyway. Again, she notices. Again, she pretends not to.

At the hallway entrance she stops. “You’re safe here,” she says without turning around.

Safe. The word feels impossible. But for the first time in years not entirely untrue.

________________________________________

Sleep happens accidentally.

One second you’re sitting upright on the couch, knife still hidden beneath your sleeve, television flickering muted colors across the apartment walls.

The next, darkness. Cold concrete beneath your knees. “Again.”

You can’t breathe properly.

The room smells like bleach and blood and metal. Hands force your chin upward.

“Say it.” You try to shake your head.

Pain explodes through your body so violently your vision whites out. “Say she left you.”

“No—”

Electricity tears through your spine. You hear yourself scream.

Then snow. Your lungs burn from the cold as guards close in through white fog. Natasha stands in front of you.

“No,” you whisper desperately. “Go.”

“Y/N—”

“Please!”

Her forehead presses against yours. A whistle. Fog swallowing red hair. Gone. Gone gone gone.

“Hold her still.”

Bright lights. Leather straps digging into your wrists. Your legs forced apart. You’re not screaming. Sxreamings not allowed.

Somebody says, “She’s resisting sedation.”

Another voice “Increase dosage.”

A hand touches your shoulder. You move instantly. Violence. Pure instinct.

Your eyes snap open as your body lunges forward before your brain catches up. The knife flashes free from your sleeve.

A body hits the floor hard beneath you. Your forearm crushes against a throat automatically. Knife raised. Target pinned. Eliminate threat.

The apartment is dark except for television light flickering blue across Natasha’s face.

Natasha. Oh God. You freeze. Your breath stops entirely. Natasha isn’t fighting back.

One hand grips your wrist just enough to keep the knife from descending further, but otherwise she stays still beneath you, breathing controlled and careful despite your arm against her throat.

Her eyes lock onto yours instantly. Not angry. Not afraid.

“Hey,” she says softly, voice rough from pressure. “Hey. It’s okay.”

The knife trembles violently in your grip.

You jerk backward so fast you nearly fall backwards.  “Oh God—” The knife clatters across the floor. Your breathing turns ragged immediately. “No no no no—”

Natasha sits up slowly. Deliberately slow. Like approaching a wounded animal.

You scramble backward against the wall before she can touch you. “I’m sorry,” you choke out instantly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Hey.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

Your entire body shakes uncontrollably now. You can still feel her throat under your arm. Still feel how easy it would’ve been.

The realization makes nausea twist violently in your stomach. “You should’ve killed me,” you whisper hoarsely.

Natasha’s expression changes instantly. Sharp pain. “What?”

Your eyes stay fixed on the floor. “I almost—” your voice breaks apart. “I almost hurt you.”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“I could’ve killed you.”

“But you didn’t.”

Your laugh comes out broken and breathless. “That’s not the point.”

Silence crashes between you both. You can’t stop shaking.

Years of conditioning scream through your nervous system now that adrenaline is fading. Attack. Punishment follows. Failure follows.

You know what comes next. You curl tighter against the wall automatically before you even realize you’re doing it. Protecting your ribs. Your stomach. Your face.

Natasha notices. And suddenly she understands. Not intellectually. Completely. Her little sister thinks she’s about to be hurt.

The realization devastates her. “Hey,” Natasha says again, quieter this time.

You flinch anyway. Something inside Natasha visibly breaks. “Don’t do that,” she whispers.

Your brow furrows weakly. “What?”

“Flinch at me.”

You stare at her. Confused.

Natasha swallows hard before speaking again. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The words hit strangely.

Not because you don’t understand them. Because some part of you doesn’t believe they can be true. You look away quickly. “You should.”

“No.”

“I attacked you.”

“You woke up scared.”

“I could’ve killed you.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens suddenly. “And I could’ve killed Clint when he found me,” she says sharply. “I almost did.” Your eyes lift back to hers. “He still helped me anyway.”

Your throat burns. Natasha exhales shakily, running a hand over her face before continuing more softly.

“You know what the first thing I did after I escaped was?”

You shake your head once.

“I slept in air vents.”

Your brows pull together slightly.

“For weeks,” Natasha says quietly. “Couldn’t stay in rooms with doors closed. Couldn’t sleep unless I knew every exit.”

Your breathing slowly begins evening out despite yourself.

“I used to hide knives under the mattress.” A tiny, broken sound escapes your throat. Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.

Natasha notices that too. Of course she does. “You’re not crazy,” she says carefully.

The words hit harder than they should. Because somewhere deep down, you thought maybe you were.

Years stolen. Memories fractured. Conditioned into violence so thoroughly your body attacks safety on instinct. Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

“I don’t know how to…” Your voice cracks completely. “Be normal.”

Natasha goes still. Then “…me neither.”

That breaks you. Not dramatically.Quietly.

Like something exhausted finally giving out. Tears spill down your face before you can stop them. You cover your mouth instantly to silence the sound. Red Room dormitories. Never cry loudly. Never let them hear weakness.

Natasha watches realization flicker across your expression. Even now. Even here. You’re still afraid to be heard. Very slowly, she moves closer. Not enough to corner you. Just enough.

“Can I touch you again?” she asks softly.

The question alone nearly destroys you. No one has asked permission in years. Maybe ever. You nod once before you can lose the courage.

Natasha reaches carefully for your hand first. Nothing else. Just your hand..Warm. Gentle. Human. Your breath catches painfully.

Then suddenly you’re crying harder than before, shoulders shaking violently as years and years of terror crack open all at once. Natasha pulls you toward her immediately. This time you let her.

Her arms wrap around you tightly as you break apart against her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you sob. “I’m sorry I stayed, I’m sorry I couldn’t—”

“Hey. Hey.”

“I tried to get out, I tried—”

“I know.”

“People are hurt because of me—”

“I know.”

Your hands clutch desperately at the back of her shirt like she might disappear if you let go. Natasha holds you tighter.

“You don’t have to apologize for surviving,” she whispers fiercely into your hair.

The words hit somewhere deep and ruined inside you.

You wake up embarrassed. Not because Natasha’s gone. Because she isn’t.

Morning light spills weakly through crooked apartment blinds, pale gold stretching across old wooden floors. The television is still on mute. Some infomercial flickers across the screen. And Natasha is still sitting beside you.

One arm draped over the back of the couch. Head tilted awkwardly against the cushions.

Like she stayed there all night. Your movement wakes her instantly. Years of training. Same as you.

Her eyes open sharp before softening when she sees you awake. “Hey.”

You sit up too quickly. Distance. Space. Instinct. The blanket slips from your shoulders. Blanket? Your brow furrows.

Natasha notices immediately. “You fell asleep again,” she explains quietly. “You were cold.”

“Oh.” Your voice sounds rough from crying. You hate that she heard that.

You stare down at your hands instead. There’s dried blood beneath your nails from the woman in the alley. You suddenly feel sick again.

Natasha watches your expression change. “What is it?”

Silence. Then quietly “I stabbed her.”

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately. “She survived,” she says finally.

You look up sharply. “How do you know?”

“Because if she didn’t, you wouldn’t look this guilty.”

That lands harder than expected. Your jaw tightens.

“She gave me the antidote after I hurt her.”

Natasha leans back slightly, studying you carefully now. “Did she know what it was?”

“Yes.”

“And she still used it on you?”

You nod once. Natasha exhales slowly through her nose. “One of ours, then.”

The words make your stomach twist. One of ours. Another Widow. Another girl.

You think about the alley again. The fear in her eyes. The blood in her mouth. “There are more,” you whisper.

Natasha goes very still. You continue before you lose the nerve.

“She said there are more girls.”

The room changes instantly. Not physically. But Natasha does. You watch it happen in real time , the Avenger replacing the sister for just a moment.

Focused. Calculating. Dangerous. “How many antidotes?”

Your eyes flick toward the backpack near the apartment door. Natasha follows your gaze immediately. Three long strides and she’s kneeling beside it, opening the zipper carefully.

Rows of red vials stare back at her. Her expression darkens. “Jesus.”

“She said they can stop the Red Room.”

Natasha picks up one vial carefully between two fingers. Red dust swirls inside the glass. Freedom. You watch Natasha’s face harden with something deeper than anger. Resolve.

“They chemically subjugated all of you,” she says quietly. “This could reverse it.”

All of you. Not just Widows. Girls. You pull your knees tighter toward your chest unconsciously.

“How many are still there?” you ask.

Natasha’s jaw shifts. “I don’t know.”

“And Dreykov?” That name still feels poisonous in your mouth.

Natasha looks at you again carefully before answering. “We thought he was dead.”

Your stomach drops. “…thought?”

She nods once. “I killed him. Or I thought I did.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “Turns out he survived.”

Images flash through your head instantly. White rooms. Shock batons. “Increase her dosage.”

Your breathing starts quickening again. Natasha notices immediately. “Hey.” Her voice softens. “You’re okay.”

[thesixthduke]

Nicholas and Alexandra

[lesyoussoupoff]

Grand Duke Alexander with his daughter, Princess Irina