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“Ugh,” you whined as you limped into Natasha’s room, laptop under one arm and hair dripping wet down your back from the shower. The clock on the nightstand said it was just after one in the morning.
“All patched up?” Natasha asked without looking up from her own laptop. She sat cross-legged on the bed, hands flying fast over the keys.
“Mhhm.” You shrugged as you sat down on the bed next to her, choosing to lean back against the headboard, allowing your eyes to close for one precious second. It had been just you two on the mission, so while Natasha had flown the Quinjet (she wouldn’t let you even think about touching anything on the control panel) you still had to stay awake as co-pilot. You were both going on thirty-six hours without sleep.
“Not a chance,” she sighed and set her laptop down. “Come here. You’re gonna make my pillows all soggy.” She patted the space where her laptop had been and you reluctantly crawled forward, positioning yourself in the v between her crossed legs.
“How’s the shoulder?” Natasha asked as she ran her fingers through your wet hair, teasing out all the knots you’d been too lazy to brush out after your shower.
Your mind flashed back to a shipping container in Bogota. The muscle for a notorious human trafficker had gotten the rare upper hand and dislocated your shoulder. Your scream had distracted him long enough for you to knock him out cold with a knee to the temple, but even the momentary lapse in your usual impeccable form left you second-guessing yourself.
“I’ve been wanting to work on my one-armed pushups,” you joked, covering. This mission had left you rattled, and Natasha could tell.
“Dutch or French?” She asked, letting it slide for now. Unfortunately for both of you, the night was still young.
“Surprise me,” you replied, and you immediately felt Natasha’s fingers get to work in your hair, expertly twisting and tugging it into a complicated braid that you could never hope to master. You sat in comfortable silence as she turned your tangled curls into something elegant, refined… utterly Natasha.
“Now scooch,” she said when she was finished, lightly prodding you in your ribs.
“Ow!” you yelped in mock agony as you collapsed onto your side and for a split second, you thought Natasha look worried like she’d actually hurt you. But then you burst out laughing, which made Natasha smack you even harder until you managed to climb off the bed and out of her arm span.
“You’re such a dork,” Natasha scoffed as she settled back into her laptop. You stared at yourself in her mirror, admiring the braid. She’d for sure given you “the surprise.”
“What’s this one called, Nat?” You asked, straining to see the intricate plaits.
“Oh, it’s very special. I’ve been refining it for quite a while. It’s called the Y/N. If you hold a mirror up to the back, the strands spell out loser.” Natasha looked up from her laptop with a smirk, waiting for your reaction. You didn’t disappoint, sticking out your tongue and giving her double middle fingers.
“Come on,” Natasha said, growing serious. You hated and secretly envied how Natasha could so seamlessly go from playful best friend to dutiful professional in a second. “You need to write your mission report. I’m almost halfway done with mine.”
You stared at your laptop. Your mission report. That was why you were here, after all. Unless one of you was seriously injured, Fury expected them first thing in the morning. When Natasha and you went on missions together, which was often, you always met up after showers to type them out together, both for the comradery and to make sure neither of you (okay, mostly you) fell asleep without finishing it.
You groaned as you sat back down on the bed and powered up your laptop. You opened a new document and stared at the blinking cursor for a few seconds before opening up a Google search tab. A few minutes later you looked excitedly over at Natasha. “Did you know that mansion the cartel was operating out of was built in the 17th century?”
Natasha quirked an eyebrow. “And that’s relevant to your mission report how?”
You looked down at your keyboard. “Well, we kinda blew it up.” To be fair, the explosives were already there and belonged to the cartel, you and Natasha had just rigged them and made sure they “accidentally” found their way next to load-bearing walls.
“So we could rescue all of those girls and make sure they no longer have a headquarters to operate from!” You could tell Natasha’s patience was wearing thin; she wanted to go to sleep as much as you did, but unlike you, she had the work ethic to know the only way out was through.
You closed the search tab and returned to staring at your blank screen. “Why can’t we just submit one mission report? Why can’t we write it together, like a group project?”
“Yeah, you seem like a great partner,” Natasha said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “You know why. Sure, we completed the same mission, achieved the same goals, but we weren’t side-by-side the entire time. You may have seen or heard something that I didn’t that could end up being valuable intelligence.”
Natasha glanced over at your laptop and you rushed to slam your computer closed, but Natasha was too quick and saw your empty document. You always struggled to write your reports, but this was a new level of writer’s block.
“Y/N?” She asked. “Did you see something you’re not telling me?”
You picked at a sticker on your laptop case, not trusting yourself to meet Natasha’s eyes. “It’s not relevant to the mission report,” you choked out. You instinctively wrapped your arms around your body and winced when your hand grabbed your bad shoulder.
“It’s more than just your shoulder, isn’t it? Y/N, you can tell me.”
You squeezed your eyes tightly shut and the images came flooding back. “At the docks…” you started quietly. Natasha had covered you from above while you used your enhanced strength to open the cartel’s shipping containers. Dozens of women and girls had come pouring out, grabbing at your arms, your clothes, thanking you in multiple languages. But then you’d made your way inside, checking for stragglers or anyone too injured to walk on their own.
“When I went inside the last container, there was something in the back. It was dark and I couldn’t see so I turned on my flashlight.” Natasha had put her arm around you by now, careful to avoid your bum shoulder, knowing all too well what you were about to say next.
“They were bodies, Nat. All of the women and girls who didn’t make it, piled on top of each other. Some had been gone for a while. But others? If we’d only gotten there a few days, or hours, earlier then maybe –– “
“Don’t,” Natasha said, cutting you off. She grabbed your chin with her hand and forced you to look at her. “None of that is your fault. Trust me, I’ve played that game before and there are no winners. Why didn’t you tell me on the flight back instead of making us listen to that stupid podcast?”
You couldn’t help but smile. Natasha always knew had to ease a serious moment with a well-placed joke and you had subjected her to four episodes of a true-crime podcast even after she’d spoiled it by correctly guessing the killer in the first five minutes.
“I guess I was embarrassed that it was bothering me so much. It’s not like I haven’t seen a dead body before. I just felt so helpless seeing them there, discarded like they were nothing.” Your eyes wandered to the corner of Natasha’s room, where her tactical suit lay haphazardly on a chair. She was the Black Widow after all. Between her time in the Red Room and with HYDRA; SHIELD and the Avengers, you were sure there was nothing that could faze her, or at least not enough to keep her from finishing her mission report.
Natasha forced your eyes back to hers. “Never apologize for having a heart, Y/N. Promise me?” You nodded, but Natasha could tell it would take more than a quick pep talk to get you out of your head.
“Okay. New strategy. Give me your laptop.” You passed Natasha your computer. After a few clicks and keystrokes she handed it back. “Here. Now write.”
“What did you…” you scanned the screen, trying to figure out what was different. Finally, you spotted it and groaned. “You disabled my wifi?”
“Yep,” Natasha said, smirking as you clicked on the icon to no avail. “And I’m the only one who can turn it back on again. After you finish your report.”
You opened your mouth to protest when she cut you off. “But… I don’t want you to write a regular mission report this time. I want you to write whatever you want. How you feel, how much you hate the bad guys who did this, it doesn’t matter. Just don’t stop writing,” she shot you a knowing glance, “not even to fix typos.”
“But how is that gonna help me get my report to Fury in…” you checked the clock; it was now almost two, “six hours?”
Natasha smirked. “You wanna know a secret?” It wasn’t a question, but you shrugged in the affirmative anyway. “Fury doesn’t give two shits about when he gets our reports as long as we don’t forget any crucial information.”
“Then why?” You stared at Natasha, open-mouthed. From the look on her face, it was clear she was enjoying your reaction. How many hours of sleep had you lost pulling teeth trying to write these things?
“When I first joined SHIELD, I was a lot like you. Every mission left me feeling like I hadn’t done enough, like there was just too much injustice in the world, so what was the point? I started having nightmares. It didn’t make sense; I had spent my whole life carrying out missions for the Red Room without a second thought. Then, after a particularly tough mission and an even worse nightmare, Maria asked me when I wrote out my mission report. I told her I normally came back, showered, went to bed, and woke up early the next morning to write it before training. She made me promise that next mission, I wouldn’t let myself go to sleep until it was done. I thought she was crazy, but I trusted her and gave it a try. I still have lots of nightmares, but I haven’t had one about a mission since. Steve and I agreed it was a good strategy so we made it an informal rule for the whole team.”
“Huh.” You had to confess it made a lot of sense. You sometimes wrote poems if you were having a bad day, though you’d never admit that to Natasha.
Natasha nudged you with your knee. “Come on. Whatever you want. You’ll feel better, I promise.”
You settled in and typed your first sentence, really letting it rip. ‘I wish I could cut the dick off any man who ever THOUGHT about hurting a woman. WITHOUT anesthesia.’ You grinned, solid start. Two hours later and you were still typing away. It turned out you had a penchant for graphic action sequences.
Natasha sat beside you, reading a book, long done with her own report. When you started nodding off, she carefully closed your laptop and tucked you in. “Goodnight, Y/N,” she whispered into your ear as she turned off the bedside lamp. “Sweet dreams.”
You awoke with a start the next morning, your eyes frantically searching for the clock on Natasha’s side table. It was almost ten; you’d missed your morning workout and breakfast. Not to mention you technically still hadn’t started your mission report. “Shit.”
Natasha chuckled from across the room as she toweled off her hair, enjoying your panic. “It’s alright, Y/N. Wanda left you a plate of pancakes and eggs in the oven.”
You huffed as you sat up and stretched, completely forgetting about your busted shoulder. “Fuck!” you yelled as you grabbed your injured arm. Natasha tossed a bottle of pain pills next to you on the bed.
“Take two. I told Steve about your shoulder and he gave you a pass from training today as long as you go on a run.” You nod as you swallow the pills. Natasha was way too good to you. You resolved to buy her a scented candle or something the next time you went into the city.
“I’ll do a couple of laps on the trail as soon as I write my mission report for Fury.” You give Natasha a look. “My real report.”
Natasha adjusted her bun in the mirror. “You don’t have to, Y/N. I already sent it to him early this morning.”
“You what?” If you weren’t awake before, you were sure as hell awake now. “Nat, “ you tried to control your breathing, “please tell me you didn’t. If Fury ever read what I wrote last night he’d not only kick me out of the Avengers, he’d probably lock me up on the Raft for the rest of my life.”
“Relax.” Natasha held out your laptop. “I sent him a slightly different version.”
You cautiously took your laptop from Natasha as realization dawned on your face. “You hacked into my computer?”
Natasha scoffed. “I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘thank you,’ Y/N. Besides, how else was I supposed to turn your wifi back on while your unconscious ass was hogging my bed?”
You sat on the edge of Natasha’s bed and opened your computer. There, just where you left it, was your mission report. Except instead of your first line about chopping off dicks, it started with the perfectly benign, ‘Agent Romanoff and I got into our respective target positions at 2200 hours.’
You looked over at Natasha, relief flooding your face. “Thank you,” you mouthed.
“Don’t mention it,” she said. “It was actually kinda fun, trying to write like I was you. You really need to work on your split infinitives, by the way.”
A comment like that would usually earn Natasha a middle finger or punch in the shoulder if she were close enough, but today all you felt was relief. She sat down next to you on the bed. “More importantly, do you feel better?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, and this time Natasha could tell you were telling the truth. “I’ll try not to be such a bitch when it comes to writing my mission reports from now on.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Natasha laughed, but she was happy you seemed more like yourself and proud to have helped you develop a new coping mechanism.
“Wait,” you said, confused. “If that was the mission report you sent to Fury, then what happened to the one I wrote last night?”
“Oh, the one about an unstoppable fighter named Y/N whose signature move is chopping off men’s genitalia?” Nat grinned. You knew she was using medical terminology to get an even bigger rise out of you.
“Maybe?” You winced. It had been childish, and gratuitous, but it had also been Natasha’s suggestion in the first place.
Natasha’s grin grew even wider. “Well, Clint’s kids don’t draw as many stick-figure pictures of the Avengers as they used to, and I noticed the refrigerator in the kitchen was looking a little bare so –– “
Natasha didn’t even have to finish the rest of her sentence before you were out the door, sprinting down the hallway toward the kitchen and common area. Natasha followed lazily behind, greeting a bemused Steve as he poked his head out of his room, wondering what all of the commotion was about.
“I told you I’d get Y/N to go on a run, didn’t I?” Natasha said, smiling innocently as you screamed her name from down the hall.