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The two spiders were curled up together on the couch; Natasha running her fingers through the brown-eyed boy’s hair as Steven Universe played in the background. Her godson was relaxed, his head resting on the Russian’s stomach. The teen’s eyes were downcast, and it was obvious that the curly-haired child was stuck in his head. The redhead couldn’t blame him for that, though; today was a day about sins after all.
“Solnyshko,” The woman murmurs reluctantly; not wanting to move but understanding that the two of them had to. “We got to leave now, Pytor, if we want to get to the creek before sundown,” the doe-eyed boy moved his head sideways, peeking up at her from underneath his lashes. The boy let out a soft sigh, a bittersweet half-smile on his face as he nodded.
He sat up slowly, pressing his hand against the grey cushion of the couch; and Natasha would be lying if she said she didn’t miss the teen’s warmth. The Russian stood up, the soft blanket (one she had bought specifically for Peter) that surrounded them falling to the carpeted floor.
“Miss Romanoff, do you know where the Tashlich bread is?” Her godson asked offhandedly, already scanning the fridge (she really needed to get him to stop calling her miss, she wasn't that old).
The emerald-eyed spy chuckled, “Check the top left corner,” The woman said, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips as Peter let out a quiet yet satisfied noise which vaguely sounded like: There it is!
He grabbed the plastic bag as Natasha started putting on a pair of black running shoes and shrugged on a coat.
“Solnyshko, you ready?” The ex-assassin called gently, watching as her godson struggled to put on his own shoes - note to self; get her kid a new pair- before snatching up the opaque shopping bag with about three (slightly crumpled) pieces of bread inside.
“Yep!” He nodded quickly along with his words, rolling his shoulders. The two of them began a silent trek down to the main floor. Peter was obviously stuck in his own mind, but Natasha didn’t really mind the silence. Natasha sort of liked it; now that wasn’t because she hated his chatter or anything, but the redhead appreciated the fact that neither of them needed to fill silence with meaningless chatter unless they wanted to, and the quiet wouldn’t be awkward or uncomfortable. Is that weird? The ex-assassin wondered, pressing her lips together in thought, before shrugging it off.
Natasha leaned against the wall of the elevator and clicked the button for the parking garage, watching the numbers click by, the elevator suddenly paused; the blinking red 3 taunting the woman as she impatiently waited for the elevator doors to open so she could get on with life. It felt like an eternity, the redhead waited there, until Natasha started thinking about… less legal ways to express her annoyance.
The disguised Avenger observed her godson as he picked at the knot tying the plastic bag at the top as she plotted how to murder the landlord for the fact the doors still haven’t opened yet.
Just as that thought manifested in the ex-assassin’s mind, the elevator doors opened to reveal a balding white man. His shirt was covered in grease stains, and his whole demeanor was vaguely uncomfortable to the woman; not because she was afraid of him, but because he was a creep.
The whole elevator ride Natasha could feel the man's predatory gaze on her; but the Russian ignored it (she didn't want to dispose of the body) until the two spiders started making their way to Natasha's- technically speaking it was owned by Tony, but who could even keep track?
“Miss Nat, how long is the drive?” The teen asked curiously, mischief twinkling in his gaze; The Russian gave Peter a look, shaking her head. It's not worth it. Mary's kid didn't listen (obviously), and looked vaguely murderous.
“You know I can deal with men like that, you know?” The emerald-eyed ex-assassin said, though she shot her godson a grateful look — she still wasn't used to people caring about her.
“I know,” Peter said simply, looking out the car window, "Doesn't mean you have to,”
The drive was quiet after that, except for the steady stream of music coming from the radio. Her godson was obviously stuck in his own mind, Natasha could almost see the gears whirring in his head and as the Russian cast a glance at Mary’s son, she felt a swell of guilt in her chest as she watched him stare at the passing cars. The bread was sitting on the curly-haired boy’s lap and he absentmindedly fiddled with the top of the knotted plastic bag. The woman swerved around a black car as the two of them arrived at their destination. It was a quaint little trail; muddy from the downpour the night before. There were a handful of other families there with bread as well; but they were quite spread apart. The ex-assassin and the doe-eyed teen walked down a muddy trail for a few minutes; the lanky boy looking at the dying trees with a curious gaze as he avoided stepping in several puddles. The ex-assassin was eternally grateful she decided against heels today; they would have sunk into the soft ground the second the Russian had exited the vehicle.
“Hey, Pytor, We’re here,” She murmured to her kid, gently putting a hand on his shoulder. Peter let out a soft breath, giving her a small smile as he made his way close to the creek's edge.
Natasha watched as the teenager clumsily untied the knot and opened the bag. He closed his eyes and let out another puff of air as he whispered some words and tossed bread into the stream. If the Russian wished, she could have deciphered what he was saying; but she understood that this was something private and important to him, so she kept quiet, observing the bread flow and sinking into the creek.
She tiptoed to the at-peace boy when he finally opened his eyes, revealing the gentle brown color of his irises.
“May I join you?” Natasha spoke into the quiet, her voice hushed while her crimson curls were being whipped every which way by the wind; it had begun to pick up after they had arrived.
“Sure,” The brown haired boy said, offering the last handful of bread in the bag to the woman.
“So what do I do?” Natasha asked, grabbing the crumbling food, leaving the shopping bag vacant.
“Just toss it in the water,” Peter said softly, his voice heavy with a weight the teen shouldn’t have to bear, “And imagine that the bread is something you’ve done wrong,”
The green-eyed woman nodded, closing her eyes for a minute as she tossed the bread into the flowing stream, letting the sound of rushing water fill her ears. By the time she opened her eyes to the outside world once more; the food was already sinking down into the murky depths of the muddy rocks. Natasha could understand why other people did this; it was rather cathartic. The two stood there for a little while longer, just staring at the rushing stream, before Peter turned to her, rubbing his arms.
“Let’s go now, before it gets colder,” That’s when the crimson-curled woman finally noticed that Peter's teeth were chattering; he hadn’t worn a sweater. That dumbass. The ex-assassin thought fondly, draping her black coat over his shoulders.
“Of course,” Natasha ended up settling on, “We can eat something, you were talking about… Lack-uh?” The Russian pronounced the unknown word slowly and deliberately, unsure of her pronunciation. The light-skinned teen chuckled, his lips curling up a little in a ghost of a smile.
“Latke,” He said, the Hebrew word natural on the Jewish teens tongue as they got to the black car, “Basically they’re potato pancakes.” At Natasha’s raised eyebrow, he hurries to clarify himself,
“They’re really good! I used to make them with Uncle Ben all the time-” The boy falters, and Natasha moved the mirror so she could see her boy’s red cheeks and the grief that passed through his expression. The Russian feels guilt tugging at her chest as they back out of the parking spot.
“Sounds delicious, Solnyshko,” The ex-assassin says warmly, giving the teenager a small smile. “Why don’t we make it together?”
“As long as you promise to actually follow the recipe this time,” Peter says teasingly, a grin on his face; all traces of mourning gone. Natasha rolled her eyes, unable to fully get rid of her fond grin at her kid’s antics as they drove back home.
And if that Yom Kippur ended with a man having an eviction notice on his door; Natasha wouldn't know anything about it (if you asked her). As the sun set beneath the horizon, their fast broke – Natasha had fasted with her kid – the curly-haired boy and his godmother feasted on pizza and binged Star Wars. Yom Kippur began without a bang, it ended the same way.
Neither of them would have it any other way.