Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Your fingers trembled slightly as you stared down at the phone screen glowing faintly in the darkened room. Message after message… left unread. You scrolled through the thread again, your thumb moving over the screen like the small motion could change the outcome. Maybe I missed something. Maybe I worded it wrong?

The logical part of your brain knew that wasn’t how this worked—communication wasn’t a cryptic puzzle you’d failed to solve—but being autistic meant you often felt like you were playing a game where everyone else had the rulebook… and you didn’t even know what the game was.

You'd been trying . That was the part that hurt the most. Socializing wasn’t something that came naturally—it was a skill you practiced with the same careful precision you used when learning to code or memorize the intricate details of your favorite special interests. You’d found people online who seemed to understand. You bonded over shared hyperfixations, excitedly info-dumping in your texts and carefully reading theirs in return.

And yet… here you were.

A month. Then two. Now three. Messages left hanging like loose threads in the wind. You kept telling yourself they were busy. Overwhelmed. You knew what that felt like. But as the seasons shifted and the holidays came and went, all you got back was silence. And that silence spoke louder than any cruel words could have.

You licked your chapped lips and tasted the sting of salt. It took you a moment to realize you were crying. Again.

Your phone slipped from your grasp and landed with a dull thud against the comforter.

What was wrong with you?

Why did it always end like this?

You tried to breathe through it, tried the techniques your therapist had taught you—ground yourself, count the textures in the room, list five things you could see—but it was no use. The weight of it pressed down, a crushing loneliness that felt like a physical force against your chest.

You weren’t ashamed of being autistic. You’d long since rejected the idea that you were broken or needed to be fixed. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t hard. That it didn’t ache in your bones when you realized—again—that no matter how much progress you thought you’d made, the world still felt too loud, too fast, too complicated. And you were always a step behind.

People said things like, “Just be yourself,” but you’d done that. And people left.

Maybe I am too much… or not enough…

The meltdown came like a tidal wave. No warning. No escape.

Your fists clenched at your sides as your thoughts spiraled. Your breathing turned ragged, and the anger came roaring up from deep inside—a storm you couldn’t hold back. You had to move. You had to get out. Before you broke something. Before you hurt yourself again.

Grabbing your keys, you practically ran from your apartment, leaving behind the soft meows of your cat and the safety of four walls. You didn’t care that it was the middle of the night or that a storm was rolling in. The world outside felt as chaotic and violent as the hurricane tearing through your mind.

The park. That’s where you always went when it got bad.

By the time you reached it, the sky had opened up. Rain lashed against your skin, soaking you to the bone. Your fists glowed faintly, the manifestation of a power you barely understood flickering to life with every surge of emotion. You hated when this happened—when the overwhelming feelings translated into something dangerous and uncontrollable.

With a frustrated cry, you slammed your fists against the thick trunk of an ancient oak. Again. And again. Pain registered distantly, but it felt almost good—a grounding sensation in the middle of the chaos. Blood mixed with rain as the rough bark tore at your knuckles, but still, you punched.

“How could you be so stupid, Y/N?” Your mind screamed at you, the internal voice cruel and relentless. “You’re a pathetic loser. That’s why no one sticks around.”

You didn’t notice the storm growing wilder around you—didn’t realize the hurricane wasn’t just in your mind, but manifesting in the world itself.

You barely heard the cautious footsteps behind you until a voice cut through the roar of the wind.

“I don’t mean any harm. My name is Natasha. I think that tree’s going to collapse soon. Do you think you can step away from it?”

The calm, even tone broke through the chaos just enough for you to register the words.

You turned, vision blurry from rain and tears, heart hammering painfully against your ribs. You stumbled back just as the massive tree groaned and split with a sickening crack, crashing to the ground where you’d just been standing.

Your fists dimmed, the blue glow fading as exhaustion hit you all at once.

You sank to your knees in the mud, shivering violently. “I… I can’t make it stop. What’s happening to me?” Your voice broke, raw and cracked from screaming. “This is why… this is why no one stays.”

Natasha crouched in front of you, her sharp green eyes filled with a softness you hadn’t expected. “Hey, it’s alright. You’re not in trouble. And you’re definitely not alone in this. I’ve lost control before too… broken more than a few things I regret.”

You sniffled, wiping at your face with the back of your hand, staring in shock as the realization hit. You knew that face. The Natasha Romanoff.

“Why are you…?” you started to ask, but your voice broke off into a sob.

Natasha didn’t push. She just sat with you, her presence a steady anchor against the storm inside you.

After several long moments, her gaze flicked to the lanyard you wore—a sunflower design, frayed slightly from constant fidgeting. She recognized it immediately. And when her eyes landed on the small golden infinity pendant, her heart clenched.

“You’re autistic.” It wasn’t a question.

You nodded mutely, tears still flowing freely.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked gently, settling into a more comfortable position despite the rain soaking through her hoodie.

“I… I don’t have anyone,” you whispered. “I tried so hard. I thought I made friends, but… they just stopped answering. I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Natasha’s jaw clenched at the sheer ache in your voice.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said firmly, her voice low and sure, like a promise. “Sometimes people… they don’t understand what it means to show up. To stay . But that’s on them. Not you.”

You hiccupped a broken laugh. “Feels like it’s always me.”

Natasha reached out carefully, resting a hand over your clenched fists. “Then let’s figure this out together, okay? You don’t have to go through this alone.”

The rain had eased to a soft drizzle, but your soaked clothes clung uncomfortably to your skin, leaving you shivering uncontrollably. Natasha noticed immediately and stood, pulling off her hoodie despite the chill.

“Here,” she offered, crouching again to help you slip it over your head. The fabric was warm and smelled faintly of leather and something sharp—gunpowder, maybe. A strangely comforting scent.

You opened your mouth to protest, but she shot you a soft but firm look. “Don’t argue. You’re freezing.”

You swallowed back the words and accepted the gesture. The sleeves hung long past your hands, and the material felt like a weighted blanket, grounding you more than you expected.

“C’mon,” Natasha said as she offered a hand. “Let’s get you somewhere warm.”

You hesitated, staring at her gloved hand like it was some foreign object. Touch was always complicated. You didn’t want to be rude, but—

She noticed your hesitation and immediately withdrew her hand, slipping it back into her pocket. “Sorry,” she said easily, like it was nothing. “We’ll walk at your pace. No pressure.”

The small act of understanding made something loosen in your chest.

You stood shakily, the adrenaline crash leaving you lightheaded and unsteady. Natasha stayed close but didn’t crowd you, allowing you the space to gather yourself.

For the first time in hours, the storm inside you wasn’t winning.

The walk back to her apartment was mostly quiet, and Natasha didn’t seem to mind. She kept her pace even, occasionally glancing sideways to make sure you were still with her.

At some point, your fingers started fiddling with the worn sunflower lanyard again, rubbing the fabric between your fingertips. Natasha noticed but didn’t mention it.

When she finally unlocked the door to her apartment, you hesitated on the threshold. The smell of something faintly smoky and the soft hum of an old radiator greeted you.

“Come in,” Natasha urged gently. “No expectations. Just warmth and quiet.”

You nodded, stepping over the threshold, your shoes squelching miserably against the hardwood floor.

“Bathroom’s down the hall if you want to clean up,” she offered, pulling a towel from a nearby cabinet. “I’ve got a change of clothes that should fit better than my hoodie.”

You blinked at her, surprised. “You’re… really okay with this? With me just… being here?”

Natasha paused in the middle of drying her own hair, her green eyes locking on yours. “You’re not a burden, Y/N. Trust me, I’ve let far more questionable people through that door.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through the exhaustion.

“Take your time,” she added before disappearing into the kitchen.

When you emerged from the bathroom in a pair of soft sweatpants and a clean t-shirt that smelled faintly of Natasha’s cologne, she already had a mug of tea waiting for you on the coffee table.

You sat gingerly on the edge of the couch, knees pulled up to your chest, watching as she settled into the armchair across from you. She sat sideways, one leg tucked beneath her, her posture relaxed in a way that made you feel safe to just… exist.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked again, her voice soft but unwavering.

You traced the rim of your mug, the warmth seeping into your cold fingers.

“It’s… hard,” you began, your voice hoarse from crying. “Trying to connect with people. I thought I was doing everything right this time. I learned their interests, I made sure to give them space when they needed it. I even masked as much as I could when we had video calls, but… it wasn’t enough.”

Natasha frowned slightly. “Masked?”

You glanced at her carefully. “It’s… when you try to hide the parts of yourself that people find too much. Stimming, info-dumping, going nonverbal when it gets overwhelming… It’s exhausting, but it’s how I’ve survived in social situations.”

Recognition flickered in Natasha’s eyes, and she nodded slowly. “That sounds… familiar. Different context maybe, but familiar.”

You tilted your head, curiosity momentarily overtaking the weight of your sadness. “How?”

She let out a quiet breath, staring at the swirling contents of her own mug. “Years of espionage. Learning how to be what people expect. Smile when I’m supposed to. Stay quiet when it’s safer. Always playing a part… even when it’s killing me inside.”

You stared at her, really seeing her for the first time beyond the public image, beyond the stories and headlines.

“You’re lonely too,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Natasha’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t deny it.

“Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “A lot more than I like to admit.”

That admission settled heavily between you, but it wasn’t a painful kind of heaviness. It was shared.

“I don’t want to do it anymore,” you said suddenly, the words tumbling out before you had the chance to filter them. “I don’t want to keep masking. I’m so tired. I just want to be myself and not have people leave.”

Natasha looked up at you, something fierce and protective lighting behind her eyes.

“Then start with me,” she said softly but firmly. “No masking. No scripts. Just you. And if it gets too much, if you need space, or if you don’t have the words… that’s okay too.”

The tears came again, but this time they weren’t from pain.

For the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe— just maybe —you weren’t as alone as you thought.

Natasha sat with you until you fell asleep, curled under one of her thick blankets, your head resting on the arm of her couch. She kept a silent vigil, watching the tension in your face slowly melt away with sleep.

She didn’t know what this was yet—didn’t know where it was heading—but one thing was certain.

She wasn’t going to let you fight this battle alone anymore.

Chapter Text

The rain had stopped completely by the time the first light of dawn crept through the half-closed blinds in Natasha’s apartment. You sat on the couch, Natasha across from you in that same armchair, both of you cradling mugs of lukewarm tea. The emotional intensity of the night had settled into something softer now—quiet, almost peaceful.

You shifted slightly, discomfort lingering in your bruised and battered hands despite the blanket Natasha had wrapped around your shoulders.

She broke the silence first. “Do you struggle to make friends?” Her voice was gentle but curious, probing only as far as you were comfortable. “What makes you think they aren’t your friends? Maybe it was… a misunderstanding?”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But you also knew better.

You nodded slowly, eyes fixed on a loose thread in the blanket. “I mean… there are people who care, I guess. People who check in sometimes. But it’s… shallow. We don’t talk enough to really call it friendship. Not the kind that lasts, anyway.”

Your throat tightened painfully. You weren’t sure why you were saying this—why the words felt so easy to spill here when they’d been locked away for so long. Maybe it was because Natasha looked at you like she saw the whole picture, not just the pieces you managed to show the world.

“If something happened to me…” You swallowed hard. “No one would really notice. I mean, my cat would.”

You let out a bitter, breathy laugh, but it broke apart halfway through. Your cat—your sweet, loyal shadow—had saved you more times than you could count. When the nights got too dark and the weight too heavy, their tiny face and warm body curled beside you had reminded you there was at least one being in the world that needed you.

Natasha’s expression softened. She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees. “I know how that feels,” she admitted quietly. “And I know how it probably sounds, coming from me. I’m surrounded by people who care about me… who’ve told me they love me.”

Her voice drifted off, and for a moment, the weight of her own loneliness seemed to pull her under.

“But I push them away,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared that if I let them close, they’ll get hurt because of me. Or worse… they’ll figure out I’m not really worth the effort.”

You turned your head, studying her carefully. That was a thought you’d carried your entire life—that you were too complicated, too intense, too much. That you came with warning labels and disclaimers no one wanted to read.

You recognized that self-loathing in her eyes.

“Maybe…” You hesitated, heart hammering nervously against your ribs. “Maybe we could be lonely… together?”

The words hung between you like a fragile offering, trembling in the space of new beginnings.

Natasha blinked, and then—slowly—she smiled. A small, genuine thing that made her face look younger, softer, less guarded.

“I think I’d like that,” she said. Then her expression turned sheepish, a hand running through her damp red hair. “Probably should’ve started by asking your name, huh? Terrible spy etiquette.”

A soft laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “Y/N,” you managed, still feeling a little raw but somehow lighter. “See? I’m already failing at Socializing 101. Forgot the most basic rule—introduce yourself.”

Natasha chuckled, and for a moment, it felt easy. Simple.

She reached out a hand toward you in greeting, then immediately froze as she remembered your injuries.

You tried to return the gesture anyway, but as soon as your bruised knuckles made contact, you hissed and yanked your hand back, face twisting in pain.

“Damn it,” you muttered through gritted teeth.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Natasha said quickly, her hands retreating back to her lap. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about your hands.”

Her concern was genuine, and the fact that she immediately respected your boundaries eased the embarrassment a little.

“Can I… take a look?” she asked gently. “I won’t touch unless you’re okay with it.”

You bit your lip, warring with your discomfort. Touch wasn’t easy for you—it wasn’t about rudeness or coldness. It was sensory overload, anxiety, the loss of control over your own space. But Natasha was careful, patient.

You gave a small nod, and she moved closer, slow and deliberate, as if approaching a frightened animal.

She crouched in front of you, hands open and still. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You hesitated before slowly offering her one injured hand, trembling slightly. She examined it carefully, never gripping too tightly, her fingers brushing gently against your wrist rather than your hand itself.

“Looks like you fractured at least one knuckle,” she murmured, her voice soft and clinical. “And these cuts need to be cleaned. You’re lucky nothing’s broken worse.”

You swallowed hard, blinking back tears that had nothing to do with the pain.

“Do you want me to bandage them?” she asked again, her tone neutral but waiting for your consent. “Or… if you have a preferred way to take care of injuries, just tell me. I’m not offended either way.”

Your chest tightened at the sheer patience in her voice. No one had ever asked before. People usually told you what should be done, ignored your discomfort, or worse, criticized you for being difficult.

“I… I think I’d like it if you helped,” you admitted, voice trembling.

Her smile was soft, understanding, as she stood and retrieved the first-aid kit. When she sat back down, she moved through the process slowly, narrating each step before she did it.

“I’m going to clean the wounds first. It’ll sting, but I’ll be gentle. You can tell me to stop anytime.”

You nodded, biting your lip as she carefully cleaned and wrapped each hand. Her movements were precise but never rough, and she made sure to give you breaks whenever she saw your breathing change.

By the time she was done, you were trembling again—but this time from exhaustion, not fear.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Natasha looked at you for a long moment before she spoke again. “You know… you don’t lack empathy, Y/N. I’ve met plenty of people who couldn’t handle half of what you’ve lived through and still care this much.”

Your chest ached at the quiet truth of that.

The silence between you and Natasha stretched, but it wasn’t the kind that pressed painfully against your chest or made your skin itch with discomfort. This was… companionable. Quiet in the way a warm blanket settles over you when you’re too tired to keep fighting the cold.

You stared down at your freshly bandaged hands resting in your lap. The stark white gauze against your skin made everything feel more real , like the storm—both the one in the sky and the one inside your mind—had finally passed.

“Can I ask you something?” you said softly, breaking the quiet.

Natasha nodded, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp as ever. “Anything.”

“Why do you feel so alone?” you asked. “You’re… well, you’re you. Strong. Confident. People adore you. You have the Avengers. Your sister. Friends.” You paused, your throat tightening. “How can someone like you still feel… like this?”

For a long moment, Natasha didn’t answer. She stared at her own hands, her fingers curling and uncurling slowly, as if the question had physically touched something deep inside her.

When she finally spoke, her voice was rawer than you’d ever heard it.

“Because the version of me that people adore …” She exhaled sharply through her nose, a humorless sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “That version isn’t really me. It’s the mask I wear. The one I learned to put on when I was a child and never really took off.”

You felt your breath catch, your chest tightening with painful familiarity. Masking. Always masking.

“I was trained to be whatever people wanted me to be,” she continued, her eyes distant now, staring at something far beyond the walls of her apartment. “A daughter. A soldier. A weapon. I’ve spent most of my life performing. Smiling when I wanted to scream. Charming people I wanted to run from. Standing in rooms full of people and feeling like I’m suffocating.”

Her eyes flicked back to yours, and for the first time, you saw the full weight she carried behind those sharp green eyes.

“I don’t know how to just… be . Without the mask. Without the mission.” Her lips twisted into something caught between a smirk and a grimace. “And the few times I’ve tried to let people in, it’s ended badly. People get hurt. Or they leave when they see the real me.”

The vulnerability in her voice hit you like a punch to the chest.

“Sounds familiar,” you murmured.

Natasha tilted her head, encouraging you to continue.

“I’ve spent my whole life wondering if people even like the real me,” you confessed, staring at the floor. “I’ve masked so much, tried so hard to follow the unspoken rules, to say the right things, to act the right way… and when it doesn’t work, when people leave anyway, I start thinking maybe the real me isn’t worth knowing.”

Your throat burned as the words tumbled out, words you hadn’t even admitted fully to yourself before.

“Maybe I’m just… too much. Too intense. Too sensitive. People say I’m selfish when I go nonverbal. That I’m rude when I don’t want to be touched. That I talk too much about my special interests or I don’t talk enough and seem cold. It’s like… no matter what I do, it’s wrong.”

You realized you were gripping the blanket tightly in your fists, your bandaged knuckles turning white.

Natasha reached over, slowly, and placed her hand palm-up on the couch between you. Not touching—just offering .

“Maybe the problem isn’t you,” she said quietly. “Maybe the problem is that no one ever bothered to learn your language. They just expected you to speak theirs.”

The simple truth of that hit you harder than any storm.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet her eyes. “And what about you?” you asked. “If you’re always wearing a mask… what would happen if you took it off?”

Natasha looked away again, her jaw working as she considered that.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m not sure there’s anything under it anymore.”

Your heart ached for her. For all the years she’d spent surviving instead of living. For the way the world demanded perfection from both of you, and when it couldn’t get that, it turned its back.

“Then maybe we figure it out together,” you whispered.

Her eyes snapped back to yours, surprised by the offer in your voice.

“You said it last night,” you reminded her. “We don’t have to be alone in this. And… you’ve already seen me at my worst. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

A real smile broke across her face then, small but genuine. “It definitely does.”

You shifted closer, just slightly, closing the distance between you on the couch. Natasha’s hand was still resting palm-up, and this time, you carefully placed your fingers over hers.

It wasn’t much. But it was a start.

And sometimes, the smallest beginnings led to the most unexpected places.

Chapter Text

(Natasha’s POV)

Natasha adjusted the strap of her leather jacket as she stood in front of Y/N’s apartment door. She wasn’t exactly nervous—no, Black Widow didn’t get nervous—but something about this felt... different.

Maybe it was because this wasn’t a mission. There was no enemy to interrogate or intel to gather. No hidden exit strategy prepared in the back of her mind. This was personal.

And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done personal without screwing it up.

She exhaled softly and knocked on the door before she could second-guess herself.

A few moments passed before she heard the soft scuffle of feet on the other side, followed by the sound of locks clicking open—two, then a chain being slid aside.

The door creaked open to reveal Y/N, bundled in an oversized sweatshirt that looked several sizes too big but impossibly soft. Their expression lit up immediately at the sight of her, and something in Natasha’s chest eased.

“You made it,” Y/N said, stepping aside to let her in.

“Of course I did,” Natasha replied, allowing herself a small smile as she crossed the threshold. “Would’ve been rude to turn down the first friend I’ve made in… well, let’s just say a long time.”

The warmth of Y/N’s apartment hit her instantly. Not just the literal warmth—though the heater hummed steadily in the background—but the atmosphere.

The space was small but cozy, with an undeniable sense of life. The walls were adorned with art—some framed, others simply pinned or taped up in a beautiful kind of organized chaos. Sketches, watercolor landscapes, abstract bursts of color, and carefully drawn character designs lined every available surface. There were shelves filled with books organized by color, rows of tiny potted plants thriving under grow lights, and strings of fairy lights casting a soft, golden glow.

It was the kind of home Natasha had never known growing up. Lived-in. Loved.

“Wow,” Natasha murmured as she took it all in. “This is… you weren’t kidding when you said you were into art.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed slightly, and they tucked their hands into their sleeves. “It’s kind of my safe space,” they admitted. “Helps me when things get overwhelming.”

Natasha nodded, her gaze tracing over the dozens of small details that made the space feel like a living, breathing part of Y/N’s world.

And then—just as she was about to ask a question—a small, soft mrow sounded from somewhere near the couch.

She turned her head just in time to see a fluffy gray-and-white cat cautiously approach, tail held high but eyes wide with curiosity.

“Ah. And this must be the famous loyal companion you mentioned.” Natasha crouched slowly, keeping her movements calm and deliberate. “What’s their name?”

“Charlie,” Y/N said with a fond smile, kneeling beside Natasha. “He’s usually a little shy around new people, but… well, he knows when someone’s important.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Important, huh?” She held out her hand, palm open and low to the ground. Charlie crept forward cautiously, giving her fingers a few tentative sniffs before—much to Y/N’s surprise—he leaned in and headbutted Natasha’s hand.

“Oh, wow. He never does that this quickly.”

Natasha chuckled, gently scratching behind the cat’s ears. “Guess we’ve got something in common. We’re both good at sensing who’s worth our time.”

Charlie gave a satisfied purr and promptly climbed into Natasha’s lap as if he’d decided she belonged to him now.

Y/N looked at the sight with wide eyes, then started laughing softly. “I think you’ve just been adopted.”

Natasha ran her fingers through the soft fur, the repetitive motion strangely calming. “I’ve had worse missions,” she teased, glancing up at Y/N with a small, genuine smile.

They sat there for a while—Natasha cross-legged on the floor with a happily purring Charlie settled in her lap, and Y/N sitting nearby, their eyes soft with something almost like relief.

“Can I ask you something?” Natasha said after a moment, her fingers idly tracing circles along the cat’s back.

Y/N nodded.

“Why this place?” she asked, glancing around again. “Most people just decorate to make it look good. But this…” She gestured toward the warm lights, the carefully curated shelves of books and art supplies, the soft textures of blankets and cushions. “This feels like it’s for something.”

Y/N smiled faintly, pulling their knees up to their chest. “It’s for me,” they admitted. “For the days when I can’t leave. When everything outside feels too loud, and my head won’t stop buzzing. It’s… it’s my safe place. Everything in here makes sense to me, even when nothing else does.”

Natasha felt something heavy settle low in her chest.

She didn’t have a place like that. Not really. Her apartment was neat, minimal, efficient. But it didn’t feel .

“This is the first time I’ve ever really wanted to stay somewhere,” Y/N continued, their voice soft but steady. “For the longest time, I thought I’d never have a space that felt like home. But I built this. Little by little. For me.”

Natasha swallowed hard, suddenly overwhelmed by how alien that concept was to her.

A space that was purely for comfort. For safety.

She glanced down at Charlie, still purring contentedly in her lap.

And for the first time in a very long time, she thought that maybe… she’d like to have something like this too.

( Reader’s POV)

It had been a few days since Natasha visited your apartment, and the memory of that night still warmed you in quiet moments. You caught yourself smiling every time you saw the spot on the couch where she’d sat, Charlie curled contentedly in her lap as if he’d known her forever.

So when Natasha texted you— Want a tour of my world? —you weren’t entirely sure if your racing heart was excitement or anxiety. Probably both.

Now, standing in the towering lobby of Avengers Tower, you were certain it was both.

You hugged your arms tightly across your chest, the towering glass walls and sleek steel beams making you feel small and exposed. Everything here was polished to perfection—cold marble floors, sharp architectural lines, and minimalist decor that seemed almost sterile.

It was the complete opposite of your cozy, chaotic little apartment.

Before your mind could spiral too far down that path, you heard familiar footsteps behind you.

“Hey,” Natasha called gently, her voice cutting through the ambient hum of the lobby.

You turned to find her walking toward you, dressed in casual jeans and a leather jacket, her red hair pulled back into a loose braid. She looked softer out of her tactical gear, but the confident way she moved still made it feel like she owned every space she stepped into.

“Ready for the grand tour?” she asked, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

You nodded, trying to ignore the way your heart hammered painfully in your chest. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

She led you through security—an experience that made you hyper-aware of every movement, every sound. The low hum of electronic scanners, the quiet murmur of guards communicating through headsets—it all pressed against your senses like an approaching storm.

But Natasha noticed.

She slowed her pace, kept a careful distance, and every few minutes she glanced back at you to check in. She didn’t need to say anything; it was all there in her eyes.

I’ve got you. You’re safe.

By the time you reached the private levels of the tower, the chaos of the main floors faded behind thick security doors. Natasha guided you into the elevator and pressed her palm against a biometric scanner.

The doors closed, and for the first time since you arrived, the oppressive weight of the building lifted just a little.

“Not as bad as you thought?” Natasha asked gently, her shoulder leaning against the wall of the elevator.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “Still kind of feels like I walked onto the set of a futuristic movie,” you admitted with a faint smile.

Natasha chuckled. “That’s about right. But I promise the best part is the view.”

The elevator chimed softly before opening to reveal a floor with massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The city stretched out before you, glittering under the afternoon sun.

You walked slowly toward the glass, your fingers curling against your palms to keep from reaching out to touch it.

“Wow…” you whispered.

Natasha stood beside you, arms crossed loosely over her chest as she looked out at the city she’d dedicated her life to protecting.

“This is my favorite spot,” she admitted. “When it gets too loud… I come here.”

You glanced at her, surprised. “Even here? With all this space?”

She nodded, her lips pulling into a small, tired smile. “Doesn’t matter how big the place is. Sometimes it’s loud even when it’s quiet.”

You understood that all too well.

The tour continued after that—Natasha showing you the training rooms, the tech labs (where she made you swear not to let Tony talk you into trying any “experimental devices”), and even the rooftop landing pad where the Quinjet usually rested.

But the part that stuck with you most wasn’t any of the impressive technology or stunning views.

It was when she hesitated in front of one last door.

“My apartment’s just down this hall,” she said, her voice lower now. “I, uh… figured I’d show you. But just… fair warning—it’s not much.”

You followed her down the hallway, noting how the walls here were blank. No photos. No personal touches.

She unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping aside to let you in first.

And instantly, you felt the difference.

The space was clean— too clean. Sparsely furnished. Functional. There was a couch that looked barely used, a bookshelf with only a handful of items on it, and a small kitchen area with spotless counters.

No art. No plants. No cozy throw blankets or cluttered corners filled with things that brought comfort.

It felt like a place someone stayed out of necessity, not because they wanted to.

Your heart ached quietly in your chest.

“This is…” you began carefully, not wanting to offend.

“Empty?” Natasha finished for you, her voice flat but not defensive.

You nodded, chewing on your bottom lip. “A little.”

She leaned against the doorframe, her eyes distant as she looked over the space.

“I guess I never really thought about making it feel like home,” she admitted. “Didn’t think I deserved something like that. And when you’ve spent your life living out of duffel bags and safe houses, it just… doesn’t feel important.”

You turned to her, your voice soft but sure. “You do deserve that. A space that’s yours. One that feels safe and warm.”

She met your gaze, something raw and vulnerable flickering behind her usually unreadable expression.

“Maybe you could help me figure out how,” she said quietly.

The vulnerability in her voice shook you more than anything else had that day.

You smiled gently. “I’d like that,” you whispered. “I think Charlie would too.”

And for the first time, you saw it—that tiny, flickering light in her eyes that hinted at hope.

It wasn’t a lot.

But it was a start.

Chapter Text

 (Reader’s POV)

The edges of the watercolor paper were still slightly curled when you gently placed the last painting into the handmade portfolio. Your fingers trembled as you secured the ribbon closure, heart hammering painfully in your chest.

This wasn’t just a gift. This was… everything .

You had spent weeks pouring your heart into these paintings—carefully observing every small detail Natasha had shared about her favorite places, the things she found beauty in when she thought no one was paying attention.

You’d always struggled to say the right words, to know exactly how to show people what they meant to you. But this —creating, making things with your hands—this was how you loved. And you loved deeply, even if it was hard to say it out loud.

Your mind flickered back to the conversations you’d shared with Natasha. Late nights when she let her guard down, talking about the peacefulness of sunsets over rooftops, the quiet she found in abandoned gardens long reclaimed by nature, and the rare softness she felt when spring flowers pushed through winter’s frost.

And you’d painted all of it.

The portfolio held six watercolors, each one a piece of her world through your eyes.

One of a crumbling stone garden, delicate vines curling through forgotten archways. Another of the New York skyline at dusk, the sky painted in soft lavender and gold. You included a painting of snowdrops—small, stubborn flowers that bloomed through the last snows of winter—because she once admitted she admired their resilience.

And the last piece… a quiet scene of a warm, cozy room filled with light, pillows scattered across the floor, a gray-and-white cat curled in the corner. You hadn’t labeled it, but you didn’t need to. It was a painting of home . Of what you hoped she could have one day.

Now all that was left was to give them to her.

Your hands shook as you texted Natasha to ask if she was free. Her response came almost immediately: Always for you. Come by whenever.

So here you were, standing outside her apartment door again, clutching the ribbon-bound portfolio to your chest like a lifeline.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you knocked.

The door opened moments later, and Natasha appeared, barefoot and dressed casually in a worn t-shirt and leggings. Her expression immediately softened when she saw you standing there.

“Hey,” she greeted, stepping aside. “Come in.”

You stepped over the threshold and took a steadying breath.

Natasha’s apartment hadn’t changed much since your last visit. Still sparse. Still cold in its emptiness. But you saw small signs of life starting to creep in—a soft throw blanket folded over the arm of the couch, a mug resting on the coffee table, and a new plant sitting on the windowsill, its leaves catching the golden afternoon light.

“You okay?” she asked gently, watching you carefully.

You nodded, your fingers tightening around the ribbon. “I, um… I made you something. Well, a few things.”

Natasha’s brows lifted slightly, curiosity flickering across her face.

“This is… how I show people I care,” you explained nervously, holding out the portfolio with trembling hands. “I’m not always good with words. Or knowing when it’s okay to say something or keep it in. But… when I make something, it’s like putting my feelings into it. And I wanted you to have these.”

For a long moment, Natasha simply stared at the portfolio, like it was something fragile and dangerous all at once.

“Can I…?” she asked, her voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You nodded, stepping back to give her space.

She carefully untied the ribbon and opened the portfolio. The moment she caught sight of the first painting, she froze.

Her fingers traced lightly over the image of the stone garden, her eyes drinking in every detail.

“You remembered…” she whispered.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “You told me about that old garden you stumbled across on a mission once. How peaceful it felt. I… I tried to paint it the way you described.”

She flipped to the next painting—the skyline at dusk—and let out a soft, shaky breath.

One by one, she went through each piece. And with every new painting, her shoulders seemed to relax just a little more, her guarded expression melting into something you’d never quite seen before.

When she reached the last painting—the one of the cozy room with Charlie curled up near the pillows—she stopped. Her hand trembled slightly as she ran her fingers along the edge of the paper.

“This…” she started, her voice breaking on the word.

You twisted your fingers together anxiously. “It’s what I hope you’ll have one day,” you admitted softly. “A space that feels safe. Warm. Full of life.”

Her eyes shimmered faintly with emotion as she turned to face you fully.

“No one’s ever… done something like this for me before,” she whispered. “Not like this. You really see me.”

You took a shaky breath, your heart pounding painfully in your chest.

“I always see you,” you whispered. “I don’t think I could ever not.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt thick with something unspoken, something fragile and precious.

And maybe… just maybe… something more.

( Natasha’s POV)

Natasha sat motionless on the edge of her couch long after Y/N had left, the soft click of the door still echoing faintly in her ears.

The portfolio rested on her lap, open to the last painting.

She stared at it like it held the answers to questions she didn’t know how to ask.

The simple scene—a cozy room filled with golden light, pillows scattered haphazardly, a cat that looked uncannily like Charlie curled up in a sun-drenched corner—felt more intimate than anything she’d ever experienced.

It wasn’t just a picture. It was a promise . A quiet hope that she could have this kind of peace.

She traced the edge of the paper with her fingertips, careful not to smudge the delicate watercolor.

When had anyone ever cared enough to see her like this?

Not as a soldier. Not as a weapon.

Just… Natasha.

She stood abruptly, pacing across the room as if movement might help her process the whirlwind of emotions churning under her carefully maintained calm.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

She had rules. Walls. Carefully constructed defenses that kept people out and her heart locked away where it couldn’t betray her.

But Y/N…

They slipped through the cracks without even trying.

Natasha found herself back at the window, the one overlooking the city she’d dedicated her life to protecting. But for once, the skyline didn’t bring that familiar sense of control. Instead, she felt a deep, aching yearning .

She turned back toward the couch, her eyes falling on the portfolio again.

One by one, she took each painting out and placed them carefully around the apartment.

The stone garden went on the wall across from the couch, where she could look at it and remember that even things left behind could bloom again.

The skyline painting found its place above her desk, a reminder that even in chaos, there was beauty if you looked for it.

The painting of the snowdrops—those stubborn little flowers breaking through the frost—she placed on her nightstand.

And the last one…

She held it close for a moment, pressing it gently against her chest.

Then, with careful deliberation, she placed it on the small side table by the window. The place where she always stood to think. To be alone.

Now, it wouldn’t feel quite so empty.

She sat back down, the quiet of the room settling around her like a familiar companion. But this time, it didn’t feel like loneliness.

It felt like… possibility .

Natasha closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the cushions.

For the first time in years, she didn’t try to push the feelings away.

She let them in.

The warmth. The hope.

The realization that she might already be falling for the one person who had seen her without the mask—and stayed.

Chapter Text

Natasha’s POV

The punching bag swung violently on its chain, jerking back with every hard blow Natasha landed. The gym at Avengers Tower was empty, save for the rhythmic sound of her fists connecting with the canvas.

Left. Right. Elbow. Spin.

Sweat beaded on her brow, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t want to stop. Physical exertion was the only way she could get her mind to shut up.

Or at least, that’s how it used to be.

Now, even in the rhythm of a perfect combination, her thoughts betrayed her.

She remembered the look on Y/N’s face when they handed her the paintings. The quiet, trembling vulnerability in their voice. The way they pulled their sleeves over their hands and said, “This is how I show people I care.”

Natasha’s punch landed off-center. The bag jerked awkwardly.

She hissed a sharp breath and forced herself back into stance.

This shouldn’t be happening. She wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Y/N was her friend .

And yet…

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that small, hopeful smile. The one that tugged at the edges of Y/N’s mouth when they were talking about their art. Or the way they lit up when they talked about their cat. Or the way their fingers brushed hers that night when they said, “I always see you.”

No one had ever said that to her. Not like that.

And god help her, she wanted to be seen by them.

She landed a final hard jab before grabbing the towel draped over the bench.

The gym’s emptiness pressed in on her. Normally she liked it this way. Solitude was safe. Predictable.

But lately, solitude just made her think about the way Y/N’s laugh filled up her apartment like sunlight.

She hated this.

Not the feelings. Not them . Just… the not knowing what to do with them .

She was trained to be the perfect spy. Fluent in over a dozen languages. Able to read microexpressions and body language in seconds.

But she couldn’t read this .

She couldn’t read her own damn heart.

Natasha changed quickly and headed to the upper levels of the tower. She didn’t plan on talking to anyone, but her feet carried her to Clint’s floor anyway.

Clint Barton wasn’t the kind of guy you sat down and spilled your feelings to. But he was the closest thing she had to a brother, and he’d seen through her more times than she could count.

Sure enough, when he opened the door, he blinked at her once before stepping aside and saying, “Alright, what’s wrong?”

Natasha huffed a laugh, brushing past him into the apartment. “Can’t a girl stop by and say hi?”

“You? No. Not without an agenda.”

She flopped onto the couch.

Clint eyed her carefully. “Is this about Y/N?”

Natasha tensed.

“Thought so,” he said, grabbing a beer from the fridge and tossing her a water. “You’ve been quieter than usual, and last time I saw you look like this, you’d just admitted you had a crush on Bruce.”

Natasha groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Don’t remind me.”

“So,” Clint said, sitting across from her. “What’s the deal?”

She pulled her hands away and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know. They’re… good. Kind. Brave. And smart in a way that doesn’t need to prove itself. They see things in people that no one else bothers to notice. They see me. And somehow, they still want to be around me.”

Clint was quiet for a beat.

“That’s the problem?” he asked. “That someone finally wants you?”

“No,” she muttered. “The problem is I want them too. But what if I screw it up? What if I ruin everything just by feeling this way?”

Clint leaned back, beer in hand. “You ever think maybe you don’t have to say it all at once? Maybe you just… start by showing them?”

Natasha frowned.

Clint shrugged. “You’re not exactly a Hallmark card kind of girl. But you’re good at paying attention. You know what they like. You know what makes them feel safe. That’s how you show love, Nat. You do things that matter .”

She sat with that for a long moment.

She didn’t need to say the words. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if Y/N didn’t feel the same. But she could show them.

That was something she could do.

It started small.

A candle placed on her kitchen counter that smelled faintly like Y/N’s favorite tea.

A soft throw blanket, not unlike the one Y/N had wrapped around their shoulders when she’d first visited their apartment, now draped neatly over the back of Natasha’s couch.

She even ordered a small cat bed for Charlie—just in case Y/N ever brought him over.

Her apartment began to feel… warmer . Not just for herself, but for the possibility of Y/N being there too.

Still, it didn’t feel like enough. Not yet.

So she made one more call.

It took some digging—Natasha didn’t trust just anyone—but eventually she found an artisan bookbinder in Brooklyn who made custom sketchbooks. Leather-bound. Hand-stitched. Made to last.

She worked with them to design a cover with Y/N’s initials embossed on the front and a secure wraparound strap, so the pages would never fall out. She even added a hidden pocket inside for small keepsakes or scraps of paper.

It arrived two weeks later.

She ran her hands over the supple leather, breathing in the scent of it. The weight of it felt right.

It wasn’t just a sketchbook.

It was a message.

You are worth this. Your thoughts. Your art. Your voice. All of it deserves to be protected.

She didn’t know what would happen next.

But for the first time, she felt like she was ready to find out.

Y/N’s POV

You hadn’t meant to overthink it.

But ever since Natasha started texting you more frequently, always ending with things like “Come by anytime,” or “You’d like this view right now,” your brain had been running marathons.

She was warm. She was funny in her dry, sharp way. She listened—really listened —when you talked.

And when she smiled at you, something deep in your chest loosened.

You held Charlie close for a moment before you left, burying your face in his fur like it might calm the way your nerves buzzed under your skin.

“Be good,” you whispered, giving him one last kiss on the top of his head before grabbing your bag and stepping out.

The walk to Avengers Tower was familiar by now, but your palms still felt damp as you pressed the button for the elevator.

You told yourself it was just a visit. Just a quiet evening with a friend.

But when the elevator doors slid open onto Natasha’s floor, your breath caught.

You stepped into her apartment slowly—and immediately noticed the difference.

The first thing that hit you was the smell . Not the sterile scent of expensive cleaning products like last time, but something soft and familiar.

You took a deeper breath. Lavender. And… honey?

Your eyes swept the room and stopped on the candle flickering gently on the kitchen counter.

You’d told her once that scent helped ground you on hard days.

Your gaze drifted further—across the room where a folded throw blanket lay draped over the couch. Not the one she used before. This one was a soft shade of green, your favorite color, flecked with tiny embroidered sunflowers.

And beside the couch, tucked near the window, was a round, cozy-looking cat bed.

For Charlie.

Your heart squeezed so tightly in your chest you thought it might stop altogether.

“Hey,” Natasha’s voice cut gently into your thoughts. “You’re here.”

You turned around, and there she was—dressed down in soft black joggers and a hoodie that looked almost comically oversized on her lean frame.

But her eyes… her eyes were anything but casual.

She looked like she’d been waiting for you.

You took a slow breath. “You changed things.”

She gave a half-shrug, her mouth twitching like she couldn’t decide whether to smile or play it cool. “I just wanted it to feel more like home. For both of us.”

You didn’t realize your eyes had started to sting until your vision blurred.

No one had ever done that for you.

People had tolerated your presence. Adjusted slightly to accommodate your needs, maybe. But they’d never… made space for you like this.

“I hope that’s okay,” Natasha added quietly, her posture suddenly a little uncertain.

You nodded quickly, trying to blink the tears back. “It’s more than okay.”

She stepped closer, a small box in her hand. “There’s something else.”

You tilted your head, curiosity breaking through the emotion.

“I had this made for you,” she said, offering the box like it was something delicate. “I didn’t know how to say what I wanted, so I… did this instead.”

You opened it carefully—and froze.

Inside was the most beautiful sketchbook you’d ever seen. Leather-bound, stitched by hand, your initials embossed in the lower corner.

When you unwrapped the strap and flipped it open, you saw a small interior pocket—perfect for storing pressed flowers, scribbled ideas, or pieces of art-in-progress.

Your hands trembled.

“You said sketchbooks make you feel safe,” Natasha said softly. “Like you have control over your world again. I wanted you to have one that was yours in every way. Strong. Protected.”

Your throat closed. You tried to speak, but nothing came out.

So instead, you set the box down and stepped forward—hesitantly, giving her space to step back if she wanted.

But she didn’t move.

You reached up slowly, curling your fingers into the fabric of her sleeve like an anchor.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “No one’s ever… no one’s ever seen me like this before. Not without asking me to change.”

Her voice cracked as she replied, “You don’t need to change. You’re exactly right.”

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t awkward. It was warm. Weighted.

You didn’t kiss her. Not yet. But for the first time, you wanted to.

And judging by the way her eyes lingered on your mouth before she looked away, maybe she wanted to too.

You pressed your forehead lightly against her shoulder. “I think I’m in trouble,” you murmured.

She chuckled softly, resting her hand against your back. “Yeah. Me too.”

And maybe that was enough. For now.

Because love didn’t always need to be shouted.

Sometimes it was lavender candles, sunflower throws, and a sketchbook made to hold all the messy, beautiful things you couldn’t say out loud.

Chapter Text

The picnic basket on your kitchen counter looked like something out of a storybook: carefully wrapped sandwiches, slices of fresh fruit, a little thermos of honey-lavender tea, and two small containers of your favorite cookies. Nestled on top were your travel watercolor set and two sketchpads—one of which had Natasha’s initials pressed into the leather.

You checked the bag for the fourth time even though everything was packed just right. You weren’t nervous because you thought Natasha would say no. She already liked you—you’d felt it in the way she held your gaze, the way she softened around you.

But this was different. This wasn’t two lonely people sitting close on a couch. This was you asking for more.

You pressed send on the text:

“Hey… would you maybe want to go on a little picnic with me today? Just us, some food, and a whole lot of paint.”

Her reply came faster than you expected.

“Only if you promise not to judge my painting skills  Pick me up in 30?”

You grinned, hugging your phone to your chest.

The sky was clear, the breeze warm and sweet as you spread the blanket under the shade of a tree in the quieter part of Central Park.

Natasha sat beside you, her boots kicked off, legs stretched out. She wore soft denim and a black tank top that clung to her in all the right places. You tried not to stare.

“So,” she said, popping a grape into her mouth. “This is a date, right?”

You blinked. “I—um, I mean, yeah, I hoped so, unless you thought it was just—”

She laughed softly, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “Relax. I was hoping it was a date too.”

The air between you warmed immediately.

You pulled out the sketchbooks and paints, offering her one with a little smile. “Time to test your skills, Romanoff.”

She gave you a skeptical look. “I’m better at dismantling bombs than painting flowers.”

“Lucky for you, I love a challenge.”

You both got to work.

Time melted as the two of you painted in peaceful silence, occasionally exchanging glances or laughter. You painted the skyline peeking through the trees. Natasha tried her best to copy a daisy—though hers ended up looking more like a fried egg.

“Beautiful,” you said, holding up her page.

“You’re lying.”

“A little.”

She stuck her tongue out at you, dipping her brush in blue paint and flicking it in your direction. A few dots landed on your cheek.

“Oh, you’re so getting it now.”

Paint flicked. Laughter echoed. Somewhere between soft brushstrokes and cookies shared under a tree, you noticed a streak of purple on her cheekbone.

“Wait,” you said, setting down your brush. “You’ve got a little…”

You reached out with your sleeve and gently wiped it away. Your hand lingered.

Natasha froze—eyes locked on yours, breath still.

And then, slowly, you leaned in.

Your lips brushed hers softly, tender and full of wonder. She kissed you back without hesitation—like she’d been waiting.

When you pulled back, she was smiling.

“Told you this was a good date,” she whispered.

The world didn’t shift dramatically after the kiss. It didn’t explode into fireworks or fade to black like in the movies.

But something did change—something soft and quiet, like the first star appearing in the evening sky.

You and Natasha lay side by side on the picnic blanket, your hands just barely brushing. The late afternoon sun dipped behind the trees, casting dappled gold light across her face. She looked peaceful in a way you hadn’t seen before.

You turned your head slightly to look at her. “So… was that okay?”

She glanced at you, a slow smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “More than okay.”

A breath of relief slipped from your lips.

You stared up at the canopy of leaves above you, letting the breeze tangle gently in your hair. The silence between you wasn’t awkward—it was thick with meaning, warm with the kind of safety you rarely found.

After a moment, you spoke again. “Can I ask you something kind of personal?”

“Always,” Natasha replied without hesitation.

“What were you like as a kid? Before all… this?”

You expected hesitation. Deflection. But instead, Natasha turned to face you, propping her head on her arm. Her eyes were thoughtful, distant.

“I was quiet,” she said softly. “Too serious. I liked puzzles. Patterns. I memorized everything they gave me—not because I wanted to, but because I thought if I was perfect, I’d survive longer.”

Your chest tightened.

“I didn’t have dreams back then,” she continued. “Dreams were dangerous. They made you hesitate. Made you hope. And hope could get you killed.”

You reached over and gently took her hand, letting your fingers tangle with hers.

“But now?” you whispered.

She looked down at your joined hands, as if the sight grounded her. “Now I dream about stupid things. A place with soft blankets and a dumb cat that won’t stop stealing my pillow. Coffee in the morning. Your art hung on the walls. Quiet nights where I don’t have to pretend to be anyone else.”

You blinked fast, willing away tears.

“I dream about being loved,” she finished, almost too softly to hear. “Not because I’m useful. But just… because I’m me.”

You turned and kissed the back of her hand.

“I already do,” you said quietly. “I think I have for a while now.”

She didn’t speak right away. But her hand squeezed yours.

“I’ve never been good at this,” she said, her voice rough. “Feelings. Letting people close. But if I’m going to try with anyone… I want it to be you.”

You shifted closer until your foreheads touched.

“We’ll take it slow,” you promised. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be here.”

She exhaled, eyes fluttering shut. “I can do that.”

As the sun set and the stars appeared one by one, the two of you lay together in the fading light—hearts a little fuller, walls a little lower, the unspoken things between you now softly understood.

And for the first time, you weren’t afraid of what came next.