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Natasha looked out onto the farmstead. There was foliage as far as the eye could see, making her smile grow until it was nearly ear-to-ear.
We’re free.
She shifted Peter in her arms, feeling his drool onto her shoulder. She couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh at the feeling, despite how it would usually disgust her. They were out. No more experiments. No more hurt.
Natasha closed her eyes momentarily, feeling the rays of the rising sun warm her skin.
“Hey, Nat,” She slowly opened her eyes, shifting her gaze to whoever had spoken — which was Clint Barton, her self-appointed friend.
“Hey Birdbrain,” She whispered, her voice tempered with a type of affection. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
Clint shrugged. “It’s nice at this time,” He said quietly, also aware of Peter asleep on her shoulder. “Quiet,” He leaned against the railing. The white paint was chipped, revealing some of the warm oak underneath.
Natasha eyed it, feeling Peter nuzzling his face against her skin like some sort of snuggly cat — which was an oxymoron if she’d ever heard one. It would probably be more accurate to say he was snuggling against her like a child would to his mother, but she couldn’t think of her as that.
She was not meant to be a protector. Natasha was not someone who knew the luxury of kindness, of band-aid on scraped knees.
She wanted to say that he shouldn’t look up to her like that, that Peter shouldn’t stare at her with those stars in his eyes and hang onto her every word as if she was someone he should care about. Her veins burn hot with a bastardized super-serum given to her for the sole purpose of killing and kill she did.
But she was all he had.
Natasha does not say any of this out loud, of course. These thoughts were another scar, another knife twisting into her chest, telling her that he’s better off without you .
“Nat?” Clint peered at her curiously, and she hated how it felt like he could see right through her, could tell exactly the thoughts going through her mind. “Want one?”
Belatedly, she realized he was offering a pack of cigarettes.
Natasha shook her head. “Rather not,”
Clint shrugged. “Suit yourself,” He pulled a lighter out of his pocket, lighting the tip before inhaling. He let out a breath, and smoke followed with it. He wasn’t facing them, but she could feel Peter’s face scrunch against her shoulder, and she turned away from him.
Natasha rubbed Peter’s back until he relaxed back into her arms, glancing over her shoulder to see Clint still leaning against the railing, smoke trailing from his lips. She sighed.
“You know,” Clint said suddenly, voice raspy. “For someone who was so adamant that she wouldn’t be good at this, I think you’re pretty good at this,”
Natasha’s shoulders slumped. “You think that now, but what if…” She trailed off, squeezing her eyes shut. What if I’m doing this wrong? What if I hurt him more? What if he ends up hating me?
Clint let out another breath as a breeze blew past, making goosebumps rise on Natasha’s bare arms. She felt a few hairs being pulled out of the bun on top of her head, and she slowly ghosted her fingers against the back of Peter’s red t-shirt.
“You know you were the best option. He was already attached to you, Nat. You two are more similar than you’d think,” She heard Clint stomping something on the porch. “And for the record, I think you’re doing a damn good job,”
Natasha swallowed. “I don’t know.” She didn’t know if she was right for this. She didn’t know if she could do this. She didn’t know why she had even thought she was good enough for him. She inhaled shakily. “Maybe I should’ve just let him be adopted by another agent,”
She didn’t have to see Clint to picture the expression on his face. Furrowed brows and thinned lips, lines in his forehead more pronounced than ever. Natasha shook her head, adjusting her grip on Peter.
The Russian let out a breath, pulling up Peter’s blue shorts from where they had slid down. She tucked her face into his head of curls — curls just like mine — and slowly inhaled the faint smell of flour and butter from a disastrous attempt to make cookies.
She slowly lifted her gaze to meet Clint’s eyes, surprised to find it similarly tempered with affection to how she looked at Peter. Natasha averted her eyes after only a few moments.
“I’ll say this as many times as you need, Nat,” He put his hand on her spare shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “You’re a damn good parent. You’re patient with him, you engage with him, you listen to him, and you don’t let him get away with shit,” There was a faint grin on his face at the last bit.
“Language!” Natasha hissed, mostly joking. Peter had heard way worse from her sister. She had given up on trying to stop people cursing around him. It was inevitable.
Clint’s smile widened. “All I’m saying, Nat, is that you’re doing great, okay?”
Natasha sighed. She felt Peter beginning to shift and stir in her arms. He smacked his lips, his eyelashes fluttering feeling like a faint tickle against her skin. She gave the archer a small smile.
“Thanks,” She whispered.
Clint’s expression softened. “Anytime, Nat. You’re my best friend,”
Peter let out a quiet yawn, turning so that he was facing her. He blinked slowly. “Momma Nat, why’re we outside?” He mumbled.
The Russian smoothed back his hair, her heart squeezing at the sound of his sleep-laden voice.
“I just wanted to have some fresh air, pauk. I’m going back inside now,” She explained softly, subtly motioning for her friend to open the door for her. Clint, to his credit, did as she asked.
“Okay,” Peter yawned. “Can we please have pancakes today?”
Natasha’s eyes crinkled in the corners. “Of course, sweetheart.”
