Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

November 2009, The Triskelion. 

Mama and Maria are looking at each other like they’re going to tell me I have a third eye. We’re sitting in the crowded S.H.I.E.L.D cafeteria and we’re supposed to be having dinner, they aren’t eating. They’re opposite me, I’m in a chair which I’m far too small for; I’m too small for almost everything here. I don’t feel small though. Well, sometimes I do. But not today. The cafeteria worker gave me the same portion size as the adults, Nick Fury personally told me I was super brave after I had some testing done and I finally managed to tape my hands for boxing without Maria’s help at all. So yeah, I feel pretty grown up. Natasha and Maria aren’t looking at me like that though, they have something to tell me.

“Lizaveta <Elizabeth>,” Mama hums gently, she’s nervous, that much is clear. I continue to pick at the slop of mashed potatoes on my plate. “Maria and I have something we wanted to talk to you about,” they share a look, the kind of look adults don’t think I notice - or maybe they don’t care because they’re too wrapped up in the world of being three heads taller than me. 

“Your Mama and I,” Maria starts, but I don’t think she really wants to because she lets Natasha’s voice float over hers. 

“Maria and I are dating.” Oh. It comes out fast and spluttered like Mama has been choking on it for days. I suddenly feel very small in the swamping plastic dining chair, swinging my legs so they lightly hit the cold, metal base of the chair. I wish the chair would swallow me up like quicksand. My shoulders are barely above the top of the table as it is and I think maybe it would be easiest if I let it swallow me whole. Not for any other reason than the indescribable emotions bubbling inside of me. How long haven’t I known? Mama’s never kept any secrets from me before. It makes sense - in fact, It’s not surprising at all. Maria probably spends more time in our bunk than her own and she holds hands with Natasha sometimes and they look at each other the same way Clint looks at Laura. I feel very silly for not noticing before, I’m supposed to be good at this stuff; Mama always says I am. 

“Lizzie?” Maria urges, I’ve been too quiet, she’s nervous. What am I supposed to say? Will Maria move into our quarters now? Clint and Laura share but they’re engaged, which means they’ll get married. Mama says it’s like dating though. Will Nat and Maria get married?

“Do I have to call you Mum now?” I question, because if they get married I think that would make sense, I wouldn’t call her mama - too Russian. Maria’s American though and that’s what Americans say.

“You can call me whatever you want to,” Maria’s face is gently, slightly uncomfortable too. I wonder if I look like that? Mama’s analysing me, her eyes are warm but calculating and I challenge her to keep looking at mine. I think they’ll expect me to be angry, or confused, I am not. I know Maria is not my mum, and even though I don’t know him she will not be replacing my dad. But if they’re dating, and because she already looks after me just as much, I think she needs a name too. 

“I think I’ll call you Masha.” I decide proudly, because it sounds like ‘Mama’ but is still a diminutive of her name. Masha. It sounds warm on my tongue and Natasha parrots it back with a smile, I know I’ve done something right. Having a name for it makes me feel bigger, like I have had some control in the situation. Naming someone is a very important and grownup role. They’re both smiling now, Mama even begins to eat her dinner. I feel warm under they’re approving glances. It feels nice. I think this makes us a family now.

November 2025, apartment in Washington D.C

There has to be a reason. Some unknown universally conspired reason why I’m still here and they are not. Written in some fucking burning stars a million light years away there has to be an explanation. I’ve seen stars, galaxies and moons - none of them seem to show me the answers I long for. 

“Will you be alright here, Lizzie?” Right. Nicholas J. Fury, my mentor, closest thing to a father I've ever known, the man currently informing me that I may as well be an orphan. He's asking if I'll be ok, like that's possible after the news he's just told me. But he seems uneasy, like he's in a rush to be out of here. I'd rather not worry a man as busy as Nick Fury. 

“Yeah, I’m not alone…” I tilt my head towards Liho who’s pawing at his plate greedily. He doesn’t quite seem to grasp the news we’re receiving. Though, sometimes I think he still expects Natasha to come back so I doubt he’d understand this. The older man, I sometimes question how he’s still here out of everyone, reaches over to scratch Liho’s ears. The cat bats his hand away with a swift hiss. Maybe Liho does understand after all. 

I know I should feel something more as Fury walks out of my apartment, leaving me with nothing more than the end of the world at my feet. But it's quiet, familiar, I know this grief like the back of my hand.

Returning from the blip was the most disorienting thing I've ever experienced. My face reconstructed first, then I watched my hands rematerialise slowly. It felt like the world's worst case of pins and needles. There wasn’t much time to understand what had happened. One moment I'd been watching Thor bring a hammer down on Thanos, the next I was stumbling blindly through a glittering gold portal. Despite the seeming immediacy of being plunged from one battle to another I knew deep down that something was awfully different. The compound was gone, I realised that very quickly, though I hadn’t lived there for years. Thanos was back, great. I didn’t question it too much as I fought off his odd alien army - flashbacks to New York never ceasing. I could see almost everyone. Tony, Wanda, Steve, Bucky, Carol. I’d been counting a list in my head. It seemed like everyone who was anyone was there. None of them were who I really wanted to see through. Between beating up Thanos and his army with nothing more than my bare hands and batons (Bad idea) I continued the list. Peter Parker, Thor, Pepper, Clint… Clint. I knew that man almost as well as his own wife did. Not once had he avoided my eyes like he did in that battle. A shower of fiery chunks of burning alien littered the battlefield as I tried to reach him. He knew something. I could sense it.

“Clint,” I cried out over the roaring thunder of a thousand soldiers. His head snapped to me on reflex, I felt my stomach drop. I didn’t need anyone to tell me that Natasha was gone after that. 

It suddenly all made sense. I’m not exactly a scientist but in that moment I could feel one half of myself disintegrate into greying dust. It did not die, no. It rustled and it burned. I could feel it in my body. Half my DNA, hers - gone. I felt it in my chest, in my arms, in my bones. And then it rose, like a Phoenix. In an angry storm, I was reborn. Still Natasha’s child - always Natasha’s child. Just now with the rage she’d tried to raise out of me. 

Maria Hill was not my mother, at least not in any biological sense. But in every other sense she might as well have been. I was named after her, raised by her, held by her, loved by her. There isn’t much else to a mother is there? I suppose it doesn’t matter an awful lot now. Maria Hill is dead. I got her belongings, I guess that should count for something, Natasha’s were all blown up. I didn’t feel it when she died, Fury didn’t even specify the exact time. I suppose I must’ve been sleeping, or doing my laundry, or feeding Liho. There was no battle to lash out through, no population destroying villain to throw my rage into, no revenge to grasp onto. Just me and my cat, and an apartment meant for four. 

I feed Liho just to shut him up. I wash the dishes I’d meant to do this morning. I pick up Maria’s box to dispose of in her bedroom. I open the door, the world keeps spinning but I feel very still. The entire room is how she’d left it, perfectly clean ( Something only achievable once it stopped being shared with Natasha) , her laptop is open, her laundry basket half full. Just two days ago she hugged me goodbye in the hallway where I stand now. She is so alive in this room, perhaps it is the only place left. Maria taught me how to feel, I curse her for it now. Feelings suck shit. At least i'm crying now, she’d tell me it’s healthy. At least that’s what she said about Nat, and Wanda, and Steve. I’m starting to realise I’m far too practised at this for a 23 year old.

The light is off, I don’t bother turning it on. I don’t want to see the tiny details… The burn in the carpet from the first time Natasha tried to make breakfast in bed, the bump in the wall from when I was five and jumped too hard on their bed, the lipstick stain from the first time Maria tried to do my dance makeup. I don’t want to remember who once lived here. I drop the box, less gently than it deserves, by the foot of the bed where Cookie, our long gone dalmatian, used to sleep. I remember the day she died. I’d been at the Triskelion with Clint and Laura. They’d let me into meetings and rooms way above my ranking and I'd never questioned why. Not until we returned home that evening. I’d rarely seen Maria cry back then, most of that happened after the Blip. I hadn’t known grief until we lost Cookie, at least I hadn’t understood it. 17 years later and I’m kind of a professional. 

I crawl across the worn king sized bed, remembering how much Natasha had loved the flowery duvet - Maria never told her how much she hated it. The sacrifices we make for those we love (Natasha still managed to make the biggest sacrifice) . As I curl up against their plethora of pillows I try to remember what it smelt like before, when both of them laid together. It smells like dust now, and they smell like death. Me? I only feel like it.

I need to come up with a next move. I’ve trained my whole life for situations like this, worst case scenarios. It was why I was created, born. Natasha never liked that term. Revenge seems like a logical next step, though I know the craving for revenge is just hardwired into my DNA. I know well enough that it takes a lot of energy, I don’t think I even have the energy to answer my phone which has just now begun ringing in the living room, I doubt I’ll be seeking revenge any time soon. 

When I wake up I'm crying, I can't afford the tears to any particular dream, its reality causing most of my problems these days. My ears are ringing, loudly and insistently. Part of me expects Maria to bring me a glass of water and insist I take a shower, until I remember that I’ll die of dehydration before that ever happens again. I’d wipe the tears away but I know they’ll just replace themselves. Besides, they're rather helpful for my new found plan of death by dehydration. The ringing in my ears stops momentarily before restarting again and I realise that it sounds suspiciously like my phone. “Barton.” I curse quietly under my breath, the only person on earth with such irritatingly insistent phone habits. I struggle to my feet, this time I do rub petulantly at my eyes, my plan becoming irrelevant in comparison to the irritation I feel towards Clint. 

It’s dark out the window now, I estimate it's close to midnight. “Clint I swear to fucking god-”

“Lizzie? It’s Lila.” Her voice is gentle, raw and so very young. My heart stops, guilt rattling my chest. 

“Liels, is everything ok?” I can only think of a few ways in which tonight could get worse, most of which include the Barton family. 

I hear a shaky breath on the other side of the phone, it’s late, there can’t be any good reason why Lila is awake. “Fury sent dad a message, he’s asleep… only I saw it.”

“Oh kiddo, you shouldn’t have seen that, I'm sorry.”

“No, no. I’m sorry.” I can feel the maturity drip off her tongue. How long ago did that develop? I remember painfully clearly the days when it was not there. “Lizzie?” She calls gently, 

“Hm? Yeah Lila,” 

“Are you going to come to the farm?”

“I don’t know. I really should stay here, figure out the funeral arrangements and… you know.”

“Please?” My heart twinges, I've always had a soft spot for the Barton kids, my cousins. They taught me how to be a child, how to enjoy childhood. 

“Alright Lila, I’ll talk to your dad in the morning. Go to sleep now,”

The phone hums quietly for a moment. “Can’t,” I sigh softly, she’s certainly not alone in that one. “Aunt Ria’s really gone?” 

“Yeah…” I murmur, curling myself into the smallest ball possible at the foot of the couch. 

“Fury swears?” 

“I’m sorry kid,”

“I’m sorry, she was your mum.” Now that stings. Maria was my mother, Natasha too. Neither are here now. My mind briefly flicks to Bucky, the only person standing between me and being an orphan. He won’t know yet, otherwise there’d at least be a message. “I’m sorry Lizzie.” I can hear a rustling of movement on the other side of the door, Laura’s muffled voice, Lila’s quietly following. 

“Betty, darling.” Laura. Only two people have ever called me Betty, the other, Bobbi Morse, has been off the map for years. 

“Hi,” I mumble sleepily, wondering if she can hear the pain in my voice. 

“Would you rather I come to you or you come down here?” I can certainly hear the pain in hers.

“I’ll come.” That’s the last significant part of the phone call. Laura says she’s sorry, she loves me, she’ll send the plane ticket first thing in the morning. All things I could’ve predicted. 

Sleep doesn’t come for me so easily now. I dread entering my own bedroom so I settle for the couch. I marvel at how we managed to keep this apartment for so long, it was under Maria’s name so it was never compromised. I suppose it’ll be gone soon, I certainly can’t afford it by myself and what use do I have for a three bedroom apartment anyway. 

I suppose I can find something nice, smaller. Maybe closer to Bucky or Yelena… though I'm not sure if either of them exactly have permanent residency anywhere.  

When I wake up the next morning there is a brief moment of light where the sun filters through the curtain just right and I forget that my whole world has ended. 

Then it hits me all over again. 

Chapter Text

On the 19th of October 2025 I wake up. 

Natasha Romanoff has been dead for 731 days.

Maria Hill has been dead for 3. 

As promised, the plane ticket is in my email box, sent at 2:34 am. I suppose I’m not the only one who found last night tortuous. Washington D.C. to Georgia, 12:55 pm, one adult, one cat. There are still 5 hours until my flight, five hours I do not want to spend in this ghostly apartment. Maybe it's selfish, maybe a part of me should be longing for any last scrap of Maria, but I really just want to run. Every wall of this house is dripping with memories. I pack haphazardly: jumpers, jeans, stray socks that I probably won’t pair up later. As an afterthought I shove my suit down the bottom - just in case . As I wrestle Liho into his carrier I realise I have no idea when I’ll be back here. I reset all of the old safety measures; tape and hair on the door frame, tv on and facing the window, valuables in a safe, safe in the vent system. Being the daughter of two spies instils a very specific type of paranoia. Once I'm satisfied that no one will break in anytime soon I leave; one suitcase, one carry on and one extremely unpleased cat. I catch a way too hot cab to the Airport, grateful I only have to endure it for 9 minutes. The driver tries to be conversational, I respond with the most generic textbook answers known to man. I’m grateful when I step out into the crisp Autumn air, escaping from another moment of pointless small talk. 

The airport has always been a logistical nightmare for me, I mean getting guns through security is… difficult . Though not impossible. On top of that, thanks to the Avengers my face is more recognisable than any spy’s ever should be. I have to remind myself I’m not on a mission, it actually doesn’t matter who sees me - still, I dread any recognition. The simplest rule of staying unseen is blending in. I try my best but I really have to bend over backwards to do this these days. A single mother and her child seem to be my best bet, I latch onto the closest woman I can see. Not that I underestimate the possible threat of women (I mean, look at me) but because both my mothers are dead now no one is expecting it. Gosh, morbid much. She must be in her early 50s, I presume from her slightly silvering hair which crowds the natural brunette, makes for a more realistic scenario if we look related. She’s walking with great gusto through the crowds around security, somehow unaffected by the dreary melancholy and buzzing anxieties of the airport. She seems innocent enough, at least she hasn’t noticed me following her yet which is always a good sign. 

Having something to focus on is helpful. If I keep my eye on the target I can pay less attention to my surroundings. A little bit. I still notice the man in the black cloak, the girl wearing sunglasses inside, the woman pulling a crying kid through the crowds. I try to remind myself people are sometimes just weird without being murderers. 

“First time flying alone?” It’s the elderly woman I've been tailing right through security. She must’ve noticed my anxieties - though not the true source - and is surveying me with those sympathetic eyes which only old ladies can truly master. I don’t think she recognises me. At least she looks genuine, maybe she’s just not a massive fan of the Avengers… I don’t exactly blame her. 

“Yeah, is it obvious?” I laugh softly. What a great cover, young girl flying alone for the first time. Anxious to leave my parents, feeling lost in the world, dreading every foreign corner… ok so maybe not too far fetched. 

“Well, there’s a first time for everything sweetheart,” She reaches into her bag. My heart leaps into my chest in expectation of the weapon I presume she’s intending to draw. How could I be so foolish as to  let my guard down? I could fight her off, but Liho is whining in his carrier and I know conflict will be a bit of a hassle with him hanging around. I’m just about to run when her hand emerges to present me with a butterscotch. How predictable . “I find these calm my nerves.” I take it from her hand, wrinkled and soft. I know I shouldn’t, I can see a thousand worst case scenarios branching out in front of me, but something inside me needs to stay near this woman. I examine the sweet, flipping the small plastic covered thing around in my hand. She’s telling me about her children as we walk to the gate; two boys and a girl, all moved away from home now. I can’t help the tears stinging my eyes, the way she talks about her children in the way only a mother could. I shut it down quickly, I can’t think about it now - not with so many people around. 

She looks at me and doesn’t comment on the tears that I'm hastily whipping away with the sleeves of my sweater. We’re walking in line now, I have no reason to hide. “Well, this is me,” she nods, signalling gate number 23. 

“Have a good flight then,” I wave as she disappears into the boarding line. I'm somewhat sorry to see her go. Something about the maternal presence was… comforting. I shouldn’t let my mind go there. 

The rest of the trip to Georgia is simple, slow and arduous but not problematic. It’s late by the time I get through security, Liho is refusing to shut up and I have to shove treats through the mesh of his cage the entire time we’re in the cab. I get out a block early to keep the Barton’s address private. The short walk is dark and cold, though I know these streets well enough that it doesn't bother me. 

The Barton’s farm is the most normal home I've ever known. Its isolated location has allowed them to bypass almost all security measures. There’s also a strict no weapons in the house policy so I make sure to have mine on hand to pass over when I arrive. It’s dark now, but warm light and liveliness spills from every window of the house. 

“Anyone home?” I call out as I let myself in, chucking my gun in the hallway closet next to Clint’s bow. 

“Lizzie!” Nathaniel bellows as he races down the hall, arms extended in shock similarly to how his older sister used to. I quickly drop my bags and Liho’s carrier just in time to pick him up, spinning the boy slightly and quickly realising how fast he’s grown up, at least three inches since last christmas. As the rest of the Barton family greet me with sombre eyes and gentle words I feel a familiar energy burning inside of me, the urge to run. I won’t, of course, the Barton’s are safe - if I have to face this grief, it’s best to do it here. 

“I’m sorry kiddo,” Clint murmurs, placing his rough hand firmly on my shoulder; it feels as though it’s the only thing keeping me from sprinting out of here. 

“Nothing that can be done now,” I shrug, putting Nathaniel down and kneeling to open Liho’s carrier. The black cat purrs gratefully and slinks his way between my legs.  

Laura makes sure I eat dinner with them before I’m allowed to go to my room, I don’t argue because part of me is dreading being back up there. She’s made pirozhki, I don’t miss how intentional the comforting meal is. Because of this, I eat it despite the weighty boulder settled in the pit of my stomach. Everyone tries to keep the conversation light over dinner: Nate’s picked up ballet, Cooper’s thinking of taking up carpentry after school, Lila’s getting all A’s. 

“I should call Fury,” I sigh once the kids have gone up to bed. “He’ll probably need the help now.” I can’t verbally acknowledge why.

“Or you can take a break.” Clint frowns disapprovingly from where he’s washing dishes. “E, we've had this conversation before, you’re a kid you need to take breaks.” 

“I’m 23.”

“Practically a baby,” He flicks soapy water at me from across the counter and I retaliate half-heartedly with a hand towel. “I’ll just check in - see if I can’t help out a bit from here.”

“All you youthful heroes, never know when to stop,”

“All of us?” I prod with an eyebrow raise,

“I didn’t tell you? I’ve picked up a protege, she’s like 8.” 

Laura tuts loudly from the living room, “She’s your age, Betty.” I laugh softly, though it takes more effort than it should. Clint seems to sense this immediately. 

“Head up to bed, kiddo, we’ll talk more about Fury in the morning.”

I grab my bag and find Liho waiting patiently on the bottom step. It's ridiculous how unbothered he is by the sudden relocation. “Come on then Kotofei {Boss Cat} ,” I urge, dragging my suitcase up to my room. When I open the door to my bedroom, I subsequently open the door to grief.  It comes over me like an elephant stampede. Crushing, grey, murderous.

The Barton farm had emanated debilitating grief off every wall for months after the blip. It was the fullest it had been in five years yet without Natasha it felt starkly empty. “Come on now baby,” Maria had urged gently, as she knelt beside my bed. Her sweatshirt was covered in her own tears before she even began to wipe mine away. “Just come down stairs for a bit, hm? We’ll go for a walk and get a bit of fresh air.” I just rolled onto my back, content with my white walled-self imposed prison cell. “Or just a change of scenery, I’ll go cry with you on the couch if that’s what you need.” 

“Masha, I can’t.” My voice wobbled childishly, the fear of leaving my room was too overwhelming. If I stayed in the room I could pretend Natasha was just down the hall. Delusional, yes , but necessary to prevent full blown insanity. 

“Of course you can, you’re the bravest girl I know, hey? My little lion?” She cooed gently, but the clarity of grief in her voice was violently heavy and painful. 

“Tvoy malen'kiy lev {Your little lion},” I echoed, back then my native language had felt stiff and unnatural on my tongue as if my nationality had died with Natasha. 

“That’s right, Lizzie.” She began pulling back the covers. I felt gross and stiff - caked in days worth of grief fueled sweat and tears. Whilst I expected her to insist I get out of bed, Maria just silently climbed in next to me. “You’re not alone, baby girl. Never alone.” Oh if she could see me now. 

I’m alone now. On my knees in the doorway. I’m fully aware that my sobs are loud and disruptive, I mentally curse myself for this but at the same time am unable to stop. Liho is rubbing against my knees and I bury my damp face against his silky fur - ignoring the irritation it causes. The whole world is shaking - or maybe its just me. Either way I feel trembly all over and my stomach aches with the weight of my sobs. 

“Lizzie…” Clint sighs sadly from behind me. I can only whine softly in response, barely able to pause my tears. My chest is heavy - the elephants pounding again. Clint is quickly beside me, wrapping his arms around my shaking shoulders and whispering in Russian. 

“Plach', dorogaya, vse v poryadke <Cry, darling, everything is okay>.” The familiar language is soothing now, no longer a reminder of what I've lost but of what I still have. Clint’s callused hand is rubbing my back, it's both soothing and useful in grounding me. “Slow breaths, kiddo.” I follow his instructions, taking it upon myself to ground myself further.

Five things I can see: Liho, my floral suitcase, the pink paint colour I picked out when I was four, the matching pink bedspread, barely intact ballet shoes hanging from my wardrobe door. 

Four things I can touch: Liho, soft, the hardwood floor, hard, my jeans, rough, Clint’s hand, calloused. 

Three things I can hear: Clint’s voice, I’m unsure what he’s saying, crickets, somewhere out the window,  music coming from Lilah’s room, pop, probably. 

Two things I can smell: Mint on Clint’s breath, dust, the room is littered with it. 

One thing I can taste: Pirozhki, leftover from dinner. Laura knows me so well.

When I’m done, my breathing has returned to normal but my shoulders are still convulsing awfully. Clint has sat down properly now, leaning against the doorframe beside me. I feel raw and hollow but it's better than the weight I'd been suppressing before. 

Clint helps me up, lets me get dressed and waits around to tuck me into bed. It feels somewhat childish but I don’t fight it, soaking up every last drop of comfort I can. When my eyes are closed, peace washes over me, it's like reality dissipates with my consciousness. In the darkness of the night, the darkness of the day fades into the shadows.

Chapter Text

September 2006, Odessa. 

“Mama, what’s going on?” I urged through the comms device which was ill fitted for my small ear. 

“Nothing Lizzie, don’t worry about me,” She ordered strictly. I could hear the car through the comms, she was going far faster than the legal speed limit would allow and even at 8 years old I knew that. It was supposed to be a simple mission, something which was usually below Mama’s pay grade but she’d been assigned so that I’d get a chance to burn off some steam. We were extracting a Nuclear Engineer from Iran to Odessa, simple and routine. My job had been to sneak into the lab where the nuclear engineer was working through the vents and drop gas into the room so he’d be passed out for extraction. After that I’d had to trail behind them at a safe distance in a S.H.I.E.L.D issue van with Clint in case anything went wrong. Nothing was supposed to go wrong. We were pretty far behind her so that no one would become suspicious and I hadn’t actually seen her car in at least an hour. Clint was beginning to look worried too, which definitely meant something was wrong. 

“Mama?” I called again. There was a crackling on the other side of the line, then gunfire and finally a tremendous crash.

Silence.

“Mama?”

Silence. 

“Natasha Romanoff, this is Agent Barton, can you hear me?” 

Silence. 

I waited a moment, one hand clasped over my comms device so I could hear anything that might happen and the other was clasped onto Natasha’s necklace which hung around my neck. I could feel my heart gaining limbs and crawling its way up my throat as we waited on the side of the road, too scared to move forward. 

There was a fizzling sound, signifying the line wasn’t completely dead. I could hear movement on the other side and looked over to Clint whose face was trained and still. I took on a similar expression to Clint’s and listened intently.

I could hear Natasha’s voice, it was weak and shaky but undoubtedly hers. There were a few moments of static before one clear word came through - “James?” 

November 2026, Iowa. 

Normalcy is rotting me inside out. I’m floating in a vast dark space aware that meteors are flying past me every second. Running the risk of collision but lacking the strength to open my eyes. Clint says it's important to take a break, recover, and heal. Part of me thinks now is the best time to act. Yet, my eyes remain clenched and I can’t see what I'm supposed to be fighting. 

“Do you ever think about going back in the field?” I ask Laura one morning as we’re collecting chicken eggs. It's become routine now, three weeks into my hiding from the world. My favourite part of the Barton farm is definitely the animals, every time I come back there are more. Originally it had just been the chickens, then the runner ducks, then Lila had been obsessed with horses and most recently Clint had decided they needed a cow. This home tells a story very far from the lives Clint and Laura once lead.

Laura looks at me nervously, like she’s afraid her admission will crack me like fine China. “No, not anymore.” I could’ve expected that. “Not since the kids.” Laura has always amazed me. Choosing her children over her job. I don’t particularly resent my mum’s for not doing the same as her. I know I couldn't give all this up, it’s unfair to have expected them to do the same. It's impossible to know you hold the power to save people and not do anything about it. A feeling I know all too well, a restlessness bubbling under my skin. Though part of me longs for the childhood I could’ve had if none of us knew that crawling guilt. “I miss it sometimes, though,” 

 “Not enough to go back.” Laura hums in agreement but doesn’t think my statement requires much more of a response. Of course she wouldn’t go back. I jab the toe of my winter boot into the rich dirt beneath me, the wind is wallowing icily but not enough to hurt. Fall is comforting, but the most pressing chill is emanating from the chasm inside of me, the restlessness which craves action. I don’t want to upset Laura and Clint, they want me to stay still and be young - they always have. As we wander back up to the farmhouse slowly, wiping dirt from our hands and brushing wind stricken hair from our faces I try to recall the last time I didn’t feel so restless. I’ve been on a couple of smaller missions for Fury in the last few years, even to space once. But nothing had felt quite as fulfilling since Natasha. Maybe, I think, the restlessness has just grown without her here. 

“Why all the questions about field work?” Laura asks after a while as she’s kicking off her boots at the front door. Its been too long for the conversation to have flowed naturally but we slip back into it easily enough that I presume the topic has been pressing on her mind the whole time just as much as it has been mine. 

“I just,” I heave out a breath of air to blow the hair from my face, “I don’t know where I’m going. Who I am. I’m just stuck.” All alone in the galaxy, endless and dark. It sounds comforting in theory - vast silence, comforting pressure holding me on every angle, weightlessness. In reality it's just damn terrifying . “I’ve always had my identity tied to something… the red room, Mum, SHIELD, the Avengers…” I follow Laura’s guide and tug my own boots off, steadying myself on the splintering wooden doorframe. “And now? I’m kind of just floating.” 

“You have time, Betty.” It sounds so clinical, everyone says I have time but I've had 23 years, I should be doing something now . I’m inclined to argue with her on this point but Laura has stilled, she’s giving me that cracking China look again and I think if I argue with her I’ll cry. That would give her every right to tell me to slow down. “You’re allowed to take time and grow your roots. Connect with the world around you and what not. You don’t always have to be on the run.” I want to roll my eyes but I just nod. She’s making enough sense despite the senseless metaphors. It sounds nice though, burying my limbs in the damp, cool earth like a tree or a flower. “You don’t always have to fight, Lizzie.” I think of the fight, crackling fire and burning muscles, which resides within me constantly - has done since the day I was created . I imagine it being stamped out by morning dew. It’s nice in theory, but the air is still once we step inside and I remember how much I hate the cold. 

Solitaire is impossible in the Barton household. We’re ambushed in the doorway by Nathaniel who is desperate to go to the park with Laura. She looks at me nervously as he asks this, knowing I am hesitant to leave the farm these days and she is just as hesitant to leave me home alone. I smile back at her, an attempt to offer her some comfort. “Bring me back one of those smoothie bowls?” I request, Laura can’t help but crack a smile at that. They used to be Natasha and I’s favourites and I didn’t touch them for months after she died. The first time I did, I think was the first time Laura actually believed herself when she told me we were going to be ok.

Laura and Nathaniel do go to the park, leaving me alone as Clint went into the town over for groceries and the older kids are out with friends. There's a sort of static feeling to the house now that I'm alone, like the uneasy restlessness in my chest has spread into the atmosphere. I hate being alone - from a tactical standpoint you’re always safer with someone else nearby. Unless that someone else is an incompetent prick. The first floor of the Barton house is so open. There are windows everywhere which are great for light but not for protection; there’s a reason all the bedrooms are upstairs. I go upstairs even though of all the places in the house this is the most ghostly. Ghosts can’t hurt me. Each door is shut. There are certain habits which don’t die with retirement. I go into my room, I suppose I really can call it mine now that it’s no longer shared with Tasha and Masha. I’m hit again with how empty the house is.

I collapse onto my bed exhausted. What time is it? 11:30. How am I this tired already?

I open up my laptop because I have no shame in escapism and start to click through some old back channels. They are mainly empty nowadays, Shield has fallen, my parents are dead, Fury wouldn’t dare contact me at a time like this. I find myself scrolling down an old site which Natasha used to use to send me encrypted messages when she was on missions. It’s a habit I can’t give up, checking every now and again just in case . Something is different this time though. I almost miss it at first but there is a small black box flickering in the corner of my screen. It could be mistaken as a glitch but I know better. I click it open, my heart thrumming loudly in my ears. There is essentially no reason anyone could be on here except for Natasha…

I click the box, an image fills my screen. A blonde dog in a pile of leaves which looks like it’s been taken straight out of some millennial woman’s pinterest board. Within seconds I recognise the Cyrillic letters embedded in the photograph. 

Д.  Б.  Б. 

Извини  за  М.

Проверить  горелку  фокстрот.

<J. B. B. 

Sorry about M. 

Check burner foxtrot.>

Instantly I recognise my father’s initials. I presume he is talking about one of our burner phones, of which there have been many. Foxtrot , the sixth letter of the phonetic alphabet. I hadn’t realised Maria and Bucky were in contact. It feels strange considering I’ve exchanged barely more than 4 conversations with my father since Nat died. I silently curse myself for not bringing the burners with me, curiosity bubbling in my chest. The website is set to wipe itself every few minutes so the image fizzles away quickly. I take a photo of my bedsheets and upload it, encrypting a message of my own. I choose German to keep anyone who’s watching on their toes. I don’t know why he hasn’t just called me, this feels a bit over the top. I briefly consider someone else is talking to me but I trust Natasha’s ability to keep this weblink hidden and it’s never failed me before. 

Nicht  zu  Hause.

Auf  dem  Bauernhof.

Not home.

At the farm.

I don’t know if my location will mean a lot to him but I hope it will encourage him to send his back. I don’t know why. I guess I feel sort of alone, it wouldn’t hurt to know where half my genetic makeup is hanging out these days.

I hear the car coming up the driveway before it’s humanly possible and have to fight the instinct to grab Maria’s swiss army knife from under my bed. It’s just Clint, I remind myself, closing my laptop and heading downstairs with Liho trailing behind at my heels. 

***

“Mama, What’s going on?” I urged, placing a hand on her uninjured shoulder. She’d been hiding upstairs in Fury’s strange secret bunker, avoiding me, Fury, and pretty much everyone else. I was always able to read my mother like nothing else but in that moment there was something new in her eyes. She turned to face me but didn’t stand up, I sat down on the floor in front of her instead. She carded her uninjured hand through my hair. There was something floating unsaid in the air between us, it had been present since Fury was shot and it terrified me. 

I think I knew the second I saw him, I think Natasha knew this too. Neither of us were ready to admit that then. “Зимний Солдат — мой отец? <Is the Winter Soldier my father?>” I asked quietly, keeping my eyes deliberately trained on the floor in front of me. Natasha’s nails gently scratched at my scalp, I could sense her anxiety as heavy as my own.

“Yes,” She responds quietly. “James.”

“James,” I parroted. I’d known his name my entire life but something about the way Natasha had said it then felt heavier than ever before. I tried to picture the name James with the man who’d shot my mother mere hours before and all those years. There was no semblance between the Winter Soldier and the father I’d spent my whole life trying to remember, but a part of me knew that they were the same person. 

***

Bucky had sent his location before I even finished helping Clint unpack the groceries. He’s in Brooklyn, only 4 hours from home. If I was home right now I think I’d just go straight there without a second thought - but I’m not, and I think that’s probably for the best. What would I even say? “So yeah, you’re my only living parent now! Thanks for not dying!” Probably not a great conversation starter. Plus, the last time I saw him face to face was at the funeral, who’s to say he hasn’t turned back into some psychotic murder bot since then? Despite my reservations I can’t get the creeping urge out of my gut to just go. I imagine Clint is the only person who can give me an unbiased opinion on this matter (If Laura had her way I'd never leave the farm).

As he’s battling with the mess of the Barton’s pantry I pull myself up onto the counter behind him. “Clint?” I ask, masking the anxiety in my voice. He doesn’t turn around at first so I raise my voice and try again. He turns around, chuckling lowly. 

“You don’t have to yell,” He jokes. I shake my head, typical. “What’s up Lizzie?” He questions, grunting as he stands up. Old man bones. 

“Bucky reached out,” I tell him, swinging my legs back and forth on the bench - an anxious habit which doesn’t matter here because I know I’m safe. Clint quirks his head to the side, confused. I don’t think it’s too unreasonable for my father to contact me after the death of my mother but I suppose it is slightly out of character. 

“What did he say?”

“He gave me his address, wants me to stop by,” I explain with a shrug, “Have tea or something.” Clint nods contemplatively, leaning back against the counter opposite me. “I don’t know if I should go.” 

Clint scratches behind his ear, I wish I could read his mind, I hadn’t thought he’d be so worried about this. “I think you should,” He decides eventually. “He’s your dad. If something happened to Laura I’d want to be with the kids.” I almost roll my eyes because it is not the same thing. 

“He wasn’t in love with Maria - Or Tasha for that matter.” Clint just shrugs,

“I’d still want to help my kids, I wouldn’t want them to be alone,”

“I’m not alone,” I chide, “I’ve got Liho.” Clint shakes his head playfully, 

“Go see him, Kid.” 

As I lay in bed later that night my mind keeps wandering back to why Bucky and Maria were in contact. What did they have in common? Natasha, not anymore. Me, I suppose so. But what is there to be said about me? I can’t figure it out. Holiday photos and updates on how tall I am? They don’t seem like the sort of things Bucky and Masha ever had the time to catch up about. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough though.